CHAPTER IV.
Patty went to Mrs. Crumpe’s to get her clothes which she had left there, and to receive some months’ wages, which were still due for her services. After what had passed, she had no idea that Mrs. Crumpe would wish she should stay with her; and she had heard of another place in Monmouth, which she believed would suit her in every respect.
The first person she saw, when she arrived at the house of her late mistress, was Martha, who, with a hypocritical length of face, said to her, “Sad news! sad news, Mrs. Patty! The passion my lady was thrown into, by your going away so sudden, was of terrible detriment to her. That very night she had a stroke of the palsy, and has scarce spoke since.”
“Don’t take it to heart, it is none of your fault: don’t take it to heart, dear Patty,” said Betty, the housemaid, who was fond of Patty. “What could you do but go to your brother? Here, drink this water, and don’t blame yourself at all about the matter. Mistress had a stroke sixteen months ago, afore ever you came into the house; and I dare say she’d have had this last whether you had stayed or gone.”
Here they were interrupted by the violent ringing of Mrs. Crumpe’s bell. They were in the room next to her; and, as she heard voices louder than usual, she was impatient to know what was going on. Patty heard Mrs. Martha answer, as she opened her lady’s door, “‘Tis only Patty Frankland, ma’am, who is come for her clothes and her wages.”
“And she is very sorry to hear you have been so ill; very sorry,” said Betty, following to the door.
“Bid her come in,” said Mrs. Crumpe, in a voice more distinct than she had ever been heard to speak in since the day of her illness.
“What! are you sorry for me, child?” said Mrs. Crumpe, fixing her eyes upon Patty’s. Patty made no answer; but it was plain how much she was shocked.
“Ay, I see you are sorry for me,” said her mistress. “And so am I for you,” added she, stretching out her hand, and taking hold of Patty’s black gown. “You shall have a finer stuff than this for mourning for me. But I know that is not what you are thinking of; and that’s the reason I have more value for you than for all the rest of them put together. Stay with me, stay with me, to nurse me; you nurse me to my mind. You cannot leave me in the way I am in now, when I ask you to stay.”
Patty could not without inhumanity refuse; she stayed with Mrs. Crumpe, who grew so dotingly fond of her, that she could scarcely bear to have her a moment out of sight. She would take neither food nor medicines but from Patty’s hand; and she would not speak, except in answer to Patty’s questions. The fatigue and confinement she was now forced to undergo were enough to hurt the constitution of any one who had not very strong health. Patty bore them with the greatest patience and good humour; indeed, the consciousness that she was doing right supported her in exertions which would otherwise have been beyond her power.
She had still more difficult trials to go through: Mrs. Martha was jealous of her favour with her lady, and often threw out hints that some people had much more luck, and more cunning too, than other people; but that some people might perhaps be disappointed at last in their ends.
Patty went on her own straight way, without minding these insinuations at first; but she was soon forced to attend to them. Mrs. Crumpe’s relations received intelligence from Mrs. Martha, that her lady was growing worse and worse every hour; and that she was quite shut up under the dominion of an artful servant-girl, who had gained such power over her that there was no knowing what the consequence might be. Mrs. Crumpe’s relations were much alarmed by this story: they knew she had made a will in their favour some years before this time, and they dreaded that Patty should prevail upon her to alter it, and should get possession herself of the fortune. They were particularly struck with this idea, because an instance of undue power, acquired by a favourite servant-maid over her doting mistress, happened about this period to be mentioned in an account of a trial in the newspapers of the day. Mrs. Crumpe’s nearest relations were two grand-nephews. The eldest was Mr. Josiah Crumpe, a merchant who was settled at Liverpool; the youngest was that ensign Bloomington, whom we formerly mentioned. He had been intended for a merchant, but he would never settle to business; and at last ran away from the counting-house where he had been placed, and went into the army. He was an idle, extravagant young man: his great-aunt was by fits very angry with him, or very fond of him. Sometimes she would supply him with money; at others, she would forbid him her presence, and declare he should never see another shilling of hers. This had been her latest determination; but ensign Bloomington thought he could easily get into favour again, and he resolved to force himself into the house. Mrs. Crumpe positively refused to see him: the day after this refusal he returned with a reinforcement, for which Patty was not in the least prepared: he was accompanied by Miss Sally Bettesworth, in a regimental riding-habit. Jessy had been the original object of this gentleman’s gallantry; but she met with a new and richer lover, and of course jilted him. Sally, who was in haste to be married, took undisguised pains to fix the ensign; and she thought she was sure of him. But to proceed with our story.
Patty was told that a lady and gentleman desired to see her in the parlour: she was scarcely in the room when Sally began in a voice capable of intimidating the most courageous of scolds, “Fine doings! Fine doings, here! You think you have the game in your own hands, I warrant, my Lady Paramount; but I’m not one to be bullied, you know of old.”
