CHAPTER V.
After Jessy and Mrs. Cheviott had left the room, one of the little girls exclaimed, “I don’t like that Miss Bettesworth; for she asked me whether I did not wish that Fanny was gone, because she refused to let me have a peach that was not ripe. I am sure I wish Fanny may always stay here.”
There was a person in the room who seemed to join most fervently in this wish: this was Mr. Reynolds, the drawing-master. For some time his thoughts had been greatly occupied by Fanny. At first, he was struck with her beauty; but he had discovered that Mr. Folingsby was in love with her, and had carefully attended to her conduct, resolving not to offer himself till he was sure on a point so serious. Her modesty and prudence fixed his affections; and he now became impatient to declare his passion. He was a man of excellent temper and character; and his activity and talents were such as to ensure independence to a wife and family.
Mrs. Hungerford, though a proud, was not a selfish woman: she was glad that Mr. Reynolds was desirous to obtain Fanny, though she was sorry to part with one who was so useful in her family. Fanny had now lived with her nearly two years; and she was much attached to her. A distant relation, about this time, left her five children a small legacy of ten guineas each. Gustavus, though he had some ambition to be master of a watch, was the first to propose that this legacy should be given to Fanny. His brothers and sisters applauded the idea; and Mrs. Hungerford added fifty guineas to their fifty. “I had put by this money,” said she, “to purchase a looking-glass for my drawing-room; but it will be much better applied in rewarding one who has been of real service to my children.”
Fanny was now mistress of two hundred guineas; a hundred given to her by Mr. Folingsby, fifty by Mrs. Hungerford, and fifty by the children. Her joy and gratitude were extreme: for with this money she knew she could relieve her father; this was the first wish of her heart; and it was a wish in which her lover so eagerly joined that she smiled on him, and said, “Now I am sure you really love me.”
“Let us go to your father directly,” said Mr. Reynolds. “Let me be present when you give him this money.”
“You shall,” said Fanny; “but first I must consult my sister Patty and my brothers; for we must all go together; that is our agreement. The first day of next month is my father’s birthday; and, on that day, we are all to meet at the almshouse. What a happy day it will be!”
But what has James been about all this time? How has he gone on with his master, Mr. Cleghorn, the haberdasher?
During the eighteen months that James had spent in Mr. Cleghorn’s shop, he never gave his master the slightest reason to complain of him; on the contrary, this young man made his employer’s interests his own; and, consequently, completely deserved his confidence. It was not, however, always easy to deal with Mr. Cleghorn; for he dreaded to be flattered, yet could not bear to be contradicted. James was very near losing his favour for ever, upon the following occasion.
One evening, when it was nearly dusk, and James was just shutting up shop, a strange-looking man, prodigiously corpulent, and with huge pockets to his coat, came in. He leaned his elbows on the counter, opposite to James, and stared him full in the face without speaking. James swept some loose money off the counter into the till. The stranger smiled, as if purposely to show him this did not escape his quick eye. There was in his countenance an expression of roguery and humour: the humour seemed to be affected, the roguery natural. “What are you pleased to want, sir?” said James.
“A glass of brandy, and your master.”
“My master is not at home, sir; and we have no brandy. You will find brandy, I believe, at the house over the way.”
“I believe I know where to find brandy a little better than you do; and better brandy than you ever tasted, or the devil’s in it,” replied the stranger. “I want none of your brandy. I only asked for it to try what sort of a chap you were. So you don’t know who I am?”
“No, sir; not in the least.”
“No! Never heard of Admiral Tipsey! Where do you come from? Never heard of Admiral Tipsey! whose noble paunch is worth more than a Laplander could reckon,” cried he, striking the huge rotundity he praised. “Let me into this back parlour; I’ll wait there till your master comes home.”
“Sir, you cannot possibly go into that parlour; there is a young lady, Mr. Cleghorn’s daughter, sir, at tea in that room: she must not be disturbed,” said James, holding the lock of the parlour door. He thought the stranger was either drunk or pretending to be drunk; and contended, with all his force, to prevent him from getting into the parlour.
Whilst they were struggling, Mr. Cleghorn came home. “Heyday! what’s the matter? O admiral, is it you?” said Mr. Cleghorn in a voice of familiarity that astonished James. “Let us by, James; you don’t know the admiral.”
Admiral Tipsey was a smuggler: he had the command of two or three smuggling vessels, and thereupon created himself an admiral: a dignity which few dared to dispute with him, whilst he held his oak stick in his hand. As to the name of Tipsey, no one could be so unjust as to question his claim to it; for he was never known to be perfectly sober, during a whole day, from one year’s end to another. To James’s great surprise, the admiral, after he had drunk one dish of tea, unbuttoned his waist-coat from top to bottom, and deliberately began to unpack his huge false corpulence! Round him were wound innumerable pieces of lace, and fold after fold of fine cambric. When he was completely unpacked, it was difficult to believe that he was the same person, he looked so thin and shrunk.
He then called for some clean straw, and began to stuff himself out again to what he called a passable size. “Did not I tell you, young man, I carried that under my waistcoat which would make a fool stare? The lace that’s on the floor, to say nothing of the cambric, is worth full twice the sum for which you shall have it, Cleghorn. Good night. I’ll call again to-morrow, to settle our affairs; but don’t let your young man here shut the door, as he did to-day, in the admiral’s face. Here is a cravat for you, notwithstanding,” continued he, turning to James, and throwing him a piece of very fine cambric. “I must ‘list you in Admiral Tipsey’s service.”
