CHAPTER II.
The day on which they left their farm was a melancholy day to this unfortunate family. Mr. Frankland’s father and grandfather had been tenants, and excellent tenants, to the Folingsby family: all of them had occupied, and not only occupied, but highly improved, this farm. All the neighbours were struck with compassion, and cried shame upon Mr. Folingsby! But Mr. Folingsby was at Ascot, and did not hear them. He was on the race ground, betting hundreds upon a favourite horse, whilst this old man and his family were slowly passing in their covered cart down the lane which led from their farm, taking a last farewell of the fields they had cultivated, and the harvest they had sown, but which they were never to reap.
Hannah, the servant-girl, who had reproached herself so bitterly for leaving the bucket of ashes near the hay-rick, was extremely active in assisting her poor master. Upon this occasion she seemed to be endowed with double strength; and a degree of cleverness and presence of mind, of which she had never shown any symptoms in her former life: but gratitude awakened all her faculties.
Before she came to this family, she had lived some years with a farmer who, as she now recollected, had a small farm, with a snug cottage upon it, which was to be this very year out of lease. Without saying a word of her intentions, she got up early one morning, walked fifteen miles to her old master’s, and offered to pay out of her wages, which she had laid by for six or seven years, the year’s rent of this farm before-hand, if the farmer would let it to Mr. Frankland. The farmer would not take the girl’s money, for he said he wanted no security from Mr. Frankland, or his son George: they bore the best of characters, he observed, and no people in Monmouthshire could understand the management of land better. He willingly agreed to let him the farm; but it contained only a few acres, and the house was so small that it could scarcely lodge above three people.
Here old Frankland and his eldest son, George, settled. James went to Monmouth, where he became shopman to Mr. Cleghorn, a haberdasher, who took him in preference to three other young men, who applied on the same day. “Shall I tell you the reason why I fixed upon you, James?” said Mr. Cleghorn. “It was not whim; I had my reasons.”
“I suppose,” said James, “you thought I had been honestly and well brought up; as, I believe, in former times, sir, you knew something of my mother.”
“Yes, sir; and in former times I knew something of yourself. You may forget, but I do not, that, when you were a child, not more than nine years old, {Footnote: This circumstance is a fact.} you came to this shop to pay a bill of your mother’s: the bill was cast up a pound too little: you found out the mistake, and paid me the money. I dare say you are as good an accountant, and as honest a fellow, still. I have just been terribly tricked by a lad to whom I trusted foolishly; but this will not make me suspicious towards you, because I know how you have been brought up; and that is the best security a man can have.”
Thus, even in childhood, the foundation of a good character may be laid; and thus children inherit the good name of their parents. A rich inheritance! of which they cannot be deprived by the utmost malice of fortune.
The good characters of Fanny and Patty Frankland were well known in the neighbourhood; and when they could no longer afford to live at home, they found no difficulty in getting places. On the contrary, several of the best families in Monmouth were anxious to engage them. Fanny went to live with Mrs. Hungerford, a lady of an ancient family, who was proud, but not insolent, and generous, but not what is commonly called affable. She had several children, and she hired Fanny Frankland for the particular purpose of attending them.
“Pray let me see that you exactly obey my orders, young woman, with respect to my children,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “and you shall have no reason to complain of the manner in which you are treated in this house. It is my wish to make every body happy in it, from the highest to the lowest. You have, I understand, received an education above your present station in life; and I hope and trust that you will deserve the high opinion I am, from that circumstance, inclined to form of you.”
Fanny was rather intimidated by the haughtiness of Mrs. Hungerford’s manner; yet she felt a steady though modest confidence in herself, which was not displeasing to her mistress.
About this time Patty also went into service. Her mistress was a Mrs. Crumpe, a very old rich lady, who was often sick and peevish, and who confessed that she required an uncommonly good-humoured person to wait upon her. She lived a few miles from Monmouth, where she had many relations; but on account of her great age and infirmities, she led an extremely retired life.
