However sincere the general pity and esteem for the Percy family, they
did not escape the common lot of mortality; they had their share of
blame, as well as of condolence, from their friends and acquaintance.
Some discovered that all the misfortunes of the family might have been
avoided, if they had listened to good advice; others were quite clear
that the lawsuit would have been decided in Mr. Percy’s favour, if he
had employed their solicitor or their barrister; or, in short, if every
step of the suit had been directed differently.
Commissioner Falconer now joined the band of reproaching friends. He
did not blame Mr. Percy, however, for the conduct of the lawsuit, for of
that he confessed himself to be no judge, but he thought he understood
the right way of advancing a family in the world; and on this subject
he now took a higher tone than he had formerly felt himself entitled to
assume. Success gives such rights--especially over the unfortunate.
The commissioner said loudly in all companies, that he had hoped his
relation, Mr. Percy, who certainly was a man of talents, and he was
convinced well-intentioned, would not have shown himself so obstinately
attached to his peculiar opinions--especially to his strange notions of
independence, which must disgust, ultimately, friends whom it was most
the interest of his family to please; that he doubted not that the young
men of the Percy family bitterly regretted that their father would not
avail himself of the advantages of his connexions, of the favourable
dispositions, and, to his knowledge, most _condescending_ offers that
had been made to him--offers which, the commissioner said, he must term
really condescending, when he considered that Mr. Percy had never paid
the common court that was expected by a minister. Other circumstances,
too, enhanced the favour: offence had undoubtedly been given by the
ill-timed, injudicious interference of Captain Godfrey Percy about
regimental business--some Major Gascoigne--yet, notwithstanding this,
a certain person, whose steadiness in his friendships the commissioner
declared he could never sufficiently admire, had not, for the son’s
errors, changed his favourable opinion or disposition towards the
father.
Mr. Falconer concluded, with a sigh, “There are some men whom the best
of friends cannot serve--and such we can only leave to their fate.”
The commissioner now considering Mr. Percy as a person so obstinately
odd that it was unsafe for a rising man to have any thing more to do
with him, it was agreed in the Falconer family, that it was necessary to
let the Percys drop--gently, without making any noise. Mrs. Falconer and
her daughters having always resided in London during the winter, and
at some watering place in summer, knew scarcely any thing of the female
part of the Percy family. Mrs. Falconer had occasionally met Mrs. Percy,
but the young ladies, who had not yet been in town, she had never
seen since they were children. Mrs. Falconer now considered this as a
peculiarly fortunate circumstance, because she should not be blamed for
_cutting_ them, and should escape all the _unpleasantness_ of breaking
off an intimacy with relations.
The commissioner acceded to all his lady’s observations, and easily
shook off that attachment, which he had professed for so many years,
perhaps felt, for his _good cousin Percy_--perhaps felt, we say: because
we really believe that he was attached to Mr. Percy while that gentleman
was in prosperity. There are persons who have an exclusive sympathy with
the prosperous.
There was one, however, who, in this respect, felt differently from
the rest of the family. Buckhurst Falconer, with a generous impulse of
affection and gratitude, declared that he would not desert Mr. Percy or
any of the family in adversity; he could never forget how kind they
had been to him when he was in distress. Buckhurst’s resentment against
Caroline for her repeated refusals suddenly subsided; his attachment
revived with redoubled force. He protested that he loved her the better
for having lost her fortune, and he reiterated this protestation more
loudly, because his father declared it was absurd and ridiculous. The
son persisted, till the father, though not subject to make violent
resolutions, was wrought to such a pitch as to swear, that if Buckhurst
should be fool enough to think seriously of a girl who was now a beggar,
he would absolutely refuse his consent to the match, and would never
give his son a shilling.
Buckhurst immediately wrote to Caroline a passionate declaration of the
constancy and ardour of his attachment, and entreated her permission to
wait upon her immediately.
