University of Virginia Library

28. CHAP. XXVIII.
WE COME HOME AGAIN.

When Colonel Abthorpe retired to rest, he revolved
in his mind what Mr. Littleton had said
concerning an exchange of prisoners. His wife's declining
health had long made him uneasy. He flattered
himself was he once removed from captivity, and enabled
to obtain subsistence for his family, her mind would
be more at ease, and she would of consequence recover
her health and spirits. These reflections occupied
him all night, and totally banished sleep. At dawn of
day he arose, and sat down to draw up a petition, praying
to be, with his family, included in the intended
exchange.—This petition he presented to the select-men
of the place, to be by them transmitted to the general
court. The answer he received was a repetition of the
offers of employment in the American army, enforced
with promises of the most beneficial and lucrative rewards
for his services. These he strenuously rejected,
declaring a resolution to die rather than forsake the
cause of loyalty.

They found it was in vain to increase either their offers
of affluence, or their ill treatment; he was alike
unmoved by either, at least he did not suffer them to
perceive the effect his miseries had on his mind. If he
sighed it was in secret, and he waited with an assumed
patience the end of his misfortunes, while the most afflictive
sensations corroded in his bosom: But when he
had almost bidden adieu to hope, when despair seemed
to have taken possession of his mind, then was deliverence
nearest at hand, and he received a letter, informing
him he was to be exchanged with his family by
the very next cartel. They were accordingly removed
to Boston, and, in company with Mr. Littleton, put on
board a small vessel, bearing a flag of truce, in which
they arrived, after a ten days passage, safe at Hallifax.

Here Mr. Littleton was immediately employed,
and drew on his agent for money to provide himself
and Rebecca with necessaries; nor did he withhold
part of his little store from Colonel Abthorpe, who
was really in necessitous circumstances. Mrs. Abthorpe's
malady had gained too much ground on her delicate
constitution ever to be repelled. She continued to decline,
and, in a few weeks after their arrival in Nova-Scotia,
she sunk to eternal rest! Rebecca exerted herself
to comfort poor Sophia; but it was now become
absolutely necessary for them to part. Colonel Abthorpe
had not the means even of supporting himself and daughter,
much less an extra person: Besides, Rebecca was
eager to revisit England, and see her mother; he therefore
furnished her with recommendatory letters to several
Ladies in London. Her uncle provided her a passage,
and gave her an order on his agent for the small remainder
of all his worldly wealth. She took an affectionate
leave of her dear Miss Abthorpe, and embarked
for her native land. It seemed as though the elements
were as eager to convey our heroine in safety home, as
they had been perverse and tardy in bearing her from
thence; for on the twenty-eighth day from her leaving
Halifax, at the close of the evening, she found herself
set down at the door of the Cross-Keys Inn, in ſet">set down at the door of the Cross-Keys Inn, in
street, London. She had landed with a widow
lady and her maiden sister (who came in the ship with
her) at Deal, and they had proceeded to town in a postchaise.
She remained at the inn with them that night,
and the next morning took a coach to seek the benevolent
friend of Mrs. Harris in the Borough. She was
removed, but Mrs. Harris herself occupied the house:
Rebecca therefore, met a hearty welcome, and determined
to take up her abode with her till she could hear
from her mother, to whom she immediately wrote.

Anxiously did she count the time till she thought it
possible to receive an answer. At length the welcome
sound of a postman's rap saluted her ears. She almost
flew to the door. The letter required double postage;
she paid it without hesitation, and hastily returned to

the parlour to examine its contents; but as she approached
the candle, what were her feelings to discover
it was her own letter returned, with these words written
on the outside:—

“Removed to London two years ago!”

“To London!” said Rebecca; “but what part of
London? Good heavens! that I should be in the same
place with my mother, and yet unable to find her! But,
perhaps, I have no mother now,” continued she, mournfully:—“She
has been removed two years; alas! sorrow
may have levelled her with the dust long since.”

She then endeavoured to recollect some person in her
native village, to whom she could address herself, in
hopes of gaining information whether her mother had
mentioned what part of the town she intended to reside
in. At length she recollected the parents of Ruth, who
had lived several years servant in the family, and was
with them when her father died. To them she immediately
wrote, and, as early as she could possibly expect,
received the following answer:

“This comes with father and mother's kind love to
you, letting you know that we are all main glad to hear
you are alive, and come home again to old England, for,
certain sure, we all thought you had been dead a long
while ago; so when father put on his spectacles, and
began to read your letter, I thought as how I should
have sounded for joy; for indeed, and for sarten, Miss
Becky, I would walk a many long miles to see your
sweet face. Oh! dear, if you was but as rich, and as
happy as you are good, and as we all wish you.—

“As to your mother, we are deadly afraid she has
made but a poor hand of marrying again, for old Serl
was but a shabby kind of body, though he pretended to

be so grand, and tried to make folks believe he was a
gentleman.

“To be sure they did flash away about a month or
two after they were married, and Peg Serl had a mortal
fight of new cloaths, but for all she never looked
like a lady. Father said as how you looked more like
one in a linen gown, and your nice curling hair without
powder, than she did in her silks and sattins, and her
hair plastered up with grease and flour; but after all
they did not hold out long. Serl did not use your poor
foolish mother well; he kept an impudent hussy almost
under her nose, and used to be always a drinking and
sotting, and so the sinery all went away by littles and littles,
and then they got sadly in debt, and at last went off
to London, without letting any body know about it;
but cousin Dick was in London last Martinmas twelve
months, and he said he saw Mrs. Serl go into a house in
Westminster, but she looked main shabby, and we never
since heard nothing about her.

“Father bid me tell you, that he read in the newspaper
how that Sir George Worthy was married to a
great Lady; but father says he could not have found a
more better Lady than your own sweet self, be the other
who she may, and we all thought as how, when Lady
Mary (bless her dear name)! took you to live with her,
that we should one day see you come back to the village,
Lady of the Manor; but it can't be helped, marrying
and hanging they say goes by fate. Mother and father
send their kind love and duty to you, wishing you a
good rich husband, and soon; and so no more at present
from your's to serve till death.

When Rebecca had finished reading this letter her
mind was in a state of anarchy, better imagined than
described. She sat with the letter open on the table before
her—her hands folded in each other—her eyes fixed
on vacancy.

“Well, what news, my dear,” said Mrs. Harris, as
she came into the room, and, without particularly observing

Rebecca, very leisurely stirred the fire as she spoke
to her.”

“He is married,” replied Rebecca unconsciously.—

“Well, child, you knew that before, I thought.”

“No, indeed; this is the first I ever heard of it.”

“Why, how you talk!” said Mrs. Harris, staring
at her; “to my certain knowledge she wrote you word
of it herself.”

“Who wrote me word of it?”

“Why, your mother, child.”

“Oh! my mother,” cried Rebecca, endeavouring
to rally her scattered thoughts; then, pausing for a
moment, “my poor mother,” continued she, bursting
into tears, I fear I shall never see her more.”

There was a wildness in her looks, an incoherence in
her manner, that alarmed the compassionate Mrs. Harris.
She drew a chair, and sat down beside her, took
both her hands in her's, pressed them tenderly, but remained
silent. This was a conduct more congenial to
the mind of Rebecca than the most eloquent harangue
could have been. She rested her head on the bosom of
her friend, gave a free vent to her tears, and, by degrees,
regained a tolerable degree of composure.