University of Virginia Library

31. C H A P. XXXI.
RETROSPECTION AND NEW CHARACTERS.

Though Lady Winterton had solemnly promised
Rebecca to hold no farther correspondence with
Savage, her love overpowered every good resolution, and
she had seen him several times previous to their leaving
London; for what man of gallantry can refuse the request
of a woman he tenderly loves, though rigid honour
bids him fly her society. Fanny, the lovely unfortunate
Fanny, entreated another interview; it was impossible
to avoid it, but each one was meant to be the
last.

Lord Osster was by no means the bosom friend of
Savage, but he had, by accident, become master of this
secret, and was therefore requested to accompany him
to Chiswick, where he had enjoyed several interviews
with Lady Winterton before the last fatal one.

Lord Winterton's valet had observed his Lady's evening
walks, and made the important discovery that she
had a lover. He informed his Lord, from that moment
her steps were watched, she was discovered in the alcove—Savage
at her feet—her cheek rested on his forehead—her
hand upon his shoulder, and tears were streaming
from her eyes.

“Turn, villain,” said Lord Winterton, “and desend
yourself.” Savage arose, and drew his sword; the
frantic Lady threw her arms about him, and received
her husband's sword in her own bosom. She sell, and
Ossiter at that moment entering, prevented the death of
her lover, who would certainly have fallen a victim to
the husband's rage, had not timely assistance arrived.

The gentle innocent Rebecca was involved in her
Lady's crime; she was supposed accessary to the interviews,
and forbade to enter the house, when she fainted
as was mentioned in the preceding chapter. Ossiter represented

her to Savage as a woman of a very light character,
and he, unwilling to quit a place where he
might hope to hear whether his Fanny still lived, suffered
that designing nobleman to carry her to the chaise which
waited for them, and convey her to the nearest inn.
Here he ordered her to be put to bed, sent for a doctor,
and, having strongly recommended her to his care, retired,
after a slight supper, to bed, rejoicing in an accident
which had again put in his power a woman
whom, though he had given up all thoughts of gaining,
he could never entirely forget.

How great then was his surprise when, enquiring
for her the next morning, he found doctor, nurse and
patient, all absconded. He repaired to the doctor's
house, but could not obtain admittance. He cursed
the meddling fellow in his heart, vowed revenge against
Rebecca, and set off for London.

In the regular cheerful family of Dr. Ryland our heroine
soon recovered her health, and in a great measure
her spirits. She made enquiry concerning the fate of
her Lady, and learned that, though she had recovered
from her wound, she laboured under a very ill state of
health, which, they feared, would terminate in a decline.
Rebecca gave a sigh to her hard fate, and wished
she might conquer her passion, and be prepared to
meet that peace in another world she had failed of finding
in this.

Dr. Ryland was a truly benevolent man, but he had
a large family, and no great degree of practice, it was
therefore a thing not to be expected that our heroine
could remain with them long, and in the poor situation
she then was, without money or cloaths, she could not
think of returning to incumber Mrs. Harris. She had
informed Mrs. Ryland that she wished to get a place in
some genteel family, where she could render herself useful
without much hard labour; that Lady enquired
among her friends, and learned that the Lady of a neighbouring
justice wanted a young person to get up her
small linen, make her caps, bonnets, gowns, &c. and
occasionally to take care of the family when the Lady

was out. Rebecca joyfully waited on Mrs. Penure; the
kind Mrs. Ryland accompanied her, gave her such a
character as she deserved, and had the pleasure to find
she entirely suited the Lady's plan. The salary was
small, but Rebecca had but few wants to supply; to be
neat was now all she required, indeed it was all she could
henceforth expect. The doctor advanced a few guineas
to provide her a change of clothes, for she had sent
repeatedly, without effect, for her trunk from Lord Winterton's,
and, in the course of a week, from the time she
waited on the Lady, Rebecca became an inmate in the
family of the worshipful Justice Penure.

Jacob Penure had, from a very low station in a reputable
tradesman's family, raised himself, by indefatigable
industry, to the confidence of his master, and a share
in the business, at the age of twenty-three. The fair
Miss Abigail Prune, who had, in the younger part of
her life, served several ladies in quality of waiting woman,
but who now kept her brother's house, cast on him
the eyes of affection. Miss Abigail was to be sure rather
past her prime, having seen forty seasons revolve, and
noted their various change, without the least hope of
ever changing her own maidenly condition to the more
honourable one of wife.

