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.
* * * * *