University of Virginia Library

32. C H A P. XXXII.
OLD ACQUAINTANCE RENEWED.

The coach sat Rebecca down in Piccadilly; it was
quite dark. She thought it was best to go immediately
to Mrs. Harris's, and determined to take a coach
for that purpose. As she stood waiting for her trunk to
be taken from the boot, two genteel young men passed
her, one of which turned round, and regarding her attentively,
“it is her, by heavens!” said he, and flew towards
her.—Rebecca turned suddenly round, and discovered
the features of Sir George Worthy.

“My angelic Rebecca!” said he, folding her in his
arms, regardless of the place where they stood, “do I
once more behold you? Do I indeed clasp you to my
breast, or is it an illusion?”

“Sir George,” said she, struggling to free herself
from his embrace, “I rejoice to see you well; but I
know not what I have done to deserve this insult.”

“Who shall dare insult you, my adorable girl? I
have found you after such a long separation, when I
thought you lost for ever, and we will never part
again.”

“For heaven's sake let me go Sir George. Why
am I thus detained? Are you not married?”

By this time a crowd had gathered round them. An
old sailor seeing a woman in distress rushed forward, and
struck Sir George a blow that made him relinquish his
hold. Rebecca sprang from him, and forgetful of her
trunk, ran hastily down St. James's-street. When she
had reached the bottom she stopped to recover her
breath, and then proceeded slowly down Pall-Mall.

A poor miserable looking object, whose emaciated
frame was but thinly sheltered by a tattered mode cloak
for gown she had none, from nocturnal damps, supporing
her feeble steps by holding by the iron rails before

one of the houses, in a weak, tremulous voice entreated
charity.

Rebecca never turned aside from the supplications of
misery. She stopped, and put her hand in her pocket.

They stood immediately under two large lamps.

“Merciful heaven!” cried the poor mendicant, laying
her cold hand on the one Rebecca had extended
with relief, and gazing ardently at her—“Rebecca!
my child! do you not know me?”

Our heroine looked intently on the pale visage of the
object before her; misery and sickness had somewhat altered
it, but she saw it was her mother. The feelings
of a daughter rushed impetuously over her heart. She
sunk on her knees upon the pavement, and, clasping her
parent in her arms, exclaimed, “Oh, my mother! my
dear distressed mother!” and burst into an agony of tears.

When the tumult of their feelings were subsided, Rebecca
thought of calling a coach, but where were they
to drive? She could not think of taking her mother to
Mrs. Harris's; they therefore drove to a street in Westminster,
where Mrs. Serl had formerly lodged, and were
fortunate enough to meet with an apartment empty.
Here their mutual embraces and endearments were again
renewed: Rebecca wept for joy at having found a parent
whose future life she would endeavour to make happy,
and Mrs. Serl shed tears of contrition for having once
treated so unworthily so good a daughter.

She informed Rebecca that after they left Lincolnshire
Serl commenced gamester, sharper and swindler;
that his daughter went on the town, and turned an abandoned
profligate; and that, at last overwhelmed with poverty
and disgrace, Serl himself had died in the diſgrace">disgrace, Serl himself had died in the ,
leaving her in the greatest distress, having neither
clothes, money, or friends. Her annuity had been long
since sold, and she must have perished, had she not providentially
met with her daughter.

When Rebecca viewed her mother's tattered garments,
and thought of getting her more comfortable clothing,
her own trunk recurred to her memory. “I hope

it is not lost,” said she; “and it is lucky what little
money I possess is in my pocket.”

Her mother informed her that there was some decent
apparel at a pawn broker's in the neighbourhood, and
Rebecca, having received instructions in what manner to
proceed, went out in order to get it; but what was her
astonishment, on opening the parcel when she had
brought it home, to see a gown made of a piece of India
chints, which she remembered to have had in her
trunk when it was sent into Lincolnshire, with a muslin
apron, and several other things, which she equally knew
to be her own.

“Gracious heaven!” said she, dropping the parcel
from her hands, and fixing her eyes on her mother.

“What is the matter, my dear?” said Mrs. Serl;
“that was a gown given me by poor Serl; it had been
bought for his first wife.”

“It was mine,” said Rebecca, in a firm voice. “If
he told you it was his, he told a falshood; it was in the
trunk which I lost four years ago.”

An explanation now took place, which convinced
Mrs. Serl what a villain she had chosen to succeed the
worthy Mr. Littleton; but our heroine would not suffer
her to make any painful retrospects, or to accuse herself.
She poured the sweet balm of affectionate consolation into
the bosom of her mother. She forgot her own forrows,
and seemed to have no with but to render her parent
the like forgetful of every past disagreeable event.

