“What are you about, my dear?” cried his wife. “Consider what you are about—this work of yours is the only dependence we have in the world.”
“You have nothing in this world to depend upon, I tell you,” cried he, continuing to cut out the web with a hurried hand—“you must not depend on me—you must not depend on my work—I shall never throw this shuttle more whilst I live—think of me as if I was dead—to-morrow I shall be dead to you—I shall be in a jail, and there must lie till carried out in my coffin. Here, take this work just as it is to our landlady—she met me on the stairs, and said she must have her rent directly—that will pay her—I’ll pay all I can. As for the loom, that’s only hired—the silk I bought to-day will pay the hire—I’ll pay all my debts to the uttermost farthing, as far as I am able—but the ten guineas to that wicked woman I cannot pay—so I must rot in a jail. Don’t cry, Anne, don’t cry so, my good girl—you’ll break my heart, wife, if you take on so. Why! have not we one comfort, that let us go out of this world when we may, or how we may, we shall go out of it honest, having no one’s ruin to answer for, having done our duty to God and man, as far as we are able?—My child,” continued he, catching Anne in his arms, “I have you safe, and I thank God for it!”
When this poor man had thus in an incoherent manner given vent to his first feelings, he became somewhat more composed, and was able to relate all that had passed between him and Mrs. Carver. The inquiries which he made before he saw her sufficiently confirmed the orange-woman’s story; and when he returned the presents which Anne had unfortunately received, Mrs. Carver, with all the audacity of a woman hardened in guilt, avowed her purpose and her profession—declared that whatever ignorance and innocence Anne or her parents might now find it convenient to affect, she was “confident they had all the time perfectly understood what she was about, and that she would not be cheated at last by a parcel of swindling hypocrites.” With horrid imprecations she then swore, that if Anne was kept from her she would have vengeance—and that her vengeance should know no bounds. The event showed that these were not empty threats—the very next day she sent two bailiffs to arrest Anne’s father. They met him in the street, as he was going to pay the last farthing he had to the baker. The wretched man in vain endeavoured to move the ear of justice by relating the simple truth. Mrs. Carver was rich—her victim was poor. He was committed to jail; and he entered his prison with the firm belief, that there he must drag out the remainder of his days.
One faint hope remained in his wife’s heart—she imagined that if she could but prevail upon Colonel Pembroke’s servants, either to obtain for her a sight of their master, or if they would carry to him a letter containing an exact account of her distress, he would immediately pay the fourteen pounds which had been so long due. With this money she could obtain her husband’s liberty, and she fancied all might yet be well. Her son, who could write a very legible hand, wrote the petition. “Ah, mother!” said he, “don’t hope that Colonel Pembroke will read it—he will tear it to pieces, as he did one that I carried him before.”
“I can but try,” said she; “I cannot believe that any gentleman is so cruel, and so unjust—he must and will pay us when he knows the whole truth.”
Colonel Pembroke was dressing in a hurry, to go to a great dinner at the Crown and Anchor tavern. One of Pembroke’s gay companions had called, and was in the room waiting for him. It was at this inauspicious time that Mrs. White arrived. Her petition the servant at first absolutely refused to take from her hands; but at last a young lad, whom the colonel had lately brought from the country, and who had either more natural feeling, or less acquired power of equivocating, than his fellows, consented to carry up the petition, when he should, as he expected, be called by his master to report the state of a favourite horse that was sick. While his master’s hair was dressing, the lad was summoned; and when the health of the horse had been anxiously inquired into, the lad with country awkwardness scratched his head, and laid the petition before his master, saying—“Sir, there’s a poor woman below waiting for an answer; and if so be what she says is true, as I take it to be, ‘tis enough to break one’s heart.”
“Your heart, my lad, is not seasoned to London yet, I perceive,” said Colonel Pembroke, smiling; “why, your heart will be broke a thousand times over by every beggar you meet.”
“No, no; I be too much of a man for that,” replied the groom, wiping his eyes hastily with the back of his hand—“not such a noodle as that comes to, neither—beggars are beggars, and so to be treated—but this woman, sir, is no common beggar, not she; nor is she begging any ways—only to be paid her bill—so I brought it, as I was coming up.”
“Then, sir, as you are going down, you may take it down again, if you please,” cried Colonel Pembroke; “and in future, sir, I recommend it to you to look after your horses, and to trust me to look after my own affairs.”
The groom retreated; and his master gave the poor woman’s petition, without reading it, to the hair-dresser, who was looking for a piece of paper to try the heat of his irons.