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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.