James followed him to the door, and returned the cambric in despite of all his entreaties that he would “wear it, or sell it, for the admiral’s sake.”
“So, James,” said Mr. Cleghorn, when the smuggler was gone, “you do not seem to like our admiral.”
“I know nothing of him, sir, except that he is a smuggler; and for that reason I do not wish to have any thing to do with him.”
“I am sorry for that,” said Mr. Cleghorn, with a mixture of shame and anger in his countenance: “my conscience is as nice as other people’s; and yet I have a notion I shall have something to do with him, though he is a smuggler; and, if I am not mistaken, shall make a deal of money by him. I have not had any thing to do with smugglers yet; but I see many in Monmouth who are making large fortunes by their assistance. There is our neighbour, Mr. Raikes; what a rich man he is become! And why should I, or why should you, be more scrupulous than others? Many gentlemen, ay, gentlemen, in the country are connected with them; and why should a shopkeeper be more conscientious than they? Speak; I must have your opinion.”
With all the respect due to his master, James gave it as his opinion that it would be best to have nothing to do with Admiral Tipsey, or with any of the smugglers. He observed that men who carried on an illicit trade, and who were in the daily habit of cheating, or of taking false oaths, could not be safe partners. Even putting morality out of the question, he remarked that the smuggling trade was a sort of gaming, by which one year a man might make a deal of money, and another might be ruined.
“Upon my word!” said Mr. Cleghorn, in an ironical tone, “you talk very wisely, for so young a man! Pray, where did you learn all this wisdom?”
“From my father, sir; from whom I learned every thing that I know; every thing that is good, I mean. I had an uncle once, who was ruined by his dealings with smugglers; and who would have died in jail, if it had not been for my father. I was but a young lad at the time this happened; but I remember my father saying to me, the day my uncle was arrested, when my aunt and all the children were crying, ‘Take warning by this, my dear James: you are to be in trade, some day or other, yourself: never forget that honesty is the best policy. The fair trader will always have the advantage, at the long run.’”
“Well, well, no more of this,” interrupted Mr. Cleghorn. “Good night to you. You may finish the rest of your sermon against smugglers to my daughter there, whom it seems to suit better than it pleases me.”
The next day, when Mr. Cleghorn went into the shop, he scarcely spoke to James, except to find fault with him. This he bore with patience, knowing that he meant well, and that his master would recover his temper in time.
“So the parcels were all sent, and the bills made out, as I desired,” said Mr. Cleghorn. “You are not in the wrong there. You know what you are about, James, very well; but why should not you deal openly by me, according to your father’s maxim, that ‘honesty is the best policy?’ Why should not you fairly tell me what were your secret views, in the advice you gave me about Admiral Tipsey and the smugglers?”
“I have no secret views, sir,” said James, with a look of such sincerity that his master could not help believing him: “nor can I guess what you mean by secret views. If I consulted my own advantage instead of yours, I should certainly use all my influence with you in favour of this smuggler: for here is a letter, which I received from him this morning, ‘hoping for my friendship,’ and enclosing a ten pound note, which I returned to him.”
Mr. Cleghorn was pleased by the openness and simplicity with which James told him all this; and immediately throwing aside the reserve of his manner, said, “James, I beg your pardon; I see I have misunderstood you. I am convinced you were not acting like a double dealer, in the advice you gave me last night. It was my daughter’s colouring so much that led me astray. I did, to be sure, think you had an eye to her more than to me, in what you said: but if you had, I am sure you would tell me so fairly.”
James was at a loss to comprehend how the advice that he gave concerning Admiral Tipsey and the smugglers could relate to Miss Cleghorn, except so far as it related to her father. He waited in silence for a farther explanation.
“You don’t know, then,” continued Mr. Cleghorn, “that Admiral Tipsey, as he calls himself, is able to leave his nephew, young Raikes, more than I can leave my daughter? It is his whim to go about dressed in that strange way in which you saw him yesterday; and it is his diversion to carry on the smuggling trade, by which he has made so much; but he is in reality a rich old fellow, and has proposed that I should marry my daughter to his nephew. Now you begin to understand me, I see. The lad is a smart lad: he is to come here this evening. Don’t prejudice my girl against him. Not a word more against smugglers, before her, I beg.”
“You shall be obeyed, sir,” said James. His voice altered, and he turned pale as he spoke; circumstances which did not escape Mr. Cleghorn’s observation.
Young Raikes, and his uncle, the rich smuggler, paid their visit. Miss Cleghorn expressed a decided dislike to both uncle and nephew. Her father was extremely provoked; and in the height of his anger, declared he believed she was in love with James Frankland; that he was a treacherous rascal; and that he should leave the house within three days, if his daughter did not, before that time, consent to marry the man he had chosen for her husband. It was in vain that his daughter endeavoured to soften her father’s rage, and to exculpate poor James, by protesting he had never directly or indirectly attempted to engage her affections; neither had he ever said one syllable that could prejudice her against the man whom her father recommended. Mr. Cleghorn’s high notions of subordination applied, on this occasion, equally to his daughter and to his foreman: he considered them both as presumptuous and ungrateful; and said to himself, as he walked up and down the room in a rage, “My foreman to preach to me indeed! I thought what he was about all the time! But it sha’n’t do—it sha’n’t do! My daughter shall do as I bid her, or I’ll know why! Have not I been all my life making a fortune for her? and now she won’t do as I bid her! She would, if this fellow were out of the house; and out he shall go, in three days, if she does not come to her senses. I was cheated by my last shopman out of my money: I won’t be duped by this fellow out of my daughter. No! no! Off he shall trudge! A shopman, indeed, to think of his master’s daughter without his consent! What insolence! What the times are come to! Such a thing could not have been done in my days! I never thought of my master’s daughter, I’ll take my oath! And then the treachery of the rascal! To carry it all on so slily! I could forgive him anything but that: for that he shall go out of this house in three days, as sure as he and I are alive, if this young lady does not give him up before that time.”
