University of Virginia Library

34. CHAP. XXXIV.
WE GO BACK TO THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER.

When Sir George Worthy left England, in order,
if possible, to banish from his remembrance Rebecca
Littleton, he had, previous to his departure, visited
his cousin Eleanor, and informed her of the state of his
heart.

“I esteem you, Eleanor,” said he; “but I do not love
you as a man ought to love a woman he takes for his
wife. To be candid, my heart is in the possession of another.”

“And to be equally candid, dear George,” replied
the lady, “mine is exactly in the same predicament; yet
I do not know how we shall avoid making each other
wretched, for my father positively swears I shall have you
or be a beggar, and my poor swain has neither name or
fortune to recommend him.”

“I mean to be absent two years,” said Sir George,
“that will give you a short reprieve. I will write to
you often, and if at any time I can be of service to the
man of your choice, do not hesitate to command me.”

In the Earl of Chatterton's family was a young man
nearly of the same age with Eleanor; he was a foundling,
and had been brought up and educated by his lordship in
the style of a gentleman, and when at a proper age presented
with a commission.

Oakly, which was the name the Earl had given him
from having found him one morning at the foot of an
oak in his park, wrapped in a mantle, but without any
other cloathing. Oakly was a youth of strict honour,
and his heart overflowed with gratitude to his benefactor,
whom he considered in the light of a father; but inspite
of honour, gratitude, and innumerable resolutions to the
contrary, he loved Lady Eleanor, some how or other accidentally
acquainted her with his passion, and found himself
beloved in return.

Things were in this situation when Sir George left England,

and in this situation remained when a letter from
Eleanor summoned him to return, when he had been
scarcely absent eighteen months. The Earl was ill, felt
himself daily declining, and wished to see his daughter
married before he died. He obeyed the summons in
haste.

Oakly was almost distraction. “But what am I,”
said he, “that I should aspire to the hand of my patron's
daughter, an out cast, a foundling, without family
or name, dependant on his bounty even for the
bread I eat? No, I will not impede her union with a
man every way her equal, who possesses honour and
goodness of heart, and will do justice to her virtues. I
will leave England,” said he.

Unable to deliberate on a subject where inclination
and reason were so much at variance, he flew to the Earl,
and solicited an exchange into a regiment destined to
America. “Let me gather laurels in the field of battle,
my dear Sir,” said he.

The Earl loved him tenderly. He pressed to know
the cause of this unexpected application, and refused to
exert his interest in Oakly's behalf till he was informed.

“I love a woman of family and fortune,” said he,
“I have some reason to think I am not indifferent to her,
and, knowing my own unfortunate situation, I wish to
avoid doing a dishonourable action.”

“You will never act dishonourable, Oakly,” said the
Earl, “and this conduct is a proof of it. Who is the
Lady?—inform me —I will speak to her friends
in your favour, and give you a genteel fortune.”

“Oh! my generous benefactor,” cried Oakly, “indeed
it is impossible; her parents never will consent. I
dare not name her.”

“Come, come, you are too diffident: I am sure there
is no family, of the least discernment, but would think
themselves honoured by the alliance. Come, who is the
paragon?”

“You must pardon me, Sir; I should entirely forfeit
your friendship.”

“You will undoubtedly forfeit it by this unkind reserve.

I am willing and able to serve you, Oakly; but
if, by your obstinacy, you put it out of my power —.”

“Do not call it obstinacy. By heavens! Oakly, I
love you as my own child; only tell me how to make
you happy, and I will do it, though it cost half I am
possessed of.”

“Ah! my dear Sir, I fear, when you know —.”

“Know what?” cried the Earl, impatiently.

“That I love Lady Eleanor.”

“Love Eleanor!” cried he, emphatically; then your
suit is indeed hopeless.”

Oakly's heart sunk within him.

“You are indeed a noble boy, though,” said the
Earl, “and from this moment I hold myself bound, by
the most sacred oath, never to suffer you to know the
want of a friend. Eleanor has, from her childhood,
been designed for her cousin George; indeed, my late
sister and myself entered into a solemn engagement, that
which ever outlived the other should see this union completed;
that now is my task. If it is absolately necessary
to your peace to leave England, I will procure
you the desired exchange; but I could wish, my dear
Oakly, you would conquer your passion, and remain
with us.”

“That is not in my power, Sir;” he replied, “to
be employed in actual service is now the only wish I
have to make.”

The Earl did not mention this conversation to either
his daughter or Sir George, and Oakly carefully avoided
an interview with Eleanor till he was really appointed
to a company of foot that was expected to go for New-York
in the course of a few weeks. He then, having
made the necessary preparations for joining his regiment,
took a tender leave of her, assuring her it was his hope
to ensure her felicity by banishing from her fight a
wretch who had stepped between her and her duty, and
who would rather die than have it said he had basely stolen
the daughter of the man to whom he owed every enjoyment,
nay, almost life itself.

“'Tis all in vain,” said Eleanor, “I can never love

Sir George; nor do I think even the commands of a father
I love and revere can lead me to give him my hand.”

