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 BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
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FANNY 
 
 a:HB 
 
 LITTLE MILLINEE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES |ROWCROFT, Esq. 
 
 AUTHOR OP " TALES OF THE COLONIES, OR THE ADVENTURES OF AN EMIGRANT;" 
 "the triumph OF WOMAN," &C. &C. &C. 
 
 mit^ lElIustrations h) 3^V^* 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 GEO. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET. 
 
 1853. 
 

 LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 The Begging Letter Frontispiece. 
 
 The White Woman's Pit to face page 23 
 
 LOKD SaRITM seized by the TiABOTJEERS 
 
 37 
 
 The Revelation • 
 
 
 6» 
 
 Lady Sarum's Message to 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 84 
 
 The Discovery 
 
 
 106 
 
 Conscience 
 
 
 124 
 
 The Recognition 
 
 
 160 
 
 Hunt of the Exquisite 
 
 
 184 
 
 The Wrongs of Labour 
 
 • ««.«• J 
 
 201 
 
 r •' 
 
 690 
 
MNNT, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 /'OR, 
 
 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE RICH man's TABLE — AFTER-DINNER TALK — ARISTOCRATIC NOTIONS OF MARRIAGE 
 — AN EMBARRASSMENT— THE BEGGING LETTER — A FEW WORDS ON CHARITY— A 
 REVELATION. 
 
 In a princely mansion in one of the most aristocratic parts of London, 
 about twenty years ago, two nobleman negligently reclined in easy 
 chairs. 
 
 It was at that horn: when a man is apt to be in good humom* with all 
 the world, and to wonder that any one can be dissatisfied with the lot of 
 man's estate in this sublunary sphere. In short, it was after dinner ; and 
 the two distinguished individuals were pleasantly engaged in discussing 
 their wine. 
 
 It has been observed by a great writer, that the characteristic dis- 
 tinctions of the two parties which divide the political world are those, on 
 the one side, w^ho have everything to gain, and those, on the other, who 
 have everything to lose. Of the truth of this political axiom, the daily 
 process of dining forms a homely but forcible illustration : a hungry man 
 is a radical before dinner ; after dinner, a conservative. 
 
 AVhether any of these curious ruminations were mentally indulged in 
 by the aristocratic parties in question, it is impossible to say ; but it is 
 certain that the elder of the two felt himself, on this occasion, exceedingly 
 comfortable. Outside, the weather was cold and wretched ; and none but 
 the most miserable objects — those who, without a home, were speculating 
 on the means of finding shelter for the night — were visible in the deserted 
 streets. The wintry wind blew keen and cutting; and the rushing of' 
 mingled sleet and snow, pattering against the windows, made itself heard 
 even through the thick folds of the rich damask curtains, which, hanging 
 down in graceful di-apery at the further end of the room, satisfied the sense 
 of sight, as well as the sense of feoling, that the inmates were efiectually 
 shielded from the slightest draught of the cold aii\ 
 
 B 
 
2 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEU I 
 
 Inside, the aspect of tlie dining-room was particularly clieerful. A 
 lively fire blazed in the ample grate ; wax candles, in splendid candelabras, 
 shed a soft and luxurious light ; priceless pictures, in massive gilt frames, 
 covered the gorgeous walls ; and the choicest wines — helped, not spoiled, 
 by a magnihcent dessert — sparkled in glittering crystal on the highly 
 polished table. 
 
 The mastei* of the mansion felt himself particularly comfortable ; and 
 his placid feelings of after-dinner satisfaction were enhanced by the 
 pleasurable comparison between the miserable state of things outside and 
 the comfortable state within. 
 
 The portly nobleman who was then enjoying himself felt that the world 
 was a very good world ; his digestion was good ; the wine M'as good ; and 
 his spirits were good. His good humour was still further increased by the 
 presence of his only son, the Viscount Sarum, who had recently returned 
 from Vienna, after a lengthened residence abroad, and on whom the hopes 
 and pride of the peer were centred, as the means of continuing his race 
 and titles to succeeding generations. 
 
 " Augustus," said his Lordship, filling his glass, and pushing the bottle 
 to his son, inviting him by a kindly gesture to imitate his example, " we 
 will drink to youi' success." 
 
 His son replaced his uplifted glass, and hesitated. 
 
 "I am aware," continued the peer, " that five-and-twenty is an age 
 too young for a man of rank to fix himself — his future destiny, in a 
 great measure — by a matrimonial alliance ; but your case is an exception." 
 
 The young nobleman looked uneasy. 
 
 "And this is a match, my dear Augustus," added the father, with a look 
 of great kindness towards his son, " that I have set my heart on — yes, I 
 have set my heart on it ; it is in every way so desirable. Lady Eleanor 
 is only nineteen ; she is a beautiful girl — that every one acknowledges ; 
 and she has a distinguished air suitable to her position." 
 
 ■' She was a very beautiful girl, certainly, when I last saw her," said 
 his son. 
 
 " Yes, decidedly, a very beautiful girl," said his father, very much 
 pleased ; " but the lovely little girl is now grown into a more beautiful 
 woman." 
 
 " She promised to be a very fine woman," observed Augustus 
 negligently. 
 
 "Promised! my dear boy!" said his father, a little annoyed at the 
 coldness of his son's manner, but with an expression of pleased self- 
 satisfaction at the Ion mot which was rising for utterance to his lips ; 
 *' and she has kept her promise — ^ha ! ha ! — as you will keep mine, I don't 
 doubt ; for, to tell you the truth, I have committed myself a little, I am 
 afraid, and you too ; but I don't fear the result. We shall have a plea- 
 sant party in the north with Lord St. Austin and the family, and 
 that, perhaps, will be the best time for you to settle it with Lady Eleanor." 
 
 The young nobleman was labouring under visible embarrassment, which 
 could not escape the observation of his parent ; the more so, as his son 
 had, in the most extraordinary manner, neglected to laugh at the 
 excellent bon mot which his noble father had been pleased to make — a 
 neglect unusual and horrid, and which filled the worthy peer with an 
 indefinable feeling of disappointment -and apprehension. 
 
OB, THE EICH AND THE POOR. [3 
 
 " I hope," said his son, after a pause, speaking slowly and reluctantly, 
 " that you have not said anything to commit me to this un-un-un-expected 
 proposal — that is, proposition of marriage ? I " 
 
 *' Unexpected !" interrupted his father, with some appearance of 
 surprise and displeasure ; but quickly checking it, and resuming his quiet 
 manner of bland composure, — " unexpected ! Augustus, you can hardly say 
 that. Were not you and Eleanor play-fellows together, and did you not 
 always call her your little wife ? And is she not an only daughter, as you 
 are an only son ? — and the principal part of her family estates is unen- 
 tailed — ever}i;hing desirable. Her father, too, is one of my oldest friends, 
 and we have agreed on the matter ourselves, only waiting for you 
 publicly to declare yourself in th^ proper form. Everything smooth and 
 straight. Why, it is a sort of natural alliance between the two families, 
 which it becomes a duty to carry into effect. Besides, the marriage joins 
 the two estates ! Come, Augustus, say the word, and the thing is done. 
 Marriage, after all, is not so bad. I've kno\\Ti many — no, not many — 
 but I may say some — that is, more than one man-iage, in which the parties 
 have passed their lives together very happily. It's all use and habit ; a 
 man become used to anything. And when he is once married, why, he 
 becomes resigned, and submits to it as a duty incidental to his position 
 and rank in society. I was married young myself." (Here the worthy 
 peer sighed, and assumed a sentimental look.) 
 
 Plis son could not help smiling. 
 
 " Just so ; that's the way to take it — ^cheerfully and with a good grace. 
 And, besides, there's something respectable in being a married man. It is 
 surprising with what authority it invests a man on certain occasions. 
 There's old Lord Multiple ; it's wonderful what an eifect he produces on 
 the House when he appeals to them as the father of a family. And he 
 looks so virtuous, and assumes such an air of merit, that it quite imposes 
 on people : nothing more effectual at a public meeting. It shows that 
 though he is a lord — one of the order which the people are crying out so 
 much against — that he has done something. Come, my boy, let us say 
 that it is settled, and I will see Lady Eleanor's father to-morrow, if you 
 don't like to speak first. Upon my word, she is a fine creatm-e — a very 
 fine creature ! Only nineteen ! Good temper — (that's a great point) — 
 family property must aU come to her — and the estates join ! " 
 
 " Really," replied his son, in a tone unaccountably cold and hesitating, 
 to this glowing enumeration of the lady's qualifications, "I am surprised 
 that Lady Eleanor, with her beauty and accomplishments, and especially 
 with her money, has not got married already. She must have many 
 admirers." 
 
 " Plenty, my dear boy, plenty — shoals ! AU the men are mad for her 
 —or her money, w^hich is the same thing. But she has waited for you, 
 my boy — waited for you. Such an instance of devoted constancy was 
 never before known in woman. I remember when the story came over of 
 your saving that poor woman's life at Naples ; how you jumped into the 
 sea, and brought her out safe. It was thought very spirited — very. We 
 all felt quite proud of you in London ; only we thought that you might 
 catch cold. It was just what I should have done myself, if I could swim. 
 Why,- you would have been made quite a lion of if you had been in town 
 that season! And the poor little girl praised you more tlian you can 
 B 2 
 
4 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 imagine. It is nearly throe years ago now, and she was but a yoim^ 
 little thing ; but she has not forgotten it, I can tell you. What became of 
 the poor woman afterwards ? Was she old or young ?" 
 
 His son made no other reply to this seemingly insignificant question, 
 than by a hasty movement, as if something had touched him to the quick. 
 Filling his glass with a motion which caused the wine to overflow upon 
 the table, he swallowed the bumper at a draught. 
 
 *' Excuse me," observed the dignified nobleman, in a polite tone of 
 gentle expostulation ; " but if you drink your wine that way, Augustus, it 
 is impossible for you to taste it. I must say I don't admire that con- 
 tinental fashion, if it is one. This very wine which you are drinking, was 
 laid down before you were born, by your excellent grandfather, tft whom 
 we are all so much indebted for his improvements and additions to the 
 family estate. I assure you I never drink it without a certain respect in 
 honour of your grandfather's memory, and of the property in the north, which 
 he secured to us. I thought you would like a glass of real good English port, 
 as a change after your foreign wines. I assure you it is only on par- 
 ticular occasions that Martin allows me a bottle of it ; for it is getting 
 very low in the bin, he tells me." 
 
 " I beg the old butler a great many pardons," said his son, refilling his 
 glass to the brim, and proceeding to dispose of it with more epicurean 
 deliberation ; " and I drink this to the memory of my excellent grandfather, 
 and vdth especial deference to his taste in all matters culinary and gus- 
 tatory. And to evince my sympathy wdth his predilections, I will fill my 
 glass again, and drink to the health of — of " 
 
 " Of Lady Eleanor ! " said his father. 
 
 His son set down his glass with an abruptness' which scattered the 
 fragrant contents over the adjacent dishes of dessert. 
 
 "The deuce take the wine !" he said, stammering and in confusion; 
 " I wish there was some brandy." 
 
 His noble parent stood aghast ! That his elegant and exclusive son — 
 he, who had been the pride and the envy of the fashionable world — should 
 so far forget himself, as, in the same breath, to scatter abroad his 
 venerable grandfather's most cherished wine ; manifest an indifference, so 
 unaccountable, for Lady Eleanor, and express a wish, so vulgar, and at 
 such a moment, for brandy ! was utterly beyond his lordship's com- 
 prehension. Notwithstanding his pleasure at seeing him, after his long 
 absence from England, he was about to express to his son, in the politest 
 possible manner, his surprise and displeasure at such an unseemly 
 forgetfulness of polite habits in general, and of the respect due to 
 himself in particular, when the entrance of a servant with a letter turned 
 the expression of his aristocratic \^'Tath in another direction. 
 
 The servant, in a splendid livery, noiselessly approached. Seeing at a 
 glance, that his noble master's mind was troubled, his looks assumed an 
 increased expression of humility and deference, as he stood with the letter 
 so opportune for the diversion of the son's embarrassment, on a silver 
 salver. 
 
 " A letter, my lord." 
 
 " I see. How did it come ?— not by the post ; there is no post at this 
 hour. What's o'clock ? " 
 
 " Half-past ten, my lord." , . ■> 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOR. 5 
 
 " Who does it come from ? " 
 
 The servant was silent, and looked at the letter, thinking, perhaps, that 
 the shortest way of ascertaining that fact was to open it. 
 
 " It came by hand, my lord." 
 
 The earl examined it — at a safe distance — cm-iously, through his 
 glasses. 
 
 The epistle certainly had a most unaristocratic air. It was evident, 
 from a brief glance at its siurface, that it w^as written on common paper, 
 not of the most cleanly hue : its shape was by no means of the prescribed 
 elegant proportions ; and it was crumpled np, as if it had been grasped 
 unceremoniously by an inattentive hand. The superscription, too, 
 was blotted and illegible. AltogeJ/her, it was a very suspicious letter. 
 
 " Who does this come from r" said the earl, tartly, casting a glance at 
 the man which caused him to shift back his leg one step, still holding the. 
 salver, with outstretched arm, in the same position. , 
 
 " I believe, my lord, a poor woman brought it." 
 
 " A poor woman !" The earl tilted the letter over with the end of 
 his glasses (carefully wiping them immediately after,) and turned the 
 unsightly paper on its back. 
 
 A huge red wafer — its presence glaringly disclosed by the imperfect 
 envelopment of the narrow edge of a rumpled fold, and manifestly wet, as 
 if recently submitted to the moisture of the mouth — met his indignant 
 gaze ! His eye fell full and angrily on the abashed menial — 
 
 " Why !" said his lordship, pointing with his glasses to the contraband 
 article, " this must be a petition !" 
 
 The calves of the servant's legs were visibly agitated, and his trembling 
 hand caused the condemned epistle to perform sundry saltations on the 
 polished salver. 
 
 " This," repeated his lordship, raising his voice into a still more angry 
 tone, — " this must be a petition ! How is it that, after the positive orders 
 which I have given not to admit such things, that I am troubled with this 
 intrusion ? and at such a time, too ! This disrespect is monstrous !" 
 
 The servant looked at the letter fiercely, and at his master deprecatingly, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 By a motion of his hand, the peer intimated to the attendant that he 
 might leave the room. 
 
 Placing the salver, on which was deposited the unfortunate letter, 
 delicately, on a small round table at his m^aster's elbow, the man with a 
 submissive air, retired. 
 
 His lordship, shrinkingly handling the suspicious epistle, thi'ough the 
 medium of a napkin, subjected it to the light of the lustre on the chimney- 
 piece, with its outer side towards his son. Reading aloud the words at 
 the commencement — " I earnestly entreat," — he threw it down pettishly. 
 
 " It is most extraordinaiy," he exclaimed, glad to find an object on 
 which his anger could find a legitimate vent, — " it is most extraordinary 
 how we are beset with these eternal begging letters ! Keally, the common 
 people seem to think we are literally made of money, and that we have 
 nothing to do but to put oui* hands in our pockets and shower it doAvn on 
 whoever asks for it. These begging letters have grown quite into a 
 system ; and the tax on one's time, and one's feelings, and one's money, is 
 become a grievance that is intolerable ! Something must be done in 
 
6' FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER I 
 
 Parliament to remedy this horrible nuisance, or we shall' not be able to 
 live in our o^Yn houses, or even sit at dinner in quiet." 
 
 "It is, indeed, very annoying," replied his son, with ready assent, and 
 glad to turn his father's thoughts into a different channel from the 
 awkward subject which had recently embarrassed him; "but what are 
 the poor people to do ? — it is natural, in their distress, that they should 
 look for relief to those who have the power to assist them." 
 
 " Augustus !" said his lordship, with much gravity, and imconsciously 
 assuming the tone and attitude with which he was wont to enlighten the 
 House of Lords on appropriate occasions, — " this is a subject to which I 
 have paid particular attention ; I may say, very particular attention. It 
 is a subject which I have investigated thoroughly ; and I may be permitted 
 to hope that the few observations in which I shall take the opportunity to 
 indulge may not be unworthy of your lordships' — I mean, Augustus, may 
 be useful to you ; for, of course, it cannot be expected, at yoiu: time of 
 life, that you have had the leisure to jiay it the necessary attention." 
 
 Augustus was delighted to see his father mount his hobby-horse in this 
 style, and he threw into his look all the respectful deference which the 
 occasion demanded, and remained in an attitude of fixed attention. 
 
 "I am aware, sir," he said, "that you have devoted much time and 
 labour to the consideration of the condition of the poor, and that there is 
 no member of either House who could pretend to compete with you in 
 your information on that important subject'." 
 
 " That is too much to say, Augustus," returned the peer, not displeased, 
 however, to receive this tribute to his social and senatorial wisdom — 
 " that is too much to say ; though I may be permitted to hazard the 
 opinion, that no one in the House is listened to with more attention than 
 myself on these subjects ; and, indeed, I may take it on myself to aver 
 that my arguments have made so deep an impression, and have so entirely 
 convinced — or at least silenced my oi3ponents — that their lordships usually 
 pay me the compliment to intimate that it is unnecessary for me to 
 reiterate my statements, inasmuch as they have heard sufficient from me 
 already, to spare me the trouble of addressing them at any length for the 
 future ; a feeling on the part of the House which cannot fail, Augustus, to 
 be particularly gratifying to your father's feelings." 
 
 Augustus did not know exactly what reply to make to this complacent 
 self-satisfaction of his worthy parent ; and his countenance assumed a 
 dubious expression. 
 
 " I fear," said the peer, "that you don't quite go with me on this point; 
 but you are young, and have not yet got rid of your romance, and 
 generosity, and all that ; but it is nothing but yom* inexperience that 
 misleads you. I view this question as a gi'eat statistical question. 
 It is a question of figures and calculation, not a question of feeling; 
 it is precisely one in which your feelings would lead you wrong. 
 Now, I divest myself of all feeling, and regard the subject as one 
 of statistical calculation, and of certain mathematical deductions." 
 
 " If I might be permitted to express my own opinion," said his son, 
 slightly moved, " I should view it as a question of humanity. One cannot 
 subject the passions and the feelings — and more — the weakness and the 
 errors of mankind, to arithmetical calculations. You cannot deal with 
 breathing, living, xnoving men, as you can with figures. The human 
 
OE, THE KICH AlfD THE POOR. ^ 
 
 heart does not act from mathematical demonstrations, but from 
 impulse." 
 
 "My dear Augustus!" rejoined the peer, turning round his chair so as 
 better to face his son, and clearing a space on the table so as to have 
 more room for the exercise of his oratory, " you are wrong, quite vtrong. 
 Impulse! That impulse, as you call it, always leads to mischief. The 
 impulse of the poor is to have my estates and my property, and to be on 
 tlie same footing with us who are their superiors ; this is the very thing 
 that we must keep down. The lot of the great bulk of mankind," con- 
 tinued his lordship, with much pomposity, " is to earn their bread by the 
 sweat of their brow ; and anything that tends to put the conviction of that ' 
 necessity out of their heads, is mi/ichievous. There are two great distinc- ! 
 tions in society — the Rich and the Poor ; nature has so ordained it ; it ' 
 has always been so, and must always be so. It is the part, therefore, of 
 a wise statesman, to repress with a firm hand all attempts on the part of 
 the labouring classes to be other than what they are ; to keep them in 
 their place, and not to encourage in them false notions about their ' rights,' 
 as they term them, and the 'natural equality of man,' and all that 
 nonsense. Don't talk to me about impulse ! Teach the poor to act on 
 system ; make them industrious ; make them acquire provident habits ; 
 and let them receive religious instruction to render them obedient to the 
 laws, respectful to their superiors, and content with their condition." 
 
 " I quite agree," said his son, " that we ought to provide for the poor 
 the means of education, so as to elevate them above the condition of the 
 brutes of the field, which merely eat and sleep." 
 
 " Education ! Education !" exclaimed the peer, contemptuously ; " yes, 
 if it is the right education — the education which makes them content with 
 their condition, and submissive to their superiors in station ; but not the 
 education which teaches them to read the newspapers, and get crammed 
 with all the abominable notions with which the lower classes are stirred up 
 • — the ' KiGHTS OF THE POOR,' and the ' RIGHTS OF LABOUR,' and all 
 that stuff! The rights of the poor! What do they mean by the rights of 
 the poor? If I employ you, very well ; what right have you to compel 
 me to employ you, or to make me support you if I don't ? The thing is 
 absurd !" 
 
 " That argument," observed the young nobleman, " may seem phi- 
 losophic, but it seems to me that the heart and the feelings reject it. 
 When labom' fails to support the labouring man, charity must step in to 
 his aid." ^ ; 
 
 "Pooh! All these sentimental words about the human heart and the 
 feelings, and all that, only mislead and distract the attention from the 
 essential point — the great statistical question of the management of the 
 poor. There is nothing more pernicious to the poor themselves than the 
 relief of their wants by public and private charitable institutions, and 
 indeed, by all private charity in general. It only makes them improvident, 
 and habituates them to depend more on casual bounties than on their 
 own exertions. For this reason, the poor laws have proved the most 
 destructive evil for the poor themselves. See wliat they have brought the 
 country to ; the poor are actually eating us out of our estates !" 
 
 " Surely," observed his son, desirous of provoking his father to con- 
 tinue the discussion, so as to prevent a recurrence to the embarrassing 
 
FANNY, THE LTTTLE MILLINES: 
 
 subject of his proposed marriage — and not unwilling to give expression to 
 his own sentiments — " surely there is some contradiction in admitting 
 the distresses of the poor, and denying the propriety of relieving them. 
 What is a poor man to do, if he is starving, and with a family of children, 
 perhaps all absolutely wanting food ?" 
 
 " Family of children ! my dear Augustus — positively you almost make 
 me angry. You speak of a family of children as a thing of course ; as a 
 sort of natural accompaniment to the condition of a labourer. What 
 business has he with a family of children ? That's his own fault." 
 
 " But still," persisted the son, " suppose the case of afsxmily of children 
 — what is to be done, if they are starving ?" 
 
 " That is just the cry which deceives people," said the peer, impatiently. 
 "What is a poor man to do, if he is starving? To be sure: what is he 
 to do ? But why is he starving ? From his own fault — his own improvi- 
 dence. You must force him to be provident, so as not to be in danger of 
 starving ; and that he Avill never be, so long as he knows that he has a 
 legal right to demand relief out of your property and mine. The great 
 point is, to give the poor self-reliance and self-dependence ; not to let 
 them trust as a resource against their own improvidence, to public or 
 private charity ; that is, to your savings and mine." 
 
 "But," observed his son, "you would not condemn entirely all public 
 and private charity ? There is high authority " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say ; but you must interpret 
 and apply the Scriptures according to the circumstances of the case. 
 Charity is charity only when properly directed. The Scriptures do not 
 touch the present evil, of the absorbing confiscation of all property to the 
 clamorous exigences of the poor. Of course it is the duty of the upper 
 classes of society to attend to the condition of the poor; but the best 
 mode of benefiting them, is to crush the habit of relying on charity for 
 support, instead of on their own independent exertions ; and this you will 
 never do, while you maintain the present system of the poor laws. 
 The workhouse must be made more distasteful than it is, and the laws 
 more stringent. The poor must be coerced into better habits; and, 
 especially, there must be a rigid abstaining from the reckless private 
 charity in which some, I am sorry to say, are prone to indulge. It is a 
 maxim with me, never to allow myself to fall into the culpable weakness 
 of fostering distress, by giving it the artificial assistance of what is called 
 charity — that is my rule. Relief with me is the exception." 
 
 "And I confess," said his son, "that with me, relief is the rule, and 
 denial the exception. Even supposing the distress to be feigned, which 
 I dare say it often is, I cannot help thinking that it is better to take your 
 chance of doing the good you intend, than, by a too scrupidous exactness, 
 to allow real distress to be unrelieved. That very letter, now, which is 
 lying on the table, may contain a case of sufiering which a little attention, 
 and some slight assistance, might effectually relieve." 
 
 " The petition — ah ! I had forgotten it. Not that it matters ; for I 
 can guess its contents without reading it. They all contain the same tale. 
 Widow, sick-bed, and an astonishing quantity of children, all of a tender 
 age, but nowhere to be found, except on paper ; unless they are hired, 
 which they generally are, for the occasion." 
 
 So saying, he again took up the obnoxious letter, and testily looked at it. 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOB. 9 
 
 "It is addressed, inside, to you, Augustus — "To Lord Sarum." 
 Glancing hastily and unwillingly over the contents, the much-loathed 
 word, DISTRESS, met his eye. With an impatient gesture he cast it from 
 him. The open paper encountering the draught towards the chimney, 
 was drawn to the fire, and kindling imder the grate, became rapidly 
 consumed. 
 
 So perish, and so vainly are penned by trembling and feeble hands, 
 many of the bitter and heart-rending supplications for relief of the really 
 wretched ! And well would it have been for the peace of the noble family 
 of Avhich that peer was the head and chief, if on that occasion he had 
 relaxed from his usual rigidity of system, and bestowed on the application 
 more than a brief glance. But thfe ways of Heaven are inscrutable ; and 
 dearly was that neglect punished in after years by bitter and unavailing 
 sorrow. 
 
 "By-the-by," said his lordship, in a tone of strong displeasiu*e, "I 
 intended to speak about that letter." Binging the bell, which was 
 promptly answered by the footman in waiting — " Tell the porter to come 
 here." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 Now, it must bo observed, that the important and responsible individual 
 who filled the office of porter at the town mansion of the Earl of 
 Grandborough, had assumed his official duties only a fortnight before, his 
 predecessor having died from excessive fat, and a morbid affection of the 
 nerves caused by reading fashionable novels. He was well aware, that in 
 addition to his ordinary duties of returning gracious replies to his master's 
 friends, according to their respective ranks and fortunes, he had been 
 rigidly enjoined to act as the Cerberus of the rich man's mansion, on all 
 occasions of the presentation of doubtful characters — such as presimiptive 
 sailors or soldiers, with suppositious wooden legs; middle-aged women 
 in widows' caps and with cotton umbrellas worn stumpy at the end ; all 
 persons with yellow and sickly-looking foces (unless coming in carriages) ; 
 and, generally, to guard against the insidious attempts of all classes and 
 denominations of the shabby-genteel to gain furtive admittance within the 
 doorway of the rich man's mansion. This task the vigilant Dennis had 
 sedulously executed, although not always without mistakes. On one 
 occasion he had the mishap to deny his master to the Lord Chancellor 
 himself ; and, on another, he flatly refused admittance to a certain high 
 functionary in the House of Lords, so decidedly seedy was the appearance 
 of those personages. But, on the present occasion, his vigilance had 
 been taken by surprise, and his usual presence of mind had, for once, 
 deserted him. The unusual hour of the night ; the bitter bleakness of 
 thoAveather; and the interesting appearance of the "poor woman," had 
 thrown him off his guard; and he had committed the unpardonable 
 indiscretion of admitting, without reference to a superior functionary, that 
 his master was " at home." But the evil was done. 
 
 "You might have been sure it was a begging letter," observed the 
 under-butler, who was standing by ; " did'nt you see the wafer ? When- 
 ever you see a letter with a M-afer, depend upon it there's something wrong 
 about it. No person fastens a letter with a wafer ; it's quite indecent. 
 Do you suppose that my lord likes to have people's spittle sent to him ! 
 It's disgusting ! " 
 
 At that moment the bell was heard to ring with a tremendous crash. 
 
lO FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEH I 
 
 " There's no good in that ring," said Thomas ; " my lord's in a 
 toAvering passion about something. It's all about this letter, I'll swear. 
 Paddy, you'll catch it — that's certain." 
 
 " The porter ? " said his lordship, standing u-«" 
 
 " He is here, my lord, at the door." 
 
 *' Why don't he come in ? " 
 
 This was a question more easily asked than answered : and it is 
 impossible to say how the scene might have ended, if the good-natured 
 young nobleman, guessing the cause of his hesitation, had not gone to the 
 door, and smilingly encouraged the terrified culprit to come in. 
 
 " Pray," said the earl to the unhappy porter, who, after he had shut the 
 door, remained squeezed up in the farthest possible corner, his head 
 projected towards his master, and with his hand on the handle of the door 
 so as to secure the means of rapid retreat, " what did you say to the bearer 
 of that letter ? Of course you did not say that I was at home ? " 
 
 " I couldn't help it, my lord — indeed I couldn't ; it shot out of me quite 
 unawares. But the poor cratur looked so badly, my lord, and the little 
 child that she carried looked so cold and shivery, and she was so like a 
 real lady, that I did say, before I could help it, that your lordship's 
 honom- was at home ; and so she said she would come back presently for 
 an answer." 
 
 "Then the person is coming again?" said his lordship, in a tone of 
 increased anger ; " this is dreadful ! " 
 
 A trembling rat-tat of a peculiar character, betraying in its timid 
 sound the irresolution of the applicant, was at this moment heard at the 
 hall-door. 
 
 " By the powers ! there's her knock again ! " exclaimed the agitated 
 Dennis ; " I know it by the shake ! What am I to say to her? Shall I say 
 that your lordship is gone out ?" 
 
 " Say anything ; but say I'm not at home : — I'm at my house in the 
 country. And don't let me be troubled again in this way." 
 
 " Give her this," said the young nobleman in a whisper, as he followed 
 Dennis to the door, and placed some money in his hand. 
 
 "Augustus," said his father, who had observed his movement, and 
 guessed the object, "you are wrong. Relieving these people is only 
 encom*aging them. This very woman, no doubt, is one of a set ; she will 
 tell all her companions of her success, and I shall be besieged night and 
 day by the whole fraternity for relief. You are literally sowing the seeds 
 of all sorts of immorality among the people. Nothing fosters improvidence 
 and vice more than this sort of mistaken charity ; so that, in fact, you 
 help to perpetuate the evil which you wish to remove. By promoting 
 idleness, you promote crime. For crime," added his lordship, sententi- 
 ously, raising his hand with a little flourish to give additional emphasis to 
 the enunciation of his thesis — and pleased with having hit on an 
 epigrammatical expression which he flattered himself was felicitously 
 descriptive of his meaning, — " crime is tne parent of poverty." 
 
 " Forgive me," replied his son, " if I ventiu-e to say, that in my opinion, 
 poverty is the parent of crime. But on this occasion, certainly, I feel 
 that I have done wrong. I ought to have taken the trouble to inquire 
 into the case myself ; personal interference often does as much good as 
 money. But, with your leave, I will summon Dennis again : perhaps the 
 poor woman gave her address." 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 1| 
 
 " Dennis," he said, on the appearance of the porter, "did the woman 
 tell you her address ?" 
 
 " No, indeed, your lordship ; the likes of them seldom have any address 
 to give, except some garret or hole may be, where your lordship's honour 
 could not condescend to go ; but I told her that neither of your lordships 
 Avas at home ; and to make sure, I told her that your honours were down 
 at your country-sate, and she looked very disappointed. But I don't think 
 she is an English woman at all," added Dennis, " for she speaks like a 
 foreigner, and her eyes and her hair was as black as sloes, and she was 
 dressed in black, and " 
 
 " She had a child in her arms, you said ?" 
 
 " Indeed she had, and a young 'thing she looked to have a child like 
 that ; and she was so thin, it was a sight to see ; but she hugged her 
 child close to her when it cried — mothers are mothers, all the world over 
 — though there was little warmth in her, poor thing, for the matter of 
 that. And what makes me think the more she was a foreigner, she called 
 the child by a foreign name." 
 
