University of Virginia Library

29. CHAP. XXIX.
VARIOUS SCENES.

When Rebecca had repelled the violence of her
first emotions, on finding Sir George was really
lost to her, her mother's unfortunate marriage, and
its consequences recurred to her mind, she retired to bed,
but not to rest; sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and

her thoughts were so harrassed, that in the morning her
heavy eyes, pale lips, and burning hands, alarmed Mrs.
Harris.

“Come, come, child,” said she, gently shaking her,
“I must not see you in this way; you are far from well
now, and if you go on fretting thus, I shall have you
quite laid up. You must rouse yourself, my dear; it is
very wrong to give way to sorrow for misfortunes that
are irremediable.—Chance may, perhaps, discover in
what part of the town your mother is; in the mean
time you must not neglect your own interest. You
have never yet waited on any of the ladies to whom
Colonel Abthorpe gave you letters. I will have you
dress yourself this very day, and go to some of them.
Perhaps you may meet with a situation where, by your
mind being constantly occupied, you will have no time
to fret yourself to death, which I foresee will be the case
if you are left to yourself.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Harris, I have no cause to wish for
life,” said Rebecca, in a melancholy accent, “for, in
the whole world, I have no friend but you and my poor
uncle; him, perhaps, I shall never see again, and you,
I fear, will grow weary of such a child of sorrow.”

“Now you are very unkind, Rebecca, to suppose
me capable of neglecting you, or being wearied by your
complaints! No, my child, I feel for you every thing
that friendship and affection can feel for a beloved object;
and it is because I think it necessary to your health that
you should be roused from this state of inaction, that
makes me willing to be deprived of your society: Besides,
my dear, your mother may be, nay, in all probability,
is alive, and, at some future period, you may
have it in your power to render her happy and comfortable
in her latter hours by your tenderness and filial
love: For her sake, then, exert your natural good sense,
and bear your afflictions with becoming resignation; it is
an indispensable duty you owe to her, to yourself and to
your Creator.”

“Oh! Mrs. Harris,” cried Rebecca, “pardon my
petulance; I see the friendly design of your advice, and
will exert myself to follow it.”

She now began to look over her letters, and determined
to wait that morning on Lady Winterton and
Mrs. Sackville, who lived both in a street near Cavendish
square. She had two more letters, but they were to
ladies in the city.

Rebecca's dress was plain and neat in the extreme,
yet there was a dignity in her person and manner that
ever commanded respect: She, therefore, on knocking
at Lord Winterton's door, was immediately ushered into
a parlour, and the servant took the letter to his Lady.

The Lady was at her morning toilet. She cast her
eyes hastily over the letter.

“What kind of a person brought this, Thomas?”
said she to the man who waited just without the door
of the dressing room.

“A very genteel young woman,” replied the man.

“Well, shew her into the breakfast parlour, and tell
her I shall be with her presently. Is my Lord up?”

“Yes, my Lady, he is just gone down.”

“Well, go, do as I bid you.”

The man departed, and Rebecca was desired to walk
into a parlour, where in his night gown and slippers,
sat a personage, the exact counterpart of Lord Ogleby
in the Clandestine Marriage.

Rebecca started, and was going to retire.

“Pray, Madam,” said my Lord, rising, “do not
let me frighten you; my Lady will be here directly.
Thomas, a chair for the young Lady.”

Rebecca blushed, courtseyed, and took her seat.

My Lord eyed her attentively. She felt her confusion
increase.

“She is a very fine girl,” thought his Lordship; I
wonder who the devil she is.”

“The weather is very fine for the season, Madam,”
said he, thinking it was incumbent upon him to say
something, though, in fact, it had rained incessantly
for a week.

“The sun did break out for about an hour this morning;”
said our heroine, half smiling; “but he seems to
have withdrawn himself again.”

“He was conscious, Madam, that when your beauties
were visible to the admiring eyes of mortals, his
fainter glories could not be missed.”