“Do not sacrifice me,” said Buckhurst, “to idle niceties. That I have
many faults, I am conscious; but none, I trust, for which you ought
utterly to condemn me--none but what you can cure. I am ready to be
every thing which you approve. Give me but leave to hope. There is no
sacrifice I will not make to facilitate, to expedite our union. I have
been ordained, one living I possess, and that which Colonel Hauton has
promised me will soon come into my possession. Believe me, I was decided
to go into the church by my attachment--to my passion for you, every
scruple, every consideration gave way. As to the rest, I shall never be
deterred from following the dictates of my heart by the opposition of
ambitious parents. Caroline, do not sacrifice me to idle niceties--I
know I have the misfortune not to please your brother Alfred: to do him
justice, he has fairly told me that he does not think me worthy of _his
sister Caroline_. I forgive him, I admire him for the pride with which
he pronounces the words, _my sister Caroline_. But though she may easily
find a more faultless character, she will never find a warmer heart, or
one more truly--more ardently attached.”
There was something frank, warm, and generous in this letter, which
pleased Rosamond, and which, she said, justified her good opinion of
Buckhurst. Indeed, the great merit of being ardently attached to her
sister Caroline was sufficient, in Rosamond’s eyes, to cover a multitude
of sins: and the contrast between his warmth at this moment, and the
coldness of the rest of his family, struck her forcibly. Rosamond
thought that Alfred had been too severe in his judgment, and observed,
that it was in vain to look with a lantern all over the world for a
faultless character--a monster. It was quite sufficient if a woman could
find an honest man--that She was sure Buckhurst had no faults but what
love would cure.
“But love has not cured him of any yet,” said Caroline.
“Try marriage,” said Rosamond, laughing.
Caroline shook her head. “Consider at what expense that trial must be
made.”
At the first reading of Buckhurst’s letter Caroline had been pleased
with it; but on a second perusal, she was dissatisfied with the passage
about his parents, nor could she approve of his giving up what he now
called his _scruples_, to obtain a competence for the woman he professed
to adore. She knew that he had been leading a dissipated life in town;
that he must, therefore, be less fit than he formerly was to make a good
husband, and still less likely to make a respectable clergyman. He had
some right feeling, but no steady principle, as Caroline observed. She
was grateful for the constancy of his attachment, and for the generosity
he showed in his whole conduct towards her; nor was she insensible to
the urgency with which Rosamond pleaded in his favour: but she was firm
in her own judgment; and her refusal, though expressed in the terms that
could best soften the pain it must give, was as decided as possible.
Soon after her letter had been sent, she and Rosamond had taken a longer
walk one evening than usual, and, eager in conversation, went on so far
in this wild unfrequented part of the country, that when they saw the
sun setting, they began to fear they should not reach home before it was
dark. They wished to find a shorter way than that by which they went,
and they looked about in hopes of seeing some labourer (some _swinked
hedger_) returning from his work, or a cottage where they could meet
with a guide.--But there was no person or house within sight. At last
Caroline, who had climbed upon a high bank in the lane where they were
walking, saw a smoke rising between some trees at a little distance; and
toward this spot they made their way through another lane, the entrance
to which had been stopped up with furze bushes. They soon came within
sight of a poor-looking cottage, and saw a young woman walking very
slowly with a child in her arms. She was going towards the house, and
did not perceive the young ladies till they were close to her. She
turned suddenly when they spoke--started--looked frightened and
confused; the infant began to cry, and hushing it as well as she could,
she answered to their questions with a bewildered look, “I don’t
know indeed--I can’t tell--I don’t know any thing, ladies--ask at the
cottage, yonder.” Then she quickened her pace, and walked so fast to
the house, that they could hardly keep up with her. She pushed open
the hatch door, and called “Dorothy! Dorothy, come out.” But no Dorothy
answered.--The young woman seemed at a loss what to do; and as she stood
hesitating, her face, which had at first appeared pale and emaciated,
flushed up to her temples. She looked very handsome, but in ill-health.
“Be pleased, ladies,” said she, with diffidence, and trembling from
head to foot, “be pleased to sit down and rest, ladies. One will be in
directly who knows the ways--I am a stranger in these parts.”
As soon as she had set the chairs, she was retiring to an inner room,
but her child, who was pleased with Caroline’s face as she smiled and
nodded at him, stretched out his little hands towards her.
“Oh! let my sister give him a kiss,” said Rosamond. The mother stopped,
yet appeared unwilling. The child patted Caroline’s cheek, played with
her hair, and laughed aloud. Caroline offered to take the child in her
arms, but the mother held him fast, and escaped into the inner room,
where they heard her sobbing violently. Caroline and Rosamond looked
at one another in silence, and left the cottage by tacit consent, sorry
that they had given pain, and feeling that they had no right to intrude
further. “We can go home the same way that we came,” said Caroline, “and
that is better than to trouble any body.”