Frank was now the only person in the family who was not settled in the world. He determined to apply to a Mr. Barlow, an attorney of an excellent character. He had been much pleased with the candour and generosity Frank showed in a quarrel with the Bettesworths; and he had promised to befriend him, if ever it should be in his power. It happened that, at this time, Mr. Barlow was in want of a clerk; and as he knew Frank’s abilities, and had reason to feel confidence in his integrity, he determined to employ him in his office. Frank had once a prejudice against attorneys: he thought that they could not be honest men; but he was convinced of his mistake when he became acquainted with Mr. Barlow. This gentleman never practised any mean pettyfogging arts; on the contrary, he always dissuaded those who consulted him from commencing vexatious suits. Instead of fomenting quarrels, it was his pleasure and pride to bring about reconciliations. It was said of Mr. Barlow that he had lost more suits out of the court, and fewer in them, than any attorney of his standing in England. His reputation was now so great that he was consulted more as a lawyer than as an attorney. With such a master, Frank had a prospect of being extremely happy; and he determined that nothing should be wanting, on his part, to ensure Mr. Barlow’s esteem and regard.
James Frankland, in the mean time, went on happily with Mr. Cleghorn, the haberdasher; whose customers all agreed that his shop had never been so well attended as since this young man had been his foreman. His accounts were kept in the most exact manner; and his bills were made out with unrivalled neatness and expedition. His attendance on the shop was so constant that his master began to fear it might hurt his health; especially as he had never, till of late, been used to so confined a life.
“You should go abroad, James, these fine evenings,” said Mr. Cleghorn. “Take a walk in the country now and then, in the fresh air. Don’t think I want to nail you always to the counter. Come, this is as fine an evening as you can wish: take your hat, and away; I’ll mind the shop myself, till you come back. He must be a hard master, indeed, that does not know when he is well served; and that never will be my case, I hope. Good servants make good masters, and good masters good servants. Not that I mean to call you, Mr. James, a servant; that was only a slip of the tongue; and no matter for the tongue, where the heart means well, as mine does towards you.”
Towards all the world Mr. Cleghorn was not disposed to be indulgent: he was not a selfish man; but he had a high idea of subordination in life. Having risen himself by slow degrees, he thought that every man in trade should have what he called “the rough as well as the smooth.” He saw that his new foreman bore the rough well; and therefore he was now inclined to give him some of the smooth.
James, who was extremely fond of his brother Frank, called upon him and took him to Mrs. Hungerford’s, to ask Fanny to accompany them in this walk. They had seldom seen her since they had quitted their father’s house and lived in Monmouth; and they were disappointed when they were told, by Mrs. Hungerford’s footman, that Fanny was not at home; she was gone to walk out with the children. The man did not know which road they went, so they had no hopes of meeting her; and they took their way through one of the shady lanes near Monmouth. It was late before they thought of returning; for, after several weeks’ confinement in close houses, the fresh air, green fields, and sweet-smelling wild flowers in the hedges, were delightful novelties. “Those who see these things every day,” said James, “scarcely notice them; I remember I did not when I lived at our farm. So things, as my father used to say, are made equal to people in this world. We, who are hard at work in a close room all day long, have more relish for an evening walk, a hundred to one, than those who saunter about from morning till night.”
The philosophic reflections of James were interrupted by the merry voices of a troop of children, who were getting over a stile into the lane, where he and Frank were walking. The children had huge nosegays of honeysuckles, dog-roses, and blue-bells, in their little hands; and they gave their flowers to a young woman who attended them, begging she would hold them whilst they got over the stile. James and Frank went to offer their services to help the children; and then they saw that the young woman, who held the flowers, was their sister Fanny.
“Our own Fanny!” said Frank. “How lucky this is! It seems almost a year since I saw you. We have been all the way to Mrs. Hungerford’s to look for you, and have been forced to take half our walk without you; but the other half will make amends. I’ve a hundred things to say to you: which is your way home? Take the longest way, I entreat you. Here is my arm. What a delightful fine evening it is! But what’s the matter?”
“It is a very fine evening,” said Fanny, hesitating a little; “and I hope to-morrow will be as fine. I’ll ask my mistress to let me walk out with you to-morrow; but this evening I cannot stay with you, because I have the children under my care; and I have promised her that I will never walk with any one when they are with me.”
“But your own brother,” said Frank, a little angry at this refusal.
