University of Virginia Library

33. CHAP. XXXIII.
THE BENEVOLENT LADY.

Rebecca was so pleased with the project of raising
a supply of money from the gold, that she told her
mother she would go out for half an hour and breathe the
fresh air, as she found the confinement she had suffered
rather impeded her returning strength. When she was
out she thought, by extending her walk, she should feel
herself refreshed, she therefore crossed the Park, and going
out at Spring Gardens Gate, stopped at an eminent
goldsmith's in Cockspur-street, and requested him to
take the pictures carefully out, and purchase the setting.
The man had just taken it in his hand, and was admiring
the neatness of the workmanship, and the curious contrivance
of the spring, when a chariot stopped at the
door, and a beautiful young Lady immediately entered.
The master of the shop held the picture open in his
hand while he received the Lady's orders concerning a
pair of bracelets. The portrait caught her eye: “Bless
me,” said she, “Pray whose is that? it is so like a person
that I know.”—

“It belongs to that young woman, Madam; she
wishes to sell the gold without the pictures.”

The Lady had not before observed Rebecca; but now
her pale, but beautiful interesting countenance struck
her.

“It is a pity to have them unset,” said she. Will
you part with it altogether? I will give you twice the
value of the gold.”

“I cannot, indeed, part with the portraits, Madam;
the one is a much valued friend long since dead, and the
other—.” A pale vermillion crossed her cheek, and she
hesitated.

“Aye, that other!” said the Lady; “I never saw
any thing more like than that is to a particular friend
of mine; and even the features of the Lady seem familiar
to me.”

“Will you buy the gold, Sir?” said Rebecca.

“No,” cried the Lady, “he shall not buy it. If
you will not part with it altogether to me for twice its
value, (I am certain you will pardon the remark) but
one motive could lead you to wish to dispose of the setting.”
As she was speaking she had taken several guineas
from her purse, and wrapped them in paper. “You
shall call upon me, if you please, to-morrow morning,”
continued she, presenting our heroine with a card, under
which she slipped into her hand the paper of money, and
without waiting for an answer, she tripped out of the
shop. Rebecca was motionless; nor did she think of
looking at the card till the master of the shop returned
from seeing the Lady to her carriage.

“I am glad you were so lucky,” said he, “as to excite
the notice of that Lady; she is an amiable woman,
and may prove a valuable friend.”

“Lady Chatterton,” said Rebecca, reading the card.

“Yes,” continued he, “she was Lady Eleanor Harcourt,
only daughter of the late Earl. She has been
married about three years. A most extraordinary circumstance
happened about that time; she had been from
a child designed for her cousin, Sir George—.”

Just then a carriage drew up, several Ladies of fashion

demanded the jeweller's attention, and Rebecca, thinking
her mother might want her attendance, left the shop,
not without wishing she could have heard what Sir
George the Lady was designed for, as that was a name
she never heard mentioned, but she felt interested, and
found it impossible to suppress the emotions of her heart.

Rebecca was truly grateful for the unexpected bounty
she had received, and returned home fully resolved to
wait on the benevolent Lady, and return her those
thanks her astonishment had prevented her expressing at
the time: But on the morrow her mother was so very
ill it was impossible to leave her, and for several succeeding
days it rained continually: However, at length
a fine morning presented, Mrs. Serl was greatly recovered,
and Rebecca, dressing herself as neatly as the very
limited state of her wardrobe would allow, proceeded to
St. Alban's-street.

On knocking at the door she was informed, that
Lady Chatterton was gone out for a morning ride; but
that, if she was the young woman her Ladyship had met
at the jeweller's, she was desired to wait till the Lady
returned.

Rebecca was pleased with this little mark of attention,
and was shewn into a small parlour, where a child,
of about eleven years old was practising on the pianoforte.

The child stopped on her entrance, and, starting
from her seat, advanced a few steps towards Rebecca.

“Do not let me interrupt you Miss,” said our heroine.