“Nor am I one to be bullied, I hope,” replied Patty, in a modest but firm voice. “Will you be pleased to let me know, in a quiet way, what are your commands with me, or my lady?”
“This gentleman here must see your lady, as you call her. To let you into a bit of a secret, this gentleman and I is soon to be one; so no wonder I stir in this affair, and I never stir for nothing; so it is as well for you to do it with fair words as foul. Without more preambling, please to show this gentleman into his aunt’s room, which sure he has the best right to see of any one in this world; and if you prevent it in any species, I’ll have the law of you; and I take this respectable woman,” looking at Mrs. Martha, who came in with a salver of cakes and wine, “I take this here respectable gentlewoman to be my witness, if you choose to refuse my husband (that is to be) admittance to his true and lawful nearest relation upon earth. Only say the doors are locked, and that you won’t let him in; that’s all we ask of you, Mrs. Patty Paramount. Only say that afore this here witness.”
“Indeed, I shall say no such thing, ma’am,” replied Patty; “for it is not in the least my wish to prevent the gentleman from seeing my mistress. It was she herself who refused to let him in; and I think, if he forces himself into the room, she will be apt to be very much displeased: but I shall not hinder him, if he chooses to try. There are the stairs, and my lady’s room is the first on the right hand. Only, sir, before you go up, let me caution you, lest you should startle her so as to be the death of her. The least surprise or fright might bring on another stroke in an instant.”
Ensign Bloomington and Saucy Sally now looked at one another, as if at a loss how to proceed: they retired to a window to consult; and whilst they were whispering, a coach drove up to the door. It was full of Mrs. Crumpe’s relations, who came post-haste from Monmouth, in consequence of the alarm given by Mrs. Martha. Mr. Josiah Crumpe was not in the coach: he had been written for, but was not yet arrived from Liverpool.
Now, it must be observed, this coach-full of relations were all enemies to ensign Bloomington; and the moment they put their heads out of the carriage-window, and saw him standing in the parlour, their surprise and indignation were too great for coherent utterance. With all the rashness of prejudice, they decided that he had bribed Patty to let him in and to exclude them. Possessed with this idea, they hurried out of the coach, passed by poor Patty who was standing in the hall, and beckoned to Mrs. Martha, who showed them into the drawing-room, and remained shut up with them there for some minutes. “She is playing us false,” cried Saucy Sally, rushing out of the parlour. “I told you not to depend on that Martha; nor on nobody but me: I said I’d force a way for you up to the room, and so I have; and now you have not the spirit to take your advantage. They’ll get in all of them before you; and then where will you be, and what will you be?”
Mrs. Crumpe’s bell rang violently, and Patty ran up stairs to her room. “I have been ringing for you, Patty, this quarter of an hour! What is all the disturbance I hear below?”
“Your relations, ma’am, who wish to see you. I hope you won’t refuse to see them, for they are very anxious.”
“Very anxious to have me dead and buried. Not one of them cares a groat for me. I have made my will, tell them; and they will see that in time. I will not see one of them.”
By this time, they were all at the bedchamber door, struggling which party should enter first. Saucy Sally’s loud voice was heard, maintaining her right to be there, as wife elect to ensign Bloomington.
“Tell them the first who enters this room shall never see a shilling of my money,” cried Mrs. Crumpe.
Patty opened the door; the disputants were instantly silent. “Be pleased, before you come in, to hearken to what my mistress says. Ma’am, will you say whatever you think proper yourself,” said Patty; “for it is too hard for me to be suspected of putting words into your mouth, and keeping your friends from the sight of you.”
“The first of them who comes into this room,” cried Mrs. Crumpe, raising her feeble voice to the highest pitch she was able, “the first who enters this room shall never see a shilling of my money; and so on to the next, and the next, and the next. I’ll see none of you.”
No one ventured to enter. Their infinite solicitude to see how poor Mrs. Crumpe found herself to-day suddenly vanished. The two parties adjourned to the parlour and the drawing-room; and there was nothing in which they agreed, except in abusing Patty. They called for pen, ink, and paper, and each wrote what they wished to say. Their notes were carried up by Patty herself; for Mrs. Martha would not run the risk of losing her own legacy to oblige any of them, though she had been bribed by all. With much difficulty, Mrs. Crumpe was prevailed upon to look at the notes; at last she exclaimed, “Let them all come up! all; this moment tell them, all!”
They were in the room instantly; all, except Saucy Sally: ensign Bloomington persuaded her it was for the best that she should not appear. Patty was retiring, as soon as she had shown them in; but her mistress called to her, and bade her take a key, which she held in her hand, and unlock an escritoir that was in the room. She did so.
“Give me that parcel, which is tied up with red tape, and sealed with three seals,” said Mrs. Crumpe.
All eyes were immediately fixed upon it, for it was her will.