However, the preparations for the intended nuptials
still proceeded. Sir George beheld them with total indifference.
He had used every endeavour to discover
Rebecca: he had, by various stratagems, traced her to
her embarkation with Miss Abthorpe for America, and
was informed the vessel in which they went was reported
to have been lost, and all on board perished.

“Rebecca lost!” He remembered his mother's first
wish to see Lady Eleanor his wife. “She is an amiable
woman,” said he, “and though I cannot love again
with the emhusiastic ardour I experienced for Rebecca,
I will, if she voluntarily accepts my hand, exert myself
to make her happy. She, like myself, has experienced
disappointment in her tenderest hopes; we can at least
console each other, and make up in friendship what we
want in love.”

Oakly had taken leave of his friends at Windfor, and
was on his journey for Portsmouth. Sir George was in
town with the lawyers, and the Earl and Lady Eleanor
at breakfast in the library, when a servant informed them
that a clergyman requested to speak with them.—He
was desired to walk up.

“I am come, my Lord,” said he, seating himself
with evident embarrassment, “from a poor woman in
this place, who, it is imagined, is at the point of death.
From something she has imparted to me, I imagine it
is absolutely necessary for your Lordship to pay her a visit,
as she has a circumstance to relate which nearly concerns
your family. She is likewife in distressed circumstances,
and may, while she lives, which will not be
long, require your benevolent assistance.”

The Earl never wanted to be twice told of an object
of compassion.—

“We will go directly,” said he, and ringing the bell,
ordered the carriage. Lady Eleanor and the clergyman
accompanied him.

At a small cottage, on the extremity of the forest, the
carriage stopped, and the clergyman led the way into an

inner apartment, where, on a bed, expressive of poverty
in the extreme, lay a poor emaciated figure, in the last
stage of a consumption.

“Here is the Earl and his daughter, Mrs. Watts,”
said he.

“They are very good,” replied she, “to come and
see such a wretch as I am. Oh! Sir, Oh! my Lady,
you will never forgive me; but I cannot die in peace till
I have informed you that, through mine and my sister's
wickedness, you have nourished an impostor in your families,
and that the real heir to the late Sir George Worthy's
esta e is either totally lost, or may be a poor wanderer,
destitute of bread.”

The Earl and Eleanor sat in mute astonishment, gazing
at each other.—The clergyman exhorted the penitent
to proceed.

“My eldest sister,” said she, “was employed by the
late Lady Worthy to wet-nurse her son, and was left at
Twickenham with the child, while her Ladyship made
a short tour to Flanders. During her Lady's absence my
sister came to Windsor to me, bringing master with her.
I at that time gave suck to a sweet little boy exactly of
the same age, whose mother had died at my house but a
month before. My sister entreated me to take care of
master Worthy for a day, while she went to town. I
consented, and was proud of my charge. In the afternoon
(he was asleep in the cradle) I left a little girl to
rock him, and stepped about half a mile to purchase
something for supper against my sister came home. I
made what haste I could, but on my return, what was
my terror, to see the cradle empty, and my girl at play
in the street? However, I did not make any noise, or
alarm the neighbourhood; but enquiring of the girl who
had been there, she said only two gypsey women begging.
It immediately occurred to me, that the gold
bells and coral, together with the costly lace cap and jam
the child had on, had been the incitement to this theft.
When my sister returned she was almost distracted—her
character would be gone—she should never dare face
her Lady again! That evening we could think of nothing

in order to deprecate the strom we should expect on
my Lady's return, till the diabolical thought presented
itself of substituting my little nursling, whose features
and complexion were nearly the same, in the room of
master Worthy, quieting our consciences with the ides,
that, as his mother was dead, and his father poor, and
talked of going abroad, it would be doing a deed of charity,
and that, if we should ever find the lost insant, we
might then acknowledge the fraud. Accordingly my
sister returned to Twickenham with the child, the plan
succeeded beyond our expectations, for we feared the penetration
of the servants, and I wrote to the father of the
boy that his child was dead.”

“And who is it then,” cried the enraged Earl,
“whom you have thus infamously palmed upon the family
for the son of my sister, and who was within a few
days to have been married to my daughter?”

“His father's name was George Littleton,” she replied,
faintly, “and he was christened after him.”

“And have you never heard any thing of my poor
cousin?” said Eleanor, tenderly.

“Never, Madam; but should he ever be found, he has
on his right arm, just below the shoulder, the mark of a
mulberry.”

“Saddle my horses—send off all my servants,” said
the Earl, starting up; “he shall not go to that d—d
fighting place.”

“My dear father!” cried Eleanor.

“Rejoice, rejoice, my girl, for upon my soul the
young dog had that mark on his arm when I found him
sprawling under the oak.”

“And is he alive, then?” said the poor woman.
“Thank God—then I shall die content.”

