University of Virginia Library

26. CHAP. XXVI.
THE REMOVAL.

“And must we leave this place, my dear father?”
said Sophia, coming from a small adjoining
apartment, whither she had retired to indulge the tears
she was no longer able to restrain: “Must we be separated
from those friends whose generous attentions have
lightened all our afflictions?”

“We must, Sophia” said her father, rather sternly,
“to-morrow morning.”

“Ah! me,” said the weeping girl, turning to Rebecca,
and resting her head on her shoulder.

“Do not grieve thus, my dear Sophia,” said our heroine;
for though separated from your friends, you will
still live in their remembrance, and they in your's.”

“Yes,” cried Sophia, with a look of grateful rapture,
“ever while the vital tide nourishes my heart. Dear,
worthy inhabitants of [1] Hingham, when I forget the
friendship that alleviated my parent's sorrows, may that
heart cease to beat.”

The next morning, just as the grey dawn began to
enliven the East, Mr. Abthorpe's family were called to
begin their journey. An open chaise, drawn by a miserable
horse, was all the conveyance provided for Mrs.
Abthorpe, Sophia and Rebecca; the Colonel himself
was expected to walk. About nine o'clock in the morning
they set out, but the roads were so full of snow,
and the horse so old and lame, that, though they had
only a journey of twenty miles to make, they had not
completed it at four o'clock in the afternoon. The
darkness of night had begun to envelope every object,
when the chaise stopped at a hut that could scarcely be
called habitable. Rebecca and Sophia assisted Mrs. Abthorpe
to alight; gloomy as was the outward appearance
of their destined habitation, the inside served only
to increase their horror; it consisted of three rooms.

The windows had once been glazed, but were now some
parts open, and others mended with wood. One room
was boarded, the others had only the ground for a floor.
There were two chimnies, large and dreary, in which
no trace of fire appeared; all was desolate and gloomy!

It was now quite dark, the Colonel was not yet arrived.
Rebecca and Sophia felt round the damp solitary
rooms for something on which Mrs. Abthorpe might sit
down, for she was faint and weary from taking no refreshment
during their tedious journey, and having been
exposed to the intense cold so many hours; but their
search was vain, no seat could be found: they took
off their own loaks, and laid them on the floor: On
these she sunk weak and exhausted, and, in spite of her
accustomed fortitude, suffering nature wrung from her a
few complaints.—Rebecca and Sophia knelt beside and
supported her—the voice of comfort no longer issued
from their lips—their sighs responsive answered her's—
their tears mingled as they fell—but all remained silent.

They heard footsteps approach—the Colonel's well
known voice saluted their ears.

“Dry your eyes, my dear girls,” said Mrs. Abthorpe;
“Let us not increase his sorrows, whose every
pang is doubled by our sufferings.”

The Colonel entered, some one accompanied him for
they could hear more than one footstep.

“We shall have a fire soon,” said the Colonel; “it
is a very cold evening.”

“But I am well wrapped up, and do not feel it,”
said Mrs. Abthorpe.

His heart thanked her though it refused to believe
her assertion.

Just then a third person entered, and threw down an
armful of wood, when the person, who had accompanied
the Colonel, produced a tinder box and striking a
light discoverd to the astonished females the sons of two
of their best friends.

Mr. Lane! Mr. Barker! involuntarily burst from all
their lips; but the generous young men would not hear

a word of praise or thanks; they soon cheered the solitary
mansion with a comfortable fire; in the mean time a small
cart arrived with two beds, a few chairs, and some kitchen
utensils. From a basket in this cart the young men
produced a couple of fowls, some butter, bread, and two
bottles of wine, so that in less than two hours, from
their first melancholy entrance, our distressed family were
seated in homely wise round an old wainscot table, before
a large fire, partaking a plentiful supper, while
their hearts expanded with gratitude to that good Providence
who had raised them up friends when least expected.

The next morning the young men exerted themselves
to repair the breaches in the windows, and to stop the
large crevices in the doors of the house, having to the
utmost of their power, lessened their troubles, and rendered
them tolerably comfortable, they departed, leaving
behind them some meat, bread, butter, cheese, and
a small parcel of tea and sugar; but, as the last-named
articles were at that time extremely scarce, they could
not be so liberal as their expanded hearts lead them
to wisn.

Oh! with what rapture must the parents of these
young men have received them after such a journey, to
which they had been incited by motives of the purest benevolence;
but benevolence was their characteristics.

[2] Blest spirits of philanthropy, whose hearts ere discord
shook her baleful wings, and shed her influence
over your happy plains, in a state of almost primeval innocence,
selt not a pang but for another's woe, and
whose first pleasure was to alleviate the sorrows of a suffering
fellow creature! May the arrows of afflictions
with which an unnatural war has since wounded you,
be drawn forth by the hand of sympathizing friendship

and the anguish of them obliterated by the recollection
of your own good deeds.

But this is a theme which carries me from every
other. I would request pardon for digressing my subject,
but I know those only will blame me, who never
felt the sweet emotions of unbounded gratitude.