She broke the seals deliberately, untied the red string, opened the huge sheet of parchment, and without saying one syllable tore it down the middle; then tore the pieces again, and again, till they were so small that the writing could not be read. The spectators looked upon one another in dismay.
“Ay! you may all look as you please,” cried Mrs. Crumpe. “I’m alive, and in my sound senses still; my money’s my own; my property’s my own; I’ll do what I please with it. You were all handsomely provided for in this will; but you could not wait for your legacies till I was under ground. No! you must come hovering over me, like so many ravens. It is not time yet! It is not time yet! The breath is not yet out of my body; and when it is, you shall none of you be the better for it, I promise you. My money’s my own; my property’s my own; I’ll make a new will to-morrow. Good bye to you all. I’ve told you my mind.”
Not the most abject humiliations, not the most artful caresses, not the most taunting reproaches, from any of the company, could extort another word from Mrs. Crumpe. Her disappointed and incensed relations were at last obliged to leave the house; though not without venting their rage upon Patty, whom they believed to be the secret cause of all that had happened. After they had left the house, she went up to a garret, where she thought no one would see her or hear her, sat down on an old bedstead, and burst into tears. She had been much shocked by the scenes that had just passed, and her heart wanted this relief.
“Oh!” thought she, “it is plain enough that it is not riches which make people happy. Here is this poor lady, with heaps of money and fine clothes, without any one in this whole world to love or care for her, but all wishing her dead; worried by her own relations, and abused by them, almost in her hearing, upon her death-bed! Oh! my poor brother! How different it was with you!”
Patty’s reflections were here interrupted by the entrance of Martha, who came and sat down on the bedstead beside her, and, with a great deal of hypocritical kindness in her manner, began to talk of what had passed; blaming Mrs. Crumpe’s relations for being so hard-hearted and inconsiderate as to force business upon her when she was in such a state. “Indeed, they have no one to thank but themselves, for the new turn things have taken. I hear my mistress has torn her will to atoms, and is going to make a new one! To be sure, you, Mrs. Patty, will be handsomely provided for in this, as is, I am sure, becoming; and I hope, if you have an opportunity, as for certain you will, you won’t forget to speak a good word for me!”
Patty, who was disgusted by this interested and deceitful address, answered, she had nothing to do with her mistress’s will; and that her mistress was the best judge of what should be done with her own money, which she did not covet.
Mrs. Martha was not mistaken in her opinion that Patty would be handsomely remembered in this new will. Mrs. Crumpe the next morning said to Patty, as she was giving her some medicine, “It is for your interest, child, that I should get through this day, at least; for if I live a few hours longer, you will be the richest single woman in Monmouthshire. I’ll show them that all my money’s my own; and that I can do what I please with my own. Go yourself to Monmouth, child (as soon as you have plaited my cap), and bring me the attorney your brother lives with, to draw my new will. Don’t say one word of your errand to any of my relations, I charge you, for your own sake as well as mine. The harpies would tear you to pieces; but I’ll show them that I can do what I please with my own. That’s the least satisfaction I can have for my money before I die. God knows, it has been plague enough to me all my life long! But now, before I die—”
“Oh! ma’am,” interrupted Patty, “there is no need to talk of your dying now; for I have not heard you speak so strong, or so clear, nor seem so much yourself this long time. You may live yet, and I hope you will, to see many a good day; and to make it up, if I may be so bold to say it, with all your relations: which, I am sure, would be a great ease to your heart; and I am sure they are very sorry to have offended you.”
“The girl’s a fool!” cried Mrs. Crumpe. “Why, child, don’t you understand me yet? I tell you, as plain as I can speak, I mean to leave the whole fortune to you. Well! what makes you look so blank!”
“Because, ma’am, indeed I have no wish to stand in any body’s way; and would not for all the world do such an unjust thing as to take advantage of your being a little angry or so with your relations, to get the fortune for myself: for I can do, having done all my life, without fortune well enough; but I could not do without my own good opinion, and that of my father, and brothers, and sister; all which I should lose, if I was to be guilty of a mean thing. So, ma’am,” said Patty, “I have made bold to speak the whole truth of my mind to you; and I hope you will not do me an injury, by way of doing me a favour. I am sure I thank you with all my heart for your goodness to me.”
Patty turned away as she finished speaking, for she was greatly moved.
“You are a strange girl!” said Mrs. Crumpe. “I would not have believed this, if any one had sworn it to me. Go for the attorney, as I bid you, this minute. I will have my own way.”
When Patty arrived at Mr. Barlow’s, she asked immediately for her brother Frank, whom she wished to consult; but he was out, and she then desired to speak to Mr. Barlow himself. She was shown into his office, and she told him her business, without any circumlocution, with the plain language and ingenuous countenance of truth.