“Oh! but I am sure I cannot play, ma'am,” said the
child: “Indeed I cannot; I had much rather look at
you. And pray ma'am, do not think me rude if I ask
you if your name is not Rebecca Littleton?”

“That is my name,” said the astonished Rebecca.

“I knew, I was sure, it could be no other,” said the
child, throwing her arms round our heroine's neck;
“but you have forgot me—you do not remember your
little Lucy Ossiter.”

“Miss Ossiter!”

“Yes, your own little girl that loveed you so dearly,
and almost broke her poor heart when you went away:
But you shall not go away again, Rebecca; my dear
aunt will not let you go: I know the will not.”

“What aunt, my dear young Lady?”

“Why aunt Eleanor: I live with aunt Eleanor now.
Papa and mamma are gone to France, and brothers are
both at school; so uncle George.—Oh! dear Rebecca,
I have got such a deal to tell you about uncle George.—
I am sure aunt will be very glad to see you, uncle and she
are gone out together.”

“Good heaven!” thought Rebecca, “then I am in
the very house I most wished to avoid. No wonder her
Ladyship said she knew the picture; but now is my only
time for avoiding a painful interview with Sir George,
who has, no doubt, though it did not strike me before,
succeeded to his uncle's title on his marriage with his
cousin. Honour, gratitude, all unite to urge me immediately
to quit this place. Lady Chatterton has extended
toward me the hand of benevolence; nor will I repay
her by throwing myself in the way of her husband, who,
from his behaviour when we met accidentally, has convinced
me he still retains an improper regard for me.”

“As my Lady is not at home, my dear Miss Ossiter,”
said she, “I will call again another time.”

“Well, then, let it be soon, my own Rebecca; say
you will come again to-morrow.”

Rebecca tenderly embraced the affectionate child, and
having given her a kind of half promise to see her soon
again, hastily left the house.

“Every thing,” said she, “conspires against me. I
never find a friend but some cross accident prevents my
reaping any benefit from their kindness: misfortunes
seem to be the only portion allotted for me in this world,
and patience and resignation my only comforters. But I
will nor complain; I have been unexpectedly relieved
when almost in despair, when every earthly friend had
apparently forsaken me; and, I trust, I shall be supported
by the same beneficient Power, as long as he
thinks proper to lay the burthen of life upon me.”

As she walked along, indulging these reflections, it
struck her that she would go to her uncle's agent, and
enquire when he had heard from him, and whether the
old gentleman was soon expected in England. But
when she got to the place where he used to reside, she
found he was removed to a distant part of the town;
nor could the people, who then occupied the house,
give her a proper direction to find him.

“Now every stay is gone,” said Rebecca, as she
pursued her way homeward; “but, I thank God, I
feel my health returning, and, I shall be enabled to gain,
by industry at least, the necessaries of life for my mother
and self.” Alas! poor Rebecca, she little knew how
small a portion of the world's wealth fell to the share of
the humble, the industrious female, who by continued
labour can scarcely gain sufficient to supply, with the
coarsest food, the wants of nature, or to shield with decent
clothing her limbs from the inclemency of the weather.

While the daughters of vice and folly are surrounded
with luxuries, the superfluous part of which would cheer
the hearts of the children of misery; but, Oh! heavenly
reflection, the humble, virtuous female, has a sweet
cordial comforter within that diffuses a pleasure over her
soul, which the thoughtless votary of folly can never
experience.

Blest spirit of content that presides over the innocent
breast! How enviable are thy transports! Thou canst
sweeten the coarse scanty meal of poverty, and shed quiet
slumbers on the prisoner's eye! The accutest pang the
heart can feel where thou hast taken up thine abode, is
when it beholds its fallen sisters purchasing the delusive
pleasures of wealth with the loss of all that can render
them lovely or amiable.

Rebecca was poor, but her heart was void of discontent.
She enquired for employment, and was so happy
as to procure some; but the fruits of her almost incessant
industry were very inadequate to the wants of herself and
mother, who revived but very slowly from the bed of
sickness.