 " Really, Augustus," interposed the earl, " of what possible interest 
 can all this be? How can it matter to you what name the woman 
 called her child by r" 
 
 " It was Francis something," said Dennis — " more like a man's name." 
 
 " It M\as what r " eagerly exclaimed the young nobleman, seized with 
 an undefinable presentiment. 
 
 " Francis was the beginning of the name," repeated Dennis, " but it 
 had a tail to it." 
 
 " A tail ! " ejaculated the peer. 
 
 "Where is the letter?" exclaimed the young nobleman, with a 
 wildness that made his father start — " Burnt ? — It is ! No ; here is a 
 fragment remaining." Plunging his hand beneath the grate, he seized on 
 a morsel of blackened paper, and there beheld, in a handwriting which he 
 too well knew, the word " Francesca." Without a moment's hesitation, 
 he rushed to the hall. 
 
 " Which way did she go, Dennis ? " he said, in a voice of repressed 
 agitation ; " how long has she been gone ?" 
 
 " To the left, right away, my lord ; it's not more than a quarter of an 
 hour ago. But it snows hard. Shall I fetch your lordship's cloak ?" 
 
 Lord Augustus made no reply, bu^ catching up the first hat that he saw, 
 darted down the street. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SEARCH — POLICE INFORMATION — THE PURSUIT. 
 
 In the mean time, the hapless lady — for such indeed she was — dis- 
 appointed, wretched, cold, and unknowing where to obtain a lodging for 
 herself and her child dm-ing the night, wandered on her way through the 
 endless streets. At last, faint and weary, she foimd herself oj)posite a 
 coach-office. As it looked like a place of public entertainment, she 
 
12 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: ' 
 
 entered, and sat down in tlic public room. Then she recollected that she 
 held in her hand the money which the young viscount had sent to her in 
 charity. She supposed it was some trifle which the servants of the 
 establishment, in pity of her distress, had kindly given to her. The 
 servants of ins father's house had given to heb money in charity! She 
 shuddered ; the thouglit was terribly humiliating. — But it was, doubtless, 
 kindly given. Why should she refuse from any one the aid which she 
 would as freely render to another ? 
 
 She took courage, opened her hand, and looked at it. To her surprise, 
 she found it was gold ! There were five sovereigns. This was unexpected 
 good fortune. It was enough, perhaps, to carry her down to Grand- 
 borough Castle. 
 
 She reflected earnestly. Should she remain in town, and write ? Her 
 letter might be intercepted. No : she would go. Every moment of time 
 was valuable. On a single minute might depend her future happiness or 
 misery ; and of her child — and of Him, too, if it could be possible that the 
 strange news which reached her ears was true ? To be married again ! It 
 could not be ! Would the laws of England permit it ? But then, perhaps, 
 he supposed her to be dead. It was too bewildering ; the shortest course 
 would be to join him — and without delay. 
 
 A waiter appeared : — 
 
 " Going by the coach, ma'am?" 
 
 " What coach ? — where is it going ?" 
 
 *' Beg pardon, ma'am ; thought you might be going by the coach to the 
 north. Cold night, ma'am ; please to take anything?" 
 
 " A coach going to the north? — when will it go ?" 
 
 " In half an hour, ma'am — always punctual ; night coach ; four horses 
 -—very careful coachman." 
 
 " What is the expense ?" 
 
 " The expense, ma'am ! you mean the fare : — Three guineas inside — 
 child half-price." 
 
 "And can I go?" said the stranger, eagerly. 
 
 "To be sure, ma'am; that is, if there's room. Inside, ma'am, of 
 course ?" said the waiter, looking at the child. 
 
 " Yes ; the inside of the coach." 
 
 " Room for one, ma'am," said the waiter, returning ; " but you can 
 take the child on youi' lap." 
 
 " I will go." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am; but you have twenty minutes yet. Any luggage, 
 ma'am?" 
 
 "Luggage?" 
 
 " Yes, ma" am — any boxes ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; my boxes are at the ship." 
 
 As she said this, she took out anxiously a little casket ; gazed on it ; 
 and returned it to her bosom. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said the waiter, a little wondering, but two busy to be 
 actively curious. " Perhaps you will take tea, ma'am; plenty of time." 
 
 This offer the stranger gladly accepted. 
 
 " Poor lady looks very ill," said the waiter to the coachman, who was 
 waiting inside the bar. 
 
 " ^Shell soon be better when shC' finds herself inside of my coach," 
 
on,. THE EICH AND THE rOOK. 18 
 
 replied the coachman ; " and I'll give a look to her as we go along. Docs 
 she go all the way?" 
 
 "Don't know ; but she has paid her fare." 
 
 " That's all right, then. She looks very white, and rather down in the 
 gills ; but what eyes ! There's black 'uns for you ! " 
 
 In a short time, the object of these observations found herself in the 
 etage-coach, proceeding at a smart pace on the north road. 
 
 '' Going all the way, ma'am?" asked a good-humoured looking fellovr- 
 passenger, in the usual way of opening stage coach conversation. 
 
 " I am going," she replied, " to Grandborough Castle." 
 
 "To Grandbrough Castle ! That's about five miles off the road before 
 you come to Sandy Flats. Fin0 doings at Grandborough Castle this 
 season. The young lord is going to be married to Lady Eleanor St. 
 Austin — a great beauty, by all accounts. They say he is desperately in 
 in love with her." 
 
 After this gratuitous piece of information, which, notwithstanding the 
 darkness of the night, caused the stranger instinctively to draw her veil 
 over her face, the communicative gentleman followed the example of t^ie 
 other two passengers, and settled himself comfortably to sleep. The 
 forlorn lady, a prey to bitter thoughts, endeavoured to soothe herself with 
 the hope that every step brought her nearer to her place of refuge, as the 
 well-appointed coach sped rapidly on its way. 
 
 The young nobleman, meanwhile, searched diligently through the streets 
 for her whom his heart smote him was the humble suppliant for relief at 
 his father's house. How she should be in London, or what powerful 
 motive could have induced her to come to England in a manner so strange 
 and sudden ? — ^^vhy come without writing or warning, and in the absence 
 of any apparent motive? — He was perplexed and bewildered. Then, 
 again, he thought it might not be her. It might be some one whom she 
 had entrusted to bring the letter. But then, Dennis's description of her 
 person. — But what was that ? So many woman had black hair and black 
 eyes : — and it was so unlikely that she should present herself in person, 
 and be the bearer of her own letter ! On the other hand, his injunctions 
 had been positive and severe, on no account to let their circumstances 
 come to the knowledge of his father. — But why address the letter to Lord 
 Grandborough, and not to himself? Had she been making a mistake, 
 common with foreigners, in the title ? Then he recollected that it was 
 addressed inside, as his father had said, to " Lord Sarum." Still, that was 
 by no means conclusive. — On the whole, he could not bring himself to 
 believe that it was really Francesca herself who had stood as supplicant 
 at his father's door ! But, then, who was it ? It was necessary to cleai* 
 up that point. — And then, again, his heart misgave him that it could be 
 no other than that one ! The form, the hair, the eyes, the name, and the 
 handwriting — ^he could not be mistaken in that ! The child, too ! What 
 could he think? How find her? — He was almost mad with fear and 
 suspense. 
 
 All his inquiries after the unkno^^'^l stranger were in vain. One 
 policeman had observed several women with children in then* arms, and 
 they went off in various directions ; but where, he could not particularly 
 say. Another informed him, directly, that a woman, with a child in her 
 arms, with black hair, which hung down her back, and eyes which were 
 
14 FAXNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 particularly black, as she had been fighting and was very drunk, had been 
 taken to the station-house. Other policeman acquainted him that they 
 had taken up a good many men, women, and children that night, and that 
 they were all lodged in the station-house till the morning, when they 
 would be taken before the magistrate, to be punished for being destitute. 
 They advised him to attend the police-courts next day, when, perhaps, he 
 would have the satisfaction of seeing the woman he was in search of, 
 before she was sent to the treadmill. 
 
 In this way the unhappy young nobleman passed the night ; tormented 
 by all sorts of apprehensions, in which the ludicrous and the serious were 
 strangely jumbled together. The next day was passed in the same vain 
 search. At last it struck him that the porter had told the stranger, the 
 more effectually to get rid of further importunity, that his father, with 
 himself, was at their family seat in the north. This was a happy thought. 
 If it was Francesca, she would most likely proceed thither. At once he 
 inquired at all the coach-offices, if any person answering the description 
 which he gave had been seen. The waiter at the Black Bull distinctly 
 remembered that a lady, who was apparently a foreigner, with a child, 
 had set o£P by the north coach the night before. 
 
 Lord Augustus immediately wrote a hasty note to his father, excusing 
 his abrupt departure, and assigning, as a reason, business of an urgent 
 nature which called him away ; and, ordering a chaise and post-horses on 
 the spot, he proceeded at a furious rate on the road to the north of 
 England. 
 
 His father remained for two whole days in a state of the most profound 
 astonishment, not unmixed with a sense of deep personal affront. That 
 there was some mystery about that begging letter was certain. He 
 endeavoured to learn something more from Dennis ; but Dennis knew 
 nothing, and could say nothing more, except that the lady — for that it 
 was a lady he was certain — resembled, in an extraordinary manner, the 
 picture over the altar-piece in the church of St. Mary. 
 
 This information, however, seemed to throw no light on the affair, and 
 the earl, after having exhausted himself in conjectures, and hearing nothing 
 farther from his son, determined to leave town for Grandborough Castle. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 The condition ot* the poos, — the old man's resignation and the young man's 
 
 INDIGNATION — THE WHITE WOMAn's PIT — A STRANGER IN SIGHT — DANGERS OP 
 THE MOOR— THE PEASANT'S BRAVERY. 
 
 In a rude hut on the border of a common, in a remote county in the 
 north of England, sat two men in the ordinary garb of labourers. The 
 one was aged, the other was young. 
 
 The aspect of the old man was venerable. In spite of his patched and 
 soiled garments, and the rough rigidity of feature with which a long life 
 of toil and privation had knotted his furrowed face, there was something 
 iu his air which inspired inyoluntary. respect. For, poor though he was. 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOR. (|^ 
 
 ho was a Man" ; — and there is a majesty in the human face divine, an 
 innate nobility in the soul conscious of rectitude, and undeformed by evil 
 passions, which ever inspires the beholder with a sentiment of unconscious 
 homage to the natural dignity of man, whom God created in his own 
 image to walk the earth erect, and to gaze on the heavens above. 
 
 The old man was poor — indeed, very poor. During his whole life he 
 had had to fight the up-hill fight of poverty ; and it was as much as his 
 unremitted labour could effect — and often more than all his labom* could 
 ^ perform — to enable him to obtain the means of mere subsistence. Com- 
 pelled to obtain his daily bread by his daily toil, and almost by daily 
 supplication, he had become accustomed to the scorn with which wealth 
 is apt to look down on one of tho^ whom it deems of the inferior clay of 
 the earth — as one who was born into the world an unbidden guest at 
 Nature's feast — a thing superfluous and incommodious, to be used only as 
 an inanimate machine when wanted, and then to be thrown aside ; not 
 God's creature, but man's instrument — a composition of flesh and bones — 
 out of which was to be worked all the profit it was capable of yielding, 
 and then abandoned as pitilessly as it had been used. 
 
 Such had been the course of the v/eary life of the inhabitant of the hut ; 
 and such is the condition of multitudes of the labouring poor. 
 
 The old man's lot had been hard from the beginning. From the first 
 to the last it had been a life of trial, and suffering, and privation. In 
 infancy without nurture, in childhood without sport, in manhood without 
 enjoyment, in old age without sympathy. None had assisted him, none 
 had cheered him, none had smiled on him. To him all had been blank. 
 Civilization, and all the improvements which wealth and science could 
 effect, had advanced with prodigious strides. But all the improvements 
 of wealth, and all the advancements of science, had done nothing to improve 
 the condition of the labouring poor. The rich had become richer ; but 
 the poor had become poorer. The nation, of which he was an almost 
 unregarded unit, had become the emy and admiration of the world, 
 for the vastness of its riches, the extent of its power, the magnificence of 
 its dominion, and the exhaustless means of its production. Nay, so great 
 was its power of producing all that can administer to the necessities, the 
 comforts, and the luxuries of mankind, that some political economists and 
 most profound philosophers had proclaimed the curious discovery to the 
 world, that the great evil which in these modern times most perplexed 
 society was over-production ! — that, in consequence of the people pro- 
 ducing too much, they therefore had too little ! — that the paucity of con- 
 sumers was owing to excess of population ! — and that the power of the 
 country to create unbounded wealth was the cause of the unbounded desti- 
 tution and wretchedness of its inhabitants ! 
 
 ^ But such considerations were far from the thoughts of the good and 
 simple old man. He had never complained — never rebelled ; he had only 
 suffered. He had done his duty in the way of life unto which it had 
 pleased God to call him ; he looked back on his life, if without satisfac- 
 tion, without regret; and he looked forward to his grave as the poor man's 
 resting-place. His care-worn countenance had become settled into an 
 expression of deep humility ; and the subdued, fixed, and quiet air of 
 resignation, which formed the predominant characteristic of his physiog- 
 nomy marked him as one of the many specimens of the virtuous and patient 
 
16 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB : 
 
 suffering of the poor. But his look, though passionless and hopeless, was 
 gentle ; and it seemed, from the mild simplicity of his demeanour, that the 
 early goodness of his nature was such, that neither the physical sufferings 
 of long-continued privations, nor all the contumely that poverty is heir to, 
 had been able to change into gall the milk of human kindness which 
 Nature had originally infused into this one of her honest sons of labour. 
 
 The countenance of his companion was of a different cast. The struggle 
 of fierce passions and the fire of angry discontent were depicted on his 
 youthful features. He sat with clenched hands and fixed eyes, gazing on ^ 
 the remnant of a scanty fire that lent a dull light to the cold hearth ; and 
 ever and anon he would knit his brows and stamp his foot, as if in impa- 
 tience of some disappointed expectation. Suddenly he said, in bitter and 
 muttering tones : — 
 
 " He will never come, Mat. Master ! friend ! woman ! — thoy are all 
 alike. Who cares for the poor man ? No ; we may die and rot. My 
 poor mother may lose her life for want of a little help — a little trifle of 
 money that the rich would never miss the want of. And I ! I can do 
 nothing but curse their selfishness— and curse, too, on this poverty ! It 
 grinds into one's very soul." 
 
 " You are too hasty, Ned," said the old man ; " it is more than three 
 miles over the moor ; and in such weather as this, with the snow deep on 
 the ground, and more falling thick, one mustn't expect a clergyman to 
 leave the gentlefolks for poor people such as we." 
 
 "And why not?" rejoined his companion, angrily. "Are not we as 
 good as they — the " gentlefolks," as you call them? Are not our lives worth 
 to us as much as their lives are to them ? Has not God made all men 
 equal ? and is it not the tyranny of the rich and the powerful over the poor 
 and the weak that has robbed us of our rights, and made us the slaves we 
 
 are 
 
 >" 
 
 "Ah, Ned I all this comes of your edication. All these fine words won't 
 make things any better. A rich man's a rich man, and he can give the 
 poor man work ; and the poor man's a poor man, and he must ask the rich 
 man to let him work ; and that's just what it is — we can't mend it." 
 
 " And why not ? I'll tell you : it is because we have not the courage. 
 It is the cowardice and the meanness of the poor that makes them crouch 
 and grovel to the rich. Beg for work — beg for work indeed ! Is not the 
 soil ours as well as theirs ? — and must we beg for leave to till it ? Have 
 not I a right to my share of the earth which God gave to us all ? " 
 
 " You're young, Ned — you're young. If you were sixty years of age 
 instead of under twenty, you wouldn't talk that way. It's attending those 
 nightly meetings that has put all this into your head. I never knew any 
 good come of such meetings. There's a great talking, and the speakers 
 use monstrous big words ; and to hear 'em you would think they were 
 going to set all things to rights quite out of hand. But it all ends one 
 way, Ned : Botany Bay — or worse — that's what it always comes to. No, 
 no ; the poor must submit to what they can't- help — ^no use kicking." 
 
 " Mat, you have no soul ! You are content to live and die a slave !" 
 
 " What's the use of being discontented ? it only makes things worse 
 and harder to bear. It's my lot to be a poor man, and to work for my 
 bread. Very well ; I work, and glad to get it." 
 
 "Ah, glad to get it! Yes; it is pome to that now — glad to get work! 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOE. 17 
 
 Tliat's tlie condition of the poor man ! Not content with depriving the 
 poor of their birthright — their fair share of the earth — the rich have now 
 Ground us down to a state worse than the black slave. For they tell us 
 that the blacks are flogged to make them work, and here in England the 
 labouring man has to go down on his knees to his masters to allow him to 
 work." 
 
 " You're too hard on the gentlefolks, Ned. If they have not got work 
 to give us, how can they help it ? I dare say the gentlefolks are quite as 
 willing to give us work to do as we are to do it, when they want any work 
 to be done. Besides, there's the parish to go to after all. Not that any 
 working man, with any pride about him, would eat parish bread if he 
 could help it anjrvvays. I'm sure it/ would choke me. I never saw a half- 
 penny of the parish money, and, please God, I never will ! But still there 
 it is, if a poor man is driven to it by want of work and starvation. Justice 
 is justice, Ned ; no need to make the case worse than it is with fine words 
 and speechifying." 
 
 " Juistice ! Yes ; pretty justice it is to the poor man ! "When they do 
 give us work, what do they give us for it ? What do they pay us for it ? 
 'Ihat's what I ask ! Not enough to keep body and soul together. Not 
 tliat they care for our souls or our bodies either. The soul or the body of 
 the poor man is nothing to them. We may work to heap up more wealth 
 for those that are rich enough already, and then we may starve, and die, 
 and rot. Who cares?" 
 
 " You can't say that, Ned ; that isn't fair, neither. Am't they going to 
 build a new church there, hard by over the moor : and didn't the great 
 lord's housekeeper — I mean Lord Grandborough, that lives at the castle — 
 didn't she leave a bundle of tracts for your mother h'ing sick last week ?" 
 
 " Tracts ! what do we want with tracts ? We want food, and clothes, 
 and fire. Tracts won't fill our bellies and clothe our backs ; we want 
 food, not tracts. What's the use of a bushel of tracts to a starving man ?" 
 
 " I don't know that, Ned. Sometimes there's something in 'em that 
 makes one more easy in one's mind. If j^ou can't get work, and must 
 starve, better take it easy. Besides, they give good advice to the poor 
 man, and teach him to be content with his lot." 
 
 " To be sure they do ; that's just what all then* preaching comes to. 
 Be content ! Yes, that's their game. So long as we can be persuaded to 
 be content with our lot, and remain slaves to the rich — work for nothing — 
 be content with the miserable pittance they give us for our work, and 
 quietly starve while they fatten on our labour; — so long as we keep 
 'Quiet, and remain content with our lot,' as you call it, it is all right 
 with them. But what good do they do to us ? Yfhat care do they take, 
 of us ? I ask you that. They can find plenty of money to build gaols : 
 but where' s the money to build schools ? Up in the Parliament House 
 there, in London, they can sit night after night, and invent all sorts of 
 things to punish us and keep us down ; but what do they do to raise us 
 up ? — and the newspaper says, that the Parliament has appointed a com- 
 mission — I think they call it — ^to devise new means of torture in the 
 prisons for poor creatures who have been driven to crime by want. Yes, 
 Mat — to contrive new tortures in the prisons." 
 
 "No, no ; the gentlefolks would never do that." 
 c 
 
18 1?AN^'Y, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 ' "It's true, indeed, Mat; I read it in the newspaper. And there is to 
 be solitary confinement, and black holes, and I don't know what besides — 
 as if prison wasn't punishment enough in itself." 
 
 *' Well, well, Ned, I never read a newspaper ; but I can't believe that 
 of the gentlefolks." 
 
 " That's why you are so tarae. Mat. But as they said at the meeting 
 last night — " Why don't Parliament spend the same money, and take the 
 same pains, to make the condition of the poor better ? Why, Mat, as you 
 know, it is want, nine times out of ten, that drives the poor man to commit 
 the crime that the rich punish him for. Is that fair ? But it can't last ; 
 and I can teU you, Mat, that the labouring men of England are determined 
 to change it. We will not submit to be ground down any longer." 
 
 "Ah, Ned! those meetings will be the ruin of you. Better keep on 
 quiet, and let the meetings alone. Rebellion never did any good to the 
 poor man. In all the revolutions that I've heard tell of, the poor man's 
 share was always the hanging part of 'em. No, Ned ; no rebellion ! We 
 must submit, Ned, to our superiors." 
 
 " That's parson's talk ; and we all know what that's worth. It's all 
 nonsense ! It's just to make the poor submit to the rich, and be content 
 "with their wretchedness ; — that's their game !" 
 
 "You musn't talk ag'in the parsons, Ned; that's ag'in Scripture. Thero 
 must be somebody to read the prayers at church ; a poor man can't read 
 them for himself. I'm sure, when I go to church, I'm the better for it. 
 I don't knoAV why, exactly, but it comforts me, and makes me feel more 
 easy. And when the minister preaches his sermon to the gentlefolks, it 
 makes me drop into a nice doze, which refreshes me, and does me good. 
 Of course, poor people like me can't expect a fine gentleman like him to 
 talk to us about our matters. He is the minister for the gentlefolks, and 
 ■we ought to be glad to get a sight of him, anyhow. But we are all equal 
 in the sight of God, as the Scripture says ; that's some comfort." 
 
 " The minister, indeed ! what's the use of such a minister to us ? lie 
 is the rich man's minister, not the poor man's ; and the church is the rich 
 man's church. What is the church for ? For the poor man ? No, for 
 the rich ! The poor man pays for it, but the rich man uses it. Look at 
 the rich man sitting boxed up in his cushioned pew, aU so warm and snug; 
 and look at the poor man kneeling in the damp aisle on the cold stones. 
 There's equality for you ! Did you ever know yom' parson to visit the 
 sick poor, examine into their wants, and administer to them the comfort 
 of his religion, as he calls it, in their afflictions? Answer me that?" 
 
 " I can't say I ever did, Ned ; but then you couldn't expect a gentleman 
 like our minister to go into poor people's houses — ^huts may be, such as 
 this is — it wouldn't suit, Ned. Of com-se they consort with gentlefolks — 
 ■with gentlemen and ladies like themselves — ^not with poor people like us ; 
 we mustn't expect it. I'm sorry to say that a parson is a rare sight in a 
 poor man's dwelling." 
 
 "The rarer the better. Mat ; they only come for what they can get ; or, 
 what's the same, to rivet closer the chains of us slaves to them and their 
 confederates. Look at my poor mother ! I wonder if any one of the lot 
 will come to see her in her wretched place ! It was only last night that 
 she said she would like to see a clergyman. Do you know, Mat," he said 
 
OE, THE mCH AXD THE POOR. 19 
 
 speaking low and earnestly, " I think slie has sometliing on her mind. 
 Do you think," he continued, after a pause, " that she is so very ill as to 
 be in danger." 
 
 The old man seemed to ponder upon this. He fidgeted and looked 
 tmeasy. Stooping down to the scanty fire, he endeavoured with his breath 
 to raise the smouldering embers into a flame ; but there was "no heart in 
 it," as he said ; " blowing at it would only blow it out the sooner." 
 
 His companion watched his countenance and his actions with anxiety. 
 Hard as were the lines of the old man's face, they were not so rugged as 
 to prevent the evidence of some strong emotion. 
 
 "Matthew, my old friend," said Ned, "tell me; do you think my 
 mother really in danger? I have ''been hoping every day that she was 
 getting better." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Matthew, "the young always hope; it is well that they 
 can, for it helps them to bear the better what they have to suffer. But it 
 would be wrong, Ned, to deceive you — very wrong indeed : I am afraid, 
 my boy, that there is no hope here. Look at that last spark of the fire 
 just going out. It is so — ^yes, Ned, it is better that you should know the 
 t^-uth — it is so, I fear, with your poor mother." 
 Ned groaned, and put his head between his hands. 
 " Your mother w^as not always a poor woman ?" said Matthevr, inquu'- 
 ingly, after a pause. 
 
 " Do you know," said Ned, " I have often thought she had some secret 
 which she wanted to tell, but couldn't." 
 " Was your father a poor man like us r" 
 
 " I never knew my father ; he died, my mother has told me, before I 
 was born. But it always made her ill to talk on that subject ; so it has 
 been very seldom that I have ever spoken to her about it." 
 
 " Well, Ned, I must say," said Matthew, kindly, " you have always 
 been a good son to her ; — a good son, and a dutiful son — and an affec- 
 tionate one — and you have not been ashamed to put your hands to work 
 in spite of your learning. I have often wondered what made your mother 
 so keen to give you your edication. The things that you know are no use 
 to a poor man. Book-learning always makes a poor man more unhappy 
 by spurring him to think of the difference between his gentleman's edica- 
 tion and his poor man's lowness. Reading and writing is no good to 
 those who have no time to use them." 
 
 " I don't know, Matthew ; I have often thought there was some reason 
 for it that I could not understand. And sometimes mother has begun to 
 say something to me, and then she has considered, and left off. I remem- 
 ber once — it is now nearly two years ago — she called me to her, and said 
 very solemnly, ' Edward, I have something to say to you,' and then she 
 stopped, and said — ' No, better not — ^better not raise hopes — but before I 
 die I must' — and there she stopped again : and I did not like to press her 
 to go on, it seemed to wring her so." 
 
 *" Poor woman!" said Matthew, "sometimes I think I ought to say 
 poor lady, but it only puzzles me, and everything's for the best. Anyhow, 
 my dame will take good care of her, poor thing ! It's fortunate, Ned, 
 that yoiu- cottage is so close to ours. Look out, Ned ; the clergyman 
 must pass om* window — ])erhaps you may see him coming." 
 
 The young man opened the upper half of the rude door which foimed 
 c 2 
 
20 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 tlie entrance to the humble dwelling, and looked out long and anxiously on 
 the moor. There was nothing to be seen but the white expanse of snow 
 which covered the ground, and which, concealing the holes and inequali- 
 ties of the plain, formed one unbroken and dreary surface. 
 
 " There is nothing to be seen, and nothing will there be seen such a 
 night as this. The snow lies thick on the ground. I hope," he continued, 
 doubtingly, " that the parson knows the road across the moor ; it would 
 be easy to fall into one of the old holes, with the snow making all look 
 ahke as it does. He might slip down the white woman's pit — not that I 
 believe in such nonsense — before he could tell where he was." 
 
 " We mustn't call all that nonsense, Ned, that we can't make out," said 
 Mat. " There's something about that pit more than common. There's a^ 
 curse upon it. There's a story that the father of the present Lord Grand- 
 borough didn't get possession of the land hereabouts by fair means. 
 There was a great lawsuit about it." 
 
 " And, of course, the lord being the richest, got possession of the land," 
 said Ned. 
 
 " I don't know about that ; but he got it ; and that angered the heart of 
 the old lady that lost it. And one day, when she was roaming, wild-lilte, 
 near the pit, dressed in white, as she always was, the old lord came up on 
 horseback, and she cursed him by the side of the pit ; and the horse was 
 frightened at her, and reared up, and backed close to the edge, when the 
 old lord threw himself oif, but the horse overbalanced itself somehow, and 
 fell over into the bottom of the pit — and it's frightfally deep — and of 
 course was dashed to pieces. And they do say that the old lord died of 
 the shock he received that day when he fell from his horse." 
 " Then the curse is accomplished." 
 
 " No ; not so. Don't you know w^hat the saying of our country is, that 
 a curse lasts for three generations ?" 
 
 " Well, Mat, I don't believe in such old woman's tales. But I hope 
 the poor parson may keep clear of the pits on the moor ; I should be sorry 
 if he came to any harm." 
 
 " No fear of that," said the old man. " He was born in the place, and 
 knows every inch of ground over the moor. But what's that in the 
 distance, over away there ? It can't be a tree, there's no tree in that 
 place ; and it don't look like a horse, neither. Sure the minister would 
 never come on foot all the way from the town ?" 
 
 " It is something that moves," said Ned; "I fancy it's coming this 
 way." 
 
 They continued gazing at the dim object for some time, without 
 speaking. 
 
 " Whoever it is," observed Ned, breaking silence, " he seems to know 
 the road well enough. Did you see how he tm^ned aside from the long pond, 
 and kept just on the edge of it, as if he could see imder the snow ?" 
 
 " Who can it be coming here at this time of night ? Some one in 
 trouble, perhaps, who wants a hiding-place." 
 
 " Some one who knows the way," said Ned ; "or he would never think 
 of coming over the moor with the ground covered with snow. But now 
 that it comes closer, I can see that it is not a man, but a woman." 
 
 " It's not the minister, then; I was in hopes it might be somebody from 
 him." 
 
on, THE TtlCII AND THE POOR. 21 
 
 "No," said Ned; "it's a woman, with something in her arms iti a 
 bundle ; but somehow she doesn't look like one of us. And see — now she 
 stops ; she is looking round as if she was tmecrtain which way to go ; 
 and T can see that she walks heavily, as if tired; and no wonder, 
 for it must be up to her knees in snow. Now she comes on again, bold 
 and fiercely, as if determined to get over the ground. And novf she stops 
 to do something to her bundle. She is coming on again — straight on — " 
 
 " Straight on !" cried out the old man. " Why, then, she is coming 
 right in the direction of the pit. Yes, I can see now ; that little light 
 from the moon shows her plainly. She must be some stranger — she can't 
 know the right path; or the snotV perhaps dazzles her eyes. Lord, save 
 us! — she will be right on to the edge of the pit! Shout, Ned, shout! 
 you're younger than I ; call her to stop — to stand still tiU we come." 
 
 Raising their voices, they shouted loud and shrill ; but the warning 
 came too late. The unfortunate woman, mistaking perhaps the cause of 
 their cries, only hastened her steps, and in another moment, with a stifled 
 scream, she plunged into the treacherous abyss. At the instant of her fall, 
 she raised her arms on high, and, by a stronger- ray of the moon's bright 
 light, which escaped through the clouds, a child was visible, and then both 
 disappeared together. 
 
 Matthew and Edward gazed at each other for a brief space in silent 
 horror. The old man first recovered his presence of mind. 
 
 "Run, Ned, run!" he cried hurriedly; "mark the place while I get 
 the ropes. Remember, there's a child as well as a woman. I'm sure I 
 saw a child," he said, raising his voice, for he was already almost out of 
 hearing, " for I saw her try to heave it out of danger from her arms, as she 
 slipped in." 
 
 VVithout losing a moment, Matthew hastily collected together sundry 
 pieces of cord with which he was used to bind up wood : and quickly knotted 
 them tightly together ; a stake standing hard by, he seized hold of it, and 
 made his way as quickly as possible to the edge of the chasm, which was 
 three or four hundred yards from the hut. There he held a rapid and 
 anxious consultation with Edward, as to v/hat was best to be done. 
 They shouted down the pit, but no answer was returned, and no sound 
 was heard. They proposed to find a big stone, and to tie it to the end of 
 the cord, and so let it down by its own weight through the snow in the 
 direction of the slip. This they did ; but they found that the cord soon 
 became impeded in its descent by the snow and the inequalities of the 
 surface. 
 
 " 111 run back and get a spade," said Ned. 
 