“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I should be glad you would come directly to my mistress and speak to her yourself; for she will mind what you say, and I only hope she may do the just thing by her relations. I don’t want her fortune, nor any part of it, but a just recompense for my service. Knowing this, in my own heart, I forgive them for all the ill-will they bear me: it being all founded in a mistaken notion.”
There was a gentleman in Mr. Barlow’s office who was sitting at a desk writing a letter, when Patty came in: she took him for one of the clerks. Whilst she was speaking, he turned about several times, and looked at her very earnestly. At last he went to a clerk, who was folding up some parchments, and asked who she was? He then sat down again to his writing, without saying a-single word. This gentleman was Mr. Josiah Crumpe, the Liverpool merchant, Mrs. Crumpe’s eldest nephew, who had come to Monmouth, in consequence of the account he had heard of his aunt’s situation. Mr. Barlow had lately amicably settled a suit between him and one of his relations at Monmouth; and Mr. Crumpe had just been signing the deed relative to this affair. He was struck with the disinterestedness of Patty’s conduct; but he kept silence that she might not find out who he was, and that he might have full opportunity of doing her justice hereafter. He was not one of the ravens, as Mrs. Crumpe emphatically called those who were hovering over her, impatient for her death: he had, by his own skill and industry, made himself not only independent, but rich. After Patty was gone, he with the true spirit of a British merchant declared, that he was as independent in his sentiments as in his fortune; that he would not crouch or fawn to man or woman, peer or prince, in his majesty’s dominions; no, not even to his own aunt. He wished his old aunt Crumpe, he said, to live and enjoy all she had as long as she could; and if she chose to leave it to him after her death, well and good; he should be much obliged to her: if she did not, why well and good; he should not be obliged to be obliged to her: and that, to his humour, would perhaps be better still.
With these sentiments Mr. Josiah Crumpe found no difficulty in refraining from going to see, or, as he called it, from paying his court to his aunt. “I have some choice West India sweetmeats here for the poor soul,” said he to Mr. Barlow: “she gave me sweetmeats when I was a schoolboy; which I don’t forget. I know she has a sweet tooth still in her head; for she wrote to me last year, to desire I would get her some: but I did not relish the style of her letter, and I never complied with the order; however, I was to blame: she is an infirm poor creature, and should be humoured now, let her be ever so cross. Take her the sweetmeats; but mind, do not let her have a taste or a sight of them till she has made her will. I do not want to bribe her to leave me her money-bags; I thank my God and myself, I want them not.”
Mr. Barlow immediately went to Mrs. Crumpe’s. As she had land to dispose of, three witnesses were necessary to the will. Patty said she had two men-servants who could write; but to make sure of a third, Mr. Barlow desired that one of his clerks should accompany him. Frank was out; so the eldest clerk went in his stead.
This clerk’s name was Mason; he was Frank’s chief friend, and a young man of excellent character. He had never seen Patty till this day; but he had often heard her brother speak of her with so much affection, that he was prepossessed in her favour, even before he saw her. The manner in which she spoke on the subject of Mrs. Crumpe’s fortune quite charmed him; for he was of an open and generous temper, and said to himself, “I would rather have this girl for my wife, without sixpence in the world, than any woman I ever saw in my life—if I could but afford it—and if she was but a little prettier. As it is, however, there is no danger of my falling in love with her; so I may just indulge myself in the pleasure of talking to her: besides, it is but civil to lead my horse and walk a part of the way with Frank’s sister.”
Accordingly, Mason set off to walk a part of the way to Mrs. Crumpe’s with Patty; and they fell into conversation, in which they were both so earnestly engaged that they did not perceive how time passed. Instead, however, of part of the way, Mason walked the whole way; and he and Patty were both rather surprised when they found themselves within sight of Mrs. Crumpe’s house.
What a fine healthy colour this walking has brought into her face, thought Mason, as he stood looking at her, whilst they were waiting for some one to open the door. Though she has not a single beautiful feature, and though nobody could call her handsome, yet there is so much good-nature in her countenance, that, plain as she certainly is, her looks are more pleasing to my fancy than those of many a beauty I have heard admired.
The door was now opened; and Mr. Barlow, who had arrived some time, summoned Mason to business. They went up to Mrs. Crumpe’s room to take her instructions for her new will. Patty showed them in.
“Don’t go, child, I will not have you stir,” said Mrs. Crumpe. “Now stand there at the foot of my bed, and, without hypocrisy, tell me truly, child, your mind. This gentleman, who understands the law, can assure you that, in spite of all the relations upon earth, I can leave my fortune to whom I please, so do not let fear of my relations prevent you from being happy.”
“No, madam,” interrupted Patty, “it was not fear that made me say what I did to you this morning; and it is not fear that keeps me in the same mind still. I would not do what I thought wrong myself if nobody else in the whole world was to know it. But, since you desire me to say what I really wish, I have a father, who is in great distress, and I should wish you would leave fifty pounds to him.”
