“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.”