“I should be pestered with bills and petitions from morning till night, if I did not frighten these fellows out of the trick of bringing them to me,” continued Colonel Pembroke, turning to his companion. “That blockhead of a groom is but just come to town; he does not yet know how to drive away a dun—but he’ll learn. They say that the American dogs did not know how to bark, till they learnt it from their civilized betters.”
Colonel Pembroke habitually drove away reflection, and silenced the whispers of conscience, by noisy declamation, or sallies of wit.
At the bottom of the singed paper, which the hair-dresser left on the table, the name of White was sufficiently visible. “White!” exclaimed Colonel Pembroke, “as I hope to live and breathe, these Whites have been this half-year the torment of my life.” He started up, rang the bell, and gave immediate orders to his servant, that these Whites should never more be let in, and that no more of their bills and petitions in any form whatever should be brought to him. “I’ll punish them for their insolence—I won’t pay them one farthing this twelvemonth: and if the woman is not gone, pray tell her so—I bid Close the tailor pay them: if he has not, it is no fault of mine. Let me not hear a syllable more about it—I’ll part with the first of you who dares to disobey me.”
“The woman is gone, I believe, sir,” said the footman; “it was not I let her in, and I refused to bring up the letter.”
“You did right. Let me hear no more about the matter. We shall be late at the Crown and Anchor. I beg your pardon, my dear friend, for detaining you so long.”
Whilst the colonel went to his jovial meeting, where he was the life and spirit of the company, the poor woman returned in despair to the prison where her husband was confined.
We forbear to describe the horrible situation to which this family were soon reduced. Beyond a certain point, the human heart cannot feel compassion.
One day, as Anne was returning from the prison, where she had been with her father, she was met by a porter, who put a letter into her hands, then turned down a narrow lane, and was out of sight before she could inquire from whom he came. When she read the letter, however, she could not be in doubt—it came from Mrs. Carver, and contained these words:—
“You can gain nothing by your present obstinacy—you are the cause of your father’s lying in jail, and of your mother’s being as she is, nearly starved to death. You can relieve them from misery worse than death, and place them in ease and comfort for the remainder of their days. Be assured, they do not speak sincerley to you, when they pretend not to wish that your compliance should put an end to their present sufferings. It is you that are cruel to them—it is you that are cruel to yourself, and can blame nobody else. You might live all your days in a house as good as mine, and have a plentiful table served from one year’s end to another, with all the dainties of the season, and you might be dressed as elegantly as the most elegant lady in London (which, by-the-bye, your beauty deserves), and you would have servants of your own, and a carriage of your own, and nothing to do all day long but take your pleasure. And after all, what is asked of you?—only to make a person happy, whom half the town would envy you, that would make it a study to gratify you in every wish of your heart. The person alluded to you have seen, and more than once, when you have been talking to me of work in my parlour. He is a very rich and generous gentleman. If you come to Chiswell-street about six this evening, you will find all I say true—if not, you and yours must take the consequences.”