“Certainly,” said Rosamond: “yet I should like to know something more
about this poor woman if I could, without--If we happened to meet
Dorothy, whoever she is.”
At this instant they saw an old woman come from a copse near the
cottage, with a bundle of sticks on her back and a tin can in her hand:
this was Dorothy. She saved them all the trouble and delicacy of asking
questions, for there was not a more communicative creature breathing.
She in the first place threw down her faggots, and offered her service
to guide the young ladies home; she guessed they belonged to the family
that was newly come to settle at the Hills, which she described, though
she could not tell the name. She would not be denied the pleasure of
showing them the shortest and safest way, and the only way by which
they could get home before it was night-fall. So they accepted her kind
offer, and she trudged on, talking as she went.
“It is a weary thing, ladies, to live in this lone place, where one does
not see a soul to speak to from one month’s end to another--especially
to me that has lived afore now in my younger days in Lon’on. But it’s
as God pleases! and I wish none had greater troubles in this world
than I--You were up at the house, ladies? There within at my little
place--ay--then you saw the greatest and the only great trouble I have,
or ever had in this life.--Did not you, ladies, see the young woman
with the child in her arms?--But may be you did not mind Kate, and she’s
nothing now to look at, quite faded and gone, though she’s only one
month past nineteen years of age. I am sure I ought to know, for I was
at her christening, and nursed her mother. She’s of very good parentage,
that is, of a farmer’s family, that _has_, as well as his neighbours,
that lives a great way off, quite on the other side of the country. And
not a year, at least not a year and a half ago, I remember Kate Robinson
dancing on the green at Squire Burton’s there with the rest of the girls
of the village, and without compare the prettiest and freshest, and most
blithsome and innocent of them all. Ay, she was innocent then, none
ever more so, and she had no care, but all looking kind upon her in this
world, and fond parents taking pride in her--and now look at her what
she is! Cast off by all, shamed, and forgotten, and broken-hearted, and
lost as much as if she was in her grave. And better she was in her grave
than as she is.”
The old woman now really felt so much that she stopped speaking, and she
was silent for several minutes.
“Ah! dear ladies,” said she, looking up at Rosamond and Caroline, “I see
you have kind hearts within you, and I thank you for pitying poor Kate.”
“I wish we could do any thing to serve her,” said Caroline.
“Ah! miss, that I am afraid you can’t--that’s what I am afraid none
can now.” The good woman paused and looked as if she expected to be
questioned. Caroline was silent, and the old woman looked disappointed.
“We do not like to question you,” said Rosamond, “lest we should ask
what you might not like to answer, or what the young woman would be
sorry that you should answer.”
“Why, miss, that’s very considerate in you, and only that I know it
would be for her benefit, I am sure I would not have said a word--but
here I have so very little to give her, and that little so coarse fare
to what she been used to, both when she was at service, and when she
was with her own people, that I be afraid, weak as she be grown now,
she won’t do. And though I have been a good nurse in my day, I think she
wants now a bit better doctor than I be--and then if she could see the
minister, to take the weight off her heart, to make her not fret so, to
bid her look up above for comfort, and to raise her with the hope and
trust that God will have more mercy upon her than her father and mother
do have; and to make her--hardest of all!--forget him that has forsaken
her and her little one, and been so cruel--Oh! ladies, to do all that,
needs a person that can speak to her better and with more authority than
I can.”
The poor woman stopped again for some minutes, and then recollecting
that she had not told what she had intended to tell, she said, “I
suppose, ladies, you guess now how it be, and I ought to beg pardon for
speaking of such a thing, or such a one, as--as poor Kate is now, to
you, young ladies; but though she is fallen so low, and an outcast, she
is not hardened; and if it had been so that it had pleased Heaven that
she had been a wife to one in her own condition--Oh! what a wife, and
what a mother there was lost in her! The man that wronged her has a deal
to answer for. But he has no thought of that, nor care for her, or his
child; but he is a fine man about London, they say, driving about with
colonels, and lords, and dancing with ladies. Oh! if they saw Kate, one
would guess they would not think so much of him: but yet, may be, they’d
think more--there’s no saying how the quality ladies judge on these
matters. But this I know, that though he was very free of his money, and
generous to Kate at the first, and even for some months after he quit
the country, till I suppose he forgot her, yet he has not sent her a
guinea for self or child these four months, nor a line of a letter of
any kind, which she pined for more, and we kept thinking the letters she
did write did not get to him by the post, so we sent one by a grandson
of my own, that we knowed would put the letter safe into his hands, and
did, just as the young gentleman was, as my grandson told me, coming out
of a fine house in London, and going, with a long whip in his hand, to
get upon the coach-box of a coach, with four horses too--and he looks at
the letter, and puts it in his pocket, and calls to my boy, ‘No answer
now, my good friend--but I’ll write by post to her.’ Those were the very
words; and then that colonel that was with him laughing and making game
like, went to snatch the letter out of the pocket, saying, ‘Show us that
love-letter, Buckhurst’--Lord forgive me! what have I done now?” said
the old woman, stopping short, struck by the sudden change in the
countenance of both her auditors.
“Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is a relation of ours,” said Rosamond.
“Dear ladies, how could I think you knew him even?” interrupted the old
woman. “I beg your pardon. Kate says he’s not so cruel as he seems, and
that if he were here this minute, he’d be as kind and generous to her as
ever.--It’s all forgetfulness just, and giddiness, she says--or, may be,
as to the money, that he has it not to spare.”
“To spare!” repeated Caroline, indignantly.
“Lord love her! what a colour she has now--and what a spirit spoke
there! But, ladies, I’d be sorry to hurt the young gentleman; for Kate
would be angry at me for that worse than at any thing. And as to all
that has happened, you know it’s nothing extraordinary, but what happens
every day, by all accounts; and young gentlemen, such as he be, thinks
nothing of it; and the great ladies, I know, by what I noticed when I
was in sarvice once in Lon’on myself, the great ladies thinks the better
of them for such things.”
“I am not a great lady,” said Caroline.
“Nor I, thank God!” said Rosamond.
“Well, for certain, if you are not great, you’re good ladies,” said the
old woman.
As they were now within sight of their own house, they thanked and
dismissed their loquacious but kind-hearted guide, putting into her
hand some money for poor Kate, Caroline promising to make further
inquiries--Rosamond, without restriction, promising all manner of
assistance, pecuniary, medical, and spiritual.
The result of the inquiries that were made confirmed the truth of all
that old Dorothy had related, and brought to light other circumstances
relative to the seduction and desertion of this poor girl, which so
shocked Rosamond, that in proportion to her former prepossession in
Buckhurst’s favour was now her abhorrence; and as if to repair the
imprudence with which she had formerly used her influence over her
sister’s mind in his favour, she now went as far on the opposite side,
abjuring him with the strongest expressions of indignation, and wishing
that Caroline’s last letter had not gone to Buckhurst, that she might
have given her refusal on this special account, in the most severe and
indignant terms the English language could supply.
Mrs. Percy, however, on the contrary, rejoiced that Caroline’s letter
had been sent before they knew any thing of this affair.
“But, ma’am,” cried Rosamond, “surely it would have been right for
Caroline to have given this reason for her refusal, and to have declared
that this had proved to her beyond a possibility of doubt that her
former objections to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer’s principles were too well
founded; and it would have become Caroline to have written with strong
indignation. I am persuaded,” continued Rosamond, “that if women would
reprobate young men for such instances of profligacy and cruelty,
instead of suffering such conduct to go under the fine plausible general
names of gallantry and _wildness_, it would make a greater impression
than all the sermons that could be preached. And Caroline, who has
beauty and eloquence, _can_ do this with effect. I remember Godfrey once
said, that the peculiar characteristic of Caroline, that in which she
differed most from the common herd of young ladies, is in her power of
feeling and expressing virtuous indignation. I am sure that Godfrey,
partial as he is to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer, would think that Caroline
ought, on such an occasion, to set an example of that proper spirit,
which, superior to the fear of ridicule and fashion, dares to speak the
indignation it feels.”
“Very well spoken, and better felt, my dear daughter,” said Mrs. Percy.