“I promised I would not walk with any one; and surely you are somebody: so good night; good bye,” replied Fanny, endeavouring to turn off his displeasure with a laugh.
“But what harm, I say, can I do the children, by walking with you?” cried Frank, catching hold of her gown.
“I don’t know; but I know what the orders of my mistress are; and you know, dear Frank, that whilst I live with her, I am bound to obey them.”
“Oh, Frank, she must obey them,” said James.
Frank loosened his hold of Fanny’s gown immediately. “You are right, dear Fanny,” said he; “you are right, and I was wrong: so good night; good bye. Only remember to ask leave to walk with us to-morrow evening; for I have had a letter from father and brother George, and I want to show it you. Wait five minutes, and I can read it to you now, Fanny.”
Fanny, though she was anxious to hear her father’s letter, would not wait, but hurried away with the children that were under her care; saying she must keep her promise to her mistress exactly. Frank followed her, and put the letter into her hands. “You are a dear good girl, and deserve all the fine things father says of you in this letter. Take it, child: your mistress does not forbid you receiving a letter from your father, I suppose. I shall wish her hanged, if she does not let you walk with us to-morrow,” whispered he.
The children frequently interrupted Fanny, as she was reading her father’s letter. “Pray pull that high dog-rose for me, Fanny,” said one. “Pray hold me up to that large honeysuckle,” said another. “And do, Fanny,” said the youngest boy, “let us go home by the common, that I may see the glowworms. Mamma said I might; and whilst we are looking for the glowworms, you can sit on a stone, or a bank, and read your letter in peace.”
Fanny, who was always very ready to indulge the children in any thing which her mistress had not forbidden, agreed to this proposal; and when they came to the common, little Gustavus, for that was the name of the eldest boy, found a charming seat for her; and she sat down to read her letter whilst the children ran to hunt for glowworms.
Fanny read her father’s letter over three times; and yet few people, except those who have the happiness to love a father as well, and to have a father as deserving to be loved, would think it at all worth reading even once.
“MY DEAR BOYS AND GIRLS,
“It is a strange thing to me to be without you; but, with me or from me, I am sure you are doing well; and that is a great comfort; ay, the best a father can have, especially at my age. I am heartily glad to hear that my Frank has, by his own deserts, got so good a place with that excellent man, Mr. Barlow. He does not hate attorneys now, I am sure. Indeed, it is my belief, he could not hate any body for half an hour together, if he were to do his worst. Thank God, none of my children have been brought up to be revengeful or envious; and they are not fighting with one another, as I hear the poor Bettesworths now all are for the fortune. ‘Better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith.’ I need not have troubled myself to write this text to any of you; but old men will be talkative. My rheumatism, however, prevents me from being as talkative as I could wish. It has been rather severe or so, owing to the great cold I caught the day that I was obliged to wait so long at squire Folingsby’s in my wet clothes. But I hope soon to be stirring again, and to be able to take share of the work about our little farm, with your dear brother George. Poor fellow! he has so much to do, and does so much, that I fear he will overwork himself. He is at this present time out in the little field, opposite my window, digging up the docks, which are very hard to conquer; he has made a brave large heap of them, but I wish to my heart he would not toil so desperately.
“I desire, my dear James and Frank, you will not confine yourselves too much in your shop and at your desk: this is all I have to dread for either of you. Give my love and blessing to my sweet girls. If Fanny was not as prudent as she is pretty, I should be in fear for her; hearing as I do, that Mrs. Hungerford keeps so much fine company. A waiting-maid in such a house is in a dangerous place: but my Fanny, I am sure, will ever keep in mind her mother’s precepts and example. I am told that Mrs. Crumpe, Patty’s mistress, is (owing, I suppose, to her great age and infirmities) difficult in her humour; but my Patty has so even and pleasant a temper that I defy any one living, that knows her, not to love her. My hand is now quite tired of writing, this being penned with my left, as my right arm is not yet free from rheumatism: I have not James with me to write. God bless and preserve you all, my dear children. With such comforts, I can have nothing to complain of in this world. This I know, I would not exchange any one of you for all my neighbour Bettesworth’s fine fortune. Write soon to
“Your affectionate father,
“B. Frankland.”