 " A spade !" said the old man : — " Spades and shovels are of no use 
 here !" he exclaimed despairingly. " They are down, poor things ! down 
 to the bottom by this time, and man's help is of no avail. They must be 
 dashed into a thousand pieces !" 
 
 " Let us try something," said his companion. " Never let them perish 
 without tiying to save them. The child is lighter than the woman ; it 
 may have lodged somewhere in the snow on its way down. Give me hold 
 of the rope, and do you hold on by the other end, and I'll make a search 
 for the child at any rate. Perhaps I may meet with the woman too — who 
 knows ! A dying person clutches hard at anything he can get hold of. 
 At any rate, I will try ; give me the end of the rope, and stand fast." 
 
22 rAN]N^Y, THE LITTLE MILLINER I 
 
 " It will never hold, I fear," said Matthew, passing the rope quickly- 
 through his hands, and puUing at the knots as he went on ; " It will never 
 hold, Ned ; you can never trust to a knotted cord. It's only risking life 
 uselessly. No ; — it's a sad job, but they're gone, poor things, gone ! — and 
 nothing that we can do can save them. The best thing to do is for you 
 to run to the town and get help, while I stay here and watch." 
 
 " Run to the town ! Why, it's more than three miles to the town, and 
 the snow lying thick. Before I could get back with help, they would 
 perish with the cold. No ; something must be done, and we must do it." 
 
 " But I could never hold you up, Ned ; I couldn't do it : let alone the 
 danger of the cord breaking. It's only wasting life. Best to run to the 
 town." 
 
 " I will try," said Edward, determinedly : " these poor creatures shall 
 not perish without an effort being made to save them. Mat, hold on to 
 the cord." 
 
 " I won't let you risk your life this way," said the old man. " I tell 
 you t couldn't hold you up. Twenty years ago I might have done it ; but 
 now I am old, and hard v/ork and poor fare has not left much strength in 
 me. Make your way to the town, Ned, and take this staff with you ; it 
 will help you on tlu-ough the snow. Stay," said the old man, a happy- 
 thought occm-ring to him at the sight of the staff — " stay : — I've thought 
 of it ! If we can contrive to get a hold for the end of this staff on the 
 ground ! That's right, jam it in. Now, you see, I can pass the cord 
 round it, and let you down easy." 
 
 " Capital !" cried out Edward. " Give me the end of the rope !" 
 
 *' Stay ; that will never do. You must let me fix it secm-e round your 
 body, under your arms. That's it ; now it can't slip. But, the rope ! — 
 the rope ! It will never hold. It's too great a risk. It is, indeed !" and 
 the old man stamped his feet upon the snow, bewildered and perplexed at 
 the urgency of the case, and the peril of the attempt. 
 
 " I will try it, Matthew," said Edward, sternly. " Hold on, then, for 
 I am going to let myself down." 
 
 " Wait till I'm ready .^ Let me get a firm hold. Well, if you will, I 
 must. But, it's madness to do it. Take care, whatever you do, not to 
 jerk the cord ; it's old, and won't bear a sudden strain." 
 
 '' How much rope is there ?" said Edward, as he was going down. 
 
 " Forty yards, or more ; but that's nothing to the depth of the pit. Try 
 with your toes to feel the bottom through the snow. The pit goes shelving 
 down a little here, but too steep to keep your footing, without the help of 
 a rope. That's a brave lad ! Be gentle with the rope," he cried out, as 
 Edward disappeared beneath the edge of the pit. " Lord save us !" ex- 
 claimed the old man, when he had let out nearly the whole extent of the 
 cord, and as if suddenly recollecting himself : — " he is gone down, poor 
 boy ! But how to pull him up again ? I can never do it ! To think that 
 my old head never thought of that ! Ned, Ned, I say ! Stop, lad ! You'll 
 break the cord, you will ! I must give more of it ; — he will have it. I 
 must let out more, or it will snap to a certainty. Ned ! I say, lad, don't 
 strain on the cord so ! 'Bide a bit — 'bide a bit — it will never hold ! It 
 will go ! It must go ! I feel the strands starting. He will be lost ! Ned, 
 answer me ! Speak, lad !" 
 
 But Edward, either not hearing Matthew's voice, or determined to pro- 
 
The White Woman s Pit, 
 
OR, THE RICH AND TIIL POOR. 23 
 
 ceed to the utmost in his bold attempt, made no reply. And now the old 
 man had come to the end of the cord, and barely sufficient remained in his 
 hand to enable him to keep his hold. Exerting his utmost strength, with 
 one foot planted firmly against the bottom of the staff; with one arm out- 
 stretched with a hard grasp at the top, and the other hand griping closely 
 the end of the doubtful cord ; his body thrown back; and his whole frame 
 exhibiting a painful attitude of intense exertion, the old man held firmly 
 on. But the struggle was too severe to allow him to sustain his position 
 long. He felt himself gradually growing weaker and weaker ; he looked 
 round for help, but nothing was visible on the wide expanse of the dreary 
 moor but one unbroken surface of snow. He tried to call out ; but he 
 found he could not raise his voice without relaxing his hold of the rope 
 and staff, and that, he felt, he could not risk. In this extremity, his 
 strength rapidly failing, and his heart sinking within him at the mortal 
 peril of his yomig friend ; and suffering unspeakable agony, from the feel- 
 ing of his own terrible responsibility — one life — perhaps two — perhaps 
 three, depending on his power of endm*ance, he earnestly prayed for help ! 
 And there he stood ; — ^the huge drops of sweat poured down his wrinkled 
 forehead, and crisped and hardened under the influence of the frost, not 
 immixed with manly tears wrung from him in his agony. Again and again 
 he struggled to call out, but his voice seemed frozen within him ; — still 
 with desperate strength he held on, though his strained eyeballs seemed 
 ready to start from their sockets, and his whole frame quivered -with 
 emotion. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven !" he fixintly uttered ; " it is all over ! I can hold on 
 no longer ! Woman — child — all ! — all are lost !" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE JOURNEY— THE TIDINGS— THE INN — BLACK WILL — DANGEE, 
 
 With all the speed with which four horses could carry him, Lord Sarum 
 pressed forward on the road to the north of England. From the hasty 
 inquiries which he made by the way, he ascertained that a lady and a 
 child were passengers in the conveyance which had passed the night 
 before. So far, therefore, it seemed, he was secm-e in his pursuit; but as 
 the north coach " had the start of him," as the postboys said, by more 
 than twenty-four hours, there was no possibility of his overtaking it, 
 unless the snow, which every minute fell thicker and thicker, were to 
 cause some obstruction to its progress. But the well-conducted coach had 
 proceeded steadily and rapidly on its way, and it was in vain that Lord 
 Sarum lavished rewards and promises on successive relays of postboys, and 
 TU'ged and prayed them to get on faster and faster. All that he could 
 effect was to proceed with such rapidity in the track of the stage-coach as 
 to prevent the remembrance of the lady and child from being obliterated 
 from the memories of the various waiters and chambermaids whose duties 
 lead them to pay their respects to the " insiders" on aU possible occasions 
 of stoppages on the road. In this way, Lord Sarum traced the wanderers 
 
24 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 from stage to stage, till he arrived at the well-known house of entertain- 
 ment in the midst of a cluster of dweUings, forming the irregular village 
 of Sandy- Flats. He had determined to proceed as far as that point, in 
 order to obtain some certain information for his guidance. It was true, 
 that if the party of whom he was in search had proceeded direct to Grand- 
 borough Castle, she would have left the coach at the cross-road, tliree 
 miles from the village ; but it was very unlikely, he considered, that she 
 should do so, as she w^as encumbered with a child, and the ground was 
 covered with snow. Besides, the country in that direction consisted 
 almost entirely of waste land and moor ; the cross-road was unfrequented, 
 and was without houses, and almost without inhabitants, save the wild 
 and lawless bands which sometimes disturbed those rude districts. Still, 
 as a foreigner, she might not know this ; but then she might be warned 
 by her fellow-passengers. In the midst of these agitating reflections, he 
 arrived at the sign of the " White Bioll." 
 
 The apparition of a postchaise dra^vn by four horses " tearing along the 
 road," as the ostler of the White Bull expressed it, soon brought out the 
 landlady and all her staff, including waiter, chambermaid, the ostler 
 aforesaid, and the " boy," who, although not officially an ostler, aspired 
 to that dignity, and in the expectation of ulterior advancement, v/as con- 
 tent to receive the kicks of vicious horses, the beatings of the "regular" 
 ostler, and the cufSngs of the landlady, sweetened by such occasional half- 
 pence as, in the absence of his principal, it was his luck to collect. Lord 
 Sarum beheld the assemblage with some perplexity, for it did not suit his 
 plans that, in a part of the country where he was well known, his jom^ney 
 and its object should become the talk of the populace. However, the 
 postboys who had last driven him knew only that he was in great haste ; 
 he was safe on that side : he resolved, therefore, to conduct his inquiry 
 with caution. 
 
 The landlady, as soon as she recognised his lordship, immediately raised 
 her voice on high to summon all her attendants; and bestowing a cuff " in a 
 parenthesis" on the " boy," for gaping with his mouth open, in which 
 practice she was wont habitually to indulge, whenever she was desirous of 
 getting rid of any superfluous energy that occasionally beset her, she di-ew 
 herself up at the entrance of her hotel, ready to drop a profound curtsey 
 to the noble lord who was about to honour her with his presence. At the 
 same moment, the postchaise, with a crash and a jerk, drew up to the 
 door. 
 
 The waiter immediately began to rub his hands with his napkin, the 
 ostler to scratch his head, the boy to open his mouth, the chambermaid to 
 adjust her cap, and the landlady to sink into the earth, with her hands 
 upraised to balance her descent ; and smiKng with all her might in that 
 inconvenient position, she ventured to hope that " his lordship was quite 
 well, and would he please to alight?" 
 
 The noble lord acknowledged the obeisance of the landlady and the 
 characteristic greetings of her attendants with a condescending bend of 
 his head, and was pleased to remark, that— 
 
 " It was dreadful weather !" 
 
 " Very dreadful, my lord ; but the snow, as my good man says, will do 
 good ; it's better than the raw frost." 
 
 " The guard of the long coach," the vraiter ventured to observe, passing 
 
OR, THE men AND THE rooE. 
 
 his napkin with nervous tremulousness from one hand to the other, 
 " thought that they would find more snow as they went further north." 
 
 " Coach well-filled?" asked his lordship, in a judicious tone, calculated 
 to convey his imconcern as to the persons in the vehicle, and at the same 
 time a proper regard for the traffic of the road in his own county : — 
 " Coach well-filled?" repeated his lordship, as his eye wandered carelessly 
 over the group, and became fixed on the cowboy, whose mouth had 
 remained open dtiring these preliminaries. 
 
 That astonished individual, who, from his lordship's marked look, 
 received the inquiry as a personal appeal to himself, v/as so astounded at 
 being spoken to by a lord, that hp essayed to speak in vain ; all he could 
 do was to open his mouth wider and wider, and make a convulsive move- 
 ment v/ith the pitchfork which he held in his hand ; but the landlady 
 catching a glimpse of his unseemly behaviour, bestowed a cuff on the side 
 of his head, which made him shut his mouth with a sudden snap. 
 
 " Pretty well, your lordship," answered the landlady, " for this time of 
 the year ; but it is too cold for travelling outside. There was — let me see 
 — five inside — wasn't there five, Dick ?" appealing to the waiter. 
 " Yes, my lord, five inside ; all gentlemen passengers." 
 The nobleman looked anxious. 
 
 "There wor one lady, wi' her child," said the ostler, "who got out at 
 the cross-road leading to Grandborough ; and I think coachman said she 
 wor' going there ; didn't he, Bob ? — you heeard him." 
 
 Bob widened his mouth in obedience to his superior to corroborate his 
 assertion, and made a desperate attempt to articulate ; but the chamber- 
 maid, with an excessive agitation of her apron, and a profusion of curtsey- 
 ing, and of bridlings and wriggiings of her head; with her face all 
 crimson, and her eyes expanding wide and round at holding colloquy with 
 a lord, chimed in, speaking fast and eagerly : — 
 
 " Yes, my lord, the guard said, my lord, that a lady, who seemed very 
 ill, my lord ; and she had a child, my lord — a child in her arms ; the 
 guard said that the lady would get down, say all he could, at the cross- 
 road, leading to Grandborough, my lord, although the guard told the lady 
 that the snow was dreadful deep, and that there were no houses, and 
 nobody on the road — all moor and common ; but the lady would go, my 
 lord ; and so as the coach couldn't stop, they left her in the road ; and — ■ 
 
 and " 
 
 " What else r" asked Lord Sarum, in a tone of agitation, which he felt 
 impossible to repress. 
 
 " Nothing else, my lord ; that's all the guard told me ; only he said it 
 was just at daybreak this morning that they left the lady in the road, and 
 she seemed very sad, my lord." 
 
 " Will your lordship please to alight," repeated the landlady ; " your 
 lordship looks quite pale with the cold?" 
 " Have you fresh horses ?" 
 
 " Yes, my lord; that is, they're not entirely fresh, because they've been 
 at work all day ; but we shall have another pair in shortly, fresh from a 
 short stage. Will yom* lordship be pleased to take some refreshment ?" 
 
 " Thank you ; no : I am obliged to be at the castle as quickly as 
 possible. Be pleased to let me have fresh horses immediately. How is 
 the upper road ? Much snow fallen ?" 
 
26 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB ! 
 
 " Both roads are bad in the dark," rejoined the landlady, " as your 
 lordship knows, especially when there's snow on the ground ; and it is 
 past six o'clock, and after that, the dark comes on quick at this time of 
 the year." 
 
 " Ah ! very well ; as the upper road is so bad, I'll turn back and take 
 the cross-road." 
 
 "Your lordship will be going out of your way," said the landlady; 
 " but your lordship knows best. Bob," with a cuff to the cowboy, " why 
 don't you shut yout mouth, and look after the horses ?" Bob let fall his 
 pitchfork, and shambled off to the stables. 
 
 "I wonder what makes Lord Saruni in such a hurry to get to the castle, 
 that he wont stop to eat or drink," said the ostler to a dark-looking man 
 who was sittinoj on a truss of straw in a corner ; "he might order dinner, 
 if it was only for the good of the house. There's something in the wind, 
 I'm thinking." 
 . "Is that Lord Sarum in the chaise ?" asked the dark man. 
 
 " Yes ; we know him well in these parts. If you go out, you can see 
 him yourself." 
 
 " And he is going to Grandborough Castle in great haste ?" 
 
 " The boys tell me that he has been thundering down all the way, as if 
 it was a matter of life and death." 
 
 " Of life and death !" cried the man, starting up, much agitated, but 
 instantly checking his emotion : " and which road will he take to Grand- 
 borough ?" 
 
 "The cross-road, though it's the longest — but of course great folks have 
 their fancies, and a lord can do as he likes." 
 
 The man's countenance assumed an expression of fierceness at this ob- 
 servation of the cleaner of horses, which quickly changed to a look of 
 desperate resolution, as he sunk back in meditation on his bed of straw. 
 
 "Now, Bob," cried the ostler, sharply, to his lieutenant, "lead out the 
 old mare." 
 
 Bob made a hasty toilet of the old mare's mane with a fragment of an 
 iron comb, and chirruped to the venerable animal to turn round in her 
 stall : but the old mare stood still. 
 
 " Why don't you make more haste, and a lord waiting for you, spoony- 
 face?" cried the ostler, adding emphasis to his reproach by a vigorous argu- 
 ment of his thick-soled shoe to the nethermost part of his assistant's cordu- 
 roys — "why don't you make more haste?" (another kick.) "What the 
 ruin's the matter with the old mare ? she don't seem to be in a hurry to 
 drag a lord, at any rate !" 
 
 With an affectionate earnestness, he then added the superior authority 
 of his own voice to the " chuck, chuck" of his satellite ; but the mare only 
 elongated one eye, with a slight movement of her head in the direction of 
 the dispenser of oats, and stood stock still. 
 
 Her appeal was not lost on the sympathetic ostler, who, skilled in the 
 language of beasts, scrutinized her limbs with a professional eye, and 
 passing his hands do^vn her fore-legs, immediately proceeded to scratch 
 his own head violently — a sm-e sign with that respectable functionary of 
 intense emotion. 
 
 " Stiff as a hedge-stake ! There's no more move in her for this day, 
 that's certain; regularly knocked up! It's a shame to use a poor beast 
 
on, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 27 
 
 SO, it is ; as if a hoss hadn't feelings as well as a human cretur ! 'WTiat 
 do you open your mouth for, stupid ? look at tother's legs, and see how 
 that is." 
 
 The boy obeyed, and lifted up the fore-foot of the other. 
 
 " Lost a shoe ! the near-hind a loose 'un ! What's to be done now?" 
 
 The ostler scratched his head again, and looked at the boy. The boy 
 looked at the ostler, and opened his mouth wider and wider. 
 
 " I do believe," pathetically exclaimed the ostler, " that what with 
 missus's scoldings, and the worriting of the bosses, and that boy's always 
 opening his mouth, I shall go crazy, and be of no more use than a hoss 
 that's foundered ! Here's a j6b ! Well, these cattle can't go, that's 
 certain. Bob, go and tell missus that one horse is dead lame, and tother 
 ha'nt got a shoe." 
 
 But Bob, on this occasion, evidenced no more inclination to move than 
 the old mare. 
 
 " What, are you stiff in the gabs too ?" said the ostler, becoming 
 irascible from the mishaps that had befallen his horses ; " then I'll teach 
 you how to move." With this, he applied so extraordinary a box on the ear 
 ear of his assistant, that the boy, preferring to encounter the anger in posse 
 of his mistress, rather than the wrath in esse of his immediate superior, 
 immediately bolted out of the stable, to convey the unwelcome tidings to 
 the landlady. His mistress received the news (after first bestowing a 
 cuff on the boy) -with mingled feelings. On the one hand, she was vexed 
 that any accident should derange her teams ; but, on the other, here was 
 the means of delaying the lord to dinner, which would not only redound 
 to the credit of her establishment, but afford her the opportunity of 
 making up an aristocratic bill suitable to the rank of the noble visitor. 
 By some mysterious process, therefore, communicating her wishes to the 
 "boys" who had driven the last stage, those respectable functionaries 
 positively declared, and intimated their readiness to swear, if necessary, 
 that their cattle were absolutely and completely done up, exhausted, and, 
 as they professionally averred in their enthusiasm, " had not a hair of 
 theii' tails left, nor a leg to stand on ;" and " that it would be nothing 
 less than murder to try to make them stir, which they couldn't do." To 
 these asseverations the landlady added her own opinion, that his lordship 
 would get on much quicker with the fresh horses, which she expected in 
 *' every minute," than with the tired ones, even if they could go, (and 
 they couldn't,) and hoped that his lordship would be pleased to alight and 
 honour her by partaking of such refreshment as she could prepare on. 
 such short notice. 
 
 Lord Sarum, seeing that the case was hopeless, and unwilling to 
 excite suspicion as to the motive of his haste, thought it best to submit 
 with a good grace ; he alighted, therefore, and entered the house. 
 
 " Missus has got the lord inside at last," said the ostler, addressing his 
 voice to the darkened comer, where the stranger had been reclining on 
 the straw ; but the stranger had disappeared. 
 
 " What's become of Black Will ?" said the ostler ; " he fancies I don't 
 know him, I suppose ; I wonder what game he's after now?" 
 
 In the meantime, events were preparing of threatening import to the 
 house of Grandborough. Great discontent prevailed in the northern 
 counties, especially in that in which the family seat of Lord Sarum was 
 
28 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 situate ; and deep and dangerous conspiracies had been entered into by 
 the most desperate of the starving population. Their privations and 
 sufferings, for some time past, indeed, had been most severe ; and the 
 abject misery of their social condition was readily believed to have its 
 origin in alleged political VN^rongs, which they were incited to attempt to 
 redress. The discontent of the people thus assumed a character both 
 political and social ; and the harangues to which they greedily listened of 
 the evils which were arbitrarily inflicted on them, and of the influence of 
 the physical force which it was in their power to exercise, had inflamed 
 and exasperated them to madness. 
 
 It was on this same night, when the heir to the titles and estates of 
 Grandborough was on his road to the family seat, that a secret meeting 
 was agreed to be held of the discontented, at a spot near the cross-road, 
 and not far from Grandborough Castle. Of the nature and magnitude of 
 these discontents. Lord Sarum, from his long residence abroad, and from 
 the little attention he had paid to the subject of the condition of the 
 labouring population, was entirely ignorant. He had heard some vague 
 reports of a disposition to riot on the part of the people, but he was little 
 aware of the dangerous height to which that disposition had risen. Pre- 
 occupied with the one engrossing idea of overtaking the bearer of the 
 supposed begging-letter, he neglected, on this occasion, to make inquiries 
 as to the state of the country, or the disposition of its large labouring 
 population. Besides, he considered himself at all times in perfect security 
 in the immediate neighbourhood of the family estate ; and the more so, as 
 his father had acquired a character for extreme severity in dealing with 
 the complaints or offences of the labouring classes, which, in ordinary 
 times, was calculated to strike terror into the hearts of the discontented. 
 It was unfortunate, however, that the eagerness and haste which Lord 
 Sarum had exhibited to reach the castle with the least possible delay, was 
 suspected by one who was on his way to the secret meeting, to have a very 
 different motive from that by which the young nobleman was really 
 actuated. While Lord Sarum, therefore, remained at the inn, inwardty 
 fretting at his detention, but gracious with smiles to the landlady, as she 
 assiduously prepared for him the most lordly repast which the shortness 
 of the time allowed. Black Will made the best of his way by a circuitous 
 route to the place of meeting. 
 
 " The cross-road is very bad, my lord," reiterated the busy landlady, 
 v/ho, very fussy and very talkative, thought it part of her duty to enter- 
 tain her guest with conversation as well as victuals ; " The people tell me 
 that the snow lies very deep ; and it's a bad road, my lord, at any time. 
 Would your lordship like to stay the night, and then your lordship would 
 have the daylight for travelling?" 
 
 But Lord Saram intimated to his hostess in a manner the most con- 
 descending that particular business obliged him to proceed without delay 
 to the castle ; and that he preferred the cross-road, as he had a desire to 
 see that part of the country ; and he made it his particular request that 
 she would give directions for bringing the chaise round to the door with 
 the least possible delay. 
 
 " To be sure, my lord, if it is yom^ lordship's pleasure ; after your lord- 
 ship's long absence abroad, it must be a yery great pleasm-e, to be sure, to 
 
OR, THE HIGH AIS'D THE POOK. 29 
 
 your lordship to come home again to your lordship's ovni castle. Your 
 lordship shall not have to wait a moment." 
 
 " You are very obliging, Mrs. ^Vhiley ; everything is very good, and 
 this ale is excellent. I shall have great satisfaction, I assure you, in 
 sleeping again at the old castle. Besides, we expect friends, and it is 
 right that I should be there to direct preparations. The horses, if you 
 please, Mrs. Whiley ; it is getting late." 
 
 Little did Lord Sarum think, as he thus hurried his departure from the 
 way-side inn, that he was unconsciously rushing into imminent danger. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE labourers' MEETING. — THE SUFFERINGS OF THE POOR, — REBECCA. — 
 A DESPERATE PROJECT. — ^AN UNEXPECTED INTRUSION. 
 
 The place fixed on for the meeting of the discontented labourers and 
 others of the district was an old barn, which had formerly belonged to the 
 homestead of a small farm on the Grandborough estate, but which, on the 
 principle of large farms being more profitable to the proprietor, had been 
 incorporated with other tenancies, so as to form one lai'ge holding under a 
 single tenant. The building, though much dilapidated, afforded sufficient 
 shelter from the weather, and from its retired situation to the left of the 
 cross-road leading to Grandborough Castle, it was well adapted for the 
 purpose of a secret assemblage. 
 
 It was at this spot, as soon as the darkness set in, that a motley group 
 rapidly began to congregate ; — sturdy miners, who had struck for wages — 
 mechanics and factory men, thrown out of employment by the stoppage of 
 the mills ; and agricultural labourers and others of all sorts out of work, 
 and without the means of subsistence. These presented a gaunt and 
 menacing crowd ; and it was easy to see, from their sullen and determined 
 looks, that they were men whom many and severe privations and long and 
 painful suffering had soured and fitted for desperate enterprise. As they 
 recognized one another, and felt assured that they were among friends, 
 and that no spy was present, they began to talk freely of their grievances 
 and their intentions. 
 
 " Where's young Ned Lacey ?" asked a short, thick-set man, a mechanic, 
 in a velveteen jacket, who seemed to take a lead among the discontented ; 
 "he ought to be among us this night, of all nights in the year." 
 
 "His mother's dying," answered a rough-looking miner; "he can't 
 leave her nohow ; but he's game, depend on it, when, the time comes." 
 
 " The time is come now, my men ; the soldiers are away on the other 
 side of the country, and this is the time to do the job, or never ! I don't 
 like his consorting so much," added the speaker, " with old Matthew the 
 woodman in the cottage yonder, beyond the White Woman's Pit. I 
 doubt he isn't safe, that Matthew." 
 
 "Never fear old Matthew," rejoined the miner; "he's as true as steel. 
 There's as good ore in that chap as ever was found in lode. No fear of 
 Matthew." 
 
80 FAN^s^Y, THE LITTLE MILLINER I 
 
 «' Why don't he join ns, then ? I don't like half-and-half fellows — all or 
 nothing, I say." 
 
 "I'll answer for old Matthew," said a sun-burnt labourer, whose haggard 
 looks and stern but patient features pourtrayed at once the severity of his 
 privations and his power of long endurance ; — " I'll answer for old Mat- 
 thew ; he never will join us, that I know ; but he will never betray us : 
 he's as sound as oak. But where's Black Will ? he's the man to be with 
 us to-night. Who knows anything about Black Will ?" 
 
 "Depend upon it," said the man in the velveteen jacket, "that Black 
 Will is at work for us, wherever he is : Will is true to the back-bone ; 
 and he has a head too ! There isn't a cleverer chap in all the north coun- 
 try for contriving a scheme ; he makes every joint to fit, and turns out his 
 work so smooth and clean, that I defy the cleverest beak in the county 
 to spy out a chink to see through. That's the man for us." 
 
 " And he has his own wrongs to revenge too," put in a sturdy farming 
 man, grasping an immense cudgel in both hands as he spoke ; — " When 
 the lord there in the castle transported his poor brother for killing a hare 
 — his brother that died in the convict ship that caught fire, when all the 
 prisoners were burnt to death — you remember it, Stephen " 
 
 " Ay — ay ; we remember it — r-" 
 
 " Will swore he would never rest tiU he had his revenge ; and he will 
 have it this night." 
 
 "My friends," interposed a decently dressed man, who seemed to belong 
 to a higher class than the generality of the persons assembled in the barn, 
 "we must not be led away by the desire of revenge on the part of any one 
 individual ; we have common rights to maintain and common wrongs to 
 redress, and we must not allow the great cause of the rights of labour 
 which we have met to uphold to be damaged by any private revenge or 
 unnecessary violence." 
 
 " Well done, schoolmaster," exclaimed many voices ; " give us a bit of 
 a speech." 
 
 " What we want," continued the individual who was thus encouraged, 
 *' is regular employment and adequate remuneration : a fair day's wages 
 for a fair day's labour." 
 
 " Hear him ! hear him !" responded his wiUing hearers. " Well done, 
 schoolmaster !" 
 
 " There is plenty for all," continued the orator, " if it was properly 
 distributed. How is it that, in this great nation, the richest on the face 
 of the earth, and with a power of machinery and of production equal to 
 the labour of two hundred millions of human beings — how is it, I say, that 
 the bulk of its population is constantly in a state of greater destitution and 
 misery than the people of any other coimtry ?" 
 
 "Ay," said the mechanic, " and how is it that all the machinery that is 
 invented, instead of making our labour lighter, makes it heavier ? It's 
 because all the profit goes to the rich, and all the labom- remains with the 
 poor. The more machinery, the worse wages." 
 
 "But this should not be," interrupted the schoolmaster; " the labouring 
 poor ought to participate in the general advantages of wealth and science. 
 Machinery ought to be made to aid the labour of the industrious poor, and 
 not to beat it down." 
 
 " It's all the fault of the government," cried out many voices. " Why 
 
OR, XnE KICH AND THE POOR. 31 
 
 don't the government do better, and attend to the wants of the poor 
 man?" 
 
 " Better not work at all," uttered a powerful looldng man, speaking 
 rapidly and with energy, " than work for the wages they give us ; it's not 
 sufficient to keep body and soul together. Better to dare the worst, than 
 drag on our miserable lives as we do now ! What is life worth this way?" 
 
 "It is the parliament that ought to take the matter up," resumed the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 " But the parliament folks," said another, " do nothing but quarrel and 
 wrangle among themselves ; for the ministers only think how to keep 
 themselves in, and the opposition? people only think how to get the govern- 
 ment people out, so that between the two, the cause of the poor labourer 
 falls to the ground." 
 
 "They agree well enough, though," chimed in a vivacious little man, 
 with an excessively hungry look, "when they want to tax us ; then they're 
 all of a mind ; but they take good care not to tax themselves." 
 
 "Or to build gaols for us," cried out another; "or to invent new 
 punishments, or vote money for more treadmills !" 
 
 " We must stand by one another," resumed the mechanic, " and make a 
 grand struggle to get our rights. There's distress everywhere, and nothing 
 but starvation stares us in the face. Many a mother does not know where 
 to get a morsel of food for her famishing children; and whose fault is that 
 but of those who rule over us ? For I say, that where a man or woman is 
 willing to work, and where there is plenty for all, it is the fault of the 
 rich and the government if any one is in want." 
 
 " But what can we do ?" asked a hard-featured rustic, perfectly willing 
 to follow any leader on any deed of violent redi-ess — " what can we do ? 
 that's what I want to know. I'm ready to do anything, for my part ; only 
 let us know what's to be done." 
 
 " We must strike a blow," said the mechanic, " to make the rich fear 
 us, and then, perhaps, they will attend to us ; and this is the night to do 
 it. If the great castle yonder were burned down, that would be a hint tc 
 the great ones that we are to be trampled on no longer." 
 
 A general huzza welcomed this wild proposal. 
 
 "But we don't want women," said he, looking round; " it wiU be rough 
 work, my men, but a famous deed to talk of. I wish the women were not 
 here." 
 
 " I won't agree to any violence," exclaimed the schoolmaster ; " I am 
 for argument, not force. All violence is sure to end in our destruction. 
 Unarmed men have no chance against soldiers." 
 
 " No — no violence," replied the mechanic ; " all can be done quietly — 
 quite quietly : but I say the women are better away." 
 
 More than one woman was present at the meeting, rough and masculine- 
 looking, but hollow-eyed and emaciated from over- working and want of 
 food. On these the men now looked with disapproval, as unfit associates 
 at such a time ; but the females asserted their right, boldly and fiercely^ 
 to mingle in their deliberations. 
 
 " This be no place for thee, Becky," said a tall, bony man in a smock- 
 frock, to one of the females who seemed to be labouring under strong ex- 
 citement ; " better go home." 
 