The next morning she repaired to the house where the
stage had stopped in Piccadilly to enquire for her trunk.

“The old gentleman took it away with him,” said
one of the waiters, “and paid all expences;” for Rebecca,
in her fright the preceding night, had not paid her
fare to town.

“What old gentleman?” said she, surprised.

“Why, the old gentleman who knocked the young
man down that was so rude to you. He read the directions
on the trunk when it was taken from the boot,
swore he was your uncle, and insisted on having it; as
he offered to pay all expences the coachman did not refuse,
and both he and the young man went off together

to search for you; but returned in about an hour, and
left word, if you should call this morning, for me to tell
you, you might hear of your trunk at number 46, Bedford-Square.”

“That is Lord Ossiter's,” said Rebecca, scarcely
able to respire.

“And, moreover,” said the man, “the young gentleman
told me, if I could find where you was gone, or
could bring him to a sight of you, he would give me ten
guineas, and so, seeing as how you are here, we had better
take a coach and go together.”

“No,” said Rebecca, struggling to suppress her emotions,
“No, I cannot go just now; in the afternoon it
will be more convenient. I will just step back to my
lodgings, and return to you again by two o'clock.”

The man was satisfied. Rebecca tripped out of the
house, called a coach, and drove home. During her little
ride her mind dwelt on the singularity of the circumstance.
She had just heard the man, who rescued her
from Sir George's insults, had gone away with him, had
taken her trunk, and directed her to find it at Lord Ossiter's.
It was an inexplicable riddle; he had called himself
her uncle, but she knew she had but one uncle and
he was abroad in the navy. She was certainly fortunate
in escaping a snare, which she had no doubt was
laid to trepan her. Lord Ossiter had, perhaps, represented
her to Sir George as an abandoned creature, devoid
of virtue or principal; and that gentleman, once so esteemed,
so respected, was now considered as one, who,
believing her lost to honour, would join his Lordship
in any stratagem to decoy her into his power.

Full of these ideas, she told her mother she would
immeadiately remove from the apartments she then occupied,
lest she should have been watched home, and
Sir George might be directed where to find her.

“Alas! my dear mother,” said she, “I am sensible
of my own weakness. I hope I love virtue as well as
woman ought; but I know I love Sir George, and
though he is the husband of another; though reason, religon,
honour, all plead against my passion, still, still it
is so engraven on my heart, that to eradicate it, I feel

is totally impossible. Can I then answer for my own
fortitude? I fear not: I might sink under powerful
temptations; let me then fulfil my duty, and avoid
them.”

Her mother approved and strengthened these resolutions,
and, having but very few things to put together,
in less than two hours they were in a new lodging
near Millbank, Wettminster. Here Rebecca sunk under
the fatigue of body, and agitation of mind she had undergone,
and a fever ensued, which brought her almost
to the brink of the grave. The strength of a good constitution
soon combated the violence of the disorder, and
she began to recover her strength, when her mother was
attacked with one more alarming; this was the smallpox,
which, to a person of her years, was expected to
be fatal.

Ten pounds was all the worldly wealth Rebecca possessed
when she met her mother; but ten pounds in a
house of sickness would last but a very short time; she,
therefore on examining the contents of her purse, when
her mother sickened, found it contained but fifteen shillings,
and there was a doctor's bill to pay. It was also
necessary his attendance should be continued to Mrs.
Serl, whose life was in imminent danger. During the
first ten days of her mother's illness Rebecca hardly left
her bedside, denying herself almost the necessaries of
life, in order to lengthen out her little store; but on the
fourteenth day she was pronounced out of danger, and
that good nursing, and nourishing food, was all that was
necessary to her restoration.

“Alas!” said Rebecca, “I have no possible means
of procuring those necessary comforts.” She was stooping,
as she spoke, to take some gruel from the fire, the
pin of her handkercheif dropped out, and the picture of
Lady Mary swung forward against her hand.

Rebecca gazed at it mournfully.—“True,” said
she, “it is set in gold, and might afford a temporary
supply; but, then, is it not the portrait of my adored
benefactress? And does it not also contain the semblance
of the only man I ever did or ever can love? Duty

alas! what right have I to talk of love? Is he not already
married? And were he not, have I not given a
solemn vow never to listen to his addresses? Foolish,
foolish, Rebecca! why dost thou nourish a passion
that must be forever hopeless?”

She was returning the picture to her bosom, when it
struck her she might, perhaps, get the minature carefully
taken out, and dispose of the gold in which they were
set. “If so,” said she, “I may comfort my mother,
and yet preserve the respect due to the portrait of Lady
Mary.”