Mr. Jacob was a comely young man. She reviewed
her own countenance in the glass; she could not but perceive
the traces made by the hand of time. She was
above the middle size, extremely thin, and had a shape,
not “small by degrees, and beautifully less;” but so exactly
straight, that it was impossible to perceive the least
difference between the bottom and the top, and instead
of that roundness, which constitutes elegance in the form
of a woman, her waist was as perfectly flat as though she
had been pressed between two boards. Her arms were
long; her hands large, hard and boney; her face was
round, but it was that kind of roundness that expresses
insignificance. The small remains of teeth she possessed
might have been termed beautiful in some parts of the
world, for they were of jetty hue, and from her hollow
sockets, over which could be discerned scarcely the trace
of brows, twinkled two extremely small black eyes.

The tip of her diminutive nose was elevated.

Her complexion might have rivalled the tints of the
most beautiful orange lilly.

Such was the person of Miss Abigail. We will leave
her accomplishments and temper to speak for themselves.

Mr. Jacob Penure knew his own interest too well to
think of slighting the maiden's advances. She had five
hundred pounds in her own possession, the accumulated
savings of near twenty years servitude; besides, her brother
had no children, and he had much money. Mr.
Prune was far from displeased with his sister's choice.
Penure was an attentive, industrious young man; he
made him equal partner with himself, and in about fifteen
years they found themselves in possession of a very
handsome fortune. About this time the old gentleman
died. All his possessions devolved to his sister, and Penure
resolved, though sorely against his wife's opinion,
to leave trade, and retire into the country. Here he
was chosen justice of the peace, and by his integrity and
gentleness in the execution of his office, gained the love
of all who knew him.

He was a humane friendly character, but he stood in
fear of his wife.

The morning after Rebecca's arrival, the breakfast
things removed, (for she was to eat at their table,) Mrs.
Penure desired our heroine to accompany her up stairs.

“I am mightily glad,” said the lady, sitting down
by a large old-fashioned case of drawers, and taking an
enormous bunch of keys from her pocket, “I am mightily
glad to have met with a young person like you, who
can make me up a few smart things. I love to be genteel,
and wear as good things as my neighbours; but
really it is so expensive to have any thing done at the milliners,
and if one gets any journey-woman to come home,
they always ask for as much again stuff as they want, and
steal half of it. Now I do hate to be cheated: I don't
mind giving away a bit of ribband or gauze that is left,
but it provokes me to have it taken away slyly.”

During this harangue, she had pulled from her drawers
an immense quantity of yellow washed gauze, old

muslin, and thread lace, that bore the strongest marks
of antiquity. She admired the cap our heroine had on,
and wished to have one made like it; but among the
medley of trumpery she had displayed, Rebecca could
not select any thing fit for the purpose: besides, our heroine's
head, though neat and plain, still retained an air
of fashion. Mrs. Penure's lank black hair was combed
in the exactest manner over a roll, and drawn up as tight
behind as possible; how then could the same cap suit
both?—However, an attempt must be made. The Lady
assured Rebecca, that her lace, muslin, &c. were
very valuable, and insisted on not only one but several
caps being produced from those materials; at the same
time she opened a cabinet, in which were arranged, rolled
in the neatest manner round cards, every ribband she
had ever had in her possession. “See, young woman,”
said she, exultingly, “here are variety of ribbands, take
your choice, let my caps be trimmed handsomely, but
don't waste any; I hate waste, so, if you can avoid it,
don't cut them.” Rebecca could not suppress a smile at
the solemn manner in which this treasury of old-fashioned
dirty, faded ribbands was committed to her charge.
However, she promised to exert her abilities to please,
and was beginning to form a cap, but her mistress had
not yet done with her. “I suppose,” said she, “you
will want linings and wire; besides, you will not be all
day making two or three caps: I want a bonnet or two
made, and my best cloak fresh trimmed.”

“I am afraid I shall not be able to do all in one day,
Madam.”

“Well, you must do as much as you can, child, don't
be idle, I hate idle people. I hope you don't love reading.”

Rebecca hesitated; she would not utter a falsehood.
“I think it an agreeable amusement, but I will never
neglect my business.”

“No, indeed, I hope not, reading is the ruination of
all young people. I never read a book in my life but
my Bible, and the House-keeper's Assistant. I was always
studying to make the most of my time and how to
save or earn a penny.”

A fresh cargo was now displayed to the wondering eyes
of Rebecca, of old mode, yellow, white sarsenet, skeleton
wires, paste board and blond lace, out of which she
was desired to produce a smart bonnet or two.”

“It is impossible, madam,” said she, “utterly impossible;
the bonnets worn now are so different from
what were worn ten years since. You must, indeed,
Madam, afford yourself new materials to make a genteel
bonnet.” Her arguments were vain; all she could obtain
was a yard of mode, and four yards of riband, while
Mrs. Penure declared she was leading her into extravagance,
and that the bonnet must last her seven years.