 " Home !" cried the woman, suddenly stepping forward, and holding up 
 
32 FAXXY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK I 
 
 her hands convulsively — "home! what home have I? Go — ^look — and 
 see the wretched place you call a home ! No fire on the hearth — no food 
 on the shelf — no bed to He on^ — no stool to sit on — no clothes to cover me! 
 —-do you call that a home ? Better be like the beasts of the field : the 
 wild beasts have their dens to shelter them ; and they have food, too, for 
 they seize it for themselves ; but what have I ? What have we, poor, 
 toiling, cringing creatures ? Neither home, nor food, nor covering ! We 
 are less cared for than the herds and flocks that we tend, for they have a 
 value ; but we, merely men and women ! we have none ! It is all machi- 
 nery now ; that's the labom-ing man's cm^se ! How can human flesh and 
 bones compete with wood and iron?" 
 
 " Better go home, Becky," repeated the labom-er, wishing to soothe her; 
 " we have something in hand to-night that isn't fit for the lilve of you to 
 look on : our work isn't woman's work." 
 
 " And why not woman's work as well as man's ?" retorted the angry 
 woman ; " do not we suffer as well as you — nay, more than you? for it is 
 for us to sit and watch by the side of the dying husband and the starving 
 child, while you can seek distraction abroad. Not woman's work ! It is 
 w^oman's work, and woman's vengeance ! What are the sufferings of the 
 man compared to the sufferings of the woman ! It is the mother's heart 
 that pines and breaks to see, day by day, and horn- by hour, the wretched- 
 ness of her little ones ! If men are no longer men, and will not right us, 
 we must right ourselves ! I would not see my children starve before my 
 eyes without raising my voice, ay, and my hands too, for help ; and if not 
 for help, for vengeance !" 
 
 " I cannot but say, Becky, that you have had a w^eary time of it ; and 
 the loss of your children has been a grievous trial to you. Nay, Rebecca, 
 I did not mean to pain you ; there ought to be no woman's tears to turn 
 us from our purpose to-night ; but sorrow softens the heart, and God 
 knows you have enough to weep for !" 
 
 " Yes," replied the woman, with an hysterical sob of anguish, "I thought 
 so once ; I thought that sorrow softens the heart ; but now I feel that it 
 hardens the heart ! Who could bear, as I have borne, to see my little 
 children, one by one, pine, and languish, and die ! Wlien they came 
 home from that horrible mill, where hard-hearted savages grind down 
 children's bones to make money for themselves, how I have wept over 
 their strained and wearied limbs and their little fleshless bodies, and cursed 
 their cruel task-masters for their selfishness !" 
 ^ " But even that work, Becky, was better than none." 
 
 " No, it was worse than none ; it was a living death ! None but little 
 helpless children would submit to such wicked treatment. And wlij do 
 they submit ? Because they are weak and helpless, and have none to 
 stand up for them. And I, their mother, was %veak enough, and fool 
 enough, and wicked enough, to destroy my own offspring for the sake of 
 the miserable pittance which they earned by the sacrifice of their child- 
 hood, of their health, and of their lives !" 
 
 " It's a shame to see how little they get for their work, and how ill- 
 treated they are besides," said the man ; " but we will have a change !" 
 
 " Eighteen-pence a- week — that's what they give them; and some of 
 those poor pennies often mulcted by the knaveries practised on the chil- 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. ' 3^ 
 
 dren. Eighteen-pencc a- week for six days' work of fourteen — sixteen ! 
 hours a-day!" 
 
 " Shame !" cried out many voices ; " it's a burning shame ! No man 
 nor woman ought to submit to such cruelty !" 
 
 "Ay ; as the rich found that gi'own men and women would not submit 
 to be put on any longer, they schemed to make the little children their 
 slaves. For cheap, it seems, they must make everything ! They couldn't , 
 make cotton cheaper — the foreigners make 'em pay for that ; nor wood 
 and iron easier to buy ; nor taxes less — come what will, the taxes must be 
 paid — the king sees after that ; so they determined to get it out of the 
 children ; for, poor little things ! 'ihey could not resist. But whose fault 
 was that ? Their parents' fault, to be sure ; and their parents' crime ! 
 My God ! what must the misery of those parents be who can consent to 
 see their little children perish by inches before their eyes, in order to bring 
 in their wretched mite to the scanty weekly store !" 
 
 " It's a shame !" repeated the angry hearers, who had gathered round 
 the childless mother, and were becoming intensely excited by her vehe- 
 mence ; " it's a shame, it is ! and God's curse must be on it, and on those 
 who force the poor to do it !" 
 
 " Oh, you should have seen the poor little things !" continued Rebecca, 
 warming from the sympathy which was shewn to the enumeration of her 
 wrongs, — " you should have seen them, as they crawled home after their 
 wearisome labour ; one crippled, one fevered, another stupid from exhaus- 
 tion ! You should have seen them, as they crawled slowly from their 
 everlasting work to their miserable home ! No play — no shouts — no 
 songs — no sports ! — poor people's children never play ; they only work! — 
 but all sick, and sad — more like old men and women than young, playsome 
 children ! And then, how they slept ! It was like the sleep of the dead ; 
 not the sweet and refreshing repose of childhood, but the feverish, restless 
 sleep of over- worked bodies. They would sink on to the floor in sleep 
 wdth the dry crusts in their mouths, famished though they had been all 
 day, too tired to eat the food that could be found for them. And then 
 the pain and trouble of waking them out of their sickly sleep in the early 
 winter morning, that they might make haste, and trudge through the cold 
 snow, to be in time at the mill. How they shivered, and cried, and tried 
 to force open their aching eyes longing for sleep, and their tired limbs 
 longing for more rest — and cried, and cried again ! And these were my 
 children ! I carried them in my womb — I fed them at my breast — and I 
 sold their hearts' blood for money ! I, their mother, did it — was forced to 
 do it ; forced by want and famine ! And they died ! Yes, they died — all 
 died ! I have now no child — neither husband nor child ! I am alone. 
 They died — but I live ! Yes ; I live to have vengeance on their op- 
 pressors !" 
 
 The rugged natures of the hardy labourers were wildly moved by the 
 rude eloquence of the frantic woman, whose recital of the -wrongs and 
 sufferings of the poor met with ready sympathy from those who had felt 
 so keenly, and who knew so well, the bitterness of the misery she de- 
 scribed. The passions of the men were roused to a pitch of angry fury ; 
 and the murmurings of the meeting rose to a height of excited uproar, 
 drowning all attempts at moderate counsel, when, in the midst of the 
 agitation, Black Will appeared, hot w^ith excitement and breathless with 
 
 D 
 
84 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB : 
 
 haste. At once he assumed the leadership, and addressed the angry 
 multitude with the deep, low voice and repressed action which evinced 
 the unmistakeable determination of a man in earnest. 
 
 " We must be quick, my men," he began, " or we shall lose the chance. 
 Who do you think I left at Sandy Flats ? The son of the great lord of the 
 castle !" 
 
 " The son of the tyrant !'* 
 
 " And what do you think he is come about ? Post haste — ^slashing 
 haste !— four horses there must be to drag one lord ; and not haste enough 
 even that for him. He is coming to put us down." 
 
 " He shan't ! — ^he can't ! — ^he won't put us down !" 
 
 " But he can set spies on us, and hunt us down, and set the soldiers — 
 and those that are worse than soldiers, the cruel yeomanry — on us ; and 
 then there will be a pretty slashing of women with sabres, and thrusting 
 through of children with bayonets. A nice sight for men to see !" 
 
 "But we will die first ! If we stand by one another, the soldiers can 
 never do anything against the numbers of us. A soldier's only a man, 
 after all, when the fight comes hand to hand !" 
 
 "But the young lord is coming to set them at you. He is evennow 
 on the road — on the cross-road, there — to the castle." 
 
 " Fire the castle ! Burn it down ! We won't leave one stone upon 
 another !" 
 
 " But they will be prepared for us ; the young lord is on his way to 
 defend the castle, and to greet us with leaden bullets !" 
 
 " Let us secure him, then. We will gag him, and make him help to 
 burn down his own castle !" 
 
 "And which of you will do it?" 
 
 "All! all!" responded many voices. 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with it/* said the schoolmaster, loudly and 
 eagerly ; " I will have nothing to do with any violence. Violence never 
 did good to a good cause ; it only gives it a bad name, and prejudices 
 those who have the power to help us against all our proceedings." 
 
 " Stand apart, then !" said Black Will. " Only let those have a hand 
 in it who have a mind to it. But no treachery !" 
 
 " I will do nothing in this matter ; and I wiU say nothing ; but I will 
 have no hand in any violence. That's my maxim." 
 
 "A very good maxim for you, schoolmaster, for your tool is your tongue ; 
 but om* tools are our own hands and arms ; and please luck ! we will put 
 'em to work this night in a way that will have more efiect than all the 
 talk of all the schoolmasters that ever taught grammar. And now, my 
 men, who are for seizing the young cub before he reaches his den ?" 
 
 Half-a-dozen determined looking men here stood forward, each armed 
 with a formidable bludgeon. 
 
 "Watch for him," said Black Will, "on the cross-road; then bind his 
 eyes, and bring him here." 
 
 They were about to leave the barn on their desperate mission, when a 
 firm knock was heard at the barn-door. It was opened, and to the aston- 
 ishment of those who were acquainted with his person, Lord Sariun stood 
 before *hem ! 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOK. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ebbecca's wrongs— the revelation of the plot — LORD sarum's peril. 
 
 The young nobleman had left the inn at Sandy Flats, with a pair of tired 
 horses, which he urged on towards the castle, where he expected to hear 
 tidings of her who was the object of his journey ; but the snow had accu- 
 mulated in huge masses on different spots of the unfrequented road, and ifc 
 was with the greatest difficulty that the driver could force his way through 
 the heavy drifts. At last, all further progi-ess became impossible ; the 
 horses' feet balled with the snow : the wheels became encumbered and 
 encrusted with the frozen mass, and the chaise stuck fast. In this diffi- 
 culty. Lord Sarum resolved to mount the saddle-horse of the post-boy, and 
 make the best of his way to the castle, instructing the boy to go back on 
 the other horse to the inn, and get help for the extrication of the chaise. 
 But he soon found that the horse on which he rode rather delayed thar 
 forwarded his progress. Dismounting, therefore, and leaving it to the 
 animal's sagacity to find his way back to his stable, he endeavoured to 
 reach the castle by a short cut. The snow, however, was deep, and his 
 progress difficult. Observing footsteps on the snow in the direction of a 
 large building, which indistinctly shewed itself in the darkness, but which 
 the snow, from its contrast, rendered visible, he bent his steps in that 
 direction, in the hope of procuring a guide, or at least some assistance to 
 help him on his way to the castle. When he reached the door, he was 
 surprised to hear the hubbub of many voices ; but as he had no suspicion of 
 what was going on, he knocked ; and presently found himself in the midst 
 of a band of desperate men. 
 
 As he looked aroimd, he thought he recognised more than one face that 
 was known to him ; and turning his eyes on the remarkable countenance 
 of Black Will, he at once remembered him as the brother of the poacher 
 who had been transported at his father's instance, and of whose trial he 
 had been a spectator shortly before he went abroad. He did not like the 
 looks of the people, for more than one eye scowled on him ; but as he was 
 alone among them, he thought it prudent to exhibit no sign of fear or 
 suspicion ; and nodding to Black Will, he said, " that he was glad to see 
 some one there whom he knew, for he wanted a man to guide him by the 
 shortest and easiest cut to Grandborough Castle." 
 
 There was a dead silence. The throng that a moment before was so 
 tumultuous, was now hushed and still. Those who knew his person feared 
 some mishap, for they thought that he would not thus venture among 
 them without being backed by a sufficient force ; — his story of not knowing 
 the best way to his own castle they looked on as a sham. Others, whose 
 passions had been wound up to the highest pitch, and who were thirsty to 
 vent their anger on some object, regarded his appearance with wonder, 
 d2 
 
86 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 iind almost with superstitious joy, as a victim thrown in their way as it 
 were miraculously, and voluntarily presenting itself for sacrifice. Many 
 who did not know him were dumb-founded at the sudden apparition of a 
 "gentleman" in such a place at such a time, and were puzzled to 
 understand the meaning of his acquaintance with Black Will their re- 
 doubtable leader. 
 
 In the meantime, the frantic Rebecca, her face flushed with passion, 
 and her sunken eyes flaring from their deep sockets with the wild frenzy 
 of insanity, stalked slowly forward, and confronted the young lord. She 
 glared on him for awhile with a fixed and earnest gaze, which seemed to 
 try to search him through and through. 
 
 " I know you," she said, speaking deliberately and solemnly ; — " I know 
 you. Lord Augustus Viscount Sarum ; you were one of the brutes who 
 hounded on the kidnappers of the law to seize on my poor dead husband : 
 I saw you at the trial, talking and smiling with the judge, and helping the 
 lawyers to convict my poor George : yes, it was you, and that tyrant, your 
 father, who made the wife desolate and the child fatherless. And for 
 what ? For stealing one of your lordship's hares for food !" 
 
 " My good woman — " 
 
 " Don't good woman me ! I am not a good woman ; I was a good 
 w^oman once, when my husband and I laboured together, and our children 
 smiled about us. But now I am what you and yom- father have made me." 
 
 ** My good woman " 
 
 " I tell you I am not a good woman ! When my poor husband was 
 sentenced to be transported by your tyrannizing laws, then I felt my poor 
 heart crushed ; but when the news came of the fire in the ship, and that 
 my poor George was bm-nt — yes, burnt — ^bm-nt, I say — burnt to cinders in 
 the flaming ship ! — then I felt that my very brain w\as scorched, and all 
 good departed from me ! My children died one by one ! All died ! And 
 it was you and yom-s who killed them ! Their blood and his blood are on 
 your and your fiither's heads ; and it cries aloud for vengeance ! But you 
 shall sufier for it. — This night your proud castle will blaze and burn ! 
 And why not," she added, tm^ning to the excited men, "why not thrust 
 him into it, and burn him as they burnt my husband ? I will do it !" 
 
 " Rebecca !" exclaimed Black Will, at this indiscreet disclosure of their 
 plans to the heir of the house of Grandborough, " wdiat have you done ? 
 You have betrayed oiu: secret, and now we are all implicated, either in 
 the fact or the intention — and one is as bad as the other, so far as the 
 law goes." 
 
 " Betrayed your secret ! Is that your fear ? Why, what sort of men 
 are you, that fear his telling a secret which you can make him keep r Dead 
 men tell no tales !" 
 
 All those assembled perceived in a moment the danger to which they 
 were now exposed. Here was Lord Sarum among them, and the secret 
 object of their meeting had been disclosed to him who was the very person 
 who could turn it most to their destruction. And he knew many of them, 
 tmd might be able to identify many more. The point was critical. — They 
 had no preconceived plan of shedding blood ; but now it was, " my life or 
 yours !" and the looks of most of those present betrayed the dangerous 
 direction to which their thoughts were turning. Black Will himself 
 seemed troubled to decide on his course of action ; he scanned the faces 
 
LcvL-d Sar 
 
 >v -ilie Lal^oi 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE TOOK,. 37 
 
 of his followers and confederates, and saAv that they reflected his own 
 thoughts ; but still he hesitated to aid in the commission of a crime which 
 he had been far from meditating. Had he met the young lord in conflict, 
 the remembrance of his brother's terrible death, and his overpowering 
 desire of revenge would have prompted him without remorse to take the 
 life of one of a family against whom he cherished habitual hatred. But to 
 kill in cold blood ! to put to death an unarmed and unresisting man ! to 
 butcher him like an animal — the idea was revolting ! — He looked at his 
 companions ; he looked at the young lord in his mortal peril ; he rapidly 
 revolved the danger of letting him go free as a witness against himself, and 
 against those who had confided in /his leadership ; and then he thought of 
 the only alternative left for their safety — the young lord's death ! He 
 passed his hand across his face, and shuddered. 
 
 But now the raging Rebecca raised her voice again, and stimulated the 
 hesitating multitude to action. 
 
 " What are you — men or boys ? Are you only fit to talk, and not to 
 do ? It is deeds, not words, that are wanted in these times ; big words 
 do nothing. Or are you fools ? — I say, are you such fools as not to see 
 that you are all in the power of this lord to do with you as he likes ? — 
 imprison you — transport you — ^hang you — burn you, may be — as my poor 
 George was burnt ! Good news now for your wives and your children I 
 plenty of work for the constables, and the lawyers, and the gallows ! But 
 perhaps they will burn your bowels before yom' face, and then chop off 
 your heads, like gentlemen conspirators. Look to yourselves now, I say ; 
 there stands one of your enemies among you. Let him go free, like fools, 
 and he will hang you all. But, I say, dead men tell no tales !" 
 
 " She is right," said a determined-looking man ; " the woman is right. 
 It is life or death for us ; one life against many lives. There is only one 
 Avay to choose." 
 
 " She is right," repeated many voices ; " it is one life against a hundred* 
 There is only one thing to be done — the lord must die !" 
 
 With that, they rushed upon him and confined his hands, which they 
 bound tightly behind his back. 
 
 "Kill him! kill him!" shrieked Rebecca. '* His death will be sweet 
 to me, for he killed my husband and my childi'cn !" 
 
 " Kill him ! kill him !" repeated the crowd. " The shortest way the 
 better." 
 
 " Hang him up to this beam !" shouted one. 
 " Strangle him anyhow !" cried another. 
 *' Knock him on the head !" 
 
 *' Hold! " cried their leader. " Stay your hands, my men ! Let us see 
 if we cannot secure him without shedding blood !" 
 
 " No ! no !" cried some of the most infm-iated of the men ; " he must 
 die ! Either him or us — one or the other ; and better one life tlian 
 many." 
 
 "My friends — Will Ranger, and you, Rebecca — ^hear me," cried out 
 the young nobleman in this extremity, — " hear me ! I promise you, on 
 my sacred word of honoiu-, that I will keep secret everything that has 
 passed to-night. I assure you, I am on a private affair of the greatest 
 importance." 
 
S8 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 "Was it to set the soldiers on us?" asked one of those who held him, 
 mockingly. 
 
 " No — no ; it was a very different matter !" 
 
 " What was it, then ? Perhaps you can tell us what it was you were 
 after ?" 
 
 " I cannot explain it to you, my friends ; it was a matter altogether 
 private. I cannot tell it to you." 
 
 " Oh, you can't teU us, can't you ? Well, presently you will not be 
 able to tell anybody anything, and that will do nobody any harm. Now, 
 my mates, are you ready ? Hoist him up to the beam in the corner !" 
 
 " Stay a moment, for God's sake ! Reflect on what you are doing. 
 You are about to commit a murder ! A\'Tiat good will my death do you ?" 
 
 " Prevent you from peaching ; that's the good it will do. It's your life 
 or ours — that's the plain matter ; and we had rather it was you than us : 
 —we must take our chance of the rest." 
 
 " But my good men, my good fellows, to do this horrid deed almost 
 within sight of the castle — it is horrible ! — on my father's estate, too " 
 
 "His father's estate!" screamed out the exulting Rebecca — "his father's 
 estate ! How did he get the estate ? Don't we all in the country know 
 how he got it ? That's another of the wicked acts that he and his have to 
 suffer for. Does not the poor lady that they got the lands from still roam 
 about the fields and haunt the old pit ? Ha ! that is his proper burial 
 place ! Cast him into the pit, and then no more will be seen of him, and 
 the curse of the white woman will be fulfilled. To the pit Avith him ! 
 Drag him to the White Woman's Pit, and cast him into it — that's a good 
 doom ; it is almost as good as burning him alive, as they did my hus- 
 band !" And then she laughed, and shrieked, and clapped her hands in 
 madness. But the fervoiu* of her words and the energy of her manner 
 had a powerful effect on the excited auditory who surrounded her. 
 Besides, there was the show of reason in her advice, which was the more 
 palata;ble, as the crowd was really undeteimined as to the mode of the 
 young lord's death, though earnestly resolved on its execution. His death, 
 by casting him from the precipice of the pit, would at the same time 
 accomplish their object by removing for ever the witness of their criminal 
 conspiracy, and serve as a hiding-place for his remains ; while it saved 
 them from the revolting necessity of embruing their hands in his blood, 
 and of being the spectators of his actual death. It was with one consent, 
 therefore, and with a sort of eagerness, that they acceded to the sugges- 
 tion of the mad Rebecca. There were some, however, who strenuously 
 opposed all violent practices ; but their few voices were drowned in the 
 multitude of those more determined, and more alive, perhaps, to the dan- 
 gerous consequences of allowing their victim to go at large. Hastily 
 placing the young nobleman on a hurdle which was opportunely found, 
 and binding him securely to the stakes, they bore him rapidly from the 
 barn towards the White Woman's Pit, which was not more than a mile 
 from the place of meeting, and where Matthew was still holding on with 
 desperate energy to the rope from which was suspended the young peasant 
 who had boldly ventured his life in the attempt to rescue the stranger and 
 her child. 
 
OK, THE ElCn AND THE POOIi. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE "WHITE woman's PIT— THE CHILD —THE VIRTUES OF THE POOR — 
 REFLECTIONS AND RESOLVES — LITTLE FANNY. 
 
 "Steady, lads, and sharp," muttered the man who had assumed the 
 leadership in the terrible act o^ vengeance ; " are we right in the 
 direction of the Pit ? It must be hereabouts ; but the snow covers 
 aU up." 
 
 " Come on," cried Rebecca ; " follow me ; we are close on it. I know 
 the Pit well ; often have I looked down into the dark hole, and wondered 
 what was at the bottom. Ay ! and sometimes I have thought I heard the 
 shrieking of the white woman, complaining of the wrong that was done to 
 her by her oppressors. Fit burial-place for the heir of the house of 
 Grandborough ! and a beautiful bride for a young lord ! I hope she wiU 
 hug him close ! " 
 
 *' Hold your peace, Rebecca," interposed the man, angrily ; " we want 
 no talk to distract us from what we have to do : let us do our work like 
 men — silently and surely. What do you stop for, lass ? go on, or let us 
 go on." 
 
 But Rebecca stood motionless and silent, one arm upraised in an 
 attitude of fixed attention, and the other thrust back, as if to forbid the 
 further progress of the bearers ; her whole appearance betraying the 
 extremity of superstitious awe. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said in a whisper ; " hush ! I see something ! It 
 must be her — the white woman herself — at the edge of the pit ; there she 
 is, waiting for her bridegroom ! Bear him on, my men ; bear him on 
 softly. Wliat ! are you afeeard?" she whispered, scornfully, as her 
 followers, having caught a glimpse of the strange apparition, shrunk back 
 affrighted. " Come on, I say ; it is the living that we have to fear, not 
 the dead!" 
 
 But still the men paused and hesitated. At that moment, a cry was 
 heard, so shrill, so piercing, so unearthly — like a fearful sound of woe 
 wrung from some vexed spirit by more than mortal agony — tliat the 
 bearers suddenly dropped their burthen, and commenced a precipitate 
 retreat. But Rebecca moved boldly on ; and one or two, stimulated by 
 her example, and ashamed to fly from what a woman dared to face, 
 followed in her path. Presently they came near enough to distinguish 
 the form of a man, in the attitude of some desperate struggle. 
 
 " Help ! for God's sake, help ! Come quickly, or I shall leave go ! I 
 can hold on no longer ! " 
 
 " It is Matthew, the woodman," cried out Rebecca. " Come on, lads.— 
 How now, Mat ? you pull as if the white woman was dragging you down 
 to her bed. Why, man, you look as scared and as pale as the young lord 
 did just now, when they bound him to the hm*dle ! " 
 
 " Quick — quick ! " said Matthew ; " catch hold — hold on hard ; for 
 the love of God, hold on ! — there are three human lives depending on that 
 
40 FANHY, THE LITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 cord ! Now di-aw up ; quick, but draw gently. Lord's sake, don't chafer 
 the rope. Is it heavy r" 
 
 The parties who, a few minutes before, were eager for the death of the 
 unfortunate Lord Sarum, were now not less willing to render their assis- 
 tance to save life, although they knew not of whom, or wherefore. Under 
 the superintendence of Matthew, they carefully drew the burthen upwards; 
 and soon the woodman was rejoiced to behold the head and shoulders of 
 his young friend Edward. 
 
 ^* How is it, lad ? Ned, I say, speak ; how is it, lad ?" 
 "He has got a child in his arms," said one of the crowd; " and he 
 clutches it close, too ; but he looks mortal pale ! " 
 
 " Lay him down gently, lads," said Matthew ; " one of you hold him 
 on your knee, and rub him well ; the cold has caught him ; but he'll 
 come too. Carry him, some of ypu, to my cottage yonder, and make a 
 fire of anything you can find : take the door, or the shutter, and burn that, 
 if you can find nothing else. Who has got the child ?" 
 
 Rebecca, with the instinct of woman, had taken the child in her arms, 
 and pressed it closely to her bosom. The sight of the little thing, 
 apparently dead, awoke in her remembrances of other times, and 
 suddenly soothed her frantic violence into melancholy. Tears fell 
 fast from her eyes, as she clasped its little limbs, and, with a mother's 
 habit, handled it tenderly and fondly. The moon, which now shone out 
 clear and bright, revealed her features, lately convulsed with the fury of a 
 maniac, now melting with compassion for the helpless innocent in her 
 arms. She essayed to speak ; but a tide of recollections came over her, 
 and she burst into a passionate flood of tears ! Presently she raised her 
 voice in mournful lamentation :— - 
 
 " It is dead ! " she said, wailingly ; " it is dead ! All that is beautiful, 
 and young, and good, perishes and dies ; evil only remains in the world ; 
 all is blight and misery ! " 
 
 In the meantime, while his companions were listening over and over 
 again to Matthew's account of the fall of the strange woman and the child 
 into the pit, Black Will went back to the spot where the bearers of Lord 
 Sarum had left him, when, in their panic fear, they let fall the hurdle on 
 which he was boimd. 
 
 " Lord Sarum,' he began, " you know me, and you know that yom' life 
 is in my power." 
 
 Lord Sarum made no answer. 
 
 *' You know, too, what bitter wi'ongs I have to avenge ; but it is not 
 this way that I would do it ; it is not by a murder in cold blood that I 
 would right myself ; and a death so dreadful as they would inflict on you 
 — it is too horrible ! " 
 
 Lord Sarum groaned in anguish. 
 
 " I, too, know you, Lord Sarum," continued WiU ; " and I know that 
 if you make a solemn promise, you will not break your word. I can trust 
 you, though they," pointing to the group at a little distance, " cannot. 
 Give me your word of honour, Lord Augustus, that you will never breathe 
 to living being what you have witnessed in the barn this night, and I will 
 set you free." 
 
 Lord Sarum hesitated. — 
 
 *' There is no time to deliberate ; it must be your death, or your word 
 of honour." 
 
OR, THE KICn AND THE TOOR. 41 
 
 ■ " I give It.*' 
 
 *' And now," said Will, as he untied tlie knots which bound the young 
 nobleman to the hurdle, " I advise you at once to make off in the direction 
 of that little mound ; keep that between you and the pit, so that you may 
 not be seen. There is only one knot more, but the cold benumbs my 
 hands ; help yourself, my lord ; I think the men miss me, and are looking 
 about them. "\\^iile they are engaged about the woman that has been 
 lost in the pit, you will have time to escape. We have saved the young 
 lad and the child." 
 
 " Child ! — woman ! — ^^vhat child . and what woman ? What do you 
 mean?" ^ 
 
 " You had better not wait to hear the story ; you are only losing time. . 
 Old Matthew, the woodman, and young Ned Lacey — Gentleman Ned, as 
 we call him — ^^vere looking out for some one they were expecting, when 
 they saw a woman with a child tramping through the snow till she came 
 to the edge of the pit, when she slipped in ; and Ned would be let down 
 to seek after them, Avhile the old man held the other end of the rope ; and 
 we were just in time, for Matthew says he could not have held on another 
 minute ; and the brave lad has saved the child : but the woman being 
 heavier, I suppose was the reason, has gone to the bottom. And now, 
 my lord, the last knot's loosed, and I advise you to make off while you 
 can. No love for you — ^you'll excuse me for saying so, my lord, — but I 
 cannot see a man murdered in cold blood. And do not forget that I trust 
 to your word of honour." 
 
 But to the astonishment of Black Will, the young lord, instead of 
 seeking safety by immediate flight, strode on vrith all his strength to the 
 place where the crowd of his enemies was assembled at the edge of the pit. 
 Will followed, and kept pace with him mth difficulty, wondering what 
 could induce the young nobleman to commit such an act of folly as 
 voluntarily to place himself again in the power of the conspirators, and at 
 a spot so convenient for sudden vengeance. 
 
 While Lord Sarum was hastening to the mouth of the pit, the group 
 around was busily engaged, amidst much curiosity and agitation, in 
 devising means for descending into the pit in search of the woman, the 
 mother of the child. 
 
 " What's this ?" said one of the men, stooping do^vn, and picking up a 
 small gold cross of a peculiar make — "what's this, Mat? Has this 
 anything to do with the woman ?" 
 
 Matthew took the cross in his hand ; turned it over, and examined it ; 
 then it was passed from hand to hand through the crowd ; but although 
 the cross was evidently gold, from its weight, and almost every one of its 
 examiners was in dismal want, not one of them thought of furtively 
 appropriating it to himself. It was returned to the hands of Matthew. 
 
 " And now," said the honest woodman, who had begun to recover his 
 presence of mind, and to resume the quiet energy of his character, " what's 
 to be done about the woman ?" 
 
 As Matthew uttered these words, Lord Sarum rushed in upon the party, 
 with greater wildness in his look than had possessed him in the extremity 
 of his recent peril ; and in a voice of authority and energetic passion, 
 which subdued the minds of the multitude, called out aloud, " Where is 
 the child? — and who was the woman that you talk of? Speak, one of 
 
4^ FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 you I Wliat do you know of this woman ? Where is the nian who saw 
 them fall ?" 
 
 " It was old Matthew who saw it," said several at once, taken by sur- 
 prise by the suddenness of Lord Sarum's appearance, and struck with 
 amazement at his release from his bonds, and his apparent disregard of 
 the consequences of placing himself again in their power : — " It was old 
 I Matthew — this is the man." 
 
 Lord Sarum advanced towards the woodman, who was holding in his 
 hand the golden cross, on which the beams of the moon fell brightly. 
 
 "The child," said Matthew, "is in the arms of yon woman; and this, 
 my lord," for he immediately recognised Lord Sarum, whom he had known 
 from his infancy, — " this cross which was foimd at the edge of the pit, 
 may help you to find out who is the mother." 
 
 Lord Sarum snatched the cross from the old man's hand ; clasped it 
 between his own convulsively, as if fearful to confirm the terrible truth 
 which flashed on him ; and then, with a sort of desperate resolution, held 
 it up towards the moon, and fixed on it a long and earnest gaze. The 
 well-known and long-cherished name of " Francesca" met his eye, and his 
 whole frame shook with the most -violent emotion. The cross fell from his 
 hands ; he rushed to the edge of the pit, as if about to precipitate himself 
 into its abyss. 
 
 " Hold him back, lads," called out Matthew ; " hold him back, or he will 
 be in. The man is beside himself; hold him back, lads, or he will be 
 down the pit ; " and the same men who a short time before had been most 
 clamorous for his death, were now most resolute in holding back the young 
 lord from the death which they themselves would have ruthlessly inflicted, 
 — so strange, so changeful, so mysterious, are the human passions ! 
 
