University of Virginia Library

30. C H A P. XXX.
VARIETY STILL.

When Rebecca began to feel herself settled in
Wimpole-street, she also began to find that she
had entered on an entire new life.—Lady Winterton was

extremely gay, saw a great deal of company, and lived
in one continued round of dressing, visiting, and public
amusements. It was in vain for our heroine to object to
accompanying her; she had taken a peculiar fancy to
her society, and was never happy without her. Lord
Winterton loved gaiety, and an ostentatious display of
grandeur as well as his Lady: She was therefore never
abridged in her pleasures, were they ever so extravagant,
and the old Peer thought himself amply repaid for the
most splendid entertainments, or elegant presents, by
the smiles and good humour of his Lady, who, in spite
of her caprice and satyrical wit, he tenderly loved.

One morning Rebecca had accompanied her Lady to
an auction, where they had scarcely been seated ten minutes
before a very elegant young man approached them,
and being introduced to her as a Mr. Savage, a particular
friend of her Ladyship's, attached himself to them
the whole morning.—Rebecca did not observe any thing
uncommon in his attentions to Lady Winterton, but
she thought, as he handed her Ladyship to her carriage,
she saw him put a folded paper into her hand, which she
immediately conveyed into her pocket.

As it drew towards evening the Lady seemed vastly
uneasy, especially when she found her Lord meant to
spend his evening at home: however, after she had taken
her tea, she ordered her chariot.

“Am I not then to have the pleasure of your company,
Fanny?” said his Lordship. “I proposed supping
at home, because I heard you were disengaged.”

“Oh! my Lord, I shall be home again in about two
hours. Miss Littleton and I are only going to call on
a sick friend of her's.”

Rebecca stared. Lady Winterton gave her a supplicating
look, and, surprised as she was, she remained silent.

“If Miss, Littleton wishes to visit her friends,” said
my Lord, “the chariot is certainly at her service; but,
surely, my dear Fanny, you are not obliged to accompany
her.”

“Indeed but I am! and I am sensible the Lady will

take it very unkind were I to neglect going. Don't you
think she would, Rebecca.”

“I think,” said Rebecca, timidly, “we may both
venture to defer our visit till the morning, as my lord is
so kind as to spend the evening at home.”

“Ah! that is your good nature, my dear; you
would rather offend your friend, than lead me to disoblige
my husband; but suppose we settle it this way: I
will go and see how the lady is, and you shall stay and
engage my Lord at piquet. I shall just call at my mantua-maker's
in my way home, and be with you again
before supper.”

“Your Ladyship will pardon me,” said Rebecca,
giving her a penetrating look: “If you are resolved to
go, you shall not have to say I am remiss in the duty
I owe my friend. I am ready to attend you, Madam,”
rising, and ringing for her cloak.

“For heaven's sake! Lady Winterton,” said Rebecca,
as the chariot drove from the door, “what is the
meaning of all this? You have distressed me beyond
measure, by calling on me to assert a falshood.”

“Now you are angry with me, Rebecca,” said the
Lady, taking her hand; “but pray think no more
about it: I could contrive no other means to get away
from that inquisitive old man, without telling him where
I was going.”

“And surely your Ladyship does not wish to go any
where that would be offensive to your husband.”

“Oh! my dear girl, you will never forgive me, you
are such a prudent creature yourself; but I am going to
meet —, though, believe me, it shall be the last
time. I am going to meet —, and take a last
farewell of Savage.”

“By your Ladyship's promising it shall be the last
time, I am led to think it is not the first. I could have
excused your making me accessary to such an affair:
However, I shall take care not to be liable to be drawn
in a second time.”

“Ah! Miss Littleton, you have no compassion for
a susceptible heart.”

“Yes, Lady Winterton, I have, an infinite deal; I
feel for you sincerely, if when your person is united to
one, your heart is in the possession of another. Your
feelings, Madam, are involuntary; your actions are by
no means so: I am sensible you may not be able to conquer
the weakness of your heart; but you certainly
may avoid throwing yourself into situations which may
lead to criminality.”

The chariot stopped—Lady Winterton alighted
—and Rebecca followed her silently into a parlour,
where Savage was eagerly expecting her.