Passion so completely deafened Mr. Cleghorn that he would not listen to James, who assured him he had never, for one moment, aspired to the honour of marrying his daughter. “Can you deny that you love her? Can you deny,” cried Mr. Cleghorn, “that you turned pale yesterday, when you said I should be obeyed?”
James could not deny either of these charges; but he firmly persisted in asserting that he had been guilty of no treachery; that he had never attempted secretly to engage the young lady’s affections; and that, on the contrary, he was sure she had no suspicion of his attachment. “It is easy to prove all this to me, by persuading my girl to do as I bid her. Prevail on her to marry Mr. Raikes, and all is well.”
“That is out of my power, sir,” replied James. “I have no right to interfere, and will not. Indeed, I am sure I should betray myself, if I were to attempt to say a word to Miss Cleghorn in favour of another man: that is a task I could not undertake, even if I had the highest opinion of this Mr. Raikes; but I know nothing concerning him, and therefore should do wrong to speak in his favour merely to please you. I am sorry, very sorry, sir, that you have not the confidence in me which I hoped I had deserved; but the time will come when you will do me justice. The sooner I leave you now, I believe, the better you will be satisfied; and far from wishing to stay three days, I do not desire to stay three minutes in your house, sir, against your will.”
Mr. Cleghorn was touched by the feeling and honest pride with which James spoke.
“Do as I bid you, sir,” said he; “and neither more nor less,—Stay out your three days; and may be, in that time, this saucy girl may come to reason. If she does not know you love her, you are not so much to blame.”
The three days passed away, and the morning came on which James was to leave his master. The young lady persisted in her resolution not to marry Mr. Raikes; and expressed much concern at the injustice with which James was treated on her account. She offered to leave home, and spend some time with an aunt, who lived in the north of England. She did not deny that James appeared to her the most agreeable young man she had seen; but added, she could not possibly have any thoughts of marrying him, because he had never given her the least reason to believe that he was attached to her.
Mr. Cleghorn was agitated, yet positive in his determination that James should quit the house. James went into his master’s room to take leave of him. “So then you are really going?” said Mr. Cleghorn. “You have buckled that portmanteau of yours like a blockhead; I’ll do it better: stand aside. So you are positively going? Why, this is a sad thing! But then it is a thing, as your own sense and honour tell you—it is a thing—” (Mr. Cleghorn took snuff at every pause of his speech; but even this could not carry him through it;) when he pronounced the words, “It is a thing that must be done,” the tears fairly started from his eyes. “Now this is ridiculous!” resumed he. “In my days, in my younger days, I mean, a man could part with his foreman as easily as he could take off his glove. I am sure my master would as soon have thought of turning bankrupt as of shedding a tear at parting with me; and yet I was as good a foreman, in my day, as another. Not so good a one as you are, to be sure. But it is no time now to think of your goodness. Well! what do we stand here for? When a thing is to be done, the sooner it is done the better. Shake hands before you go.”
Mr. Cleghorn put into James’s hand a fifty pound note, and a letter of recommendation to a Liverpool merchant. James left the house without taking leave of Miss Cleghorn, who did not think the worse of him for his want of gallantry. His master had taken care to recommend him to an excellent house in Liverpool, where his salary would be nearly double that which he had hitherto received; but James was notwithstanding very sorry to leave Monmouth, where his dear brother, sister, and father lived,—to say nothing of Miss Cleghorn.
Late at night, James was going to the inn at which the Liverpool stage set up, where he was to sleep: as he passed through a street that leads down to the river Wye, he heard a great noise of men quarrelling violently. The moon shone bright, and he saw a party of men who appeared to be fighting in a boat that was just come to shore. He asked a person who came out of the public-house, and who seemed to have nothing to do with the fray, what was the matter? “Only some smugglers, who are quarrelling with one another about the division of their booty,” said the passenger, who walked on, eager to get out of their way. James also quickened his pace, but presently heard the cry of “Murder! murder! Help! help!” and then all was silence.
A few seconds afterwards he thought that he heard groans. He could not forbear going to the spot whence the groans proceeded, in hopes of being of some service to a fellow-creature. By the time he got thither, the groans had ceased: he looked about, but could only see the men in the boat, who were rowing fast down the river. As he stood on the shore listening, he for some minutes heard no sound but that of their oars; but afterwards a man in the boat exclaimed, with a terrible oath, “There he is! There he is! All alive again! We have not done him business! D—n it, he’ll do ours!” The boatmen rowed faster away, and James again heard the groans, though they were now much feebler than before. He searched and found the wounded man; who, having been thrown overboard, had with great difficulty swam to shore, and fainted with the exertion as soon as he reached the land. When he came to his senses, he begged James, for mercy’s sake, to carry him into the next public-house, and to send for a surgeon to dress his wounds. The surgeon came, examined them, and declared his fears that the poor man could not live four-and-twenty hours. As soon as he was able to speak intelligibly, he said he had been drinking with a party of smugglers, who had just brought in some fresh brandy, and that they had quarrelled violently about a keg of contraband liquor: he said that he could swear to the man who gave him the mortal wound.