 " My God ! my God !" he exclaimed, in accents of the most piercing 
 grief ; " it cannot be true ! Such a death as this ! — so sudden and so 
 terrible ! Men !'' he cried — " for men you are, and you must have human 
 feelings, — there is a woman lying in the bottom of the pit, — perhaps 
 dead ! — Oh God ! — ^but perhaps alive ; — and if alive, what must be her 
 state ! Lend me your help — rouse yourselves up — you are Englishmen, 
 and have English 'hearts ; this woman must be saved ! Trust to me — trust 
 to the honour of Lord Sarum, who never broke his word, to reward you. 
 Forget the past ; — I forget it ; — I swear to you, that it shall for ever be a 
 secret to all the world. Work hard, my men, work hard ; and your dili- 
 gence to do good shall be full atonement for the crime you meditated, but 
 from which God has spared you. Let one of you instantly make his way 
 to the castle ; say I am here, tell them what has happened, and bid them 
 bring all the help they can — ^horses, ropes, spades, shovels — and let every 
 man come. Run, my man ; every minute you gain is a purse of gold for 
 you. Now, who can go quickest to the village ?" 
 
 "That can I," said a tall man, whose long legs gave promise of rapidity 
 of locomotion: " I know what's wanted." 
 
 " Where is the nearest cottage to take the child to ?" 
 
 "Matthew's is the nearest; but Dame Lacey's is the best — only she is 
 ill." 
 
 " But my dame's with her," said Matthew ; " and it's better the child 
 should go where there's a female to take care of it." 
 
 Lord Sarum approached Rebecca, who exhibited no sign of her late 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOH. 
 
 insane ferocity, but kindly tendered the child to his inspection. He gazed 
 on it ; felt its little face ; kissed it ; and taking a warm handkerchief from 
 his neck, Avrapped it round its body. 
 
 Rebecca looked pleased at this ; and the rude crowd murmured a sym- 
 pathetic soimd of approbation. 
 
 " There is warmth in it," he said ; " make haste, my good woman, to 
 the cottage ; I will reward you well ; — ^but I must stay here. Is the 
 woman to be trusted ?" he asked, as Rebecca moved away towards the 
 cottage of young Lacey's mother. 
 
 " Ay, ay," replied old Matthew : " she has terrible fits sometimes ; but 
 when there's a child in the case, she remembers her own children — though 
 she has lost 'em all, poor thing — and the thought of them makes her wits 
 wander : — But the sight of a young child makes her feel like a mother 
 again." 
 
 Lord Sarum followed her with his eyes till her form was lost in the 
 distance, and then resumed his position of silent despair by the edge of 
 the pit. For some time, he stood apart and alone ; the crowd of labourers 
 having retired, in respect for real grief, the signs of which are not to be 
 mistaken ; though they wondered why the young lord should exhibit such 
 excess of emotion at the death, probable and frightful as it was, of a mere 
 stranger. At last old Matthew approached. 
 
 " It will take some hours," he said, " before the windlass and ropes can 
 be got for us to go down into the pit ; that is, if it's safe to go down at all?" 
 
 "Why not safe?" said Lord Sarum, sharply; " I will go down myself." 
 
 " It's the foul air, my lord, that I mean. We all know something of 
 mines in this country ; and an old mine like this can't be safe, I fear ; but 
 we wiU try ; though it's more than we can hope to find the poor thing 
 alive ; still it's our duty to do our best." 
 
 Lord Sarum cast his eyes down, and sought to penetrate into the dark 
 depths of the abyss. He shuddered : — He could not dare to hope that 
 any human being could survive a fall from a height so fearful. 
 
 " Take care, my lord, the edge is slippery. If I might make bold, I 
 would ask your lordship to come and warm yourself in my hut; you 
 may just see it yonder. It's but a poor place ; but it is better than stay- 
 ing out in the cold." 
 
 " I don't feel the cold ; they will be back from the castle presently ; I 
 will stay here. What is the length of that rope ?" 
 
 " That rope is of no use for the purpose, if you are thinking of that. 
 Young Ned's work has finished it for this time." 
 
 " True," said the young nobleman, " true ; I must not forget to do jus- 
 tice : I ought to see how that brave young fellow gets on. Come, my 
 man, I will go with you. How long have the messengers been gone to 
 to the castle and the village ?" 
 
 " Not more than half-an-hour ; and it must take them some hours to 
 get back." 
 
 " Only half-an-hour ! " repeated Lord Sarum, pressing his hands to his 
 forehead ; " only half-an-hour ! I thought it had been longer : but the 
 cold affects my head, I believe. That brave young fellow — where is he ?" 
 
 " In my hut, my lord, over away yonder." 
 
 "True, true; I had forgotten. Yes; I should like to see him, — it is 
 my dutv to see him. And the child ? Yes ; I remember. Lend me 
 
44 FANNY, THE XITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 your arm, old man — only you. Come, we will see how the preserver of 
 the child gets on." 
 
 He was glad to find the young man almost recovered from the effects of 
 his courageous effort. Edward expressed his desire to assist in recovering 
 the body of the child's mother ; but this Lord Sarum positively forbade. 
 
 "You have done enough for one night, my young friend; the best 
 thing that you can do is to get your supper, and to take something to 
 counteract the effects of the cold. What have you got in the house? I 
 do not suppose you have spirits or wine ; but you might warm some beer, 
 or make some tea ; something to put warmth in the lad." 
 
 Matthew shook his head at this suggestion, and reaching his hand to a 
 shelf by the side of the fireplace, he took down the remains of a coarse 
 loaf, which he placed on the table ; then fiUing a horn cup with water 
 from a brown jug, which stood in a corner, he invited Edward to refresh 
 himself. 
 
 " Is this the best fare that you can give him, my old friend ?" said Lord 
 Sarum to Matthew. " A poor supper after such an exploit !" 
 
 "It is the best that such as we can furnish," replied the woodman; 
 " and glad enough are we to get this," said he, placing his hand on the 
 brown bread ; " and thankful I am for it, for there are many now out of 
 work who would be glad to have this bit of bread for their starving chil- 
 dren." 
 
 The young nobleman was penetrated with the quiet air of resignation 
 with which the old man uttered these few words ; and, notwithstanding 
 the powerful emotions of grief, of hope, and of fear with which he was 
 himself overwhelmed at the terrible adventures of the night, he could not 
 refrain from regarding with a sort of admiration the specimen of humble 
 and virtuous content which stood before him. 
 
 " You were the man who held the rope, while my young friend here 
 hazarded his life to save the — ^the — sufferers ?" 
 
 " I was." 
 
 "And you, my young friend, you deserve some reward for your heroic 
 action. You have certainly saved one life ; and I hope that the recom- 
 pence which you have secured," he added, taking out his purse, and 
 proffering some bank-notes to Edward, " will stimulate you to deserve 
 still more the character which you have gained this night for good feeling 
 and for courage." 
 
 The young peasant started up at these words ; his face, which before 
 was pale, now suddenly grew crimson, and his eyes became moistened 
 with tears of outraged feeling. 
 
 " I did not try to save the child for money," he said ; " and it is not 
 money that will repay me. You would not have offered money to one of 
 your own class," my lord ; " but you think, I suppose, that because I am 
 ])00Y, I have not the feelings nor the pride of a man ; and that I may be 
 paid for saving a life as for so much labour done for hire. But you are 
 mistaken, my lord ; it is not for your money that I would risk my life to save 
 another's. I did it, because it would have been unmanly and base not to 
 do it. Be so good, my lord, as to put your money back again ; to offer it 
 to me is to insult me. I am a man, my lord, though a poor one !" 
 
 " I did not think of hurting your feelings, my young friend," replied 
 the nobleman, " by offering you money; but I will not put it back. Here, 
 
OK, THE men axd the poor. 45 
 
 ■niy good man," offering the bank-notes to Matthew, " do you take it ; 
 you cannot have the same scruples. This money will do you good, and 
 help you to a better supper than dry bread and water, on a winter's 
 night." 
 
 " Me take money for holding young Ned up by the rope !" exclaimed 
 the woodman, firmly, but good-humouredly. "Well, that beats every- 
 thing ! AMiat would my dame say to that ? No, no. But it's very kind 
 of you, my lord, very ; and it's wrong to say that the great folks don't 
 care for the poor. But we don't like to be paid for doing good to one 
 another. You don't understand us, my lord. We like to be paid well 
 for our labour; that's just; but/' take money for not letting go when Ned 
 was hanging to t'other end of the rope ! — God bless you. Lord Augustus, 
 we're made of better stuff than that ! There isn't a labouring man in all 
 the north country would sell himself that way. The dry crust that the 
 poor man earns by his laboui* is pleasanter than all the dainties that money 
 could buy him, got that way." 
 
 " What ! will you not take the money which I freely offer to you ?" 
 
 " No — indeed I won't ; nor Ned neither. What we have done, we have 
 done because it was right; and money would spoil the sweet thoughts of 
 it; wouldn't it, Ned?" 
 
 " I would starve and rot," said Edward, with energy, " before I would 
 accept payment for saving a man's life !" 
 
 " Shew me the way," said Lord Sarum to Edward, "to your mother's 
 cottage." 
 
 The short conversation in the woodman's hut made a powerful impres- 
 sion on the young nobleman, whose mind was attuned by suffering to 
 wholesome reflection. He followed the young peasant in silence, revolving 
 in his mind the fearful events of the last few days, and dwelling with new 
 and awakened feelings on the generous devotion of the rustic inhabitants 
 of the moor. "Are these the men," he said to himself, " on whom we are 
 accustomed to look down as on creatures inferior to us ? And is it such 
 noble hearts as these that we despise and neglect ? Truly, it is not high 
 birth nor fortune that confers real rank. Here is nature's true nobility ! 
 In this humble hut — in all this wretchedness of poverty — the natural 
 dignity of man reveals itself the brighter from the contrast. I feel that I 
 have neglected these poor people, whom it was my duty to foster and 
 protect, and have thought orly of myself. — But there is a lesson, perhaps, 
 in this night's suffering ! — I will profit by it ; I will not forget that I have 
 duties to perform ; and that rank and fortune impose only the greater 
 responsibilities on their possessors." 
 
 " This is our cottage," said Edward. 
 
 Lord Sarum paused for a few moments at the threshold. His mind was 
 agitated by many thoughts. — Was this his child ? Could he doubt it ? 
 Was not the golden cross, which had been foimd at the edge of the fatal 
 pit, evidence of the fact ? But it was possible that it might not be his 
 child. How could he be sure of it ? But, at any rate, he would take care 
 of it, and provide for it, until he had the opportunity of making inquiries 
 in Italy ; or perhaps the dress of the child might assist in clearing up the 
 mystery ? But the cross — the cross ! — the name engraved on it I Could 
 there be any doubt ? Yes ; it must be his child ! " Poor little Fanny 1'* 
 he mentally ejaculated, " this is a sad beginning of your infant life !" 
 
46 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 Could the noble father of that child have looked into futurity, and have 
 foreseen all the adventures and trials to which little Fanny was to be ex- 
 posed, he would have regarded the recent danger from which she had, 
 almost miraculously, escaped, as the least of her many perils I 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 NATURE STRONGER THAN FASHION. — THE FATHER BETRAYS HIMSELF. — 
 WANDERING WITS HAVE OFTEN SHARP EYES. 
 
 In the meantime, the child which had been rescued from a terrible death 
 by the brave daring of the young labourer, had been borne by Rebecca to 
 the cottage of Edward's mother. There it received the assiduous attention 
 of Matthew's wife, assisted by the judicious directions of Mrs. Lacey; 
 but it was not until after the expiration of a considerable time that it 
 began to exhibit any sign of returning animation. Rebecca, in whose 
 changed and subdued demeanour could hardly be recognised the recent 
 furious instigator to Lord Sarum's murder, watched by its side in an 
 attitude of fixed attention. Presently she looked at Margaret, and 
 essayed to speak ; but the thought of the moment when she gazed, for 
 the last time, on the little face of her own child, prematurely killed by 
 disease and want — ^the inevitable consequence, as some political economists 
 affinn, of over-production and over-population — stifled her voice ; and, 
 with a choking in the throat, from the mingled emotions of the rekindling 
 of her own bitter grief, and of the instinctive gladness which is felt at 
 seeing despaired-for life restored, she pointed with her finger to the bed 
 on which the child was lying : — 
 
 *' Bless me !" exclaimed Margaret, as the child opened wide its large 
 black eyes, and seemed to seek for the beloved features which they were 
 accustomed to rest on — "what a beautiful little thing! Did any one 
 ever see such a lovely creature ! Why it's for all the world like one of 
 the little angels that you see painted in a picture — only angels' eyes are 
 "blue — I'm sure I don't know why — and this little thing's eyes are as 
 black as coals ! — I wonder if it can speak ! — it can't be more than eighteen 
 months old ; and what beautiful, black hair — such jetty locks ! Gracious 
 me ! I wonder whose child it is, and where it comes from ? — Poor little 
 soul !" continued the good-natured dame, as she caressed the child kindly, 
 and rubbed its limbs with her hands — " to lose its mother in such a 
 dreadful way ! I suppose, Becky, the poor woman must be stone-dead at 
 the bottom of the pit ? It quite frightens one to think of it !" 
 
 " Better be dead," replied Rebecca, " and lie in the deepest pit that 
 ever was digged by man, than live to sufier all the misery of this wretched 
 ■world ! Poor child ! who knows if it has been a real mercy to save its life ? 
 What is life worth passed in continual pain and want — ^never knowing 
 this day whether you shall get the next day's bread !" 
 
 " That's always your way, Becky ; always groaning and complaining ; 
 .but who knows what this child may come to ? It must have had a father, 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOE. 47 
 
 I suppose ; and, by the look of its clothes, I'm sure it's not a poor pers >n's 
 child ; I wonder what its name is ? Goodness gracious ! I wish some one 
 would come in, and tell us all about it. Who's that at the door?" As 
 she said this, Lord Sarura, followed by Edward, entered the cottage. 
 
 The young nobleman endeavoured to assume an air of calmness, as he 
 returned the respectful greeting of Edward's mother, who, propped up by 
 pillows in a rustic easy chaii*, endeavoured to rise on his entrance. But 
 at that moment the cry of a child was heard from the inner room ; the 
 little sufferer, who had recovered sufficiently to distinguish objects, was 
 frightened at the rude garments and earnest gaze of the half-clad Rebecca, 
 nor was it reassured by the strange features of the homely Margaret. It 
 turned its eyes anxiously from side to side, and, missing the presence of 
 its parent, repeated its plaintive cry of fear. There was something in 
 that cry which went to Lord Sarum's heart ; in spite of the artificial 
 restraint which the members of the aristocratic class are accustomed to 
 impose on all outward exhibition of feeling, the imploring claim as it 
 seemed to him for protection, upset his habitual caution ; — ^nature was too 
 strong for fashion ; and, with a nervous tremulousness which he could not 
 disguise, he stepped into the inner room. 
 
 The child, at his appearance, ceased its cries ; and, as if it recognised, 
 in his mild and gentle features, one of the class to which its infancy had 
 been accustomed, it smiled and held out to him its little arms. It was 
 impossible for Lord Sarum to resist this mute appeal ; he clasped the child 
 fondly to his heart, and the little girl, as if pleased to have found a pro- 
 tector, nestled itself in his bosom. 
 
 " Lord love its little face !" exclaimed the good-humoured Margaret, 
 the urgent necessity for giving vent to her feelings in words overcoming 
 her awe of the presence of a lord ; " did you ever see the like of that, 
 Becky ? Bless the little dear ! it cuddles up to his lordship as if he was its 
 daddy!" 
 
 Lord Sarum made a sudden start at this unsophisticated remark of the 
 worthy dame, and hastily replaced it in Margaret's arms. 
 
 " And how was the poor little thing saved ?" said Margaret, turning to 
 Edward ; — " didn't it fall right into the pit with its mother ?" 
 
 " The child was light," replied the young labourer, *' and it lodged in 
 the snow on a narrow ledge just enough for it to rest on ; the least motion 
 woulu have made it faU off, but the snow was firm enough to keep 
 it where it was, for the woman, who fell down first, jammed the snow up 
 against the ledge as she fell, and that, I think, saved the child." 
 
 " Goodness gracious, how curious ! — ^But you're a brave yoimg fellow, 
 Ned — that's what you are." 
 
 In the meantime, fresh wood had been thro^\^l on the fire, and by the 
 
 light of the flame the soiled and torn garments of the young nobleman 
 
 became visible to the inhabitants of the cottage. The loquacious 
 
 Margaret, who had known him from childhood, did not scruple to express 
 
 ■ her wonder at his dilapidated appearance. 
 
 " Bless me ! Lord Augustus, what has happened to yom* «?lotnf"s ' I 
 declare, they look as if they had been torn off your back I Ihere s the 
 child crying again ; take it out of the bed, Becky, and bring it in here ; I 
 dare say the heat of the fire won't harm it now. It's never right to go 
 near the fire when you are very cold, and especially when you are frozen. 
 
48 TANis^Y, THE LITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 for that alwaj^s makes the limb drop off; but the best thing to do, is to 
 rub the part with snow till it comes to, and the blood circulates ; isn't it, 
 Mrs Lacey ? Goodness me ! what a fancy the child has taken for Lord 
 Augustus; it's your lordship's gold chain that it's after." 
 
 Lord Sarum took the gold chain from his own neck and placed it round 
 that of the child. 
 
 " Well, to be sure ! no wonder children are fond of you, my lord,, when 
 you humour them so. What a beautiful chain ; and a gold one too ; and 
 a seal at the end of it ! May I be so bold as to ask if your lordship knows 
 who were the child's father and mother?" 
 
 This simple question seemed to produce considerable embarrassment in 
 the young nobleman ; leaning his head on his hand, he endeavoured to 
 concentrate his attention on the probabilities of this child being really the 
 true one ; and on the question of the certainty of the mifortunate woman 
 who had lost her life in the pit being his Francesca, He rapidly revolved 
 all the circumstances. The strange com-se of events through which the 
 child's life had been preserved struck him powerfully; had not the 
 labourers at the meeting in the barn resolved on his death, and endeavoured 
 to put their threat into execution, Matthew, the woodman, would not 
 have been succoured, and the child would not have been saved ! From 
 an attempted murder, two lives were preserved ! — His thoughts wandered 
 to the superstitious idea of the common people, that the pit was accursed 
 and haunted, and that there was a fatality about it in which the destiny of 
 his family was involved ; — but such idle fancies, forgotten since childhood, 
 arose only like the phantasmagoria of a troubled brain, and were dismissed 
 as soon as formed. — He bent his faculties to the consideration of the 
 question of the child. — All the probability was in its favour, but there was 
 not certainty ; and the difficulties in which he should involve himself, and 
 the false position in which he should place the child, if he made a mistake 
 as to its identity, presented themselves forcibly to his mind. — If this is 
 my child, he reasoned with himself, and if it is indeed Francesca who has 
 lost her life, in a manner too horrible to contemplate — and as the image 
 of her mangled remains arose to liis imagination, he shuddered with a 
 convulsive agitation, which attracted the attention of those w^ho were 
 respectfully observing him — if this is my child, she has, by birth, (should 
 no son be born,) a claim to vast possessions ; — she is a baroness in her own 
 right ; she is already, in the eye of the law, a personage of importance, 
 with hereditary rights and privileges. But if she is not the true child ; — 
 then, if I hastily and indiscreetly proclaim her as such, I am creating 
 difficulties to the legal acknowledgment of my own child. — What is to be 
 done ? My heart yearns to acknowledge her, but my reason forbids a 
 rash conclusion. Perhaps the discovery of the remains of my poor Fran- 
 cesca may clear up all doubt. In the meantime, it can do no prejudice to 
 the true child, if I provide for this, though a stranger to me ; and should 
 it prove to be my own, then the money is bestowed doubly well. — While 
 he pondered over these thoughts, the silence was suddenly broken by the 
 impatient Margaret, who, bursting with curiosity, and unable to compre- 
 hend why such a simple question should occasion so much disturbance in 
 Lord Sarum, repeated it with variations : — 
 
 " The poor child must have had a father, my lord : as to its mother, 
 poor thing, there cannot be any hope of her now. 1 see your lordship 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 49 
 
 feels it — a kind-hearted young nobleman as you are — and always was, for 
 the matter of that ; — but as to the father, Lord Augustus ; don't you think 
 we ought to try and find out its father ? It's so di'eadful for such a little 
 thing to be without a father or mother ! Don't you think so, Lord Augus- 
 tus ? If it was a boy it wouldn't be so bad ; but, gracious bless us ! what 
 can a girl do in the world without any parents, and with no one to help 
 her ! And she is not a poor person's child ; you may tell that by her 
 clothes. I've looked all over 'em, but there's no mark on any of 'em to 
 show what her name is ; and they're more like a foreigner's clothes than 
 an English child's, to my thinliing. But, of course, the child has a father, 
 and he couldn't be such a brute ^ to desert it." 
 
 " There's many a great gentleman's child has been deserted before now, 
 Margaret," observed Rebecca ; " and more's the shame ; for when they 
 grow up they don't know what to think of themselves ; they're neither 
 common folks, nor gentlefolks. They can't grub with their hands, like a 
 poor woman bred and born ; and they can't be ladies, without money and 
 without friends ; and so they're just nothing, and nothing but misery is 
 their portion." 
 
 " It's very dreadful to think on," said dame Margaret, shaking her head 
 from side to side, with a sympathizing expression. 
 
 " Of all the dreadful conditions in life, high or low," continued Rebecca, 
 warming in her talk, " there is none so miserable as that of a young 
 woman Mdthout property or friends ; I mean a young woman who has not 
 been brought up to earn her bread by the work of her hands — and that 
 lot is bad enough, Heaven knows ! But look at a young woman who has 
 been delicately bred, perhaps ; how is she to get her living ? She can't 
 work in the fields ; she isn't fit for that : she can't go as a servant ; her 
 pride chokes her when she thinks of that. What can she do, then ? Eai"n 
 her bread by her needle ? Scanty is the fare that a poor woman 'can earn 
 that way ! That is the worst life of all ; and then what is to become of 
 her ? If she goes wrong, the whole world of selfish hypocrites, who would 
 not give her a morsel of bread to save her from starving, set up their 
 tongues against her ! A cheap way that of showing how virtuous you are 
 yourself, by crying out against the fallings ofi* of others." 
 
 " It's very dreadful," repeated the sympathizing Margaret, though not 
 quite sure that she understood aU the eloquence of the voluble Rebecca ; 
 *' but there's no need to think that this poor child's father is dead as well 
 as it's mother ; and I can't believe that a man can be such a wretch as to 
 desert his own child — if so be it be his own ; though I know, among the 
 great folks, they can't always be sure where there's such a visiting and a 
 junketing, and all working after their pleasure as if they were mad ! No 
 wonder fine ladies have vertigoes in their heads, and make mistakes some- 
 times, poor things ! in the confusion — ^hiuTying and scurrying about so ! 
 But, in course, as this child must have had a father, it's the father's duty 
 to provide for it — that's what I say ; and I'm sure Lord Augustus, with 
 his good heart, must thinli so too." 
 
 " Certainly, my good dame," said the young nobleman, who had made 
 up his mind as to the course he intended to pursue ; " certainly, but as 
 there may be some difficulty, or some delay, at least, in ascertaining who 
 — that is to say, in ascertaining the fact, I shall request Mrs. Lacey here 
 to take charge of a sum of money for the support of the child, till some- 
 
 E 
 
50 FAN??Y, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 thing conclusive can be known. You will be pleased to apply tbis," he 
 continued, placing a sum of money in Mrs. Lacey's hands, " for the benefit 
 of the child, in the way that you may think best ; and perhaps I may 
 trouble you with some directions or advice on the subject ; but on that 
 point I can speak hereafter. My head aches dreadfully ; I will talk to 
 you some other time." 
 
 "What is the amount of this money, my lord?" asked Edward's 
 mother. 
 
 " I don't know exactly ; , it don't matter at present. Put it up, and 
 take care of it ; I have not made up my mind what to do — that is, what 
 is best to be done." 
 
 *' Yoiu' lordship has a good kind heart of your own," interposed the 
 delighted Margaret — " that's certain. Ah ! Lord Augustus, if all the rich 
 were like you, the poor would not complain as much as they do ! But 
 they feel, more than the want of money, the want of the kind word and 
 the friendly smile of those above them, — that's what it is. Lord Augustus. 
 A pleasant word is sweeter to the poor than the churlish gift — isn't it, 
 Becky?" 
 
 Eebecca, who had remained with her arms crossed and her looks alter- 
 nately wandering from Lord Sarum to the child, regarded, with an air of 
 penetrating and intelligent curiosity, the liberality of the young lord, and 
 his evident anxiety about an infant, which, it was to be presumed, he had 
 never seen before. See made no reply to the observation of the loquacious 
 Margaret, but fixing an inquisitive and earnest look on Lord Sarum, she 
 pointed towards the direction of the pit, and said slowly, and solemnly — 
 *' There is more v/ork to be done before the business of this night is over. 
 I can hear the voices of many men in the distance ; the heljD has arrived, 
 and the pit can now be searched ; and then the body of the unknown 
 woman" — and as she said this she fixed her eyes steadily on the young 
 nobleman — " may perhaps be found !" 
 
 Lord Sarum started up from his seat, kissed the child tenderly, and 
 left the cottage. 
 
 Rebecca smiled grimly at this exhibition of an excess of tenderness 
 •unusual with men towards strange infants : she mused for a moment, as 
 if struck with some sudden thought ; — and then silently followed Lord 
 Sarum and Edward to the mouth of the haunted pit. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE LANDLADY OF THE WHITE BULL. — THE TILLAGE IX A FERMENT. — NEWS OF THE 
 SOLDIERS. — THE TROOPER, 
 
 The directions of Lord Sarum were promptly obeyed at the castle. The 
 excitement of the household was intense, and the whole of the establish- 
 ment capable of rendering assistance, repaired with all haste to the scene 
 of the disaster. All the provisions at hand, v»'ith a plentiful supply of 
 wine and spirits, and a conspicuous cjask of ale in a cart, wore hastily 
 despatched for the refreshment of those collected at the pit. At the same 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 51 
 
 time the news of some terrible accident was spread rapidly tlirough the 
 village in which the hostelry of the Wliite Bull held distinguished station ; 
 and the report of the interest which the heir of the House of Grandborough 
 took in the rescue of the sufferers added increased zeal to the activity of 
 the population. The ostler was roused to intense agitation by the news 
 of the abandonment of his horses near the moor, and the landlady's in- 
 terest in the fate of the unfortunate woman was increased by her anxiety 
 for the safety of her chaise stuck fast in the snow. Summoning her master 
 of the horse, she sat down within the bar to solace herself with a glass of 
 ale with a toast in it, mingling her lamentations for the death of the 
 stranger in the pit with injunctions to the ostler after his cattle. Even 
 the cowboy, at this time of general excitement, when the services of all 
 the male inhabitants within her influence were called into active requisi- 
 tion, became a person of importance. 
 
 " What do you stick there for, with your mouth open, jackanapes ?^' 
 she called out to that much-endm^ing individual, who was standing in a 
 state of the most extraordinarj'' bewilderment, the natural bewilderment of 
 his intellects being aggravated by the general confusion of things around 
 him — " why don't you go and help to get the poor creatures out of the pit, 
 and the poor horses. Heaven knows where ! How many," to the mes- 
 senger who brought the information, " do you say there were w^ho feR 
 inr" 
 
 " Can't say, for sure, how many ; only the yoimg lord is rampaging mad 
 by the side of the pit, and it took all of us together to prevent him fi'om 
 tin-owing himself in, he was so eager after the woman." 
 
 *' Merciful Powers! the young lord going to jump dovv^n the pit ! Bob !" 
 to the ostler, and raising her voice as she set down the untasted glass of 
 ale, " clap a saddle on one of the horses — an old one will do — and get 
 away with you as quick as you can; and take the boy with you on 
 another, that he may come back quick and tell me the news ; he don't 
 Avant a saddle — no need to risk harness when it's not wanted ; and go to 
 Lord Augustus as fast as you can, and say that all the village is coming 
 to, help, and give my duty to him, and remember to say that I have waked 
 up every creature — and don't forget the horses left on the moor. Gracious 
 goodness ! perhaps they will fall down the pit, too, and that would be a 
 job, indeed !" 
 
 " Ay, ay. Missus, leave me alone to look after 'em : I thought no good 
 would come of getting out the poor beasts, tired as they were, and with 
 only half a feed — oats does no good to a horse, bolted that Avay — and 
 taking 'em over that horrid cross-road, that's neither lit for horse nor 
 Christian to drag a chaise through. Come along, lad ; and keep yoiu* 
 mouth shut — do for once; and don't sprawl over the creatur's galled 
 withers that way" — as the boy hastily scrambled on a post-horse ; " how. 
 would you like it yourself?" 
 
 With these professional observations the aged ostler set off on hia 
 en-and, followed by his lieutenant. 
 
 The worthy landlady again betook herself to her glass of ale, and was 
 in the act of putting it to her lips, when a mounted trooper dashed up to 
 the door ; the unfrosted foam which covered his horse, notwithstanding 
 the coldness of the night, indicating the speed to which he had been put. 
 The hurried air of the soldier, as he hastily dismounted, awakened fresh 
 e2 
 
52 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 curiosity ; and the clanking of his broadsword on the stone-step of the 
 door roused the attention of the landlady. She replaced her untasted glass 
 as he entered, and eagerly asked : 
 
 " What's the news now ? What are the soldiers come back for ? I 
 thought they were on the other side of the country by this time." 
 
 "News!" said the trooper; "news enough for one night; but duty 
 first and news afterwards. First let me see to my horse, ma'am, if you 
 please — duty, ma'am — duty before everything; his horse, ma'am, is a 
 soldier's friend ; his companion, ma'am — ^his bedfellow. Now, old Square- 
 nose, let us look to your supper ; — horse first, rider afterwards — that's the 
 maxim, ma'am, of our regiment." 
 
 " And now, ma'am," said the trooper, when he had seen his steed com- 
 fortably disposed, " with your leave, I will try to thaw myself by your 
 fire ; night very cold, ma'am, but the moon bright." 
 
 " In the name of goodness," said the landlady, whose curiosity was 
 roused to a painful pitch, " what is the matter — no more riots, I hope ?" 
 
 " Riots enough, ma'am ; we shall have rough work, I expect, before the 
 night is over. But, upon my soul, I'm quite done up — not with riding, 
 ma'am, that's impossible ; but it's my spirits, ma'am — ^my spirits ! my 
 anxiety for the good of the service ; it's like the sword, ma'am, that wears 
 out the scabbard. But you, ma'am," casting an afiectionate look at the 
 bright pewter mug of ale, which had been prepared with sundry curious 
 condiments, for the especial refection of the landlady, " you always look 
 well ; but, upon my soul, for once, I'm quite done up, exhausted, and 
 dried up, as a man may say ; I don't think I have strength in me to say 
 one word — and such a dreadful affair !" 
 
 " Try this," said the landlady, proffering to the possessor of the dreadful 
 news her own private mug ; " if this ale won't restore a man, nothing will; 
 there's not such ale as this in the whole county." 
 
 "Ma'am, your very good health; — capital stuff"; — capital stuff, cer- 
 tainly ; but the toast takes up a good deal of room," he added, as he tried 
 to squeeze out a few more drops of the generous liquor; "do you know, 
 ma'am, I always think a toast in the pot, when you're thirsty, spoils the 
 draught." 
 