“With such principles and feelings,” cried Mr. Barlow, “you are happier than ten thousand a year could make you!”
Mason said nothing; but his looks said a great deal: and his master forgave him the innumerable blunders he made in drawing Mrs. Crumpe’s will. “Come, Mason, give me up the pen,” whispered he at last; “you are not your own man, I see; and I like you the better for being touched with good and generous conduct. But a truce with sentiment, now; I must be a mere man of law. Go you and take a walk, to recover your legal senses.”
The contents of Mrs. Crumpe’s new will were kept secret: Patty did not in the least know how she had disposed of her fortune; nor did Mason, for he had written only the preamble, when his master compassionately took the pen from his hand. Contrary to expectation, Mrs. Crumpe continued to linger on for some months; and during this time, Patty attended her with the most patient care and humanity. Though long habits of selfishness had rendered this lady in general indifferent to the feelings of her servants and dependants, yet Patty was an exception: she often said to her, “Child, it goes against my conscience to keep you prisoner here the best days of your life, in a sick room: go out and take a walk with your brothers and sister, I desire, whenever they call for you.”
These walks with her brothers and sister were very refreshing to Patty, especially when Mason was of the party, as he almost always contrived to be. Every day he grew more and more attached to Patty; for every day he became more and more convinced of the goodness of her disposition and the sweetness of her temper. The affection which he saw her brothers and sister bore her, spoke to his mind most strongly in her favour. They have known her from her childhood, thought he, and cannot be deceived in her character. Tis a good sign that those who know her best love her most; and her loving her pretty sister, Fanny, as she does, is a proof that she is incapable of envy and jealousy.
In consequence of these reflections, Mason determined he would apply diligently to his business, that he might in due time be able to marry and support Patty. She ingenuously told him she had never seen the man she could love so well as himself; but that her first object was to earn some money, to release her father from the almshouse, where she could not bear to see him living upon charity. “When, amongst us all, we have accomplished this,” said she, “it will be time enough for me to think of marrying. Duty first and love afterwards.”
Mason loved her the better, when he found her so steady in her gratitude to her father; for he was a man of sense, and knew that so good a daughter and sister would, in all probability, make a good wife.
We must now give some account of what Fanny has been doing all this time. Upon her return to Mrs. Hungerford’s, after the death of her brother, she was received with the greatest kindness by her mistress, and by all the children, who were really fond of her; though she had never indulged them in anything that was contrary to their mother’s wishes.
Mrs. Hungerford had not forgotten the affair of the kettle-drum. One morning she said to her little son, “Gustavus, your curiosity about the kettle-drum and the clarionet shall be satisfied: your cousin Philip will come here in a few days, and he is well acquainted with the colonel of the regiment which is quartered in Monmouth: he shall ask the colonel to let us have the band here, some day. We may have them at the farthest end of the garden; and you and your brothers and sisters shall dine in the arbour, with Fanny, who upon this occasion particularly deserves to have a share in your amusement.”
The cousin Philip, of whom Mrs. Hungerford spoke, was no other than Frankland’s landlord, young Mr. Folingsby. Besides liking fine horses and fine curricles, this gentleman was a great admirer of fine women.
He was struck with Fanny’s beauty the first day he came to Mrs. Hungerford’s: every succeeding day he thought her handsomer and handsomer; and every day grew fonder and fonder of playing with his little cousins. Upon some pretence or other, he contrived to be constantly in the room with them when Fanny was there: the modest propriety of her manners, however, kept him at that distance at which it was no easy matter for a pretty girl, in her situation, to keep such a gallant gentleman. His intention, when he came to Mrs. Hungerford’s, was to stay but a week; but when that week was at an end, he determined to stay another: he found his aunt Hungerford’s house uncommonly agreeable. The moment she mentioned to him her wish of having the band of music in the garden, he was charmed with the scheme, and longed to dine out in the arbour with the children; but he dared not press this point, lest he should excite suspicion.
Amongst other company who dined this day with Mrs. Hungerford was a Mrs. Cheviott, a blind lady, who took the liberty, as she said, to bring with her a young person, who was just come to live with her as a companion. This young person was Jessy Bettesworth; or, as she is henceforth to be called, Miss Jessy Bettesworth. Since her father had “come in for Captain Bettesworth’s fortin,” her mother had spared no pains to push Jessy forward in the world; having no doubt that “her beauty, when well dressed, would charm some great gentleman; or, may be, some great lord!” Accordingly, Jessy was dizened out in all sorts of finery: her thoughts were wholly bent on fashions and flirting; and her mother’s vanity, joined to her own, nearly turned her brain.