The ensuing scene, to which our heroine was a witness,
though it awakened all her compassion for the lovers,
who in years, sentiments and manner, seemed so
suitable to each other, it gave her but an indifferent
opinion of her Lady's prudence. Savage, from his conversation,
appeared a man of strict honour; he did
not seem to entertain an idea to the injury of his mistress; but that unfortunate woman, hurried on by the
violence of her passion, made a thousand discoveries of
her unbounded affections, which, with a man of less integrity,
might have precipitated her into everlasting
infamy.

The promise of returning to supper was entirely forgot.
Rebecca reminded her of the hour: she heard
her not, and the clock struck twelve before she could
bring herself to leave her lover.

During their ride home Rebecca spoke not a syllable
except one or two laconic answers to her Lady's questions.
She followed her into the hall, and, taking a
candle from a servant, wished her a good night, and ran
hastily up stairs, leaving Lady Winterton to make her
excuses to her husband for her breach of promise.

The next morning, as she was rising, one of the maids
brought her the following note.

“For heaven's sake! my dear Rebecca, do not contradict
whatever you may hear me say at breakfast, as
you value the peace of

Rebecca threw the note into the fire, and went down
stairs. Her Lord and Lady were already in the parlour.

“And how do find yourself this morning, my dear?”
said her Ladyship: “I vow you quite frightened me last
night.”

“Are you often taken in such a strange manner?”
said his Lordship, with a look of concern.

“No, indeed, my Lord; I was taken quite by surprise
last night, and found myself very painfully affected.
I never was taken that way before, but I have felt
a return of the disorder this morning.”

“Indeed!” cried her Ladyship, visibly alarmed.

“Yes, Madam; but as change of air may be of service
to me, and your Ladyship seems terrified on my account,
I shall beg leave to retire to a friend's I have
some few miles from town. I shall go directly after
breakfast, and will send to-morrow for my trunks.”

“You do not mean to leave us, I hope?”

“Yes, Madam; I fee; it impossible for me to remain
with you any longer.” Lady Winterton burst into tears.

“Nay, Miss Littleton,” said his Lordship, “you
must not leave us; my poor Fanny will break her heart.”

It was to no purpose for the Lady to weep, or her
husband entreat: Rebecca remained inexorable, till
Lord Winterton leaving them, his Lady earnestly entreated
her to forgive what was past, and she would never
see Savage again.

“Do not leave me, Rebecca,” said she; “you are my
guardian angel; without you I shall be inevitably lost!”

This argument prevailed, and Rebecca consented to
stay, in hopes of drawing her Lady from her unfortunate
attachment. The winter was now entirely supplauted
by the gay-robed spring, and our heroine began to
sigh for retirement, silver streams, and shady groves.
Lady Winterton, to oblige her, proposed spending a
few weeks at Chiswick, where they had an elegant seat.

It was a charming evening in the beginning of June;
the ruddy streaks of the parting sun-beams had given
place to sober grey; the moon with silver crescent shed a
feeble light, and the stars, by imperceptible degrees, appeared

in the blue expance of heaven, till all was one
continued scene of radiant glory. A nightingale perched
on a thorn, was tuning her melancholy pipe, and the
zephyrs passed gently over a long canal, wasting on
their wings the distant sound of the tinkling sheep bell,
and the rustic shepherd's whistle.

Rebecca had left her Lady in an alcove at the bottom
of the garden, and wandered into the pleasure ground.

The beauty of the surrounding scene had given a
soft serenity to her mind, and she sat down to indulge
reflections, which, if not absolutely pleasant, were far
from painful.

She had not sat long before she observed two men
gliding among the trees, and proceeding as it were towards
the garden. At first she felt rather terrisied, but
the idea of Savage striking her, she hastened toward the
place where she had left her Lady. She had hardly got
half way before she felt herself suddenly seized by a person,
who softly bid her not be alarmed, he only meant
to prevent her disturbing an agreeable tete a tete, to
which a friend of his had been invited, and which
he was determined should not be interrupted by her.

Rebecca trembled excessively, for, by the voice, and
what little she could discern of his features, she discovered
the person who held her to be no other than Lord
Ossiter.

