“I can't comprehend all this,” said Lady Chatterton,
giving the letter into George Littleton's hand. He ran
his eye hastily over the contents.
“But I can,” said he: “I conceive it all; the dear
girl has never heard of the discovery of the real Sir George
Worthy. She imagines me to be your husband, and the
generosity of her soul will not suffer her to throw herself
in the way of a man who once prosessed to love her, and
whom, from the whole tenor of her conduct, I have reason
to think she loves.”
“I would lay my life she is a good girl,” said Lady
Chatterton; “indeed her countenance appeared the index
of a mind replete with innocence and purity. I will
instantly order the carriage, and go to her; nor will I return
without her.”
“Dear, generous Lady Chatterton,” said George,
ringing the bell.
“Where is the person who brought this letter?” said
the Lady.
“It was brought by a porter, Madam, and he did not
stop a moment.”
The joy that had for a moment animated the features
of George instantly vanished. He again caught up the
letter, but there was no address annexed to it.
Just then his father entered, and they lamented together,
that now they were more than ever convinced of the
worth of Rebecca she had effectually secluded herself
from them.
“Overwhelmed with poverty too,” said George,
and attendant on a sick mother, who may, perhaps, be
perishing for want, not only of medical assistance, but of
the comforts and necessaries on which existence depends.”
“We will use every endeavour though to discover
her retreat,” said Lady Chatterton, wiping away the tears
that stole from her expressive eyes, “and when we have
found her we will chase sorrow from her heart, and unite
our endeavours to make her forget she had ever been unhappy.”