The smugglers were pursued immediately, and taken. When they were brought into the sick man’s room, James beheld amongst them three persons whom he little expected to meet in such a situation: Idle Isaac, Wild Will, and Bullying Bob. The wounded man swore positively to their persons. Bullying Bob was the person who gave him the fatal blow; but Wild Will began the assault, and Idle Isaac shoved him overboard; they were all implicated in the guilt; and, instead of expressing any contrition for their crime, began to dispute about which was most to blame: they appealed to James; and, as he would be subpoenaed on their trial, each endeavoured to engage him in his favour. Idle Isaac took him aside, and said to him, “You have no reason to befriend my brothers. I can tell you a secret: they are the greatest enemies your family ever had. It was they who set fire to your father’s hay-rick. Will was provoked by your sister Fanny’s refusing him; so he determined, as he told me, to carry her off; and he meant to have done so, in the confusion that was caused by the fire; but Bob and he quarrelled the very hour that she was to have been carried off; so that part of the scheme failed. Now I had no hand in all this, being fast asleep in my bed; so I have more claim to your good word, at any rate, than my brothers can have: and so, when we come to trial, I hope you’ll speak to my character.”
Wild Will next tried his eloquence. As soon as he found that his brother Isaac had betrayed the secret, he went to James, and assured him the mischief that had been done was a mere accident; that it was true he had intended, for the frolic’s sake, to raise a cry of fire, in order to draw Fanny out of the house; but that he was shocked when he found how the jest ended.
As to Bullying Bob, he brazened the matter out; declaring he had been affronted by the Franklands, and that he was glad he had taken his revenge of them; that, if the thing was to be done over again, he would do it; that James might give him what character he pleased upon trial, for that a man could be hanged but once.
Such were the absurd, bravadoing speeches he made, while he had an alehouse audience round him, to admire his spirit; but a few hours changed his tone. He and his brothers were taken before a magistrate. Till the committal was actually made out, they had hopes of being bailed: they had despatched a messenger to Admiral Tipsey, whose men they called themselves, and expected he would offer bail for them to any amount; but the bail of their friend Admiral Tipsey was not deemed sufficient by the magistrate.
“In the first place, I could not bail these men; and if I could, do you think it possible,” said the magistrate, “I could take the bail of such a man as that?”
“I understood that he was worth a deal of money,” whispered James.
“You are mistaken, sir,” said the magistrate: “he is what he deserves to be, a ruined man. I have good reasons for knowing this. He has a nephew, a Mr. Raikes, who is a gamester: whilst the uncle has been carrying on the smuggling trade here, at the hazard of his life, the nephew, who was bred up at Oxford to be a fine gentleman, has gamed away all the money his uncle has made during twenty years, by his contraband traffic. At the long run, these fellows never thrive. Tipsey is not worth a groat.”
James was much surprised by this information, and resolved to return immediately to Mr. Cleghorn, to tell him what he had heard, and put him on his guard.
Early in the morning he went to his house—“You look as if you were not pleased to see me again,” said he to Mr. Cleghorn; “and perhaps you will impute what I am going to say to bad motives; but my regard to you, sir, determines me to acquaint you with what I have heard: you will make what use of the information you please.”
James then related what had passed at the magistrate’s; and when Mr. Cleghorn had heard all that he had to say, he thanked him in the strongest manner for this instance of his regard; and begged he would remain in Monmouth a few days longer.
Alarmed by the information he received from James, Mr. Cleghorn privately made inquiries concerning young Raikes and his uncle. The distress into which the young man had plunged himself by gambling had been kept a profound secret from his relations. It was easy to deceive them as to his conduct, because his time had been spent at a distance from them: he had but just returned home, after completing his education.
The magistrate from whom James first heard of his extravagance happened to have a son at Oxford, who gave him this intelligence: he confirmed all he had said to Mr. Cleghorn, who trembled at the danger to which he had exposed his daughter. The match with young Raikes was immediately broken off; and all connexion with Admiral Tipsey and the smugglers was for ever dissolved by Mr. Cleghorn.
His gratitude to James was expressed with all the natural warmth of his character. “Come back and live with me,” said he. “You have saved me and my daughter from ruin. You shall not be my shopman any longer, you shall be my partner: and, you know, when you are my partner, there can be nothing said against your thinking of my daughter. But all in good time. I would not have seen the girl again if she had married my shopman; but my partner will be quite another thing. You have worked your way up in the world by your own deserts, and I give you joy. I believe, now it’s over, it would have gone nigh to break my heart to part with you; but you must be sensible I was right to keep up my authority in my own family. Now things are changed: I give my consent: nobody has a right to say a word. When I am pleased with my daughter’s choice, that is enough. There’s only one thing that goes against my pride: your father—”
“Oh! sir,” interrupted James, “if you are going to say any thing disrespectful of my father, do not say it to me; I beseech you, do not; for I cannot bear it. Indeed I cannot, and will not. He is the best of fathers!”