“Whoever your friend is,” said she, “he can have
no business here. Unhand me, Sir, or I will alarm the
house.”

“You must cry pretty loud, then, my dear, for you
are a good distance from it; but stay, have I not seen
your face before? Yes, by heavens!”

At that moment, a loud shriek from the alcove, and
a clasthing of swords, made him relinquish his hold, and
run toward the place from whence the sound proceeded.
Rebecca followed as fast as her trembling limbs would
permit; but what a scene presented itself to her view.
Savage on his knees, supporting the bleeding, and apparently
lifeless body of Lady Winterton, and Ossiter
struggling to wrest a sword from the hands of her Lord,

who foamed with rage, and threatened instant death to
the betrayer of his honour!

“Infamous wretch!” said the enraged husband, when
he beheld our heroine; “this is your doings, you contrived
and winked at their meetings, and most conveniently
left your vile friend to entertain her lover, while
you whiled away your time with that disgrace to nobility!
Begone—leave my house this night—thou pest to
society! I have long been informed of your scandalous
proceedings, but would not believe till occular demonstration
left me nothing to doubt.”

Terrified and distressed as Rebecca was, she could not
but wish to stay to afford what relief was in her power
to her Lady, but this was denied her. She had assisted
Savage to bathe her temples with hartshorn, and saw her
open her eyes, when the servants entered, took her in
their arms, and bore her to the house, where Rebecca
was forbade to enter, and any servant who should dare
to afford her shelter, threatened with instant dismission.

“What now is to become of me!” said she, sinking
on the ground as the door was shut against her: “What
next will be the fate of the wretched Rebecca.”

“Love, affluence, and pleasure,” said Lord Ossiter,
endeavouring to raise her.

“Say rather death and infamy, my Lord; my reputation
is wounded—my peace of mind destroyed. Oh!
that my heart would break, and let me rest forever!”

“Rest in my arms,” said he, rudely embracing her.
She shrieked.

“Forbear, my Lord,” said Savage, approaching;
“this lady has been the friend of my adored Fanny,
and no one shall insult her with impunity.”

“Your humble servant,” cried Ossiter; “I understand
you, and have done, only give me leave to inform
you, that this pretty imaculate piece of prudery, about
four years since, was in a ready furnished house of my
providing, from whence she thought fit to elope, and
has, I make no doubt, seen a great deal of life since that
period.”

Rebecca could hear no more—a sudden chillness ran

through her veins—she respired with difficulty—her
head grew giddy—and she sunk into insensibility. When
she recovered, recollection retained but faint traces of
the past scenes; it seemed like a disturbed dream.—
“Where am I?” said she.—Lord Ossiter approached
the bed-side—“You are in safety, my angel,” said he,
“only compose your spirits, and nothing shall be omitted
that can make you happy.” She turned her head
from him, wept, but could not answer.

“You must not disturb her,” said a medical gentleman,
who had been called in. “Quiet and rest is absolutely
necessary to preserve her life.”

“Exert your utmost skill, doctor,” said Ossiter, “to
save her, and we will be guided entirely by your directions.”

“Then leave her to the care of the nurse to-night,
and do not attempt to see her before noon to-morrow.”
Ossiter kissed her hand, bowed, and retired.

Rebecca heard the door shut: she raised her head to
look at the doctor, and perceived, to her great joy, he
was a grave, decent looking man. She made some excuse
to send the nurse out of the room; then taking
both the doctor's hands in her's, cried, “Oh! good
Sir, if you have any compassion in your nature, shew it
now to a poor distressed orphan and save her.”

“My dear child,” said he, “do not alarm yourself,
you are not in any immediate danger.”

“Oh! Sir, you mistake me, it is not death I fear, it
is dishonour. Alas! I know not where I am; but I
fear I am entirely in the power of a man who will sacrifice
me to his unhallowed passion.”

“Then you did not come with him voluntarily?”

“No! no! heaven knows I did not; I was in a state
of insensibility.”

An interesting conversation now took place—the doctor
was convinced of Rebecca's innocence, and bribing
the nurse to assist, about twelve o'clock they helped the
poor sufferer to get on her clothes, supported her down
stairs, and carried her in triumph to his own house.