 " It was for myself — that toast," said the landlady, with half a sigh, 
 and with an air which was intended to express her general repudiation of 
 all strong liquors ; — " I drinli so little — only a trifling sip now and then ; 
 but, as you say, such ale as this is meat and drink, both. Try it plain." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am, by all means, if you wish it," replied the trooper, 
 making a gallant salute, intended at once for the dispenser of the drink, 
 and in honour of the foaming mug of ale ; " A man must take something 
 to keep up the stamina ; as I was saying, we shall have rough work yet 
 before the morning." 
 
 " You don't say so ! What, are the rioters out again ? More burn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Burning enough, I'm thinking. Haven't you heard yet of Grana- 
 borough Castle, and young Lord Sarum?" 
 
 " Grandborough Castle, and Lord Sarum ! — Lord Augustus ! — Gracious 
 Heavens ! what about him ? Why the young lord was here only a few 
 hours ago." 
 
 " We are here," replied the trooper, as our parson says, " and, in the 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 53 
 
 "biting of a cartridge, we are there ! Life, ma'am — life, as our parson says, 
 life is like — it was only last Christmas that I heard him preach his 
 sermon to the troop, poor fellows! life says the parson, is like— in short, 
 ma'am, om' parson is the best parson of any regiment in the service ; and 
 
 the jolly old cock loves a bottle and a but that's neither here nor 
 
 there. What I say is this : life wants a stimulus, especially such a cold 
 night as this, and when I have ridden more than twenty miles as hard as 
 old Squarenose could carry me." 
 
 The excellent landlady, who had some experience of the ways of his 
 majesty's troops, took the hint immediately : — 
 
 " Shall I make it gin or brand/?" 
 
 " Brandy, ma'am, by all means ; gin is all very well for the fellows that 
 carry the firelocks ; but for a gentleman in one of his majesty's troops of 
 horse, brandy is the real thing. Pray don't put any water to it, my dear 
 ma'am ; I'll drink it first without, that I may taste the flavour, which," 
 he added, as he tilted the contents of the glass in trooper-like fashion 
 down his throat, " seems really good ; very good ; but, upon my soul, I 
 drank it in such a hurry, I can't say that I felt the real taste of it. Sharp's 
 the word, ma'am, with a soldier; no time to lose — it all belongs to the 
 king, God bless him. But as I was saying, this poor fellow. Lord Sarum 
 ■ — did you say another glass, ma'am ? Certainly, I would not pay you so 
 bad a compliment, ma'am, as to suppose that your excellent brandy could 
 not be drmik a second time. This poor fellow. Lord Sarum " 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! for the love of Heaven, man, drink the brandy ; 
 but tell me, what has happened to Lord Augustus?" 
 
 " Why the rioters have burned down Grandborough Castle, and throwTi 
 Lord Sai'um into one of the old pits — that's all." 
 
 The landlady gave a scream at this astounding information, so pithily 
 conveyed, and showed strong indications of a faint. 
 
 " Take a glass of brandy, ma'am ; there's nothing like it in a fit. Our 
 doctor's wife is always being threatened with fits, which she keeps off 
 with a glass of brandy. They say she learned the habit from drinking the 
 doctor's mixtures for the colonel's wife when she's troubled with the 
 vapours ; though they do make the poor lady a little confused sometimes, 
 I must say. You won't take it ? Then, rather than it should be wasted, 
 I will drink it myself; your better health, ma'am ; and here's confusion 
 to the rascals that mm-dered Lord Sarum ! Our captain — he was a school- 
 fellow, the men say, of Lord Sarum's — our captain's as furious as a mad 
 bull — only he don't show it as some people do. No, ma'am — cool, ma'am, 
 as — as — in short, ma'am, as there's only one glass left in the bottle, I'll 
 just finish it out of compliment to you, ma'am. By George, and just in 
 time too, for I hear the rattle of our men's harness. By St. George, this 
 cold ride through the snow has made my head quite dizzy. Now I suppose 
 we shall be put to work. Damme, if I like cutting and hacking at the 
 poor people that look as hungry as starved wolves. — But to fii^e the castle 
 and murder the young lord — no, by George, that's too bad !" 
 
 The cavalry at this moment drew up opposite the door, and the trooper, 
 with some slight internal misgivings as to the cause of the dizziness in his 
 head, stood forth, and, with one hand negligently placed on the horse- 
 ti'ough, saluted his commander with a military salaam, and presented a 
 letter, which the officer perused with considerable anxiety. 
 
54 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 DESCENT INTO THE PIT. — THE SOLDIERS. — THE COWBOY THE MOST IMPOKTANT 
 PEIISONAGE OF THE TALE. — UNEXPRESSED THOUGHTS ON THE VALUE OP 
 HISTORICAL TESTIMONY. — ACCOXINTS IN THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 It was with great difficulty tliat Lord Sarum was able to reach the 
 mouth of the pit, so great was his exhaustion ; but the overpowering 
 desire to recover at least the remains of the lost Francesca gave a fresh 
 and last stimulus to his over-taxed strength. Large numbers of the 
 labouring population had collected from the village and from the imme- 
 diate neighbom'hood of the castle : and all sorts of reports of the nature 
 and the extent of the disaster were rapidly spread, and eagerly swallowed. 
 In the meantime, the plentiful supply of refreshments was distribut;ed 
 among the crowd, which elicited the most rapturous approbation for 
 the liberality and generosity of the heir of the House of Grandborough. 
 
 Lord Sarum rallied himself ; and at once assumed the direction of the 
 proceedings. 
 
 "Who," he asked with a firm voice, "volunteers to go dovm the 
 pit?" 
 
 There was a dead silence. 
 
 " Is there no man among you," said Lord Sarum, " with courage 
 <2nough to venture ? The ropes are strong, and the windlass firm ; and 
 you must — all of you — know something of a mine in these parts." 
 
 "That's just it," said a man from the crowd; — "Ave know that it is 
 almost certain death to venture into an old mine before the foul air is 
 bloMn out ; it would choke a man before he could call out." 
 
 " Then I will go down alone," said the young nobleman ; — " I will not 
 ask any man to incur a danger which I am not ready to face myself. 
 Matthew, do you stand at the windlass, and be captain for this time. I 
 will go down alone." 
 
 " That indeed he shan't," exclaimed a sturdy miner, the same who had 
 been one of the foremost in seizing the young lord in the bam ; "it shall 
 never be said that a lord went down a mine alone, and a regular miner, 
 that has been an underground captain for as many years as he is old, stood 
 by and didn't lend a hand ! I will go down with the 5'oung lord ; and may- 
 be I shall be able to do what he can't, for I dare say he don't know much 
 of the ways of it. — Now, old Mat, as you're to be captain, take this line 
 in yoiu- hand, and when you feel it pulled with a jerk, stop lowering, and 
 when you feel it pulled hard, haul up hand o^er hand, and lose no time 
 about it ; for I don't expect if we do get to the bottom that we can stay 
 there long. Now, gentleman, get into the basket, and sit still ; for it 
 would be an awkward job for us to sM'-ay about against the sides of the 
 shaft. But, after all, what's the use of going down without a light ; and 
 no one has got a Davy here, I dare say ? and the gear is but clumsy ; but 
 that can't be helped. Well, yomig gentleman, if you v/ill, I won't 
 
OK, THE EICII AND THE roOTv. 55 
 
 desert you; but it's no use, I fear. Now, Mat, lower steady and 
 without starts, and mind you wind up sharp when you feel the line pulled 
 with a strain." 
 
 The moon at this time shone bright and clear ; and the cm-ious 
 spectators, many holding torches, gathered round the mouth of the pit, 
 amidst a silence the most profound, broken only by the creaking of the 
 windlass, as the miner and Lord Sarum were cautiously lowered into its 
 mysterious depths. 
 
 But the silence of the motionless crowd was suddenly broken b}' a 
 rumour, which was repeated, with various emotions of wonder and 
 pprehension, from mouth to ny^uth, that "the soldiers were coming." 
 Those who were conscious of being implicated in the unlawful proceedings 
 in the barn immediately began to disperse. Many others, fearing a fray, 
 and' their desire of personal safety overcoming their curiosity, made the 
 best of their way back to their homes. Only a few remained, those 
 principally who were attached in various ways to the castle, or whose 
 station placed them beyond the suspicion of being connected with the 
 rioters. The rumour was confirmed almost as soon as spread, by the 
 appearance of the soldiers in the distance, ploughing their way through 
 the snow, and extended in military order, so as to cut off as much as 
 possible the retreat of the scattered multitude. At this moment Matthew 
 felt the rope in his hand pulled violently and continuously ; and the basket 
 containing the miner and Lord Sarum was immediately raised to the 
 sm-face, as the captain of the troop, who was accompanied by a magistrate, 
 arrived at the mine. He beheld the young nobleman apparently dead ; 
 and immediately conceiving the idea that he had been murdered, and that 
 it was his dead body that he beheld, he dispatched nearly the whole of 
 his men to capture the runaways, who had exposed themselves to sus- 
 picion by their flight. 
 
 " Take care, my men," he said, *' not to use your swords, except in 
 case of the last necessity. It is our duty to secure the rioters, but not to 
 harm them, if it can possibly be avoided. Secure their persons, but spare 
 them from youi- weapons ; for, remember they are our countrymen, not 
 our enemies." 
 
 Then turning his attention to Lord Sarum ; — 
 
 " Pray heaven ! " he said, " that they have not really mui-dered him I 
 Is he dead r" 
 
 " No ; not dead, I think," said the miner, who had been less affected, 
 and who had been immediately restored by the fresh air ; " you see he is 
 a poor, delicate, weak thing, and couldn't bear the least touch of the damp, 
 but went off in a moment ; and if old Mat hadn't hauled up sharp, it 
 might have been the same with me, for the matter of that; for it stands to 
 reason that a pit that hasn't been worked for so many years must be full 
 of choke ; and it was madness to go down at all. But the young lord 
 would go ; and so of course I couldn't stay behind — I that have been an 
 under-ground captain this many a year." 
 
 " You're a fine fellow," said the officer ; " and I have no doubt Lord 
 Sarum will reward you for yom- assistance." 
 
 " Oh, that's no odds ! " said the miner ; — " I didn't want any reward; 
 but I should like to have work and good wages — that's a truth." 
 
 While the above short colloquy took place, the attentive Matthew wast 
 
56 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 busy in assisting the servants of the castle in recovering their master. 
 Fortunately a can of water was at hand, and the old man dashed it 
 plenteously over his face ; — in a short time Lord Sarum showed signs of 
 returning animation. The experienced miner, who was watching the 
 proceedings, bade them not spare the water : — 
 
 " He is safe now," he said. " You see he has only had a little taste of 
 it. If we had been lowered ten feet more, I doubt if you would have 
 drawn up either of us alive. But he will be all right in a little time." 
 
 Lord Sarum, however, though his pulse was felt to beat, and his 
 breathing could be distinguished, seemed to have been struck with 
 serious illness. Captain Slakepeace recommended that he should be 
 immediately conveyed to the castle ; and a cart having been quickly 
 prepared with a thick layer of straw, he was earned home, and no time 
 was lost in procuring medical assistance. He was imable to speak, and 
 gave no sign of being conscious of what vras passing around him. In 
 truth, the unfortunate young nobleman was suffering under the re- action 
 of the excitement to which he had been exposed for the last three day^ ; 
 and the bodily fatigue and mental emotion with which he had been 
 overwhelmed, had produced a paralysis of the system, by which all con- 
 sciousness was for a time suspended. In this alarming state a messenger 
 was instantly dispatched to Lord Grandborough in London ; while the 
 medical attendant watched his patient, and anticipated the tuin of his 
 disorder with great anxiety. What the physician foresaw, came on with 
 fearful violence : fever, dehrium, and incoherent ravings, showed that the 
 brain had r ceived a shock from which the worst consequences were to be 
 apprehended. Gloom and melancholy anticipations now peiTaded the 
 princely castle ; while the heir to its wide domains remained a helpless 
 and pitiable object on that which it was feared would be his death-bed. 
 
 In the meantime the military had succeeded in capturing a large num- 
 ber of the runaways amenable to the charge of meeting for an imlawfiil 
 purpose, and of conspuing to set fire to Grandborough Castle. The spy 
 w^ho had beti-ayed his comrades, — for on such occasions betrayal may be 
 considered certain, — ^had given ample information for the guidance of the 
 constables to secure most of those who had assembled in the barn ; and 
 the punishment of the law which befell them almost >vithout exception, 
 will long be remembered by the wives and families of those deluded but 
 criminal conspirators. 
 
 AU had now dispersed save three, and the moor was left almost in its 
 accustomed solitude ; only Edward, and Matthew, and the cowboy, the 
 aide-de-camp of the master of the horse at the White BuU, remained. 
 
 " This is a sad business," said Matthew to Edward, " and I suspect, 
 there has been something ^^Tong going forward more than we know of, 
 from the soldiers coming down on us so sudden. WTiat is it, Ned r" 
 
 " Better say nothing about it, Mat ; there was a meeting to-night, and 
 something vras to be done, but I did not know the secret. Black Will was 
 to lead them on ; — but — better not say any more about it." 
 
 " But they're the same set who have had meetings before which you 
 were at. There will be a stir about this ■s^ith the magistrates, depend 
 upon it ; and somehow they will get at every man concerned in it. The 
 law has a strong arm and a long arm, Ned ! and it never answers to go 
 agin it. You must look out sharp for yourself, and be awake ; if there's a 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 57 
 
 warrant sent out for you, they will clap you into gaol before you know 
 where you are, and then to get out is another matter. I don't like the 
 looks of things at all, Ned — I don't, indeed. They won't touch me ; I'm 
 not afeard of that ; but you are all for doing something you don't knov.^ 
 what, and you've got the gift of the gab, and that's just what the great 
 folks are most afeard of." 
 
 " Why — what would you have me do? not hide — or take myself oif?" 
 
 " I don't know whether that wouldn't be best ; but let us bide a bit, and 
 keep a look-out ; better not do an}*thing in a hm-iy. Running away 
 sometimes raises suspicion and gives them the hint to be after you. But 
 what has that lad there, got in his/liand, looking to ? — ^he is gaping with 
 his mouth open as if he had got something to wonder at." 
 
 "It's a gold cross," said Edward, when he reached the admiring cow- 
 boy, who had been amusing himself with kicking up the snow, and in so 
 doing had turned up the golden cross which Lord Sarum had di-opped in 
 his agitation, and w^hich in the general excitement and confusion had been 
 forgotten; "it is a gold cross," taking it from the lad's reluctant hand, 
 and shewing it to Matthew; "who could have dropped such a thing 
 here?" 
 
 " Depend upon it," said Matthew, " this cross was dropped by the 
 woman who fell down the pit ; so it belongs to her child, of course ; and 
 it must be taken care of ; for who knows but that it may be the means of 
 finding out who the mother was, and all about it. So you had better take 
 care of it, Ned ; or let your mother have it — that will be best ; — I dare 
 say Lord Augustus will like to examine it again, when he comes to inquire 
 into the business." 
 
 " Mind, lad," said Edward, to the much disappointed cow-boy, " you 
 gave the cross to me, and I'U be responsible for it ; and this is Matthew 
 the woodman ; he lives in yonder cottage, and he wiU be responsible for 
 it, too ; and I should advise you, my lad, to shut yom* mouth when you 
 have done wondering what all this is about, or the frost may give you a 
 chill in your inside." 
 
 Whether the finder of the ornament which is destined to perform so 
 important a part in this eventful history, attended to the friendly advice of 
 the young labom*er is not exactly known ; but as he appeared the next 
 day before his mistress with his usual open countenance, it is conjectured 
 that his excess of delight at having found so attractive a prize being 
 succeeded by his stiU more excessive astonishment at being so delicately 
 relieved of the responsibility of its possession, produced in him a state of 
 such extraordinary bewilderment as to develope more remarkably than ever 
 on his visage that obstinate peculiarity of expression, which, as the ostler 
 of the White BuU characteristically declared, "was enough to provoke the 
 very bosses out of their wits." 
 
 The stories and rumours which were the consequence of the night's 
 disasters, were many and various. Certain old women, who were con- 
 sidered authorities among the himibler classes in all tilings strange or 
 seemingly supernatural, shook their heads mysteriously, and hinted that 
 the " White woman that haunted the pit was at the bottom of it all I" 
 But the public accounts of the transactions may be best conveyed by the 
 following extracts fi'om the newspapers ; their various relations and com- 
 
58 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 ments being coloured, of course, by the various partialities, political and 
 personal, in which the different writers were pleased to indulge : — 
 
 From "THE MILKANWATER JOURNAL." 
 
 "Our readers will be grieved but not surprised to learn that the wicked 
 attempts of selfish demagogues have again excited the evil passions of the people 
 to acts of unlawful outrage. On Monday night last, the rural village of Sandy- 
 Flats was disturbed from its peaceful slumbers by the alarming report of the con- 
 flagration of Grandborough Castle, the family seat of the noble house to which 
 it gives its title. But, fortunately, the story proved to be untrue, owing to the 
 Castle not having been set fire to, oi*, which is most probable, in consequence of 
 the dampness of the weather. But the circumstance suflSciently proves to what 
 criminal lengths, political hate can drive the infamous disturbers of the public 
 peace, in their attempts to gratify party feeling by acts of private vengeance. 
 
 '* Such disgraceful outrages are the more to be reprehended, as the labouring 
 population of Sandy Flats, under the benevolent care of the Earl of Grand- 
 borough, whose powerful orations in the House of Lords on questions relating to 
 the treatment of the poor, are so justly appreciated, have the advantage of being 
 in constant work, except when those casualties take place which in a highly 
 civilized country must occasionally occur to prevent the demand for their employ- 
 ment. It is due to the employers in the part of the country to which we allude, 
 to state also, that the wages of the labourers amount to six, seven, and in some 
 instances even to eight shillings a week; a sum which, with economy and 
 frugality, and especially considering the low price of potatoes and the coarser 
 sorts of oatmeal, is abundantly sufficient for the support of a labouring man with 
 a large family, more particularly, when it is borne in mind, that the addition of 
 a wife and family, which as some moral and mathematical writers have pointed 
 out in several curious and learned treatises in which the social government of the 
 poor is abstractedly considered, is a luxury to which the labouring man has no 
 sort of right, inasmuch, as it is a privilege properly appertaining to the rich and 
 to the higher classes ; for, as that eminent political economist. Dr. Sawdust, elo- 
 quently observes, * a poor man — that is to say, a man without property, has no 
 business in the world at all, and can be considered only in the light of an intruder, 
 and as an incumbrance on the resources of the rich.' Besides, it is to be taken 
 into account, that poor people are in the habit of bearing privations which would 
 affect very severely the upper classes, and therefore, ought to continue to bear 
 them without murmuring ; and also, that they are accustomed from infancy, as 
 they must necessarily be, to submit, as a matter of course, to many inflictions 
 incident to their lot', and occasionally to dispense altogether with food, which 
 indeed, some ingenious philosophers have taken the pains to prove, is, in their 
 case, rather advantageous than otherwise to the human system. But it is clear 
 that if the people, amidst the many blessings which they enjoy, are so wicked as 
 to fly in the face of Providence and to be discontented with their condition, the 
 unruly must be put down by the strong hand of government ; and it is with heart- 
 felt feelings of grateful satisfaction, therefore, that we congratulate ourselves on 
 the direction of pubHc aff'airs being in the hands of ministers who are determined 
 to control the unreasonable demands of the people, and who, in defiance of the 
 dangerous doctrines of some who call themselves the friends of the poor, 
 and insist on what they ridiculously call * a fair day's wages for a fair day's labour,* 
 are determined to keep their places — in the public esteem, and especially in the 
 good opinion of those who, by the possession of property, have a priority of claim 
 on the attention of the government, by firmly resisting any attempt to deprive his 
 Majesty of councillors as able as they are disinterested." 
 
 From " THE COUNTY FIREBRAND." 
 *'What will ministers say now? How long will the betrayers of their sove- 
 
OR, THE BICH AND THE POOH. 59 
 
 reign and the hard-hearted and selfish oppressors of the people continue to indulge 
 in their base and nefarious tyranny ! Accounts have this moment reached us of 
 a most SAVAGE AND WANTON ATTACK of the licentious soldiery on a peaceable 
 and unarmed population ! It appears, that a rather considerable number of 
 labourers and others were assembled, as we are informed, in an unoccupied build- 
 ing for the purpose of indulging in those harmless festivities, which at this season, 
 of the year are so congenial to the feelings of the English people ; while they were 
 so employed in their harmless and innocent amusements, a body of ferocious 
 cavalry, after ruthlessly discharging their carabines, savagely loaded to the 
 MUZZLES, through the windows, dashed into the building, full of the unsuspecting 
 labourers, and commenced a general massacre of the men, women, and chil- 
 dren ! They were led on by the ^n of the notorious Earl of Grandborough, 
 who, of COURSE, was onlij doing his duty! — but who is Well known and execra- 
 ted for his many cruel oppressions of the labouring poor, especially for the last 
 few years ; during which, the tyrannical overbearing of this scion of NERONIAN 
 despotism has been carried to such a height as almost to drive the people into 
 rebellion. We are credibly informed, from a source on which we can entirely 
 rely, that the labourers were purposely entrapped into the meeting by an agent 
 OF the government, in order that their wholesale slaughter might be more 
 easily effected ! and that the wicked scheme was diabolically concocted between 
 Lord Sarum and the great boroughmonger ! A respectable individual of the 
 name of Simple has manfully come forward to state, that as he was passing in the 
 mail, at no great distance from the scene of BLOOD, there was a report, which 
 somebody had heard from some one, but whose authority is undoubted, that seve- 
 ral tumbrels had been dispatched from the Castle in the direction of the place of 
 massacre, filled with ammunition and all sorts of combustibles, and par- 
 ticularly an immense cask of gunpowder, which one of the miscreants was 
 heard to declare, with fiend-like jocularity, was the strongest ever brewed ! 
 Brewed ! ! ! forsooth ! This is the Christmas fare that the heartless aristocracy 
 BREW for the famishing population— Gunpowder, swords, and bullets ! ! ! 
 An atrocity too atrocious to be believed, by some, even of the present base minis- 
 try ; though we are convinced that any accusation of their infamous designs must 
 fall far short of the truth — if our respectable and enlightened informant had not 
 ^ precise recollection of the fact, from the circumstance of his being in the act of 
 drinking a glass of brandy and water at the time, and that the horrible revelation 
 made him almost fall from his seat, and it was with difficulty that he could raise 
 the brandy to his lips, so powerfully were his nerves affected by the heart- 
 rending information. But will the English people bear this intolerable tyranny? 
 When famine stalks over the land, and the genius of despair sits on the monu- 
 ment of DESOLATION ! While the selfish aristocracy vomit forth their disgusting 
 exultations over the misery of the people, and trample on the liberties of their 
 country ! and the earth is drenched with the gore of the miserable population 
 who roam about seeking in vain for shelter from the universal carnage ! their 
 insides filled with leaden bullets instead of bread, and their outsides stuck full 
 of bayonets instead of raiment, while Heaven looks on from the lurid sky, 
 apd the angels, covering themselves with the clouds for shame, shake their fiery 
 •wings with indignation at the oppressors of the people 1 !!!!!!!! 1 1 !! ! 
 
 From "THE NINKOMPOOP JOURNAL.'' 
 
 ^ "It is with feelings of regret greater than we can possibly express, even if our 
 time and limits would allow, that we learn of some symptoms of discontent in a 
 certain northern county. It is said that the family seat of the noble Earl of 
 Gra — b — ough has been burnt to the ground, but whether by accident or design, 
 we cannot say, because we do not know ; it is added, that his amiable and accom- 
 plished son. Lord S — r — m, who has lately returned from a continental tour, 
 perished in the Jiames. This account, we are happy to say, however, is contra^ 
 
60 PANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER Z 
 
 dieted; though another report states, that his lordship was inhumanly murdered 
 by a wretch known by the name of Matthew the Woodman, who enticed his 
 lordship into his cottage and dispatched him, by forcing him to eat some brown 
 Iread and water. We have reason to believe, however, that this report is not al- 
 together correct, as another correspondent informs us that the lamentable death of 
 his lordship was occasioned by the impertinent jeaZoMsy of a person of low rank, of 
 the name of Will, or Black, on account of a young lady of fascinating beauty and 
 extraordinary personal accomplishments, whose name we are reluctant to bring 
 before the public, and to whom, therefore, in deference to her modesty and mild 
 delicacy of feeling, we can only distantly allude as. Miss R — b — ca H — tch — tt, 
 we presume of Jewish extraction. The young lady having fainted in Lord 
 S — r — m's arms, to whom she was tenderly attached, was discovered in that inter- 
 esting situation by his rival, Mr. Black, (we are not confident as to the name, but 
 the rest of our account may be relied on,) which led to an altercation between the 
 gentlemen. Lord S — r — m, with that characteristic suavity which so much dis- 
 tinguishes — alas ! we must say, did distinguish that elegant young nobleman — 
 politely requested Mr. Black to retire, observing that one gentleman at a time was 
 enough to support one young lady ; but Mr. Black insolently replied, that he would 
 not, for that he (Mr. Black) had as much right to the young lady as him (Lord 
 S — r — m.) A scuffle ensued — Mr. Black impertinently taking hold of the collar 
 of Lord S — r — m's coat, and Lord S — r — m seizing Mr, Black by the scruff of his 
 neck, in which way they pulled each other backwards and forwards for a consid- 
 erable time ; the lady remaining in an unconscious state in Lord S — r — m's arms, 
 but with the instinctive modesty of her sex, taking care that her dress, which was 
 of pink satin with a sky-blue spencer and di filigree lace bonnet, was not too much 
 discomposed. Unfortunately, however, in the struggle for the possession of the 
 lady, the parties approached the edge of a dreadful pit of great depth, popularly 
 supposed to be haunted by a white demon, and the young lady was projected 
 into it with great violence, screaming frightfully; upon which Lord S — i — m in 
 despair, immediately jwwipec? after her, exclaiming, that he would not live \.ithout 
 his R — b — ca, and was followed by Mr. Black. The quarrel was renewed at the 
 bottom of the pit ; and a duel was fought over the supplicating form of the 
 prostrate R — b — ca, whose fall had recovered her from her faint, and both the 
 gentlemen were shot dead on the spot. The unhappy young lady remained at 
 the bottom of the pit, refusing to leave the dead bodies over which she bewailed 
 by turns, and determined to die of grief, notwithstanding the remonstrances of her 
 friends .'" 
 
 Second Edition! 
 " The young lady is still at the bottom of the pit. The landlady of the White 
 Bull has lowered down a bottle of stout and sandioiches, of which the disco 
 solate heroine has slightly partaken." 
 
 Third Edition. 
 ** We stop the press to say that we have nothing further to communicate !" 
 
 From "THE COMMON SENSE REPORTER." 
 
 " Reports have prevailed during the last few days of the destruction of Grand- 
 borough Castle by fire, and rumour went so far as to say, that the fire was the.work 
 of incendiaries, and that Lord Sarum, the eldest son of the noble Earl, had perished 
 in the flames. We are glad to be able to contradict both these reports, although 
 we have reason to believe, that the privations of the labouring population in those 
 districts had risen to such a height as to provoke them to the contemplation of 
 acts of criminal retaliation. We are far from the desire of encouraging the unlawful 
 excesses into which the labouring population have lately been instigated, and we 
 are compelled to say, which they have shewn an inclination too readily to prac- 
 tise ; but at the same time we think it would be prudent, to say nothing on the 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 61 
 
 score of Christian feeling and humanity, for the possessors of property to pay more 
 attention to the social condition of the labouring poor, and to take heed lest the 
 privations and sufferings which they undergo, should provoke in them feelings of 
 discontent so bitter as to alienate their affections from their landlords and em- 
 ployers, their natural guardians and protectors. As Bacon said, long since, * the 
 greatest exciter of rebellion is the hungry belly.' " 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 GRANDBOUOUGH CASTLE. — LADY ELEANOR. — SCORCHED HEARTS, LIKE BURNT TINDER, 
 SOON CATCH FIRE AGAIN. — IN "WELL- CONDUCTED FAMILIES THE MARRIAGE COMES 
 FIRST, AND THE CHRISTENING AFTER. — OMENS. 
 
 Lord Sariim remained for many days incapable of thought or action. 
 When his returning strength enabled him to revolve in his mind the 
 occurrences of that terrible night, he lost no time in dispatching a confi- 
 dential agent to Italy to make inquiries respecting the beautiful Italian, 
 but without giving reason to suspect the sacred ties by which Francesca 
 was united to him. 
 
 His messenger, after a lengthened absence, reported that the lady re- 
 specting whose removal from Italy he was commissioned to inquire, had 
 left her abode at Florence suddenly, with her child. He had been suc- 
 cessful also in tracing the vessel in which she had embarked, and had 
 ascertained the day of its arrival in the port of London. There, however, 
 all knowledge of her was lost ; but Lord Sarum remembered that it was 
 on that day that the supposed begging-letter, unfortunately so lightly 
 treated, had been presented at the family mansion in Jjondon, and on a 
 fragment of which he had recognized the well-known handwriting of 
 Francesca. From London, Lord Sarum had himself traced Francesca, 
 with her infant, to the cross-road leading towards Grandborough Castle ; 
 and the circumstance of the child that had been saved, and the cross of 
 gold bearing her name at the edge of the pit, proved but too clearly that 
 it was no other than Francesca who had met with her death on that night 
 of horrors. The chain of evidence was clear, unbroken, and irresistible ; 
 Francesca, the unhappy Francesca, was dead. — He pondered, on his sick 
 bed, on what course he ought to adopt with regard to his child. — There 
 could be no doubt of her identity. That he ought to acknowledge her at 
 once seemed plainly to be his duty. His love for his lost Francesca, and 
 his affection for her offspring — rendered more dear to him by its mother's 
 death — alike prompted him to recognise his child and to establish her 
 rights without delay. But that proceeding, he considered, would involve 
 the necessity of an explanation with his father, who had no suspicion of 
 the real state of the case : and in his present weak state he felt that it was 
 impossible for him to bear the least mental excitement ; and he dreaded, 
 from habit, to rouse up his father's anger at an act which he knew well 
 would be regarded by him as the very extremity of filial disobedience and 
 of family degradation. He postponed, therefore, the revelation of Fanny's 
 birth for a few days, until he should have sufficient strength to go through 
 the scene which would be the unavoidable accompaniment of the disclo- 
 sure ; and in the meantime he directed the same confidential agent to see 
 
62 FANXY, THE LITTLE MILLIXEH : 
 
 the cMld, and to assure himself of her health and welfare. To his extremo 
 consternation, his agent returned with the information, that the widow 
 Lacey, and her son Edward, with the child, had disappeared ! He had 
 found out that the young labourer had been implicated in the illegal meet- 
 ings of the labourers, and that a warrant had been issued against him, 
 which no doubt was the cause of his flight. 
 
 Here was a fresh cause of embarrassment ! — Lord Sarum gave instruc- 
 tions to his agent to spare neither diligence nor money in endeavouring to 
 discover the place of their retreat, as it was particularly necessary, he 
 said, for the ends of justice, that the young labourer should be secured. 
 But all search was in vain : the hiding-place of the fugitives remained a 
 secret ; and the unfortunate Lord Sarum had a new cause of anxiety in 
 the uncertainty of the fate of his child. 
 