But to return.—

The habitation to which Colonel Abthorpe had been
thus suddenly removed, was situated on the skirts of an
extensive wood. The face of the country was rocky
and dreary, to which unpromising appearance the snow
and ice not a little contributed. There was but one habitation
within two miles of them, and that was occupied
by people, if possible more wretched than themselves.

In this dismal situation, with no amusement but what
sprang from themselves, for they had not even the consolation
of books, did the Colonel and his family pass
four wearisome months, during which time they had of
ten no food but coarse Indian bread and potatoes; nor
any firing but what Sophia and Rebecca assisted each
other to bring in their delicate arms from the adjacent
woods, for the Colonel himself was great part of that
time consined to the house with the gout; and in their
daily excursions to procure this necessary appendage to
the support of life in so cold a climate, they had no covering
to their seet, which often bled from the intenseness
of the cold, or from incisions made by the rugged
path over which they were obliged to pass.

It was the latter end of March, the ice was beginning
to dissolve in the warmth of a mid day sun, when Rebecca,
willing to enjoy a short space of uninterrupted
reflection, sallied into the woods, unaccompanied by
Miss Abthorpe. As she gathered up some scattered
branches, and laid them together, her thoughts wandered
to her native land. She retraced every event of
her past life; “And where now is Sir George?” said
she. “Could he behold me at this instant, how
would his generous heart compassionate my misfortunes;
but, alas! perhaps I am no more remembered by him,

or he considers me as numbered with the dead; and am
I not so to him? Then, why should I wish him to retain
me in his mind, when, by forgetting me, he may
regain that felicity his generous sentiments in my favour
had interrupted. No doubt, he is long since married
to the Lady with whom his mother wished him to unite.
Ah! my beloved benefactress,” continued she, sitting
down on a large stone at the foot of a spreading pine,
“dear Lady Mary, little did you think when I parted
from you we were never more to meet! But that anguish
of heart would from that hour be the unremitting
portion of your Rebecca.”

She then drew forth the picture, which, through all
her distress, she had still carefully preserved, and constantly
carried about her in a small purse, in which she
had also deposited Sir George's letter, and those she had
received from her mother. As she opened this precious
repository, her mother's writing caught her eye.

“My poor mother,” said she—“what waves, what
insurmountable waves, now roll between us! Shall I
ever again behold you? Or is it my fate here, far distant
from my native land, to end an existence, which
though short, has been marked by variety of sorrow?”
Here painful remembrance over-powered her. She rested
her cheek on her hand, and as she held the picture
in the other, alternately raised her streaming eyes to
heaven, and then fixed them on the portrait of Sir
George.

She was aroused from this painful reverie by a deep
drawn sigh, which seemed to proceed from a person
very near her, and, starting, saw a venerable old man
standing opposite her, habited in a lieutenant's dirty
uniform.

She arose, and, tying her bundle of wood together,
was preparing to lift it, when the old officer approached.

“It is too heavy for you, child,” said he; “give
me leave to carry it.”

“I have not far to go, Sir,” said Rebecca.

“Perhaps you are going by the unfortunate Colonel

Abthorpe's habitation, or can direct me where to find
it?”

“I live in his family,” said Rebecca, eagerly. “Do
you know him, Sir?”

“Alas! no, my dear child; but hearing he was a
prisoner at this place, and being myself in the same unhappy
predicament, I am going to claim his society,
hoping that, as brothers in affliction, we may be enabled
to comfort each other: But, surely, I have seen you
before, though where or when I can by no means recollect.”

“Your features too,” said Rebecca, “seem samiliar
to me, yet I do not think we ever met before.”

They had now reached the house, and depositing
their burthen at the door, entered.

“You will pardon me, Sir,” said the old lieutenant,
advancing to the Colonel, “if I, unasked, intrude myself
into your dwelling; but hearing there was an officer
in this place, I could not resist the defire I selt to be
known to him.”

“And by what name am I to know and thank you
for this civility?” said the Colonel, placing a chair for
his guest.

“My name is Littleton.”

“Littleton!” cried Rebecca, stepping eagerly forward.

“Yes, George Littleton,” said the Lieutenant. I
have worne his Majesty's livery above twenty years.

“My name is Littleton,” said Rebecca.

“And your father's name?”

“Was William.—

“He is dead, then,” said Mr. Littleton, with a difappointed
look.

Rebecca's tears confirmed the suspicion.

“And did you never hear him speak of a brother?”

“Yes, but as of one long since dead.”

“Alas! he thought me dead, but I am that brother;
nor can I doubt but you are his child, you bear so
strong a resemblance to him. My dear girl,” continued
he, embracing her, “how my heart bleeds to meet

you here, and so badly sheltered from the inclemency of
the season.

A few moments were now devoted to mutual gratulations
and mutual condolence. When the first tumult
was a little subsided, Rebecca wished to be informed how
it happened that her uncle had been so long supposed
dead by her father?”

“Disappointment and vexation,” said the old gentleman,
“drove me from my native country; the loss of a
wife and child, whom I tenderly loved, disgusted me
with life, and I shipped myself to the East-Indies, from
whence I hoped never to return.”