“Oh! no, dear father!” cried they with one accord; “no, dear, dear father, our success is all owing to you! Every thing we have is owing to you; to the care you took of us, from our infancy upward. If you had not watched for our welfare, and taught us so well, we should not now all be so happy!—Poor Bettesworth!”
Here they were interrupted by Hannah, the faithful maid-servant, who had always lived with old Frankland. She came running down the garden so fast, that, when she reached the arbour, she was so much out of breath she could not speak. “Dear heart! God bless you all!” cried she, as soon as she recovered breath. “But it is no time to be sitting here. Come in, sir, for mercy’s sake,” said she, addressing herself to her old master. “Come in to be ready; come in all of you to be ready!” “Ready! ready for what?”
“Oh! ready for fine things! Fine doings! Only come in, and I’ll tell you as we go along. How I have torn all my hand with this gooseberry-bush! But no matter for that. So then you have not heard a word of what is going on? No, how could you? And you did not miss me, when you first came into the house?”
“Forgive us for that, good Hannah: we were in such a hurry to see my father, we thought of nothing and nobody else.”
“Very natural. Well, Miss Fanny, I’ve been up at the great house, with your lady, Mrs. Hungerford. A better lady cannot be! Do you know she sent for me, on purpose to speak to me; and I know things that you are not to know yet. But this much I may tell you, there’s a carriage coming here, to carry my master away to his new house; and there’s horses, and side-saddles beside, for you, and you, and you, and I. And Mrs. Hungerford is coming in her own coach; and young Mr. Folingsby is coming in his carriage; and Mr. Barlow in Mr. Jos. Crumpe’s carriage; and Mr. Cleghorn, and his pretty daughter, in the gig; and—and—and heaps of carriages besides! friends of Mrs. Hungerford: and there’s such crowds gathering in the streets; and I’m going on to get breakfast.”
“Oh! my dear father,” cried Frank, “make haste, and take off this badge-coat before they come! We have brought proper clothes for you.”
Frank pulled off the badge-coat, as he called it, and flung it from him, saying, “My father shall never wear you more.”
Fanny had just tied on her father’s clean neckcloth, and Patty had smoothed his reverend grey locks, when the sound of the carriages was heard. All that Hannah had told them was true. Mrs. Hungerford had engaged all her friends, and all who were acquainted with the good conduct of the Franklands, to attend her on this joyful occasion.
“Triumphal cavalcades and processions,” said she, “are in general foolish things—mere gratifications of vanity; but this is not in honour of vanity, but in honour of virtue. We shall do good in the country, by showing that we respect and admire it, in whatever station it is to be found. Here is a whole family who have conducted themselves uncommonly well; who have exerted themselves to relieve their aged father from a situation to which he was reduced without any fault or imprudence of his own. Their exertions have succeeded. Let us give them, what they will value more than money, SYMPATHY.”
Convinced or persuaded by what Mrs. Hungerford said, all her friends and acquaintance attended her this morning to the almshouse. Crowds of people followed; and old Frankland was carried in triumph by his children to his new habitation.