 All these inquiries consumed some months. In the meantime Lady 
 Eleanor, who had arrived at the castle with her father and mother, Lord 
 and Lady St. Austin, two days after the scene at the pit, in pursuance of 
 Lord Grandborough's old invitation, exhibited the most affectionate in- 
 terest in the health of Lord Augustus ; and as soon as he was permitted 
 to leave his room, she united with her mother in paying him all those 
 little attentions which to the suffering mind are never so grateful as when 
 administered by those of the gentler sex, whose sympathy is at once 
 flattering and consoling. Lord Grandborough had been so earnest in his 
 entreaties to Lady St. Austin not to leave him at a time of such deep 
 affliction, that Lord St. Austin, with herself, were easily persuaded to 
 extend their visit ; and the more readily as there was a relationship be- 
 tween the families, and as both parties had their views in promoting the 
 companionship of Lord Augustus and Lady Eleanor. 
 
 Lady Eleanor was young, beautiful, artless, and unsuspicious. She had 
 been the playfellow of Lord Augustus in their infancy ; and the circum- 
 stance of his recent peril and his present melancholy, rather prompted 
 than checked her inclination to resume the terms of their old familiarity. 
 Neither could it escape her observation that her parents would be glad 
 that the early affection of the children should ripen into a more lasting 
 attachment in their now maturer years ; and remarks had dropped from 
 her mother, as if accidentally, which were calculated to induce in her the 
 belief that it required only a little encouragement on her part to draw 
 jfrom the timid and melancholy Lord Sarum the avowal of the love which, 
 it was hinted, he had ardently cherished since their earliest acquaintance. 
 On the other hand. Lord Grandborough took care to point out to his son 
 the kind interest which Lady Eleanor took in his health, and the affec- 
 tionate and sisterly kindness which she exhibited towards him in a multi- 
 tude of trifling, but delicate and flattering, attentions. He took occasion 
 to observe, that it was generally considered in the county, that his mar- 
 riage with Lady Eleanor was a settled thing; and he threw out, cautiously, 
 a few half-expressed suggestions, and more in the way of thinking aloud 
 than of direct observations, in respect to the honourable course which it 
 was the duty of a gentleman to pursue, under circumstances in which he 
 had permitted the lady's name to be compromised by attentions which 
 could only be interpreted as having a certain signification. 
 
 Lord Sarum, on his part, was by nq means insensible to the beauty, the 
 accompHshmcnts, and the evident preference which Lady Eleanor took no 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. ^ 
 
 particular pains to disguise ; and the familiarity with which he had been 
 accustomed to converse with her from his childhood, was calculated to 
 impress on the mind of the lady that his attachment for her was of the 
 nature which her mother had, on more than one occasion, casually referred 
 to. With these dispositions on both sides, it is not surprising that his 
 old flame for the beautiful Eleanor, who was every day present before his 
 eyes, should become revived ; and that the conviction of his own unaltered 
 attachment should be confirmed in a young girl whose heart was ready to 
 receive it. When the noble guests, therefore, took their departure, the 
 parting between Lady Eleanor and Lord Augustus was such as to leave 
 the impression on both, that the 6ne had more to express than he ventured 
 to declare, and that the other had more to confess than she dared to avow;— 
 a state of things quite satisfactory to Lord Grandborough and to Lady St. 
 Austin, who, with great discretion, let things take their course, without 
 making any attempt to force a premature explanation. 
 
 The seat of the St. Austins was not more than fifteen miles from Grand- 
 borough Castle, and as soon as Lord Sarum could bear the fatigue of 
 exercise, it was in that direction that he most frequently bent his course. 
 He had continually expressed his desire to have the old mine cleared out 
 and ventilated, so that it might be properly searched, for the remains of 
 the stranger who had lost her life on that unhappy night; but some 
 objection or obstacle was always opposed by Lord Grandborough, and 
 sometimes his son fancied, with an appearance of obstinacy and design 
 quite unaccountable : " It was necessary for engines to be erected to 
 pump out the water ; part of the mine had fallen in, and much time would 
 be consumed and much expense incurred before an examination could 
 safely be commenced." These and similar excuses were constantly brought 
 forward; but as Lord Sarum expressed his determination to have the mine 
 examined, measures were put in progress, though reluctantly and slowly. 
 In the meantime, the intimacy between Lord Sarum and Lady Eleanor, 
 renewed under circumstances so favourable for its developement, increased 
 daily ; and before the end of the year, Lord St. Austin thought it inciun- 
 bent on him to request some particular conversation with his visitor, and 
 seriously to ask his intentions. Lord Sarum, though it was a question to 
 be expected, was embarrassed when it came to the point ; he requested a 
 day to consider his reply ; it was granted ; but with an air, on the part of 
 Lord St. Austin, of surprise and disappointment. 
 
 Lord Sarum had no doubt of his own inclination^ nor of his duty towards 
 Lady Eleanor ; but some considerations embarrassed him. There was the 
 secret of his former marriage and of the birth of the child, which, though 
 for the present lost, was, he hoped, still living. All his researches after 
 it, however, had been ineffectual, and they might still prove fruitless : — of 
 what use, then, would it be to enter into an explanation which might for 
 ever remain buried in oblivion ? It would only give pain, without bene- 
 fiting the child or any one else ; it vrould not remedy the difficulty. If 
 he should be so fortunate as to recover the little Fanny, it would then be 
 time enough to acknowledge her, and to establish her rights before all the 
 world ; that is, if he could legally prove her identity — that was a puzzling 
 consideration ? Still, that it was his own child, it was impossible for him 
 to doubt in his own mind ; the certainty of her reality, to him, was the 
 same as the certainty of Francesca's death; — the one was the proof of the 
 
64 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 other. In conclusion, he determined to wait the course of events, and in 
 the meantime to endeavoui-, by all possible means, to discover the place 
 of her concealment. But it was not without the most severe mental 
 anguish that he pictured to himself the difficulties and dangers to which 
 his child must be exposed, unprotected and unassisted in the world. — He 
 looked at the case on all sides, but he could see no remedy. — In spite of 
 the grief which it caused to him to contemplate her — suffering, perhaps, 
 all the privations of poverty, he could do nothing ; the child was lost, and 
 he must leave to time, to good fortune, and to his own unremitted exertions, 
 the chance of her recovery. 
 
 Then, turning his thoughts again to Lady Eleanor, he felt that his old 
 attachment to her was increased and confirmed ; nor could he be unaware 
 that such a prize was a treasure which all the world might envy him the 
 possession of. Besides, his alliance with Lady Eleanor, in accordance 
 with his father's long-cherished desire, would be a sort of atonement, he 
 argued, for his clandestine marriage with the humble and fascinating 
 Italian. Even if he was disinclined to marry Eleanor, he could not but 
 admit, as a man of honour, that his public attentions to her had been of 
 such a nature as to expose him to the charge of a dishonourable trifling 
 with a noble girl's affections, if he were not to justify his attentions by a 
 proposal. But there was no necessity for considering the question in that 
 point of view ; — his own inclination went before his duty in the matter. 
 Still there was a reproach lurking in his heart that he was doing an in- 
 justice to the memory of Francesca, by contracting another marriage so 
 soon after her melancholy fate. Only a year had elapsed since that dread- 
 ful night ! But death, alas, had closed over the earthly career of the fond 
 Italian girl, and she was now insensible to joy or grief! It was with a 
 feeling of angry regret that he considered that her remains had not been 
 recovered, in order that he might have paid honour to them in consecrated 
 ground ; and he resolved to make that task his chief care, as a sacred duty, 
 as soon as the means of examining the mine should be completed, a pro- 
 cess which he resolved to use every means to hasten. But, in spite of aU 
 his efforts to that effect, he met, in the obstacles which were quietly thrown 
 in the way, by his father, an impediment which he found it impossible to 
 surmount, as it was unaccountable in its obstinacy to understand, except 
 on the score of the expense, which, however, Lord Sarum was wilHng to 
 defray out of his private funds ; but the mine remained unexamined. 
 
 The earnest desii-e of the Earl of Grandborough, therefore, to unite the 
 two estates, became, in a shorter time than is usual in the completion of 
 aristocratic alliances, happily fulfilled. Lord and Lady St. Austin saw the 
 wish of their life accomplished. Lord Sarum, in the society of a beautiful 
 and accomplished woman, began to forget the bitter afiliction of Fran- 
 cesca's death. A continental tour distracted his attention, for a while, 
 from the question of the clearing out of the old mine ; and, in due time, 
 the birth of a son and heir, the successor to the combined estates of the 
 united families of Grandborough and St. Austin, formed an additional 
 bond of mutual attachment. The Earl could not contain his delight ; in 
 the overflowing of his satisfaction, he directed blankets and provisions, 
 with a copy of his speeches on the social condition of the poor, to be dis- 
 tributed to every one of the retainers on his estate, and great was the 
 rejoicing at Grandborough Castle. The christening was conducted with 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 65 
 
 aliaost royal pomj) ; and Lord Sarum regarded the important little being, 
 on whom was to devolve the honours of the family, with feelings of 
 pardonable pride. But in the midst of the ceremony, the contemplation of 
 the infant recalled to his mind the new and strange feelings of delight 
 with which he had regarded his first child in Italy ; and that child was 
 exposed, perhaps, and even then feufFering, under the numberless privations 
 which afflict the poor ! The image of the living Francesca seemed, with 
 an appalling distinctness of mental vision, to rise up and upbraid him for 
 his marriage with another ! And then the thought of her mouldering 
 remains — unburied and unshrined — overwhelmed him with a secret 
 remorse. The idea became so strong, and the images which had been 
 suggested by some association of the present with the past became so 
 vividly depicted in his imagination, that he grew pale before the sacred 
 font ; — he staggered, and would have fallen, but for the support of those 
 around him. 
 
 The noble guests assembled to do honour to the ceremony regarded 
 with wonder the extraordinary agitation of the father of the illustrious 
 infimt, and Lady Eleanor, at a loss to account for the sudden illness of her 
 husband, regarded him with affectionate alarm. Lord Sarum, however, 
 with an effort, rallied his spirits; he resumed his composure, and the 
 important ceremony was brought reverently to a close. It was remarked, 
 however, that, during the subsequent entertainment. Lord Sarum was of a 
 deadly paleness. Is it that some mysterious intelligence prompts the 
 presentiment of coming ill ? In spite of all his efforts to exhibit appro- 
 priate cheerfulness, on an occasion of such festivity, he could not shake off 
 the obscure apprehension which possessed him of some impending evil. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONTRASTS. — A H*APPY PAIR. — PRACTICAL CHARITY. — LADY ELEANOR VISITS A POOa 
 WOMAN. — STRANGE INFORMATION. — HORRIBLE SUSPICIONS. — DESPAIR. 
 
 The mom was clear and bright which ushered in the day succeeding 
 that of the solemn and gorgeous ceremony of the christening of the infant 
 heir to the titles and domains of the House of Grandborough ; and, as 
 Lady Eleanor gazed on her boy, and presented him to the caresses of her 
 husband, all nature seemed smiling with gladness. Lord Sarum had 
 recovered his usual serenity, and he regarded his son with pride and 
 fondness. 
 
 " We are very happy," said Lady Eleanor, in the fulness of her heart 
 — " we are very happy. I sometimes think, as the story tells us, in the 
 Fairy Tales, that such perfect happiness is too good to last ! We have all 
 the good the world can give us ; but I fear too much prosperity makes us 
 selfish ; I have neglected some of the poor people whom I was accustomed 
 to attend to at home ; I can think only of you, my dear Augustus, and of 
 my own perfect state of happiness. And I have not put in practice my 
 own little plans for doing all the good in my power to the poor about us 
 here, for it seems there must be poor people wherever you go. But rciUly 
 
^6 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER. 
 
 I cannot rest easy if I do not, at least, attempt to lessen the wretchedness that 
 I hear talked of. Positively, I sometimes feel the contrast of our own wealth 
 and luxuries with the privations of the poor quite painfully. If we cannot 
 relieve all, my dear Augustus, we may relieve some. And now don't sujjpose 
 your little wife a political economist, but I really think that more good 
 is done by personal examination into the condition and the wants of poor 
 people than by any other way. It is the timely help that does most good. 
 I know I used to find it so at home — I mean before before our marriage, dear,' 
 for your home is mine now — and a happy home it is. I think I shall carry my 
 little plans into effect at once, if you see no objection ; of course Lord Grand- 
 borough can have none." 
 
 " I am not quite sure of that, my love," replied Lord Sarum, smiling ; 
 ** he has rather decided opinions upon the question of administering 
 relief to the poor ; but I dare say he will not object to anything that yoxi 
 may do." 
 
 " Very well, then, I shall not talk about it any more, but do it. Mrs. 
 Buckram, the housekeeper, seems a very proper sort of person, and I dare 
 say we shall get on very well together. By the bye, I have received a letter 
 this morning from a poor woman who seems to be in a sad condition. She 
 has been in prison, she says, for a long time ; but she writes very well — 
 not at all like a common person. I will send jMrs. Buckram to make 
 inquiries. You would not like me, perhaps, to go myself?" added Lady 
 Eleanor, inquiringly. 
 
 " My love, if your mind is bent upon it, go by all means ; you can take 
 Mrs. Buckram with you. Indeed, I think it a duty incumbent on us to 
 become personally acquainted with the condition of the poor people in the 
 immediate vicinity of our own estates. Go ; and you can tell me Avhat the 
 case is when you come back. I have business that I must attend to ; so, good- 
 bye till dinner-time." 
 
 Lady Eleanor immediately summoned the important Mrs. Buckram, and 
 explained her intentions. 
 
 " Certainly, ma'am, if your ladyship wishes it," replied Mrs. Buckram ; 
 " but your ladyship has no idea what imposition there is among poor people ; 
 and the more you give, the more you may ; it only encourages them to be idle 
 and insolent to their betters ; but, of course, if your ladyship wishes, it shall 
 be done." 
 
 " You can have some wine put in the carriage, and some cold fowls, and 
 anything else that you think would be acceptable, and some tarts for the 
 children, for, of course, there are children, — somehow, poor people always have 
 so many children ! " 
 
 " Really, your ladyship, begging your ladyship's pardon, you will spoil the 
 poor people about us, if you treat them in that way. And as to wine, there is 
 not a poor woman that I ever saw that would not prefer a glass of gin— I beg 
 your ladyship's pardon for mentioning such a word — to all the wine in my 
 lord's cellars. It would be better, if your ladyship would allow me to offer my 
 advice, to give them some good bedding, and blankets, and serviceable clothes, 
 if you must give them something." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Buckram— -I shall take your advice ; but, at any 
 rate, put up something to eat; for it is horrid to hear the poor creatures 
 say they have had nothing to eat for I don't know how long. And desire my 
 maid not to forget to put some silver in my purse; it is awkward not 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOH. §7 
 
 to have money about you, when you want to give a few shillings to a poor 
 person." 
 
 " It may be all very well," observed the unsympathetic housekeeper, 
 " to give money, perhaps, on some particular occasions, as on a marriage 
 or a funeral ; but generally, it all goes to the public-house. In short, 
 yom* ladyship, it does no good to poor people to keep giving them money, 
 and clothes, and food, as some ladies do ; it only teaches them to expect 
 it to come to them as a matter of course, and makes them think they have 
 a sort of right to it ; and then, when they are disappointed, they either go 
 a-begging or get into riots, as they did two years ago, when they iU- 
 treated Lord Augustus so cruelly." 
 
 " Ah ! that was a sad affair ! Lord Augustus never likes me to mention 
 it ; but there is no rioting now, so there can be no fear of my being 
 molested in going about to inquire into the wants of the poor in om* 
 neighbourhood ; and therefore, Mrs. Buckram, if it does not interfere 
 with your duties, I should be glad if you could accompany me in my 
 present visit." 
 
 Lady Eleanor alighted from her carriage at a short distance from a 
 cluster of rude cottages, about two miles from the castle, within the 
 boundaries of the Grandborough estate ; and, assisted by the presence of 
 the housekeeper, she inquired for the residence of a poor woman of the name 
 of " Hatchett," for such was the signature to the letter which she had 
 received. A wretched-looking hut was pointed out to her, to which she 
 made her way, amidst the wondering looks of many an untidy head hastily 
 thrust out of windows without glass, curious to know the object of such a 
 personage in coming on foot to such a place ; while little gi'oups of 
 excessively dirty children, in tattered clothes and with unwashed faces, 
 stood, with their fingers in their mouths, struck with mute astonishment 
 at the apparition of a grand lady in fine clothes smiling at them, and 
 asking them their names, which none of them seemed able to remember. 
 When she reached the door of the hut in which she was informed Mrs. 
 Hatchett was to be found, the high-born lady paused and looked uneasily 
 at the housekeeper. 
 
 " You had better not go in, my lady," said Mrs. Buckram, " there is no 
 knowing what fevers you may meet with in these places. Perhaps the 
 poor woman can come out and talk in the open air." Saying tms, she 
 knocked at the door authoritatively with her parasol. 
 
 " Come in ! " said a low voice. 
 
 *' Are you Mrs. Hatchett," asked the housekeeper, raising her voice 
 and speaking through the thin door, " who wrote a letter to Lady 
 Sarum?" 
 
 " I believe I am," answered the voice ; " but what I am I hardly 
 know." 
 
 " My lady is at the door, and if you wish to speak to her you must 
 come out." 
 
 " If Lady Sarum wishes to see me, she must come in," retumecj tjie 
 voice. 
 
 " It's a mad woman, for certain," said the housekeeper to Lady Sarum. 
 " Good heavens ! this comes of going about to these people's places. 
 Begging your ladyship's pardon, I never knew any good come of it, only 
 abuse and ill-will. Your ladyship had better get back to the carriage as 
 fast as you can." 
 F 2 
 
68 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE I 
 
 " I am ill," said the voice from witMn the hut, " and I cannot raise 
 myself up ; but I can tell that to Lady Sarum which it may be well for 
 her to know ; but she must be alone." 
 
 " Oh, heavens, my lady ! for goodness' sake don't venture into such a 
 place alone. Suppose you were to catch some disease ; or suppose the 
 woman is mad ; mad people do such dreadful things ! I'm sure some harm 
 will come of it. Well, if your ladyship is determined, I will try to run 
 back, and get the carriage up, lest the men should be wanted to protect 
 you." So saying, the portly Mrs. Buckram set off at a pace as nearly 
 resembling a run as her sense of dignity would permit ; and Lady Eleanor 
 entered the hut. 
 
 The dwelling, if dwelling it could be called — for the noble owner of the 
 domains on which it stood would not have allowed his dogs to lie in such 
 a hole — consisted of a single room. There was no fire, although the 
 season, the beginning of November, was very cold. There was not an 
 article of furniture in the place, and the floor was of earth damp and 
 green with moisture. In one corner, on a bed composed of a collection of 
 old rags on the earthen floor, lay a woman of singular and forbidding 
 aspect. No words were wanted to explain her condition ; the place was 
 the exhibition of the last degree of poverty and want, as the woman was 
 the personification of the ^ last degree of human wretchedness. The con- 
 trast between the rich and the poor was never more vividly exemplified ; 
 the rich child of Fortune's favours looked down on one of the most 
 miserable of the miserable poor. The two extremes of wealth and poverty 
 were brought face to face : the sick woman fixed her hollow eyes on 
 the radiant features of her visitor, and regarded her with admiration : — 
 
 "You are very beautiful," she said; "and you bear on your brow 
 the mark of the world's prosperity : pity that such happiness should 
 change ! — but it is a judgment on them," she continued, muttering to 
 herself; " it is a judgment ! " 
 
 Lady Eleanor was a little frightened. There was something about the 
 woman's manner, and especially about her eyes, which, though sunk deep 
 in their sockets, were wonderfully bright, which seemed to betray insanity. 
 With a desire to soothe the wretched creature, she asked her, in a kind 
 voice, what she could do to relieve her ? 
 
 " Nothing — Death will soon relieve me ; that is the only restiDg-place 
 for the poor; and death is now all I have to hope for." 
 
 " My poor woman," said Lady Eleanor, looking out anxiously at the 
 same time for the arrival of her carriage, " this is a sad condition for you 
 to be in. Have you been in this state long ? " 
 
 " My last home was a prison ; between this and that, there is not much 
 to choose, except one's liberty ; and what is that worth ? — only the liberty 
 to starve in one place instead of another." 
 
 " I am very sorrj^ for your sufferings, my poor vroman ; I am, I 
 assure you. Why was it that you were put in prison ; I hope for nothing 
 wrong ? " 
 
 " Wrong ! Do you know to whom you ai-e speaking ? " 
 
 " Your name is Hatchett — is it not ? " 
 
 " That was my husband's name. Do you know who killed my husband? 
 It was your Lord Sarum. — Now do you know me ?" 
 
 " My good woman, I know nothing of you ; but I wdll give directions 
 for the necessary relief to be sent to you directly." 
 
Tlie 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR, 69 
 
 *' Stay ! you must know more before you go. Do you remember 
 when Lord Samm's life was threatened, two years ago, at the White 
 Woman's Pit ! " 
 
 " I have heard the story ; but I do not wish to heai* anything on that 
 subject. I will send " 
 
 " But you must hear. Do you know that it was your Lord Sarum, all 
 the time, who betrayed us, in spite of his oaths, and who brought down 
 the soldiers on us that night ? Ay — fine work for the aristocracy and the 
 magistrates ! and well did they glut themselves in their cruelties on the 
 people ! How many were transported, leaving their wives and children 
 to starve ! how many were ca^ into dungeons, to rot and curse their 
 oppressors ! And they put me into their prison ! It was all Lord Sarum' s 
 vrork ! Do you know that, proud lady ? — But I have a vengeance in store, 
 and I thank him for his imprisonment of me; yes, I thank him! for 
 there I learnt that which will make him curse his existence, and which 
 mil tear up by the roots the honours of his proud family for ever and 
 ever !" 
 
 " Woman, what is it you say ; and why have you enticed me here to 
 listen to your wicked falsehoods of my husband ? What is it you mean 
 by your threats of vengeance ?" 
 
 " Lady Eleanor Sarum, listen to me : Lord Sarum, and Lord Sarum's 
 father, and the rich and hard-hearted such as they, have brought me to 
 the ruin and the wretchedness which you see ! It was they who killed 
 my husband! It was they who murdered my children! It was they 
 who have made me the wretched — and the wicked — and the maddened 
 thing, which idle fools are glad to scoff at ! It was I who urged the 
 angry labourers to cast your husband into the Haunted Pit — the pit Avhich 
 has a curse on it — and which is a pit of vengeance to him and his ! — Yes, 
 it was I ! Now you know who and what I am ; — I am Bebecca !" 
 
 Lady Eleanor shrieked aloud ! 
 
 " And now go home and tell your husband that the woman who lost 
 her life that night was not the mother of the child." — 
 
 Lady Eleanor, in spite of her fear, found her attention irresistibly 
 attracted by these words. 
 
 " No ; the mother was taken ill on her way to Grandborough Castle ; 
 she thought she was dying, but she did not die ; but thinking so, sho 
 confided her infant to the care of the wife of a labouring man, who died 
 in the gaol in which I was confined. There was a cross, too, of gold, and 
 a little gold casket, which she was to give to Lord Sarum, to prove the 
 identity of the child. But the gold tempted her, and him, too, for the 
 man told me all ; he was dying, and his mind was ill at case ; but she 
 missed the track across the niQQiv he supposed, for the ground was 
 covered -with snow ; and it was m6 who fell down the hole of the old 
 mine." 
 
 " But what," asked Lady Eleanor, almost beseechingly, " has Lord 
 Sarum to do with that?" 
 
 "Ask him — no doubt he will tell you; but that is his secret: I say, 
 ask him ; — and when you tell to him what I now tell to you, mark him 
 well ; — and ask yourself which is the most miserable ? — the ^vretch who 
 now lies in rags, and filth, and poverty, and disease, before you, or the 
 heir of the House of Grandborough ? with his beautiful wife — ^his new-born 
 
70 FANI5Y, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 son — and with all his titles, wealth, and honours thick upon him !— ask 
 yourself, I say, which is the wretch most wretched? and then my 
 vengeance will be completed ! Go ; I will say no more." 
 
 It was fortunate that Lady Eleanor's carriage came up at this moment, 
 with the housekeeper and her servants, for she felt a faintness and a 
 sickness of the heart, as if the veil over the obscurity of the past had been 
 suddenly rent away ; and her soid was filled with a gloomy terror of some 
 dark and threatening misfortune. She arrived at the castle without having 
 exchanged a word with the amazed Mrs. Buckram, who, from respect, 
 preserved silence; not doubting in her own mind, however, that her 
 ladyship was effectually cured of her freak of poking about after poor 
 people in their wretched habitations; an indiscretion into which she 
 herself had never had the weakness to fall — so entirely did she agree in 
 the charitable opinions of her noble master, the Earl of Grandborough, who 
 had been pleased, occasionally, to expatiate on the subject to one who 
 was such an enlightened and deferential auditor. 
 
 Immediately on her arrival at the castle. Lady Eleanor shut herself up 
 in her dressing-room to reflect on the extraordinary communication of the 
 mad woman. It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, so 
 as steadily to consider the effect of what she had heard. She remembered 
 that the remarkable interest exhibited by her husband on the night of the 
 accident had been commented on at the time ; but any loose surmises 
 that might have temporarily been excited, had long since died away ; nor 
 did she clearly understand what those surmises were, which would never 
 have recurred to her memory but for the vague suspicion raised in her 
 mind by the insinuation of a woman whose wits apparently were wander- 
 ing. And, after all, what did it amount to? Lord Sarum had been 
 involved, perhaps, in some passing attachment ? — ^but here a twinge of 
 pain cut her so sharply, that she arose, and pacing the room in agitation, 
 shed some scalding tears. — She determined to see the strange woman 
 again, and gain from her more precise particulars ; but that course she 
 felt, on second thoughts, would be derogatory to herself, and an im worthy 
 inquisitiveness into the secrets of her husband. " Besides," as she 
 repeated to herself, " what was it after all ?" It was over now — past — 
 forgotten ; — ^but a secret feeling told her, that by her it would never be 
 forgotten ! — What should she do ? Who could advise her ? She had a 
 gnawing desire to get at the fact ; not the craving of vulgar curiosity, 
 but the deep and earnest desire, for the sake of her own peace, for her 
 guidance towards her husband, and for the happiness of both, to Imow the 
 truth ; to know it ; to bear it ; and to bury it in oblivion. At last — 
 perplexed and feverish, she resolved to tell the whole story to her husband. 
 As she formed this resolution, Lord Sarum, as if forestalling her intention, 
 entered ; and inquired the result of her visit to the poor woman ? 
 
 Lady Eleanor was visibly agitated, and was obliged to sit down. 
 
 "You have been agitated, my love, and you look quite pale; these 
 visits are too much for you. What is it that you have seen ?" 
 
 " I have seen," said Lady Eleanor, speaking slowly and with difficulty, 
 " a strange mad woman, who calls herself — Rebecca !" 
 
 " That is a name," said Lord Sarum, passing his hand over his forehead, 
 " which brings to my memory terrible recollections. Was she a dark 
 woman — wild, with bright staring eyes ?" 
 
OK, THE EICH AND THE POOB. 7J 
 
 "She was." 
 
 " It is the same. That woman, Eleanor, had nearly caused my death ; 
 but she has suffered imprisonment for the part she took at that awful 
 meeting. I have forgiven her; and if the poor woman is in distress, I 
 would willingly relieve her !" 
 
 " She seems not to have forgiven you, Augustus," said Lady Eleanor ; 
 — " But the woman must be mad." 
 
 " Yes, she is mad." 
 
 " She said something very odd about that night, and about the White 
 Woman's pit," continued Lady Eleanor, trembling ; " not that I can see 
 how it concerns you or me ; — but she seemed very earnest about it." 
 
 Lord Sarum changed colour slightly. " What did she say ?" 
 
 " I hardly remember ; — in truth, I was a little frightened, and I was 
 confused ; but she said that while she was in prison, she heard from a 
 man who was confined there — ^who had been implicatai in some illeo"al 
 meetings — she heard from that man that the child " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 *' No — the mother — that is, the woman who fell into the pit, was '* 
 
 "Was who?" 
 
 " Was not the mother of the child, but was his own wife, to whom the 
 mother had entrusted the child to carry to this castle ; — and that she was 
 the woman who met with her death ; — and that the real mother of the 
 
 child But, my God ! Augustus, what is the matter with you ? You 
 
 look ghastly!" 
 
 "Goon."— 
 
 " She said that the real mother of the child is — alive !'* 
 
 " What else ?"— 
 
 " No more." 
 
 ** She said that the mother of the child is alive ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but Augustus — dear Augustus — what is the matter with you ? 
 You grow paler — you reel — ^you faint ! Help ! — Lord Augustus is dead I 
 Help ! oh, help — ^lie is dead — he is dead !" 
 
 Several attendants rushed in at the sound of the piercing shrieks of 
 Lady Eleanor, while her husband dropped heavily on the floor, and lay- 
 without sense or motion. 
 
 CHAPTER XHL 
 
 THOSE WHO ARB MOST ENVIED AEE SOMETIMES MOST TO BE PITIED. — LORD SARUm's 
 MELANCHOLY. — REPENTANT REFLECTIONS USUALLY MADE TOO LATE. — RICHES 
 AND RANK CANNOT CURE THE PANGS OF CONSCIENCE. — WHILE THE WRETCHED 
 MOURN, TIME MOVES ON. — THE DAUGHTER OF FRANCESCA MINGLES WITH 
 ARISTOCRATIC SCENES AS FANNY THE LITTLE MILLINER. 
 
 By prompt medical attention. Lord Sarum was recovered. But nothing 
 could induce him to remain in bed. He got up, and immediately sought 
 an interview with his father. 
 
 Little suspecting that the Earl could know^ anything relating to 
 Francesca, he stated merely that it was necessary for him to ascertain 
 
73 FINNY, THE LTTTLE milliner: 
 
 who the stranger was who had lost her life in the mine tw6 years ago ; 
 and that it was his positive determination to hav.e the mine minutely 
 examined, if it cost him even all his fortune. There was a sternness in 
 the expression of his son's resolve which over-awed Lord Grandborough ; 
 his lips quivered and his speech faltered as he muttered a consent to 
 whatever his son might choose to have done ; and directions were given 
 on the spot for the preparations to be hastened, without regard to difficulty 
 or expense. Lord Sarum then mounted his horse, and proceeded to the 
 cluster of huts, in one of which Lady Eleanor had heard the distracting 
 information from Rebecca; but Rebecca had disappeared. With the 
 waywardness of madness she had left her miserable dwelling-place, and 
 an access of fever giving her artificial strength, she had wandered no one 
 knew whither. Search after her was instantly made ; but all trace of her 
 seemed lost. 
 
 Lord Sarum then bent all his exertions to the examination of the old 
 mine. By almost incredible exertions, in a few days it was safe for the 
 descent of the miners whom he had engaged to make the investigation. 
 They had no difficulty in finding the remains of the woman who had been 
 precipitated down the shaft two years before. Decomposition had long 
 since taken place ; but sufficient remained to enable those who had known 
 her to identify the body. A surgical examination made it clear that it 
 was the body of a woman advanced in years : the colour of her hair, which 
 was light, was remembered ; and by marks on her clothes, which evidently 
 had belonged to one of the humbler class, all doubt was removed of her 
 being the wife of a labom-ing man, who had resided in a solitary cottage 
 near the entrance of the cross-road, about three miles from the village of 
 Sandy Flats. All these circumstances were carefully verified under the 
 superintendence of the legal authorities, and the note of them preserved. 
 The examination of Matthew the woodman proved clearly how the accident 
 happened ; and the veracity of his statement was confinned by the 
 testimony of numerous witnesses, who had been present when the child 
 was recovered from the pit. Strict inquiries were now made for the 
 mother ; but all the researches of the magistrates were in vain. Who 
 were the relations of the child, or what had become of the child itself, 
 remained buried in profound mystery. Lord Sarum questioned the wood* 
 man as to his knowledge of the hiding-place of Edward Lacey. He had 
 questioned him before, at the time of the child's disappearance ; but the 
 woodman declared now, as he had affirmed then, that he was ignorant of 
 the place of his retreat. 
 