“Look! look at the glowworms!” cried the children, gathering round Fanny, just as she had finished reading her letter. There were prodigious numbers of them on this common; and they shone over the whole ground, in clusters, or singly, like little stars.
Whilst the children were looking with admiration and delight at this spectacle, their attention was suddenly diverted from the glowworms by the sound of a French-horn. They looked round and perceived that it came from the balcony of a house, which was but a few yards distant from the spot where they were standing.
“Oh! let us go nearer to the balcony!” said the children, “that we may hear the music better.” A violin, and a clarinet, at this moment began to play.
“Oh! let us go nearer!” said the children, drawing Fanny with all their little force towards the balcony.
“My dears, it is growing late,” said she, “and we must make haste home. There is a crowd of company, you see, at the door and at the windows of that house; and if we go near to it, some of them will certainly speak to you, and that, you know, your mamma would not like.”
The children paused and looked at one another, as if inclined to submit; but, at this moment, a kettle-drum was heard, and little Gustavus could not resist his curiosity to hear and see more of this instrument: he broke loose from Fanny’s hands, and escaped to the house, exclaiming, “I must and will hear it, and see it too!”
Fanny was obliged to pursue him into the midst of the crowd: he made his way up to a young gentleman in regimentals, who took him up in his arms, saying, “By Jove, a fine little fellow! A soldier, every inch of him! By Jove, he shall see the drum, and beat it too; let us see who dares say to the contrary.”
As the gallant ensign spoke, he carried Gustavus up a flight of stairs that led to the balcony. Fanny in great anxiety called after him to beg that he would not detain the child, who was trusted to her care: her mistress, she said, would be extremely displeased with her, if she disobeyed her orders.
She was here interrupted in her remonstrance by the shrill voice of a female, who stood on the same stair with the ensign, and whom, notwithstanding the great alteration in her dress, Fanny recognized to be Sally Bettesworth. Jilting Jessy stood beside her.
“Fanny Frankland, I protest! What a pother she keeps about nothing,” cried Saucy Sally. “Know your betters, and keep your distance, young woman. Who cares whether your mistress is displeased or not? She can’t turn us away, can she, pray? She can’t call ensign Bloomington to account, can she, hey?”
An insolent laugh closed this speech; a laugh in which several of the crowd joined: but some gentlemen were interested by Fanny’s beautiful and modest countenance, as she looked up to the balcony, and, with tears in her eyes, entreated to be heard. “Oh, for shame, Bloomington! Give her back the boy. It is not fair that she should lose her place,” cried they.
Bloomington would have yielded; but Saucy Sally stood before him crying in a threatening tone, “I’ll never speak to you again, I promise you, Bloomington, if you give up. A fine thing indeed for a man and a soldier to give up to a woman and a servant-girl! and an impertinent servant-girl! Who cares for her or her place either?”
“I do! I do!” exclaimed little Gustavus, springing from the ensign’s arms. “I care for her! She is not an impertinent girl; and I’ll give up seeing the kettle-drum, and go home with her directly, with all my heart.”
In vain Sally attempted to withhold him; the boy ran down the stairs to Fanny, and marched off with her in all the conscious pride of a hero, whose generosity has fairly vanquished his passions. Little Gustavus was indeed a truly generous child: the first thing he did, when he got home, was to tell his mother all that had passed this evening. Mrs. Hungerford was delighted with her son, and said to him, “I cannot, I am sure, reward you better, my dear, than by rewarding this good young woman. The fidelity with which she has fulfilled my orders, in all that regards my children, places her, in my opinion, above the rank in which she was born. Henceforward she shall hold in my house a station to which her habits of truth, gentleness, and good sense, entitle her.”
From this time forward, Fanny, by Mrs. Hungerford’s desire, was always present when the children took their lessons from their several masters. Mrs. Hungerford advised her to apply herself to learn all those things which were necessary for a governess to young ladies. “When you speak, your language in general is good, and correct; and no pains shall be wanting, on my part,” said this haughty but benevolent lady, “to form your manners, and to develop your talents. This I partly owe you for your care of my children; and I am happy to reward my son Gustavus in a manner which I am certain will be most agreeable to him.”