“I am sure he has the best of children; and a greater blessing there cannot be in this world. I was not going to say any thing disrespectful of him: I was only going to lament that he should be in an almshouse,” said Mr. Cleghorn.
“He has determined to remain there,” said James, “till his children have earned money enough to support him without hurting themselves. I, my brother, and both my sisters, are to meet at the almshouse on the first day of next month, which is my father’s birthday; then we shall join all our earnings together, and see what can be done.”
“Remember, you are my partner,” said Mr. Cleghorn. “On that day you must take me along with you. My good-will is part of your earnings, and my good-will shall never be shown merely in words.”
CHAPTER VI.
It is now time to give some account of the Bettesworth family. The history of their indolence, extravagance, quarrels, and ruin, shall be given as shortly as possible.
The fortune left to them by Captain Bettesworth was nearly twenty thousand pounds. When they got possession of this sum, they thought it could never be spent; and each individual of the family had separate plans of extravagance, for which they required separate supplies. Old Bettesworth, in his youth, had seen a house of Squire Somebody, which had struck his imagination, and he resolved he would build just such another. This was his favourite scheme, and he was delighted with the thoughts that it would be realized. His wife and his sons opposed the plan, merely because it was his; and consequently he became more obstinately bent upon having his own way, as he said, for once in his life. He was totally ignorant of building; and no less incapable, from his habitual indolence, of managing workmen: the house might have been finished for one thousand five hundred pounds; it cost him two thousand pounds: and when it was done, the roof let in the rain in sundry places, the new ceilings and cornices were damaged, so that repairs and a new roof, with leaden gutters, and leaden statues, cost him some additional hundreds. The furnishing of the house Mrs. Bettesworth took upon herself; and Sally took upon herself to find fault with every article that her mother bought. The quarrels were loud, bitter, and at last irreconcilable. There was a looking-glass which the mother wanted to have in one room, and the daughter insisted upon putting it into another: the looking-glass was broken between them in the heat of battle. The blame was laid on Sally, who, in a rage, declared she would not and could not live in the house with her mother. Her mother was rejoiced to get rid of her, and she went to live with a lieutenant’s lady in the neighbourhood, with whom she had been acquainted three weeks and two days. Half by scolding, half by cajoling her father, she prevailed upon him to give her two thousand pounds for her fortune; promising never to trouble him any more for any thing.
As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Bettesworth gave a house-warming, as she called it, to all her acquaintance; a dinner, a ball, and a supper, in her new house. The house was not half dry, and all the company caught cold. Mrs. Bettesworth’s cold was the most severe. It happened at this time to be the fashion to go almost without clothes; and as this lady was extremely vain and fond of dress, she would absolutely appear in the height of fashion. The Sunday after her ball, whilst she had still the remains of a bad cold, she positively would go to church, equipped in one petticoat, and a thin muslin gown, that she might look as young as her daughter Jessy. Every body laughed, and Jessy laughed more than any one else; but, in the end, it was no laughing matter; Mrs. Bettesworth “caught her death of cold.” She was confined to her bed on Monday, and was buried the next Sunday.
Jessy, who had a great notion that she should marry a lord, if she could but once get into company with one, went to live with blind Mrs. Cheviott; where, according to her mother’s instructions, “she laid herself out for goodness.” She also took two thousand pounds with her, upon her promise never to trouble her father more. Her brothers perceived how much was to be gained by tormenting a father, who gave from weakness, and not from a sense of justice, or a feeling of kindness; and they soon rendered themselves so troublesome that he was obliged to buy off their reproaches. Idle Isaac was a sportsman, and would needs have a pack of hounds: they cost him two hundred a year. Then he would have race-horses; and by them he soon lost some thousands. He was arrested for the money, and his father was forced to pay it.
Bob and Will soon afterwards began to think, “it was very hard that so much was to be done for Isaac, and nothing for them!”
Wild Will kept a mistress; and Bullying Bob was a cock-fighter: their demands for money were frequent and unconscionable; and their continual plea was, “Why, Isaac lost a thousand by his race-horses, and why should not we have our share?”
The mistress and the cockpit had their share; and the poor old father, at last, had only one thousand left. He told his sons this, with tears in his eyes: “I shall die in a jail, after all!” said he. They listened not to what he said, for they were intent upon the bank-notes of this last thousand, which were spread upon the table before him. Will, half in jest, half in earnest, snatched up a parcel of the notes; and Bob insisted on dividing the treasure. Will fled out of the house; Bob pursued him, and they fought at the end of their own avenue.
This was on the day that Frankland and his family were returning from poor George’s funeral, and saw the battle betwixt the brothers. They were shamed into a temporary reconciliation, and soon afterwards united against their father, whom they represented to all the neighbours as the most cruel and the most avaricious of men, because he would not part with the very means of subsistence to supply their profligacy.
Whilst their minds were in this state, Will happened to become acquainted with a set of smugglers, whose disorderly life struck his fancy. He persuaded his brothers to leave home with him, and to list in the service of Admiral Tipsey. Their manners then became more brutal; and they thought, felt, and lived like men of desperate fortunes. The consequence we have seen. In a quarrel about a keg of brandy, at an alehouse, their passions got the better of them, and, on entering their boat, they committed the offence for which they were now imprisoned.