It is impossible to give a direct idea of our heroine's
sensations, when this miserable woman, out of oftentation,
displayed to her the treasures of her wardrobe.
Here were gowns, petticoats, nay, even stockings and
linen, which she could no longer mend or wear, carefully
laid by her! Her narrow soul could not even expand
itself to give to others what she could no longer use herself
the very wire that came out of her old caps was twisted,
kept and put in a box devoted for that purpose; hats
that bore the date of twenty years by their fashion; old
stays, shoes and gloves, all were preserved, though scarcely
worth acceptance by the poorest person.

Her house-keeping was of a piece with the rest; every
thing was under lock and key; bread and small beer
were the only things to which the servants had free access;
her table, it is true, was well supplied, but it was
oftentation, not liberality, occasioned it. Her female
visitors were seldom asked to take more than one glass
of wine after dinner, for when she had taken half a glass
herself she would return the stopper to the decanter, and
cry, “I never allow myself more,” This was the signal,
and the wine was immediately removed, when she would
say, “but perhaps, ma'am, you would have liked another
glass?”

It cannot be expected, in such a family, that our heroine
could be happy; she endeavoured to be content,
but the effort was vain. Mr. Penure saw she was far superior
to the station she was in; he pitied her, but he
could do no more, without incurring the anger of a woman

whom he had been accustomed to obey, and dreaded
to offend.

It happened one afternoon, when his Lady-wife was
gone to pay a visit of ceremony (a thing not very customary
with him) the justice took his tea at home. Rebecca
was summoned to the parlour to make it; but,
alas! Rebecca could produce only a tea spoonful of
black tea, and a very small quantity of sugar.

“Why, sure, child, you are not allowanced in tea
and sugar?” said he, with a look of displeasure.

“There is plenty for me, Sir,” said she, affecting a
smile, and—.

“By heavens!” said the justice, stamping with passion,
“you shall make no excuse for her; confound the
stingy narrow-hearted—.

“Hold, Sir, I beseech you,” cried Rebecca; “you
quite terrify me!”

“I am sorry for it, child,” said he; “but to think
my wife should dare treat you thus, you who are every
way her superior, and who, if I mistake not, was born
to be served by others, not be a servant yourself!”

“You are mistaken, Sir,” said our heroine, her eyes
falling as she spoke: “Indeed you are mistaken. I
am a poor orphan, without friends or connexions, and
have only to lament that my education has been superior
to my fate. My birth was humble, and, I trust, my
heart is humble; but my feelings are sometimes more
than I can well bear.

The justice rang the bell; he wished to hide his emotions.
“Get me some tea and sugar,” said he, giving
half a guinea to a servant who entered. He then drew
his chair toward our heroine, took one of her hands,
and told her “he felt inclined to prove himself her
friend, if she would direct by what means to do it.”

“Be not alarmed, my lovely girl,” said he, “though
my eyes acknowledge you beautiful, my heart only feels
for you as for a sister, or a daughter. If you can venture
to make me your friend, confide in me, and trust to
my honest intention; I will serve you to the utmost of
my power.”

During tea Rebecca had disclosed to her master the

chief incidents of her life, veiling only those which concerned
Sir George. Time had passed unobserved. The
justice had drawn forth his purse, and putting ten guinias
into the hands of Rebecca, entreated her to accept
them as the gift of a father. She strenuously opposed
the liberal donation. He had taken her hand, and closing
it with the money within it, held it while he was
speaking, when the door opened, and Mrs. Penure stood
before them. The justice started, and dropped Rebecca's
hand. The money fell to the floor.

The rage of Mrs. Penure inflamed her features, and
shot from her eyes; she could not speak, but shrieking
in a terrific manner flew at Rebecca, and would have
made her feel the weight of her tremenduous hand, had
not her husband stepped between them. She recovered
her speech.

“Profligate wretch,” said she “vile, ungenerous villain!
is it thus my tenderness and condescension, in taking
you to my bed, is re-paid? Is my money to be
squandered on your painted Jezabels that you bring into
my house to dishonor me? Oh! my unfortunate lot!
Must I beggarred by an ungrateful wretch? Yes, I see
all my property will be wasted, and I shall go to the work-house.”
Here her tears broke out, and what with sobbing
and screaming she became unintelligible. Rebecca
would not stop to vindicate herself. She retired to her
room in silence, and soon after received a message from
her mistress to leave the house, who, at the same time,
made her ill behaviour a plea for not paying her wages,
though she had been in the family above four months.
As she was going out at the gate to seek the London
coach, one of the servants put a folded paper in her hand.
On opening it she saw not the ten guineas, but a ten
pound note, with these words:

“I know you have not been paid; accept this as a
small return for your services. God bless you, and
make you happy.