“And, mamma,” said the little boy, “may she walk out sometimes with her brothers? for I do believe she loves them as well as I love my sisters.”
Mrs. Hungerford permitted Fanny to walk out for an hour, every morning, during the time that her children were with their dancing-master; and at this hour sometimes her brother James, and sometimes her brother Frank, could be spared; and they had many pleasant walks together. What a happiness it was to them to have been thus bred up, from their earliest years, in friendship with one another! This friendship was now the sweetest pleasure of their lives.
Poor Patty! She regretted that she could not join in these pleasant meetings; but, alas! she was so useful, so agreeable, and so necessary to her infirm mistress, that she could never be spared from home. “Where’s Patty? why does not Patty do this?” were Mrs. Crumpe’s constant questions whenever she was absent. Patty had all the business of the house upon her hands, because nobody could do any thing so well as Patty. Mrs. Crumpe found that no one could dress her but Patty; nobody could make her bed, so that she could sleep on it, but Patty; no one could make jelly, or broth, or whey, that she could taste, but Patty; no one could roast, or boil, or bake, but Patty. Of course, all these things must be done by nobody else. The ironing of Mrs. Crumpe’s caps, which had exquisitely nice plaited borders, at last fell to Patty’s share; because once, when the laundry-maid was sick, she plaited one so charmingly, that her lady would never afterwards wear any but of her plaiting. Now Mrs. Crumpe changed her cap, or rather had her cap changed, three times a day; and never wore the same cap twice.
The labours of washing, ironing, plaiting, roasting, boiling, baking, making jelly, broth, and whey, were not sufficient: Mrs. Crumpe took it into her head that she could eat no butter but of Patty’s churning. But, what was worse than all, not a night passed without Patty’s being called up to see “what could be the matter with the dog that was barking, or the cat that was mewing?” And when she was just sinking to sleep again, at daybreak, her lady, in whose room she slept, would call out, “Patty! Patty! There’s a dreadful noise in the chicken-yard.”
“Oh, ma’am, it is only the cocks crowing.”
“Well, do step out, and hinder them from crowing at this terrible rate.”
“But, ma’am, I cannot hinder them indeed.”
“Oh yes, you could, if you were up. Get up and whip ‘em, child. Whip ‘em all round, or I shall not sleep a wink more this night.” {Footnote: Taken from life.}
How little poor Patty slept, her lady never considered: not that she was in reality an ill-natured woman, but sickness inclined her to be peevish; and she had so long been used to be humoured and waited upon by relations and servants, who expected she would leave them rich legacies, that she considered herself as a sort of golden idol, to whom all that approached should and would bow as low as she pleased. Perceiving that almost all around her were interested, she became completely selfish. She was from morning till night, from night till morning, nay, from year’s end to year’s end, so much in the habit of seeing others employed for her, that she absolutely considered this to be the natural and necessary course of things; and she quite forgot to think of the comfort, or even of the well-being, of those creatures who were “born for her use, and live but to oblige her.”
From time to time she was so far awakened to feeling, by Patty’s exertions and good-humour, that she would say, to quiet her own conscience, “Well! well! I’ll make it all up to her in my will! I’ll make it all up to her in my will!”
She took it for granted that Patty, like the rest of her dependents, was governed entirely by mercenary considerations; and she was persuaded that the hopes of this legacy would secure Patty her slave for life. In this she was mistaken.
One morning Patty came into her room with a face full of sorrow; a face so unlike her usual countenance, that even her mistress, unaccustomed as she was to attend to the feelings of others, could not help noticing the change.
“Well! What’s the matter, child?” said she.
“Oh! sad news, madam!” said Patty, turning aside to hide her tears.
“But what’s the matter, child, I say? Can’t you speak, whatever it is, hey? What, have you burnt my best cap in the ironing, hey? Is that it?”
“Oh! worse, worse, ma’am!”
“Worse! What can be worse?”
“My brother, ma’am, my brother George, is ill, very ill of a fever; and they don’t think he’ll live! Here is my father’s letter, ma’am!”