Just as this fermentation of folly was gaining force, she happened to meet with Ensign Bloomington at a ball at Monmouth: he fell, or she thought he fell, desperately in love with her; she of course coquetted with him: indeed, she gave him so much encouragement, that every body concluded they were to be married. She and her sister Sally were continually seen walking arm in arm with him in the streets of Monmouth; and morning, noon, and night, she wore the drop-earrings, of which he had made her a present. It chanced, however, that Jilting Jessy heard an officer, in her ensign’s regiment, swear she was pretty enough to be the captain’s lady instead of the ensign’s; and, from that moment, she thought no more of the ensign.
He was enraged to find himself jilted thus by a country girl, and determined to have his revenge: consequently he immediately transferred all his attentions to her sister Sally; judiciously calculating that, from the envy and jealousy he had seen between the sisters, this would be the most effectual mode of mortifying his perfidious fair. Jilting Jessy said her sister was welcome to her cast-off sweethearts: and Saucy Sally replied, her sister was welcome to be her bridemaid; since, with all her beauty, and all her airs, she was not likely to be a bride.
Mrs. Bettesworth had always confessed that Jessy was her favourite: like a wise and kind mother, she took part in all these disputes; and set these amiable sisters yet more at variance, by prophesying that “her Jessy would make the grandest match.”
To put her into fortune’s way, Mrs. Bettesworth determined to get her into some genteel family, as companion to a lady. Mrs. Cheviott’s housekeeper was nearly related to the Bettesworths, and to her Mrs. Bettesworth applied. “But I’m afraid Jessy is something too much of a flirt,” said the housekeeper, “for my mistress, who is a very strict, staid lady. You know, or at least we in Monmouth know, that Jessy was greatly talked of about a young officer here in town. I used myself to see her go trailing about, with her muslin and pink, and fine coloured shoes, in the dirt.”
“Oh! that’s all over now,” said Mrs. Bettesworth: “the man was quite beneath her notice—that’s all over now: he will do well enough for Sally; but, ma’am, my daughter Jessy has quite laid herself out for goodness now, and only wants to get into some house where she may learn to be a little genteel.”
The housekeeper, though she had not the highest possible opinion of the young lady, was in hopes that, since Jessy had now laid herself out for goodness, she might yet turn out well; and, considering that she was her relation, she thought it her duty to speak in favour of Miss Bettesworth. In consequence of her recommendation, Mrs. Cheviott took Jessy into her family; and Jessy was particularly glad to be the companion of a blind lady.
She discovered, the first day she spent with Mrs. Cheviott, that, besides the misfortune of being blind, she had the still greater misfortune of being inordinately fond of flattery. Jessy took advantage of this foible, and imposed so far on the understanding of her patroness, that she persuaded Mrs. Cheviott into a high opinion of her judgment and prudence.
Things were in this situation when Jessy, for the first time, accompanied the blind lady to Mrs. Hungerford’s. Without having the appearance or manners of a gentlewoman, Miss Jessy Bettesworth was, notwithstanding, such a pretty, showy girl, that she generally contrived to attract notice. She caught Mr. Folingsby’s eye at dinner, as she was playing off her best airs at the side-table; and it was with infinite satisfaction that she heard him ask one of the officers, as they were going out to walk in the garden, “Who is that girl? She has fine eyes, and a most beautiful long neck!” Upon the strength of this whisper, Jessy flattered herself she had made a conquest of Mr. Folingsby; by which idea she was so much intoxicated, that she could scarcely restrain her vanity within decent bounds.
“Lord! Fanny Frankland, is it you? Who expected to meet you sitting here?” said she, when, to her great surprise, she saw Fanny in the arbour with the children. To her yet greater surprise, she soon perceived that Mr. Folingsby’s attention was entirely fixed upon Fanny; and that he became so absent he did not know he was walking upon the flower-borders.
Jessy could scarcely believe her senses when she saw that her rival, for as such she now considered her, gave her lover no encouragement. “Is it possible that the girl is such a fool as not to see that this here gentleman is in love with her? No; that is out of the nature of things. Oh! it’s all artifice; and I will find out her drift, I warrant, before long!”
Having formed this laudable resolution, she took her measures well for carrying it into effect. Mrs. Cheviott, being blind, had few amusements: she was extremely fond of music, and one of Mrs. Hungerford’s daughters played remarkably well on the piano-forte. This evening, as Mrs. Cheviott was listening to the young lady’s singing, Jessy exclaimed, “Oh! ma’am, how happy it would make you to hear such singing and music every day.”
“If she would come every day, when my sister is practising with the music-master, she might hear enough of it,” said little Gustavus. “I’ll run and desire mamma to ask her; because,” added he, in a low voice, “if I was blind, may be I should like it myself.”