“And Heaven forbid I should lower the tone of your mind, or your honest
indignation against vice; but, Rosamond, my dear, let us be just.--I
must do even those, whom Godfrey calls the common herd of young ladies,
the justice to believe that there are many among them who have good
feeling enough to be angry, very angry, with a lover upon _such an
occasion_--angry enough to write him a most indignant, and, perhaps,
very eloquent letter.--You may recollect more than one heroine of a
novel, who discards her lover upon such a discovery as was made by you
last night. It is a common novel incident, and, of course, from novels
every young lady, even, who might not have _felt_ without a precedent,
knows how she ought to express herself in such circumstances. But you
will observe, my dear, that both in novels and in real life, young
ladies generally like and encourage men of feeling in contradistinction
to men of principle, and too often men of gallantry in preference to
men of correct morals: in short, that such a character as that of Mr.
Buckhurst Falconer is just the kind of person with whom many women would
fall in love. By suffering this to be thought the taste of our sex,
ladies encourage libertinism in general, more than they can possibly
discourage it by the loudest display of indignation against particular
instances.--If, like your sister Caroline, young ladies would show that
they really do not prefer such men, it would do essential service. And
observe, my dear Rosamond, this can be done by every young woman with
perfect delicacy: but I do not see how she can, with propriety or good
effect, do more. It is a subject ladies cannot well discuss; a subject
upon which the manners and customs of the world are so much at variance
with religion and morality, that entering upon the discussion would lead
to greater difficulties than you are aware of. It is, therefore, best
for our sex to show their disapprobation of vice, and to prove their
sense of virtue and religion by their conduct, rather than to proclaim
it to the world in words. Had Caroline in her letter expressed her
indignation in the most severe terms that the English language could
supply, she would only have exposed herself to the ridicule of Mr.
Buckhurst Falconer’s fashionable companions, as a prating, preaching
prude, without doing the least good to him, or to any one living.”
Rosamond reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps her mother was right.
“But, Caroline, how quietly you sit by, while we are talking of you and
your lover!” cried Rosamond; “I do not know whether to be provoked with
you, or to admire you.”
“Admire me, pray,” said Caroline, “if you can.”
“I do not believe you will ever be in love,” said Rosamond. “I confess I
should admire, or, at least, love you better, if you had more feeling,”
added Rosamond, hastily.
“By what do you judge that I want feeling?” said Caroline, colouring
deeply, and with a look and tone that expressed her keen sense of
injustice. “What proof have I ever given you of my want of feeling?”
“No proof, that I can recollect,” said Rosamond, laughing; “no proof,
but that you have never been in love.”
“Is it a proof I am incapable of feeling, that I have not been in love
with one who has proved himself utterly unworthy of my esteem--against
whose conduct my sister cannot find words sufficiently severe to express
her indignation? Rosamond, my mind inclined towards him at the
first reading of his last letter; but if I had ever given him any
encouragement, if I had loved him, what would have been my misery at
this moment!”
“All! my dear, but then if you had been very miserable, I should have
pitied you so much, and loved you so heartily for being in love,” said
Rosamond, still laughing--
“Oh! Rosamond,” continued Caroline, whose mind was now too highly
wrought for raillery, “is love to be trifled with? No, only by trifling
minds or by rash characters, by those who do not conceive its power--its
danger. Recollect what we have just seen: a young, beautiful woman
sinking into the grave with shame--deserted by her parents--wishing her
child unborn. Do you remember her look of agony when we praised that
child? the strongest charm of nature reversed--the strongest ties
dissolved; and love brought her to this! She is only a poor servant
girl. But the highest and the fairest, those of the most cultivated
understandings, of the tenderest hearts, cannot love bring them down to
the same level--to the same fate?--And not only our weak sex, but over
the stronger sex, and the strongest of the strong, and the wisest of
the wise, what is, what has ever been the power, the delusions of that
passion, which can cast a spell over the greatest hero, throw a blot on
the brightest glory, blast in a moment a life of fame!--What must be the
power of that passion, which can inspire genius in the dullest and the
coldest, waken heroism in the most timid of creatures, exalt to the
highest point, or to the lowest degrade our nature--the bitterest curse,
or the sweetest blessing Heaven bestows on us in this life!--Oh! sister,
is love to be trifled with?”
Caroline paused, and Rosamond, for some instants, looked at her and at
her mother in silence; then exclaimed, “All this from Caroline! Are not
you astonished, mother?”
“No,” said Mrs. Percy; “I was aware that this was in Caroline’s mind.”
“I was not,” said Rosamond. “She who never spoke of love!--I little
imagined that she thought of it so highly, so seriously.”