“Lord! how can I read it without spectacles? and why should I read it, when you’ve told me all that’s in it? How the child cries!” continued Mrs. Crumpe, raising herself a little on her pillow, and looking at Patty with a sort of astonished curiosity. “Heigho! But I can’t stay in bed this way till dinnertime. Get me my cap, child, and dry your eyes; for crying won’t do your brother any good.”
Patty dried her eyes. “No, crying will not do him any good,” said she, “but———”
“But where is my cap? I don’t see it on the dressing-table.”
“No, ma’am: Martha will bring it in a minute or two: she is plaiting it.”
“I will not have it plaited by Martha. Go and do it yourself.”
“But, ma’am,” said Patty, who, to her mistress’s surprise, stood still, notwithstanding she heard this order, “I hope you will be so good as to give me leave to go to my poor brother to-day. All the rest of my brothers and sisters are with him, and he wants to see me; and they have sent a horse for me.”
“No matter what they have sent, you sha’n’t go; I can’t spare you. If you choose to serve me, serve me. If you choose to serve your brother, serve your brother, and leave me.”
“Then, madam,” said Patty, “I must leave you; for I cannot but choose to serve my brother at such a time as this, if I can serve him; which God grant I mayn’t be too late to do!”
“What! You will leave me! Leave me contrary to my orders! Take notice, then: these doors you shall never enter again, if you leave me now,” cried Mrs. Crumpe, who, by this unexpected opposition to her orders, was actually worked up to a state unlike her usual peevishness. She started up in her bed, and growing quite red in the face, cried, “Leave me now, and you leave me for ever. Remember that! Remember that!”
“Then, madam, I must leave you for ever,” said Patty, moving towards the door. “I wish you your health and happiness, and am sorry to break so short.”
“The girl’s an idiot!” cried Mrs. Crumpe. “After this you cannot expect that I should remember you in my will.”
“No, indeed, madam; I expect no such thing,” said Patty. (Her hand was on the lock of the door as she spoke.)
“Then,” said Mrs. Crumpe, “perhaps you will think it worth your while to stay with me, when I tell you I have not forgot you in my will? Consider that, child, before you turn the handle of the door. Consider that; and don’t disoblige me for ever.”
“Oh, madam, consider my poor brother. I am sorry to disoblige you for ever; but I can consider nothing but my poor brother,” said Patty. The lock of the door turned quickly in her hand.
“Why! Is your brother rich? What upon earth do you expect from this brother, that can make it worth your while to behave to me in this strange way?” said Mrs. Crumpe.
Patty was silent with astonishment for a few moments, and then answered, “I expect nothing from him, madam; he is as poor as myself; but that does not make me love him the less.”
Before Mrs. Crumpe could understand this last speech, Patty had left the room. Her mistress sat up in her bed, in the same attitude, for some minutes after she was gone, looking fixedly at the place where Patty had stood: she could scarcely recover from her surprise; and a multitude of painful thoughts crowded upon her mind.
“If I were dying, and poor, who would come to me? Not a relation I have in the world would come near me! Not a creature on earth loves me as this poor girl loves her brother, who is as poor as herself.”
Here her reflections were interrupted by hearing the galloping of Patty’s horse, as it passed by the windows. Mrs. Crumpe tried to compose herself again to sleep, but she could not; and in half an hour’s time she rang the bell violently, took her purse out of her pocket, counted out twenty bright guineas, and desired that a horse should be saddled immediately, and that her steward should gallop after Patty, and offer her that whole sum in hand, if she would return. “Begin with one guinea, and bid on till you come up to her price,” said Mrs. Crumpe. “Have her back again I will, if it were only to convince myself that she is to be had for money as well as other people.”
The steward, as he counted the gold in his hand, thought it was a great sum to throw away for such a whim: he had never seen his lady take the whim of giving away ready money before; but it was in vain to remonstrate; she was peremptory, and he obeyed.
In two hours’ time he returned, and Mrs. Crumpe saw her gold again with extreme astonishment. The steward said he could not prevail upon Patty even to look at the guineas. Mrs. Crumpe now flew into a violent passion, in which none of our readers will probably sympathize: we shall therefore forbear to describe it.