Mr. Barlow was the attorney to whom they applied, and they endeavoured to engage him to manage their cause on their trial; but he absolutely refused. From the moment he heard from James that Will and Bob Bettesworth were the persons who set fire to Frankland’s hay-stack, he urged Frank to prosecute them for this crime. “When you only suspected them, my dear Frank, I strongly dissuaded you from going to law: but now you cannot fail to succeed, and you will recover ample damages.”
“That is impossible, my dear sir,” replied Frank; “for the Bettesworths, I understand, are ruined.”
“I am sorry for that, on your account; but I still think you ought to carry on this prosecution, for the sake of public justice. Such pests of society should not go unpunished.”
“They will probably be punished sufficiently for this unfortunate assault, for which they are now to stand their trial. I cannot, in their distress, revenge either my own or my father’s wrongs. I am sure he would be sorry if I did; for I have often and often heard him say, ‘Never trample upon the fallen.’”
“You are a good, generous young man,” cried Mr. Barlow, “and no wonder you love the father who inspired you with such sentiments, and taught you such principles. But what a shame it is that such a father should be in an almshouse! You say he will not consent to be dependent upon any one; and that he will not accept of relief from any but his own children. This is pride; but it is an honourable species of pride; fit for an English yeoman. I cannot blame it. But, my dear Frank, tell your father he must accept of your friend’s credit, as well as of yours. Your credit with me is such, that you may draw upon me for five hundred pounds whenever you please. No thanks, my boy. Half the money I owe you for your services as my clerk; and the other half is well secured to me, by the certainty of your future diligence and success in business. You will be able to pay me in a year or two; so I put you under no obligation, remember. I will take your bond for half the money, if that will satisfy you and your proud father.”
The manner in which this favour was conferred touched Frank to the heart. He had a heart which could be strongly moved by kindness. He was beginning to express his gratitude, when Mr. Barlow interrupted him with, “Come, come! Why do we waste our time here, talking sentiment, when we ought to be writing law? Here is work to be done, which requires some expedition: a marriage settlement to be drawn. Guess for whom.”
Frank guessed all the probable matches amongst his Monmouth acquaintance; but he was rather surprised when told that the bridegroom was to be young Mr. Folingsby; as it was scarcely two months since this gentleman was in love with Fanny Frankland. Frank proceeded to draw the settlement.
Whilst he and Mr. Barlow were writing, they were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Josiah Crumpe. He came to announce Mrs. Crumpe’s death, and to request Mr. Barlow’s attendance at the opening of her will. This poor lady had lingered out many months longer than it was thought she could possibly live; and during all her sufferings, Patty, with indefatigable goodness and temper, bore with the caprice and peevishness of disease. Those who thought she acted merely from interested motives expected to find she had used her power over her mistress’s mind entirely for her own advantage: they were certain a great part of the fortune would be left to her. Mrs. Crumpe’s relations were so persuaded of this, that, when they were assembled to hear her will read by Mr. Barlow, they began to say to one another in whispers, “We’ll set the will aside; we’ll bring her into the courts: Mrs. Crumpe was not in her right senses when she made this will: she had received two paralytic strokes; we can prove that: we can set aside the will.”
Mr. Josiah Crumpe was not one of these whisperers; he set apart from them, leaning on his oaken stick in silence.
Mr. Barlow broke the seals of the will, opened it, and read it to the eager company. They were much astonished when they found that the whole fortune was left to Mr. Josiah Crumpe. The reason for this bequest was given in these words:
“Mr. Josiah Crumpe, being the only one of my relations who did not torment me for my money, even upon my death-bed, I trust that he will provide suitably for that excellent girl, Patty Frankland. On this head he knows my wishes. By her own desire, I have not myself left her any thing; I have only bequeathed fifty pounds for the use of her father.”
Mr. Josiah Crumpe was the only person who heard unmoved the bequest that was made to him; the rest of the relations were clamorous in their reproaches, or hypocritical in their congratulations. All thoughts of setting aside the will were, however, abandoned; every legal form had been observed, and with a technical nicety that precluded all hopes of successful litigation.
Mr. Crumpe arose, as soon as the tumult of disappointment had somewhat subsided, and counted with his oaken stick the numbers that were present. “Here are ten of you, I think. Well! you, every soul of you, hate me; but that is nothing to the purpose. I shall keep up to the notion I have of the character of a true British merchant, for my own sake—not for yours. I don’t want this woman’s money; I have enough of my own, and of my own honest making, without legacy hunting. Why did you torment the dying woman? You would have been better off, if you had behaved better; but that’s over now. A thousand pounds a-piece you shall have from me, deducting fifty pounds, which you must each of you give to that excellent girl, Patty Frankland. I am sure you must be all sensible of your injustice to her.”
Fully aware that it was their interest to oblige Mr. Crumpe, they now vied with each other in doing justice to Patty. Some even declared they had never had any suspicions of her; and others laid the blame on the false representations and information which they said they had had from the mischief-making Mrs. Martha. They very willingly accepted of a thousand pounds a-piece; and the fifty pounds deduction was paid as a tax by each to Patty’s merit.
Mistress now of five hundred pounds, she exclaimed, “Oh! my dear father! You shall no longer live in an almshouse! To-morrow will be the happiest day of my life! I don’t know how to thank you as I ought, sir,” continued she, turning to her benefactor.
“You have thanked me as you ought, and as I like best,” said this plain-spoken merchant, “and now let us say no more about it.”