Mrs. Hungerford, who was good-natured as well as polite, pressed Mrs. Cheviott to come, whenever it should be agreeable to her. The poor blind lady was delighted with the invitation, and went regularly every morning to Mrs. Hungerford’s at the time the music-master attended. Jessy Bettesworth always accompanied her, for she could not go any where without a guide. Jessy had now ample opportunities of gratifying her malicious curiosity; she saw, or thought she saw, that Mr. Folingsby was displeased by the reserve of Fanny’s manners; and she renewed all her own coquettish efforts to engage his attention. He amused himself sometimes with her, in hopes of rousing Fanny’s jealousy; but he found that this expedient, though an infallible one in ordinary cases, was here totally unavailing. His passion for Fanny was increased so much, by her unaffected modesty, and by the daily proofs he saw of the sweetness of her disposition, that he was no longer master of himself: he plainly told her that he could not live without her.
“That’s a pity, sir,” said Fanny laughing, and trying to turn off what he said, as if it were only a jest. “It is a great pity, sir, that you cannot live without me; for, you know, I cannot serve my mistress, do my duty, and live with you.”
Mr. Folingsby endeavoured to convince, or rather to persuade her, that she was mistaken; and swore that nothing within the power of his fortune should be wanting to make her happy.
“Ah! sir,” said she, “your fortune could not make me happy, if I were to do what I know is wrong, what would disgrace me for ever, and what would break my poor father’s heart!”
“But your father shall never know any thing of the matter. I will keep your secret from the whole world: trust to my honour.”
“Honour! Oh! sir, how can you talk to me of honour! Do you think I do not know what honour is, because I am poor? Or do you think I do not set any value on mine, though you do on yours? Would you not kill any man, if you could, in a duel, for doubting of your honour? And yet you expect me to love you, at the very moment you show me, most plainly, how desirous you are to rob me of mine!”
Mr. Folingsby was silent for some moments; but, when he saw that Fanny was leaving him, he hastily stopped her, and said, laughing, “You have made me a most charming speech about honour; and, what is better still, you looked most charmingly when you spoke it; but now take time to consider what I I have said to you. Let me have your answer to-morrow; and consult this book before you answer me, I conjure you.”
Fanny took up the book as soon as Mr Folingsby had left the room; and, without opening it, determined to return it immediately. She instantly wrote a letter to Mr. Folingsby, which she was just wrapping up with the book in a sheet of paper, when Miss Jessy Bettesworth, the blind lady, and the music-master, came into the room. Fanny went to set a chair for the blind lady; and, whilst she was doing so, Miss Jessy Bettesworth, who had observed that Fanny blushed when they came in, slily peeped into the book, which lay on the table. Between the first pages she opened there was a five-pound bank-note; she turned the leaf, and found another, and another, and another at every leaf! Of these notes she counted one-and-twenty! whilst Fanny, unsuspicious of what was doing behind her back, was looking for the children’s music-books.
“Philip Folingsby! So, so! Did he give you this book, Fanny Frankland?” said Jessy, in a scornful tone: “it seems truly to be a very valuable performance; and, no doubt, he had good reasons for giving it to you.”
Fanny coloured deeply at this unexpected speech; and hesitated, from the fear of betraying Mr. Folingsby. “He did not give me the book: he only lent it to me,” said she, “and I am going to return it to him directly.”
“Oh! no; pray lend it to me first,” replied Jessy, in an ironical tone; “Mr. Folingsby, to be sure, would lend it to me as soon as to you. I’m growing as fond of reading as other folks, lately,” continued she, holding the book fast.
“I dare say, Mr. Folingsby would—Mr. Folingsby would lend it to you, I suppose,” said Fanny, colouring more and more deeply; “but, as it is trusted to me now, I must return it safe. Pray let me have it, Jessy.”
“Oh! yes; return it, madam, safe! I make no manner of doubt you will! I make no manner of doubt you will!” replied Jessy, several times, as she shook the book; whilst the bank-notes fell from between the leaves, and were scattered upon the floor. “It is a thousand pities, Mrs. Cheviott, you can’t see what a fine book we have got, full of bank-notes! But Mrs. Hungerford is not blind at any rate, it is to be hoped,” continued she, turning to Mrs. Hungerford, who at this instant opened the door.
She stood in dignified amazement. Jessy had an air of malignant triumph. Fanny was covered with blushes; but she looked with all the tranquillity of innocence. The children gathered round her; and blind Mrs. Cheviott cried, “What is going on? What is going on? Will nobody tell me what is going on? Jessy! What is it you are talking about, Jessy?”
“About a very valuable book, ma’am; containing more than I can easily count, in bank-notes, ma’am, that Mr. Folingsby has lent, only lent, ma’am, she says, to Miss Fanny Frankland, ma’am, who was just going to return them to him, ma’am, when I unluckily took up the book, and shook them all out upon the floor, ma’am.”
“Pick them up, Gustavus, my dear,” said Mrs. Hungerford, coolly. “From what I know of Fanny Frankland, I am inclined to believe that whatever she says is truth. Since she has lived with me, I have never, in the slightest instance, found her deviate from the truth; therefore I must entirely depend upon what she says.”