“Heavens!” thought Rebecca, “what a ridiculous
old man, with his bombastic compliment: However, I
am glad he is old; perhaps his Lady may want a person
to read to her, or by cheerful assiduity, otherwise amuse
her. She had, in her own mind, pictured Lady Winterton
as an elderly Lady, perhaps upwards of sixty
years old. In this family,” thought she, “should I be
so happy as to be placed, I shall be free from the noise
and impertinence so frequently to be met with in the families
of young people of quality. I dare say they do
not keep much company; nay, perhaps, live in the
country above half the year. I wish I may suit her Ladyship;
she certainly wants somebody, either for herself
or some of her freinds, by her desiring me to wait to see
her.”

As Rebecca was indulging these reflections the door
opened, and a Lady entered, in appearance not more
than twenty, habited in a very modish undress.

“Miss Littleton, I presume,” said she, advancing—
Rebecca courtseyed.

“Colonel Abthorpe,” said the Lady, motioning for
her to be again seated, “has had a very disagreeable
time in America. I dare say you are happy to find
yourself in England again.”

“Sincerely so, Madam.”

“This thought Rebecca, is undoubtedly a daughter.”

“The Colonel mentions,” resumed the Lady, “that
you would wish to engage as companion to an elderly
Lady, or as governess to some genteel family of children.”

“Either situation would suit me, Madam,” said
Rebecca; and if Lady Winterton could recommend
me—.”

“Lady Winterton wants a companion herself,” said
the Lady, smiling; “but, perhaps, her age will be an
objection.”

“By no means, Madam; I should give the preference
to an elderly Lady.”

The Lady laughed; Rebecca blushed, and feared she
had been guilty of some impropriety.

“Why, my dear creature,” said the Lady, “I am
afraid, then, that you and I shall never agree, though
Colonel Abthorpe seemed to think that you might prove
an acquisition to me; but I am too young for you, so
must positively turn you over to my Lord; he is more
adapted to your taste.”

“Your Ladyship must pardon my ignorance,” said
the trembling, blushing Rebecca; “I really had no
idea.”

“Hear her! hear her! my dear Lord; she had no
idea that your senatorial wisdom could have for wife
such an inconsiderate rattle. I would bet a thousand
pounds she took you for my papa.”

“Your Ladyship is pleased to display your wit at the
expence of good manners,” said his Lordship.

“Oh! I humbly crave pardon,” cried she with a
most bewitching smile, “I meant no offence; you know
I cannot help other people's mistakes; for my own part
I think you infinitely charming; then twisting one of
his grey locks round her beautiful fingers, she continued:
“The snow on the hills, and the icicles pendant
from the leafless trees in December, are in my eyes, to
the full as beautiful as the variegated fields and full-blown
hawthorn in May. I like every thing in its season, and
am moreover a great admirer of natural curiosities.”

“Impertinent!” said his Lordship, rising angrily,
and quitting the room.

“Well, now he is gone,” said her Ladyship, drawing
her chair near Rebecca, “let us have a little serious
talk. You cannot suppose that inclination led me to
give my hand to that ludicrous piece of antiquity:
No, my dear girl, I married him to serve a father,
whom next to heaven, I love, and to get from the
power of an ill-natured old maiden aunt, who had kept
me at school for fear I should mar her fortune, and despoil
her of all her lovers; for she had thirty thousand
pounds independent fortune, and that gave her wizened
face and skeleton figure ten thousand charms; she or her

fortune had admirers innumerable. I was always with
her at the holidays. My Lord saw me at the play.
Charmed with the idea of getting me married out of the
way, she made her will, bequeathing to me all her fortune,
in case she died without issue.

“This was buzzed about—her lovers all forsook her
—and poor aunty died of a broken heart in the fifty
ninth year of her age! My father had married this Lady's
sister. He was poor. She was the co-heiress of a
la ge fortune; but alas! she knew not that if she married
without her guardians consent, the whole of her fortune
went to her eldest sister.

“Disappointment and sorrow soon put a period to
her existence. My father continued in poverty, but I
was committed to the care of my wealthy aunt.