In obedience to Mr. Crumpe’s commands, Patty said no more to him; but she was impatient to tell her brother Frank, and her lover, Mr. Mason, of her good fortune: she therefore returned to Monmouth with Mr. Barlow, in hopes of seeing them immediately; but Frank was not at work at the marriage settlement. Soon after Mr. Barlow left him, he was summoned to attend the trial of the Bettesworths.
These unfortunate young men, depending on Frank’s good nature, well knowing he had refused to prosecute them for setting fire to his father’s hay-rick, thought they might venture to call upon him to give them a good character. “Consider, dear Frank,” said Will Bettesworth, “a good word from one of your character might do a great deal for us. You were so many years our neighbour. If you would only just say that we were never counted wild, idle, quarrelsome fellows, to your knowledge. Will you?”
“How can I do that?” said Frank: “or how could I be believed, if I did, when it is so well known in the country—forgive me; at such a time as this I cannot mean to taunt you: but it is well known in the country that you were called Wild Will, Bullying Bob, and Idle Isaac.”
“There’s the rub!” said the attorney who was employed for the Bettesworths. “This will come out in open court; and the judge and jury will think a great deal of it.”
“Oh! Mr. Frank, Mr. Frank,” cried old Bettesworth, “have pity upon us! Speak in favour of these boys of mine! Think what a disgrace it is to me in my old age, to have my sons brought this way to a public trial! And if they should be transported! Oh! Mr. Frank, say what you can for them! You were always a good young man, and a good-natured young man.”
Frank was moved by the entreaties and tears of the unhappy father; but his good-nature could not make him consent to say what he knew to be false. “Do not call me to speak to their characters upon this trial,” said he; “I cannot say any thing that would serve them: I shall do them more harm than good.”
Still they had hopes his good-nature would, at the last moment, prevail over his sense of justice, and they summoned him.
“Well, sir,” said Bettesworths’ counsel, “you appear in favour of the prisoners. You have known them, I understand, from their childhood; and your own character is such that whatever you say in their favour will doubtless make a weighty impression upon the jury.”
The court was silent in expectation of what Frank should say. He was so much embarrassed betwixt his wish to serve his old neighbours and playfellows, and his dread of saying what he knew to be false, that he could not utter a syllable. He burst into tears. {Footnote: This is drawn from real life.}
“This evidence is most strongly against the prisoners,” whispered a juryman to his fellows.
The verdict was brought in at last—Guilty!—Sentence—transportation.
As the judge was pronouncing this sentence, old Bettesworth was carried out of the court: he had dropped senseless. Ill as his sons had behaved to him, he could not sustain the sight of their utter disgrace and ruin.
When he recovered his senses, he found himself sitting on the stone bench before the court-house, supported by Frank. Many of the town’s-people had gathered round; but regardless of every thing but his own feelings, the wretched father exclaimed, in a voice of despair, “I have no children left me in my old age! My sons are gone! And where are my daughters? At such a time as this, why are not they near their poor old father? Have they no touch of natural affection in them? No! they have none. And why should they have any for me? I took no care of them when they were young; no wonder they take none of me now I am old. Ay! Neighbour Frankland was right: he brought up his children ‘in the way they should go.’ Now he has the credit and the comfort of them; and see what mine are come to! They bring their father’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave!”
The old man wept bitterly: then looking round him, he again asked for his daughters. “Surely they are in the town, and it cannot be much trouble to them to come to me! Even these strangers, who have never seen me before, pity me. But my own have no feeling; no, not for one another! Do these girls know the sentence that has been passed upon their brothers! Where are they? Where are they? Jessy, at least, might be near me at such a time as this! I was always an indulgent father to Jessy.”
There were people present who knew what was become of Jessy; but they would not tell the news to her father at this terrible moment. Two of Mrs. Cheviott’s servants were in the crowd; and one of them whispered to Frank, “You had best, sir, prevail on this poor old man to go to his home, and not to ask for his daughter: he will hear the bad news soon enough.”
Frank persuaded the father to go home to his lodgings, and did every thing in his power to comfort him. But, alas! the old man said, too truly, “There is no happiness left for me in this world! What a curse it is to have bad children! My children have broken my heart! And it is all my own fault: I took no care of them when they were young; and they take no care of me now I am old. But, tell me, have you found out what is become of my daughter?”
Frank evaded the question, and begged the old man to rest in peace this night. He seemed quite exhausted by grief, and at last sunk into a sort of stupefaction: it could hardly be called sleep. Frank was obliged to return home, to proceed with his business for Mr. Barlow; and he was glad to escape from the sight of misery, which, however he might pity, he could not relieve.
It was happy indeed for Frank that he had taken his father’s advice, and had early broken off all connexion with Jilting Jessy. After duping others, she at length had become a greater dupe. She had this morning gone off with a common serjeant, with whom she had fallen suddenly and desperately in love. He cared for nothing but her two thousand pounds; and, to complete her misfortune, was a man of bad character, whose extravagance and profligacy had reduced him to the sad alternative of either marrying for money, or going to jail.
As for Sally, she was at this instant far from all thoughts either of her father or her brothers; she was in the heat of a scolding match, which terminated rather unfortunately for her matrimonial schemes. Ensign Bloomington had reproached her with having forced him into his aunt’s room, when she had absolutely refused to see him, and thus being the cause of his losing a handsome legacy. Irritated by this charge, the lady replied in no very gentle terms. Words ran high; and so high at last, that the gentleman finished by swearing that he would sooner marry the devil than such a vixen!