“Oh! yes, mamma,” cried the children, all together, “that I am sure you may.”
“Come with me, Fanny,” resumed Mrs. Hungerford; “it is not necessary that your explanation should be public, though I am persuaded it will be satisfactory.”
Fanny was glad to escape from the envious eye of Miss Jessy Bettesworth, and felt much gratitude to Mrs. Hungerford for this kindness and confidence; but, when she was to make her explanation, Fanny was in great confusion. She dreaded to occasion a quarrel between Mr. Folingsby and his aunt; yet she knew not how to exculpate herself, without accusing him.
“Why these blushes and tears, and why this silence, Fanny?” said Mrs. Hungerford, after she had waited some minutes, in expectation she would begin to speak. “Are not you sure of justice from me; and of protection, both from slander and insult? I am fond of my nephew, it is true; but I think myself obliged to you, for the manner in which you have conducted yourself towards my children, since you have had them under your care. Tell me then, freely, if you have any reason to complain of young Mr. Folingsby.”
“Oh! madam,” said Fanny, “thank you a thousand times for your goodness to me. I do not, indeed, I do not wish to complain of any body; and I would not for the world make mischief between you and your nephew. I would rather leave your family at once; and that,” continued the poor girl, sobbing, “that is what I believe I had best; nay, is what I must and will do.”
“No, Fanny, do not leave my house, without giving me an explanation of what has passed this morning; for, if you do, your reputation is at the mercy of Miss Jessy Bettesworth’s malice.”
“Heaven forbid!” said Fanny, with a look of real terror. “I must beg, madam, that you will have the kindness to return this book, and these bank-notes, to Mr. Folingsby; and that you will give him this letter, which I was just going to wrap up in the paper, with the book, when Jessy Bettesworth came in and found the bank-notes, which I had never seen. These can make no difference in my answer to Mr. Folingsby: therefore I shall leave my letter just as it was first written, if you please, madam.”
Fanny’s letter was as follows:
“SIR,
“I return the book, which you left with me, as nothing it contains can ever alter my opinion on the subject of which you spoke to me this morning. I hope you will never speak to me again, sir, in the same manner. Consider, sir, that I am a poor unprotected girl. If you go on as you have done lately, I shall be obliged to leave good Mrs. Hungerford, who is my only friend. Oh! where shall I find so good a friend? My poor old father is in the almshouse! and there he must remain till his children can earn money sufficient to support him. Do not fancy, sir, that I say this by way of begging from you; I would not, nor would he, accept of any thing that you could offer him, whilst in your present way of thinking. Pray, sir, have some compassion, and do not injure those whom you cannot serve.
“I am, sir,
“Your humble servant,
“FANNY FRANKLAND.”
Mr. Folingsby was surprised and confounded, when this letter, and the book containing his bank-notes, were put into his hand by his aunt. Mrs. Hungerford told him by what means the book had been seen by Miss Jessy Bettesworth, and to what imputations it must have exposed Fanny. “Fanny is afraid of making mischief between you and me,” continued Mrs. Hungerford “and I cannot prevail upon her to give me an explanation, which I am persuaded would be much to her honour.”
“Then you have not seen this letter! Then she has decided without consulting you! She is a charming girl!” cried Mr. Folingsby; “and whatever you may think of me, I am bound, in justice to her, to show you what she has written: that will sufficiently explain how much I have been to blame, and how well she deserves the confidence you place in her.”
As he spoke, Mr. Folingsby rang the bell to order his horses. “I will return to town immediately,” continued he; “so Fanny need not leave the house of her only friend to avoid me. As to these bank-notes, keep them, dear aunt. She says her father is in great distress. Perhaps, now that I am come ‘to a right way of thinking,’ she will not disdain my assistance. Give her the money when and how you think proper. I am sure I cannot make a better use of a hundred guineas; and wish I had never thought of making a worse.”
Mr. Folingsby returned directly to town; and his aunt thought he had in some measure atoned for his fault by his candour and generosity. Miss Jessy Bettesworth waited all this time, with malicious impatience, to hear the result of Fanny’s explanation with Mrs. Hungerford. How painfully was she surprised and disappointed, when Mrs. Hungerford returned to the company, to hear her speak in the highest terms of Fanny! “Oh, mamma,” cried little Gustavus, clapping his hands, “I am glad you think her good, because we all think so; and I should be very sorry indeed if she was to go away, especially in disgrace.”
“There is no danger of that, my dear,” said Mrs. Hungerford. “She shall never leave my house, as long as she desires to stay in it. I do not give, or withdraw, my protection, without good reasons.”
Miss Jessy Bettesworth bit her lips. Her face, which nature intended to be beautiful, became almost ugly; envy and malice distorted her features; and, when she departed with Mrs. Cheviott, her humiliated appearance was a strong contrast to the air of triumph with which she had entered.