“At that time I became acquainted with Lord Winterton,
my father's circumstances were dreadfully embarrassed.
My aunt would not advance a single guinea
to keep him from a gaol. I knew this marriage would
place him in affluence, and at the age of sixteen, gave
my hand, promised to love and obey, before my heart
knew what love was. I have been married now five
years; my temper is naturally cheerful, and I am an
enemy to thought; but I have that within me which
convinces me I have a heart alive to every delicate sensation
of disinterested tenderness.

“You may, perhaps, think it odd, that I am thus
open to a stranger; but Colonel Abthorpe, who was
the intimate friend of my father, has given you a character
as bade me to wish to make an interest in your
heart, that I may say I have one bosom in which I can
repose my sorrows, one friend who will pity my frailties.”

Rebecca felt inclined to love this unfortunate young
creature from the first moment she beheld her. A very
few words served to settle every preliminary, and it was
agreed that the very next day she should repair to her
new situation.

As the time allowed her was so very short, Rebecca
thought she would make use of the rest of that day to

deliver all the other letters; “for,” said she, “it is
right that I should wait on these Ladies, though I am
settled with Lady Winterton; they may at some future
period be of service to me.” She accordingly repaired
to Mrs. Sackville's.

Being shewn into the drawing-room, a tall, meagre
figure presented itself, who scarcely deigned an inclination
of the head as she took the letter, and, waving her
hand, cried, “Sit down young woman.”

Having read the letter—“And so you have been in
America, child? cried the Lady, with the same solemn
aspect. “Well, I dare say, they are all in fine confusion
there; but let their distress be ever so great, it is
no more than they deserve, a parcel of rebels.”

“They may have been misled,” cried Rebecca, an
enthusiastic ardour animating her expressive countenance;
“but they are in general a brave, benevolent set
of people.”

“'Tis a pity, as you are so partial, you had not remained
amongst them.”

“I had no friends there, Madam, and wished to return
to my native country.”

“Nay, you have not many friends here,” said the
Lady, with a sarcastic smile, “according to the Colonel's
account.”

Rebecca's eyes filled with tears.—Mrs. Sackville continued:
“I do not know of any body at present who
wants a young person of your description.”

“You will pardon me, Madam,” said Rebecca, for
this intrusion; “I did it merely in respect to the generous
attention of Colonel Abthorpe, who furnished me
with several letters; but I have been so fortunate as to
be engaged this very morning as companion to Lady
Winterton.”

“'Tis very well,” said Mrs. Sackville, tossing her
head: “Lady Winterton, I believe, wanted a convenient
friend, and very possible you may suit her purpose:
However young woman, do not say you go into her
family without knowing what kind of a woman she is. I
have a very great regard for Lady Winterton, and

should be very sorry to say any thing to her disadvantage;
but all the world knows she married Lord Winterton
to hide an infamous intrigue with a low bred fellow
whom nobody knows. I thank heaven I have been
brought up to know the real value of virtue, and should
be very sorry to see a decent looking body, like yourself,
companion to a woman of no principle: However,
you are to do as you please; I have given you my opinion,
and you must take the consequence of rejecting my
advice.” She then rang the bell, and Rebecca departed
with no very high opinion of her good nature, whatever
her other virtues might be.

She then repaired into the city, and delivered the
other two letters, but neither of the ladies were at
home; she therefore immediately proceeded to her
lodgings, and informed Mrs. Harris of the success of
her excursion. Mrs. Harris advised her not to be disheartened at the account Mrs. Sackville had given of
Lady Winterton; but should she find her the unprincipled
woman she had been represented, to leave her immediately.

“Surely,” said Rebecca, “she cannot be abandoned
to vice; if her countenance is the index of her mind.”

On the evening of this day our heroine received a
friendly letter from Mrs. Barton, who gave her a pressing
invitation to visit her, and make her house her
home: but Rebecca detested a state of dependence—
she therefore wrote a grateful return to this invitation,
and acquainted her with her engagement with Lady
Winterton.