Eleanor selt interested in the sate of the poor creature,
who had made this important discovery. She promised
to befriend her while she lived, and to take care of her
daughter, a girl about fifteen years old. She then returned
home with her father, who immediately dispatched
a messenger to bring his new-sound nephew to town
again.—While Eleanor retired to her apartment to reflect

on the alteration a few hours had made, and how
much it had brightened her future prospects.

George Littleton, as we must now call him, however
conscious of his innocence, felt greatly hurt at being so
long the usurper of another's name and property; but the
Earl would not suffer him to dwell on that subject, and
on his marriage with Lady Eleanor. Sir George presented
his quandom rival with the writings of an estate, worth
five hundred pounds a year, given to him and his heirs
for ever; and so fond were they of his society, that it was
but a small part of every year he spent from them.

The Earl did not long survive his daughter's marriage,
and Sir George succeeded to the title of Earl of Chatterton,
the Earl having begged the reversion of it for him
some time previous to his death.

Mr. Littleton had given up all hopes of ever again
hearing of Rebecca.—He imagined her dead, but her
image was so deeply engraven on his heart, that he resolved
never to enter into the married state. Sometimes
he would think she might, perhaps, have been his sister,
for he had never heard her father's Christian name, but
his heart recoiled from this suggestion She was undoubtedly
a relation, yet he had never heard Rebecca
mention an uncle, but she might have many; he had never
made many enquiries concerning her family.

One evening, when he was at a sopper-party with
Lord Ossiter, that nobleman addressed him with,
“George, I saw an old acquaintance of your's last night.
Ah, now I think of it, she may be a relation.”

“Who do you mean my Lord?”

“Who! why who but that demure, primitive piece of
affected innocence, Mrs. Rebecca Littleton.”

“You must be mistaken, my Lord: I have every
reason to think she has been dead some years.”

“And I have substantial reasons to think she was alive
last night, and in my arms.”

He then gave an account of the affair at Lord Winterton's,
little to the honour of hour heroine. He also averred,
that she voluntarily accompanied him in a chaise to a
neighbouring town, where she spent the night at an inn,

but left it in the morning with a person whom he imagined
she liked better.

“Poor girl,” said George, mentally, “heavy must
have been the trials that drove her to a life of infamy.”

From that time he frequented every place where he
supposed it likely to meet with her. “I will snatch her
from perdition,” said he. “She shall share my little
portion, eat of my bread, and drink of my cup. I will
speak consolation to a mind that was once as pure as angels,
and cannot without infinite pain, be intimate with
vice.”

About this time Lord Ossiter's extravagance had so
envolved his estates, that it was necessary he should make
a trip to the Continent in order to retrieve them. George
undertook to settle all his debts, and put the estates under
proper regulations, and to this purpose took up his
residence in Bedford-Square. He had been dining out,
where the champaigne flew briskly round, when he accidentally
met our heroine just descended from the stage.
The wine gave him a great slow of spirits, which, added
to the relation he had heard from Lord Ossiter, accounts
for the rude manner in which he accosted her.

The blow he received from the old sailor almost stunned
him: However, he followed him into the house, and
insisted on satisfaction for the insult, as he termed it. The
old man swore it was a blow given in a right cause, and
that he was ready to give him a dozen more if he was
not already satisfied.

During this altercation the coachman came in with
Rebecca's trunk, and asked where the young woman
was to pay him his fare?

“She is ran off,” said a man who saw the transaction.

“Well then,” says the coachman, “I must keep the
trunk for what she owes.” As he spoke he rested one
end of it on a chair near a table, on which stood a candle.

The old sailor looked at the directions, rubbed his
eyes, and looked again. “By all that's good,” said he,
“it is my own girl, my Rebecca?—Which way did she
go? Let me follow her. Stand out of my way.”

“Not till you have paid me,” said the coachman,
surlily.

The old man threw down five shillings, and desiring
a waiter to take care of the trunk, ran out, followed by
George; but, instead of turning into Pall-Mall, they
went through the Palace into the Park, their search was
therefore vain.

As they returned slowly together, George asked the
old man “if he was any relation to Miss Littleton?”

“Yes,” said he, “I am all the relation she has in
the world, and a devilish poor one too, for I have not
above half a guinea at this present time in my pocket.
I have not been in London above two hours, nor in
England above eight and forty.”

“Is your name Littleton, Sir?”

“So my mother told me: I suppose she knew.”

“Pardon me if I am troublesome; but had you ever
a son?”

“Yes, but he died an infant.”

“You were informed he died at Windsor?”

The old man answered in the affirmative.

“Ah! my dear Sir,” said George, “you were deceived—your
son still lives—longs eagerly to embrace
you—and divide with you the competence he enjoys.”

By this time they had returned to the public-house.
George called for a room, knelt before his father, and
related to him all the reader is already acquainted with.
What wonder if, in the delightful hurry of spirits this
discovery occasioned, they did not think of the necessity
of writing a note for Rebecca, in case she came to enquire
for her trunk; but, satisfied with leaving a verbal
message, they repaired to Bedford-square, to enjoy the
pleasures of an uninterrupted conversation.