“Yes, I do think of it seriously, highly may Heaven grant!” cried
Caroline, looking fervently upwards as she spoke with an illuminated
countenance. “May Heaven grant that love be a blessing and not a curse
to me! Heaven grant that I may never, in any moment of selfish vanity,
try to excite a passion which I cannot return! Heaven grant that I never
may feel the passion of love but for one whom I shall entirely esteem,
who shall be worthy to fill my whole soul!”
“Mother,” continued Caroline, turning eagerly, and seizing her mother’s
hand, “my guide, my guardian, whenever you see me in any, the slightest
inclination to coquetry, warn me--as you wish to save me from that which
I should most dread, the reproaches of my own conscience--in the first,
the very first instance, reprove me, mother, if you can--with severity.
And you, my sister, my bosom friend, do not use your influence to
soften, to open my mind to love; but if ever you perceive me yielding
my heart to the first tenderness of the passion, watch over me, if the
object be not every way worthy of me, my equal, my superior.--Oh! as you
would wish to snatch me from the grave, rouse me from the delusion--save
me from disappointment, regret, remorse, which I know that I could not
bear, and live.”
Her mother, into whose arms she threw herself, pressed Caroline close to
her heart, while Rosamond, to whom she had given her hand, held it fast,
and stood motionless between surprise and sympathy. Caroline, to whose
usual manners and disposition every thing theatrical or romantic was so
foreign, seemed, as soon as she recollected herself, to be ashamed of
the excessive emotion and enthusiasm she had shown; withdrawing her hand
from her sister, she turned away, and left the room.
Her mother and sister both remained silent for a considerable time,
fully occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. The mother’s
reverie looked to the future prospects of her daughter;--confident in
Caroline’s character, yet uncertain of her fate, she felt a pleasing yet
painful solicitude.
Rosamond’s thoughts turned rather to the past than to the future:
she recollected and compared words and looks, yet found insuperable
difficulty in connecting all she had ever before known or fancied of
Caroline with what she had just seen and heard. Rosamond did not fairly
recover from her surprise, and from her look of perplexity, during a
full hour that she remained absolutely silent, poring upon a screen,
upon which she saw nothing.
She then went in search of Caroline, in hopes of renewing the
conversation; but she found her busied in some of the common affairs of
life, and apparently a different person.
Rosamond, though she made divers attempts, could not lead Caroline
back again to the same train of thought, or tone of expression. Indeed,
Rosamond did not attempt it very skilfully, but rather with the awkward
impatience of one not accustomed to use address. Caroline, intent upon
the means of assisting the poor young woman whom they had seen at the
cottage, went there again as soon as she could, to warn old Dorothy,
in the first place, to be less communicative, and not on any account to
mention to any one else the names and circumstances which she had told
them with so little reserve. Caroline next applied to Dr. Leicester, the
vicar of their former parish, a most amiable and respectable clergyman,
who had come from his vicarage, near Percy-hall, to spend what time
he could spare from his duties with his favourite parishioners; at
Caroline’s request he willingly went to see this unhappy young woman,
and succeeded in his endeavours to soothe and tranquillize her mind by
speaking to her words of peace. His mild piety raised and comforted
the trembling penitent; and while all prospect of forgiveness from her
parents, or of happiness in this world, was at an end, he fixed her
thoughts on those better hopes and promises which religion only can
afford. Her health appeared suddenly to mend when her mind was more
at ease: but this was only transient, and Dr. Percy, to whom Caroline
applied for his medical opinion, gave little hopes of her recovery.
All that could be done by medicine and proper kindness to assuage her
sufferings during her decline was done in the best manner by Mrs.
Percy and her daughters, especially by Caroline: the young woman,
nevertheless, died in six weeks, and was buried without Buckhurst
Falconer’s making any inquiry concerning her, probably without his
knowing of her death. A few days after she was no more, a letter came
to her from him, which was returned unopened by Dorothy, who could just
write well enough to make these words intelligible in the cover:
“SIR,
“Kate Robinson is dead--this four days--your child is with me still, and
well.--She bid me tell you, if ever you asked more concerning her--she
left you her forgiveness on her death-bed, and hopes you will be happy,
sir.--
“Your humble servant,
“DOROTHY WHITE.”
A bank note of ten pounds was received by Dorothy soon afterwards for
the use of the child, and deep regret was expressed by the father for
the death of its mother. But, as Dorothy said, “that came too late to be
of any good to her.”