The match was thus broken off, to the great amusement of all Saucy Sally’s acquaintance. Her ill-humour had made her hated by all the neighbours; so that her disappointment at the loss of the ensign was embittered by their malicious raillery, and by the prophecy which she heard more than whispered from all sides, that she would never have another admirer, either for “love or money.”
Ensign Bloomington was deaf to all overtures of peace: he was rejoiced to escape from this virago; and, as we presume that none of our readers are much interested in her fate, we shall leave her to wear the willow, without following her history farther.
Let us return to Mr. Barlow, whom we left looking over Mr. Folingsby’s marriage settlements. When he had seen that they were rightly drawn, he sent Frank with them to Folingsby-hall.
Mr. Folingsby was alone when Frank arrived. “Sit down, if you please, sir,” said he. “Though I have never had the pleasure of seeing you before, your name is well known to me. You are a brother of Fanny Frankland’s. She is a charming and excellent young woman! You have reason to be proud of your sister, and I have reason to be obliged to her.”
He then adverted to what had formerly passed between them at Mrs. Hungerford’s; and concluded by saying it would give him real satisfaction to do any service to him or his family. “Speak, and tell me what I can do for you.”
Frank looked down, and was silent; for he thought Mr. Folingsby must recollect the injustice that he, or his agent, had shown in turning old Frankland out of his farm. He was too proud to ask favours, where he felt he had a claim to justice.
In fact, Mr. Folingsby had, as he said, “left every thing to his agent;” and so little did he know either of the affairs of his tenants, their persons, or even their names, that he had not at this moment the slightest idea that Frank was the son of one of the oldest and the best of them. He did not know that old Frankland had been reduced to take refuge in an almshouse, in consequence of his agent’s injustice. Surprised by Frank’s cold silence, he questioned him more closely, and it was with astonishment and shame that he heard the truth.
“Good heavens!” cried he, “has my negligence been the cause of all this misery to your father—to the father of Fanny Frankland? I remember, now that you recall it to my mind, something of an old man, with fine grey hair, coming to speak to me about some business, just as I was setting off for Ascot races. Was that your father? I recollect I told him I was in a great hurry; and that Mr. Deal, my agent, would certainly do him justice. In this I was grossly mistaken; and I have suffered severely for the confidence I had in that fellow. Thank God, I shall now have my affairs in my own hands. I am determined to look into them immediately. My head is no longer full of horses, and gigs, and curricles. There is a time for every thing: my giddy days are over. I only wish that my thoughtlessness had never hurt any one but myself.
“All I now can do,” continued Mr. Folingsby, “is to make amends, as fast as possible, for the past. To begin with your father: most fortunately, I have the means in my power. His farm is come back into my hands; and it shall, to-morrow, be restored to him. Old Bettesworth was with me scarcely an hour ago, to surrender the farm, on which there is a prodigious arrear of rent; but I understand that he has built a good house on the farm; and I am extremely glad of it, for your father’s sake. Tell him it shall be his. Tell him I am ready, I am eager, to put him in possession of it; and to repair the injustice I have done, or which, at least, I have permitted to be done, in my name.”
Frank was so overjoyed that he could scarcely utter one word of thanks. In his way home he called at Mrs. Hungerford’s, to tell the good news to his sister Fanny. This was the eve of their father’s birthday; and they agreed to meet at the almshouse in the morning.
The happy morning came. Old Frankland was busy in his little garden, when he heard the voices of his children, who were coming towards him. “Fanny! Patty! James! Frank! Welcome, my children! Welcome! I knew you would be so kind as to come to see your old father on this day; so I was picking some of my currants for you, to make you as welcome as I can. But I wonder you are not ashamed to come to see me in an almshouse. Such gay lads and lasses! I well know I have reason to be proud of you all. Why, I think, I never saw you, one and all, look so well in my whole life!”
“Perhaps, father,” said Frank, “because you never saw us, one and all, so happy! Will you sit down, dear father, here in your arbour; and we will all sit upon the grass, at your feet, and each tell you stories, and all the good news.”
“My children,” said he, “do what you will with me! It makes my old heart swim with joy to see you all again around me looking so happy.”
The father sat down in his arbour, and his children placed themselves at his feet. First his daughter Patty spoke; and then Fanny; then James; and at last Frank. When they had all told their little histories, they offered to their father in one purse their common riches: the rewards of their own good conduct.
“My beloved children!” said Frankland, overpowered with his tears, “this is too much joy for me! this is the happiest moment of my life! None but the father of such children can know what I feel! Your success in the world delights me ten times the more, because I know it is all owing to yourselves.”
“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.
The happy father lived many years to enjoy the increasing prosperity of his family. {Footnote: It may be necessary to inform some readers, that Patty and Fanny were soon united to their lovers; that James, with Mr. Cleghorn’s consent, married Miss Cleghorn; and that Frank did not become an old bachelor: he married an amiable girl, who was ten times prettier than Jilting Jessy, and of whom he was twenty times as fond. Those who wish to know the history of all the wedding-clothes of the parties may have their curiosity gratified by directing a line of inquiry, post-paid, to the editor hereof.}
May every good father have as grateful children!
May, 1801.