 In this state of uncertainty and doubt. Lord Sarum was obliged to buiy 
 the^ secret in his own breast, and suffer in silence all the horror of his 
 position. Francesca might or might not be alive. — Could he dare to wish 
 that she was dead? How could he summon up fortitude enough to 
 believe that she was alive ! Frightful alternative !— on whichever side 
 contemplation rested, there was misery and despair ! What was his con- 
 dition, if Francesca was still living — ^he was maddened at the thought ! 
 In that case, which was his wife ? What was Lady Eleanor ? What was 
 his son ? If Francesca still lived, his second marriage was illegal, and its 
 issue illegitimate ! Which was the greater evil of the two — Francesca 
 alive, or Francesca dead ? Must he think, that, to save the honour of a 
 noble family, to save from a despair too horrible to contemplate, his wife 
 
OB, THE mcrf AND TSE POOR. 73 
 
 —could he dare to call her so ? — ^Eleanor, whom he tenderly loved ; — to 
 preserve the rights of his son, — must he think that the death of Francesca 
 was an event devoutly to be wished ? Was ever wretch exposed to an 
 alternative so strange and horrible ! And then his thoughts reverted to 
 that night, the beginning of his troubles, when the begging letter was 
 presented at his father's house in London ! He gnashed his teeth in 
 frenzy, as he thought, that if he had only looked at that which he supposed 
 .Was a mere miserable supplication for charitable relief, all these difficul- 
 ties and all this agony might have been saved ! But it was too late ; the 
 fatal neglect was committed, aivd terrible was its punishment! All 
 happiness for him M'as gone for ever ! He had lost the salt and savour of 
 life ; — his heart was seared and withered : the future presented only the 
 aspect of a weary pilgrimage through the world; — a life of doubt, of 
 mystery, of fear — of ultimate disclosure ! But still it was his duty to live ; 
 all probability was against him, but there was one chance left — Francesca 
 might be dead ! Most wretched chance ! most miserable hope ! But his 
 duty was to live ; to fathom the mystery, and to recover his first child — 
 but for what ? To legitimatize her ? but that would illegitimatize the son! 
 But still, under any circumstances, it was his duty to provide for her. 
 That he would do ; and one of his first cares now was to find her and 
 protect her. But all his inquiries were still in vain; as well as his diligent 
 search to trace out, tlu-ough alLItaly, any information of Francesca. He 
 began to believe that she must be really dead ; but his mind continued a 
 prey to continual doubts and fears, which entirely changed his character, 
 and filled Avith constant alarm the devoted Eleanor, who only redoubled 
 her attentions and the expressions of her constant love, as the mind of her 
 husband exhibited signs of deeper and deeper melancholy. 
 
 Lord Grandborough became an altered man ; he sometimes dropped 
 expressions of sorrow for some act that he had done, which seemed to 
 argue bitter and deep repentance. His former coldness and austerity of 
 manner towards applicants for relief was now changed into an indulgence 
 of charity amounting to weakness : it seemed as if he was desirous to 
 atone for one act of hardness of heart, which had occasioned so many 
 sorrows, by the multitude of his donations, and by an excess of benevo- 
 lence. The young Lord Augustus ^-ew up a fine and manly youth, and 
 his father beheld him with pride and joy, and with grief and fear, by 
 turns. In this state, years passed away, and the mystery remained 
 unsolved. 
 
 The fortunes of the long-lost child now demand attention ; and the 
 course of history turns to the adventures and the perils of Fanny, the 
 Little Milliner. 
 
74 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LORD SARTTM IN LONDON. — FANNY AT HOME. — EXPLANATIONS. 
 
 FoTJETEEN years passed away, and the mystery remained unsolved. Lord 
 Sarum was still exposed to all the horrors of uncertainty ; — the unknown 
 fate of the child ; the inexplicable disappearance of Francesca ; the doubt 
 which the uncertainty of Francesca's life or death cast on the legality of 
 his marriage with Lady Eleanor ; the questionable right of his son to the 
 family titles and estates ; — all these doubts and fears grieved, perplexed, 
 and maddened him by turns. He lived in constant terror ; — with a fearful 
 secret which he could not dare to tell, but which he was in daily dread 
 some accident might ignominiously reveal. From an undefined feeling 
 of hope that his presence in the neighbourhood of the terrible events long 
 past might be the means of arriving at some clue to the mystery which 
 had so long embittered his unhappy life, he had resided at Grandborough 
 Castle, occupied chiefly in devising schemes for tracing the flight of the 
 young labourer, Edward Lacey, and of ascertaining the fact of the decease 
 of Francesca. At last he determined on again visiting Italy, and on 
 making a systematic search of all the convents and religious houses in the 
 Italian States, and especially on endeavoming to discover the clergyman 
 by whom he had been married to Francesca, and who he judged might 
 possibly be acquainted with the place of her concealment, if she was still 
 alive. With this view, he proposed to Lady Eleanor that they should 
 remove to town, preparatory to his journey, in order that she might have 
 the benefit of change of scene, and the advantage of the society of her 
 father and mother during his absence. Lord Grandborough seemed 
 strangely opposed to Lord Sarum' s visiting Italy again, and, was earnest 
 in his inquiries as to his son's motive in taking such a journey ; but Lord 
 Sarum alleged the state of his health, his desire for change of air in another 
 climate for a short time, and his wish to procure some works of art, which, 
 he had been informed, were on sale at Florence, and which he thought 
 would form appropriate additions to the embelhshments of Grandborough 
 Castle. The earl, who had resided with his son and daughter-in-law since 
 their marriage, and who had always exhibited a sensitive disinclination to 
 leave them for a moment, made many frivolous but pertinacious objections 
 to his son's departure ; but his peevish complaints were considered by 
 Lord Sarum as mere ebullitions of the fretfulness consequent on his 
 father's precarious state of health and increasing infirmities. The neces- 
 sary arrangements, therefore, were made for the removal of the family to 
 town in the beginning of the spring, and the fashionable world in due 
 time became aware that their ranks were reinforced by the arrival of Lord 
 and Lady Sarum, accompanied by the Earl of Grandborough, at the family 
 
 mansion in — . Square. The most approved guide to the peerage 
 
 was immediately consulted with much seriousness by various w^atchful 
 dowagers and speculative mamas, and it was correctly ascertained that 
 
OR, TKE EICH A:N'D THE POOR. 75 
 
 Lotd Sarum had an only son, between fourteen and fifteen years of age, 
 \vho was heir to the united estates of Grandborough and St. Austin, and 
 who Tv^as thereby, with an earldom to boot, a personage of considerable 
 importance to all mothers of daughters, and about whose welfare, there- 
 fore, pursuits, and inclinations, the aforesaid mothers of daughters felt a 
 proportionate and afiectionate interest. He was very young, to be sure, 
 and was still pursuing his studies at Eton, preparatory to the university ; 
 but youth was a deficiency which every day helped to supply ; and as the 
 Dowager Lady Baitwell prudently remarked at church one Sunday to her 
 daughter^ Lady Hookem, who, with a family of five daughters, was natu- 
 rally filled with much maternal 'anxiety for their establishment in life, 
 " There was nothing like taking a young man in time," The fidelity of 
 history compels the mention that the object of these anticipatory ma- 
 noDUvres was ardently engaged at that moment in arranging a steeple-chase 
 with leaping-poles, at which his lordship distinguished himself by so 
 prodigious a jump, that the fame of the exploit still lives in the memory 
 of the Eton boys, ever ready to do honour to glorious achievements. — But 
 a difierent scene now demands attention. 
 
 In a garret of a house in one of the streets leading out of the busy 
 thoroughfare of Oxford-street, sat a young girl busily engaged with her 
 needle. vShe was alone. The furniture of the room was veiy scanty, but 
 decent and clean. A plain deal table, three common chairs ranged against 
 the wall, a wooden clock, small and time-worn ; an old guitar — an unusual 
 ornament — standing in a comer ; a half open cupboard, revealing some 
 humble instruments of cooking; — nothing more. There was one arm- 
 chair, however, standing out, and apparently occupied but recently, which 
 gave evidence of another inmate of the humble abode, of a more advanced 
 age ; a surmise which a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles lying on the table 
 seemed to verify. But at the moment the young girl was alone. 
 
 She phed her needle busily and steadily, but with a hand that seemed 
 fatigued. Presently the little clock struck " six." She laid down her 
 work, and raised up her head with an anxious look. " "What," she ex* 
 claimed, thinking aloud, " can keep dear mamma so long ?" 
 
 It was impossible to view the countenance of that young girl without 
 feeling deeply interested. Her age was between sixteen and seventeen ; 
 not more than seventeen, certainly ; — perhaps not so much. Her featm-es 
 were decidedly giiiish, though contemplative ; but her form approached 
 the maturity of womanhood. There was something in her shape at once 
 slender and soft, which inspired the beholder with the idea of lightness — 
 of grace — of elegance. Her eyes were large, brilliant, and black ; — ^her 
 hair, which hung over her shoulders in youthful curls, was dark as jet, 
 forming a striking contrast with a skin of alabaster fairness. But in that 
 beautiful face there was an expression of melancholy which seemed to tell 
 a tale of many and early sorrows. It was not the sadness which a crushed 
 heart fixes on the countenance of despairing grief; nor was there min- 
 gled with it the slightest tinge of the bitterness of unavailing remorse ; 
 — it was the melancholy of poetry ; pure, and innocent of ill ; in which 
 were mixed no evil thoughts ; not the indication of the presence of pain, 
 but of the absence of joy. It was a melancholy that inspired in the 
 beholder only interest in its object — the sympathy and the pity that is 
 akin to love. 
 
76 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 The sun shone brightly, and illumined the apartment with its cheerful 
 rays. It was in early May. The young girl felt its genial influence. She 
 rose up, and longed, like a young fawn, to be bounding over hill and 
 plain ! But she was cramped and confined in a gloomy house, in a small 
 room, in the heart of a great city. She sat down ; and leaning her head 
 upon her hand, gave way to thought. 
 
 She thought of her strange and mysterious fate. How sad to think of ! 
 She often indulged in such dreamy musings ; — it was wrong ; — she knew 
 it was wrong — as her dear mamma told her, to make herself sad with 
 conjectures and wonderings which could tend to no good ; which only 
 saddened her, and which prevented wholesome thoughts. But still she 
 could not help it ; — her story was so very strange ! Not to have any clue 
 to the mystery of her parents ! Without a relation ; without a friend, 
 save one ! If she had only a brother or a sister ! But she was alone in 
 the world ; — quite alone ! A^^at a sad destiny ! 
 
 She took from her bosom a small gold cross, which she wore suspended 
 by a black ribbon round her neck. Again, as she had often done before, 
 she viewed it over and over again. She kissed it devoutly. 
 
 " Perhaps," she said — and while she spoke she seemed startled by the 
 sound of her own voice — " this cross belonged to my mother ? Francesca! 
 — and that, perhaps, was my mother's name ? Mother ! Oh ! what would 
 I not give to see her only once ! But that can never be. — But why not ? 
 She may be yet alive, and I may live to see her — to know her — to be 
 acknowledged as her child ! Oh, this is too much ! I am foolish ; but 
 still there is hope ; I dare not abandon hope ; better lose life than hope ; 
 — it is the food on which I live ; my solace ; my support. — I must hope, 
 vain though my hope may be !" Saying this, the young girl covered her 
 eyes with her small and delicate hands, as if she would repress her useless 
 tears. A tap at her chamber door roused her. " It is dear mamma !" 
 she said ; " but the door is not fastened." 
 
 "It is me," said a cheerful female voice, from the outside; " do open the 
 door, my dear Fanny !" And as she made this request, the applicant for 
 admission opened the door herself and entered. 
 
 " Is it you, Julia? I thought it was dear mamma come home. What 
 can keep her away so long ?" 
 
 " Oh, never mind your mamma, my dear ; you are quite mamma-sick. 
 Look at this — ^here's a beautiful handkerchief ! Did you ever see such a 
 love ? Mrs. Styche has given it to me to trim with this lace, and to work 
 a coronet in the corner. It belongs to Lady Sarum ; she's a viscountess, 
 and Lord Sarum will be an earl when his father dies. I heard Mrs. 
 Styche say, that we shall have plenty of work to do for her great ladyship, 
 for she has been rusticating in the country for I don't know how long, 
 and Lady Sarum hasn't a thing fit to be seen ; and that Lord Sarum, she 
 says, is such a mope, and so jealous ! He shuts his wife up in an old 
 castle he has got somewhere, and won't let her see anybody. But they 
 are all come to town now, and there are to be great doings. No young 
 men ; only one son — a hobbedeboy, at school. Ah ! my dear, I wish we 
 were viscountesses, with plenty of money, don't you ? We wouldn't be 
 wearing out the ends of our fingers with stitching, would we ?" 
 
 *' I wish I was anything, almost, but what I am !" replied Fanny. 
 
 ** La ! my dear, ypu're quite sentimental to-day ; and, I declare, if you 
 
OR, THE KICK AND THE POOK. 77 
 
 have not been crying ! Ah, you need not wave your long eyelashes up 
 and down that way ; you've been crying, that's a fact ! Now, tell me 
 what it has been about, there's a dear creature ? I do so like to hear love 
 stories. Something to do with that bit of black ribbon round your neck, 
 I dare say : it looks very suspicious, my dear. When there's a bit of 
 ribbon round the neck, it is always to be supposed that there is something 
 tied to the end of it." 
 
 "There is nothing," replied Fanny, "but a little cross, which is my 
 only chance of finding out something of my history." 
 
 " Your history ! — ^what, have you got a history, and not seventeen yet ? 
 And here am I, almost eighteen, without any history at all — except that 
 I am a poor soldier's daughter, obliged to earn her bread by her needle. 
 Sad work, Fanny! Always stitch, stitch, stitch!" 
 
 " Your father was a captain in the army, was he not ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear — a captain of horse ; and that's a grade higher than a 
 captain of foot, in this world of distinctions. But I can only just remem- 
 ber him ; for he died, as I think I have told you before, when I was quite 
 a child. But don't make me talk of anything melancholy ; it is as much 
 as I can do to keep up my spirits ; and if it was not for me and my 
 cheerfulness, my poor mother w^ould never hold up her head. A soldier's 
 daughter, Fanny, should have courage ; but it requires a good deal of it 
 to reconcile oneself to the change from Julia Makepeace the officer's 
 daughter, to Miss Makepeace the milliner's workwoman ! Well, we must 
 make the best of it. But your history ? my dear. Gracious me ! I have 
 been forgetting your history all the time. Come, do tell me all about it. 
 It will do to pass away the time till Mrs. Sidney comes back. Begin 
 about the cross, there's a dear creature ! How did you get it ? AVho gave 
 it to you ? What has it to do with your history ? But first let me see it. 
 You know, my love, there should be no secrets between such friends as 
 we are." 
 
 " This is it ; but it will not help you much to my strange story." 
 
 " My goodness, but it's very pretty ! What's this ? Francesca ! Oh, 
 that's your name, and that is why they call you Fanny. I see. Francesca. 
 What a nice name ! But it is not quite an English name, my dear ; it is 
 an Italian one. Francesca ! Francesca ! How very odd. It seems to 
 me that I have heard that name before, when I was a little thing ; or else 
 I have read something about it, or dreamed something about it. I'm a 
 capital di-eamer. I'll tell you some of my dreams, some day. Such nice 
 dreams ! Only one wakes, and finds it all nothing ! — Francesca ! I'm 
 sure I've heard something about that name before. Well, it doesn't 
 matter ; the name is a very nice one, at any rate ; but a foreign one, 
 decidedly." 
 
 " Whether it is my name or not, strange to say, I do not know ; but 
 I believe it is ; and it is the name which Mrs. Sidney has always given 
 to me " 
 
 " Not know your own name ? My dear, stop a moment ; — you quite 
 take away my breath ! Is not Mrs. Sidney your mother r" 
 
 " No ; — ^though she has well performed a mother's part towai'ds me. 
 It was to her care happily, that I was committed when I was saved from 
 the sea." 
 
 " Saved from the sea ! — ^how dreadful ! Mrs. Sidney not your mother ! 
 
78 PANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER ! 
 
 Gracious, what a delightful mystery ! Why, it's quite a romance already. 
 Oh, I must hear all about it, or I shall die ! And a gold cross, too ! 
 What a love of a mystery ! Oh, my dear, you never can be so cruel as 
 not to tell me all about it ? There, I have taken off my bonnet ; and I'll 
 sit in this great chair; — no, I won't take my scarf off. Pretty, isn't it? 
 It is chilly yet. And now, my dear, if you have any love for me, begin." 
 
 " I am afraid you will be disappointed." 
 j *' Oh, no ; I'm sure I shall be delighted. Now, go on." 
 
 " You will find it nothing, after all." 
 
 " Now, don't provoke me ; don't you see I am dying to hear all 
 about it?" 
 
 "Well, I will begin from the beginning." 
 
 " Begin anywhere, my dear — before the beginning, if you Like-— only 
 begin." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ANNy's story. — THE PRIVATIONS AND SUFFERINGS OP THE POOR. — NEWS. 
 
 "My remembrance is very confused," Fanny began, "with respect to 
 the early events of my life. I can just recollect a great splashing of 
 water ; but Mrs. Sidney has told me since that the vessel in which I had 
 been taken to America was wrecked off New York, and nearly all on 
 board were lost." 
 
 " How very dreadful ! My dear, try if you can find me a fine needle : 
 I can go on with this handkerchief while you talk. Well — and you were 
 saved ?" 
 
 " Yes ; with, I believe, two others. I think some went away in a boat, 
 but they were never heard of. One of the men saved, besides me, was 
 the captain ; and he said, my dear mamma has told me, that a man and 
 a woman accompanied me of the name of Lacey; the man was young, and 
 the son of the woman ; but the captain said he was sure she was not my 
 mother, for the young man often said so." 
 
 " Then who was your mother r" 
 
 " I have never known. — It seems that the young man was obliged to 
 fly from England, in consequence of his having been engaged in some 
 rebellion, by which his life was endangered. But why it was that they 
 had taken nje with them I do not know. The captain said that it could 
 not have been from any bad motive ; for the yomig man was very fond of 
 me, and used to say that, as he had saved my life, he would never abandon 
 me." 
 
 " Saved your life ! What a curious story ! Well — and what then ?" 
 
 " That is all I know about that part of my story. The inhabitants of 
 New York were very kind to the captain and the other man who had been 
 saved from the wreck ; and an English merchant of the name of Sidney, 
 who was established there, took me home to his wife, and said that, as 
 
OE, THE mCH AND THE POOR. 70 
 
 they had no children, he would adopt me ; and with them I remained for 
 eleven years, till they left America and returned to England." 
 
 "But did not Mr. Sidney make inquiries about your parents and 
 friends?" • 
 
 "Oh yes; he wrote to England to his agent: but the owners of the 
 ship that was lost knew nothing about the man and woman who took me 
 on board, and all his inquiries ended in nothing. Mr. Sidney was very 
 kind, and went to great expense in endeavouring to find out my relations. 
 Among other things that he did, he commissioned his agent to make 
 inquiries at every jeweller's shop m London, to see if any one of them had 
 made this little gold cross, which he wrote a description of; but no one 
 could give liim any information about it." 
 
 " And is that all ?" 
 
 " I told you that I had very little to tell, and the remainder of my story 
 is soon finished. On his return to England, the good Mr. Sidney engaged 
 in some speculations about American stock, which I do not understand, 
 and lost all his money ; — and shortly after, he died." 
 
 " Gi-acious ! how shocking ! It's a terrible thing, my dear, to lose youi- 
 money. Nothing is to be done in this world without money, as poor 
 mamma says ; and gentility without money is worst of all. Well, it's of 
 no use to fret. Don't this lace look beautiful ? I wish I was a countess, 
 if it was only to have such loves of handkerchiefs. And so, of course, you 
 have been in great distress since poor Mr. Sidney died?" 
 
 " We have indeed ! I cannot tell you the privations which we have been 
 obliged to suffer ; but I thank God that I am able to earn sufficient to 
 support my dear, good mamma. She spared no money to give me a good 
 education, while she had it ; and I will spare no labour to return the 
 obhgations which I am under to her who has been a mother to me." 
 
 " Poor child ! Well, your's is a sad story, indeed. Not to know even 
 who were your parents ! Do you know, my dear Fanny, I fancy that cross 
 will be the means of your finding out your parents, after all ? How was it 
 that it was not lost in the shipwreck?" 
 
 " It was found securely tied to my neck when I was picked up ; and it 
 is supposed that it was purposely done by those who had me in their care, 
 for the purpose of assisting in identifying me." 
 
 " To be sure it was ! How lucky it was not lost ! Why, my dear, you 
 are quite a heroine ! Only think ; here's a little milliner the heroine of a 
 novel ! We shall hold up our heads higher after this. Oh, if it could 
 only be that you were the deserted child of some great lord ; and that at 
 last he discovers his long-lost daughter, and clasps her in his arms, and 
 
 then ! Gracious ! how provoking — I have spoiled the coronet in the 
 
 comer, Hstening to your story. See, I have made an earl's coronet, instead 
 of a viscount's. Well, never mind ; only a little more work. But that 
 Mrs. Styche is so very particular. Come, my dear, help one a little. Just 
 work this coronet for me ; you do things so neatly." 
 
 " I never worked a coronet before," replied the good-natured Fanny ; 
 " but I wiU try to do this one." 
 
 " Dear me ! how quick you work it, and beautifully too. Why, my 
 dear, you could not have done it better if you had worked it for yourself ! 
 Just hold it so, and let me see how it looks. La ! how nice, isn't it ? I 
 declare you look like a countess yourself! Ah me! if these great people 
 
80 FANKr, THE LITTLE MILLIXEU I 
 
 knew how little we get for doing these fine things for them, they would 
 be ashamed to flourish them about as they do ! Don't you think so, my 
 dear?" 
 
 " It is a hard life," replied Fanny, with a sigh, " to earn one's bread by 
 this little thing," holding up her needle ; " but there are many much 
 worse off than you or I." 
 
 " My dear, I never could have believed what I have seen, if I had not 
 seen it with my own eyes. You know that tall, pale girl, who used to 
 work extra hours, and sometimes all night, at Mrs. Styche's. What do 
 you think, my dear ? — it is very shocking ; she is dying — the doctor says 
 — ^from want of sufficient food ; — ^literally starved to death ! All that she 
 could earn, with all her work, extra hours and all, was only eight shillings 
 a-week ! Without father or mother to take care of her ; and without 
 relations; all dead! she lived entirely by herself. How melancholy! 
 And obliged to dress genteelly, that she might not discredit the establish- 
 ment. Just think ; what could she do with eight shilKngs a-week ?" 
 
 "And sometimes, perhaps, not even that." 
 
 "But suppose," continued Julia, "that she could earn eight shillings 
 a-week all the year round, how could she live on it? First, there's rent 
 for a lodging. You can't get a furnished room that's at all decent under 
 three shillings a-week. Then there's fire — say fourpence a-week, one 
 week with another. She can't do without light — there's candles and soap, 
 sixpence a-week; you couldn't do with less. Then there's bread — we 
 ought to have begun with that ; — what a pity it is we can't live without 
 eating! How much shall we put down for bread? — two half-quartern 
 loaves a-week? — ^no, that's not enough; we must say three — that's a 
 shilling ; she must help herself out with potatoes ; say fourpence a-week 
 for potatoes. We must let her have a morsel of butter with her bread 
 and potatoes ; a penny a day for butter. Then there's tea ; tea is as 
 necessary for the poor girl almost as bread ; she couldn't drink cold water 
 always ; but we can't put down much for that ; suppose two oimces of tea 
 a-week, that's sixpence." 
 
 " Two ounces of tea would not be enough to last for fourteen times." 
 
 " She must make it do," replied JuHa. " You must put down sugar, 
 half-a-pound a-week, that's threepence halfpenny. What else ? What a 
 quantity of things one does want to live at all ! I wonder how Adam 
 and Eve contrived ! Oh ! milk ; a farthing, morning and evening ; that's 
 a heavy sum for milk ! threepence-halfpenny a-week. But we have not 
 put down anything for meat ; one can't live altogether on bread ; and 
 meat is so dear, isn't it ? What a little bit half-a-pound is when it is 
 cooked ; I'm sure I can eat it up in a minute ! Suppose we put down 
 sevenpence a-week for meat ; that is for one pound, so that she can have 
 half-a-pound twice a-week." 
 
 " You forget her shoes and her dress." 
 
 " Only think, that I should forget her dress ! Well, she must have 
 shoes, that's certain ; she can't walk about the streets without shoes ; and 
 you can get nothing to do service under five and sixpence a pair. What 
 a sum of money ! And it's so wretched to sit in wet shoes all day, isn't 
 it ? — especially when they are thin ; and one's foot looks so large in a 
 thick shoe, don't it? I can't bear thick shoes. But with only eight 
 shillings a-week, you must wear what you can get. And, oh ! my dear, 
 
on, THE RICH AND THE POOE. 81 
 
 never wear tight shoes — you needn't, because you have such a little foot — 
 I heard Mrs. Styche's medical man say that tight shoes give you a red 
 nose : how horrible ! I had my shoes stretched directly. But where were 
 we ? Oh ! about the shoes. Well, she can't do with less than four pair 
 of shoes a-year ; that is, four fives is twenty, and four sixpences — two 
 shillings ; one pound two shillings ; how much is that a-week ?" 
 
 This arithmetical question, involving a sum in the mysterious rule of 
 three, at all times so puzzling to the fair sex, whether of high or low degree, 
 caused a temporary embarrassment in the calculations. But the lively 
 JuUa presently solved the problem after her own fashion — that is to say, 
 in the way usually adopted by "lady" calculators : — 
 
 "Let me see: — oh, it's very easy; it's one pair a-quarter, and that's 
 five and sixpence ; and, let me see : — five and sixpence a-quarter — that's 
 three months — is one shilling a-month, and two-and- sixpence more ; that's 
 five sixpences and three months ; five sixpences in three months, — Fanny, 
 what is that a-week ? Can't you tell ?" 
 
 " Five sixpences in three months ? that is one sixpence for each month, 
 and two sixpences over." 
 
 " To be sure it is ; and then the two sixpences in three months is — is- 
 let me see : two sixpences in three months is — what is it, Fanny?" 
 
 *' That is twelvepence ; fourpence a-month." 
 
 *' To be sure : fourpence a-month, what's that altogether ?" 
 
 " One shilling and sixpence and fourpence ; one and tenpence a- 
 month." 
 
 " La ! how tiresome it is to calculate when the months and the money 
 are so contrary, isn't it ? And now we have not made out what it is 
 a-week ? Stop : I can do it : — I generally calculate very quick when it 
 is money coming to myself ; but somehow this is so very puzzling, isn't 
 it ? Stop : let me see : one and tenpence is twelve and ten — that is, two 
 tens — twenty — and two, twenty-two: twenty-two pence, and four weeks; 
 — that is, for a week — ^what is it ? Fanny, why don't you try ?" 
 
 "Twenty-two pence in four weeks is fivepence and one halfpenny 
 a-week." 
 
 " Is it ? Well, put that down for shoes. Now for dress ; stockings 
 and collars — and — all that." 
 
 " Half-a-crown a week would be very little. But then it is to be pre- 
 sumed that she knows how to make up her things cheaply. Say half-a- 
 crown a-week." 
 
 " Gracious ! I shall never have done ! But a girl can't dress herself so 
 neatly as she is required to do for half-a-crown a-week." 
 
 " See what it all comes to already. But you have allowed nothing for 
 extras ; a letter now and then." 
 
 " Oh ! you sly puss ! What business has she with letters ; no brother 
 nor sister ; no relations ; no cousin even ; who is there to write letters to 
 her, except improper ones ? Fanny, I'm ashamed of you." 
 
 " But put down something for extras ; — or call them accidents, if you 
 will ; — suppose illness." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense ; poor people can't afford to be ill. Add it up, and 
 see what it all comes to ? I hate adding up ; it makes one's eyes so red." 
 
 " The whole comes to ten shillings and fourpence halfpenny," reported 
 Fanny. 
 
82 PANNY. THE LITTLE MILLINER I 
 
 " Gracious ! that's more than eight shillings a-week ! — more than she 
 has to lay out. We have put down too much for something. Let me 
 see : she must have bread, and potatoes, and a bit of meat : and lodging ; 
 and fire ; and some clothes and shoes ; and soap and candles. What do 
 those things come to ?" 
 
 " Eight shillings and eightpence halfpenny." 
 
 "Gracious ! that's too much ; and there's nothing left for tea and sugar, 
 and milk and butter — never mind the butter, it makes a yomig lady gross 
 — we must leave out the meat. What will that leave her ?" 
 
 " That will make it eight shillings and a penny halfpenny." 
 
 " Still too much. She must have a little tea and sugar; you must leave 
 out the potatoes and salt ; how does it stand now ?" 
 
 " Seven shillings and ninepence halfpenny spent ; twopence halfpenny 
 left." 
 
 " That won't go far to buy tea, sugar, and milk ; and a little she must 
 have. Take a shilling off her clothes. How does it stand now ?" 
 
 " One must have clothes, Julia ; there's a cloak wanted for the winter, 
 and clogs, and an umbrella; you can't take anything off her clothes." 
 
 " But that only leaves twopence-halfpenny for tea, sugar, milk, and butter; 
 and we have not left anything for an atom of meat, nor potatoes ; she can 
 have nothing but dry bread to eat, and not enough of lliat ; and nothing 
 for accidents." 
 
 " My dear Fanny, it is impossible to live on that. To have nothing but 
 dry bread to eat, and to be obliged to work hard besides ; sewing all day, 
 and every day, and for fourteen and sixteen hours a-day ; and sometimes 
 obliged to work on Sundays. After all, sewing aU day is very fatiguing, 
 whatever people may say ; and makes one so sick and faint ; besides, it 
 spoils one's shape, and makes one's nose so long. But don't look at me so 
 sadly, Fanny ; you make me feel quite uncomfortable." 
 
 " Dear Julia," said Fanny, " is it not enough to make one sad to know 
 that a fine young girl has actually been starved to death in the midst of 
 this great and wealthy city ? And her fate may be mine — or yours !" 
 
 " It's very shocking, certainly ; but what can we do to help her ? We 
 are as poor as she is." 
 
 " That makes it more sad ; to know her wretchedness, and not to be 
 able to relieve it ; but at least we can go and see her ; sympathy and kind 
 words are something." 
 
 " That I will, Fanny ; we will go to her this very evening ; and we can 
 try to take her something nice — some tea and white sugar. Now don't 
 look so melancholy, Fanny. What good does it do to be melancholy? 
 Thank heaven ! I have always good spirits. Where's your glass ? What 
 a mite of glass yours is ! — one can only see oneself in it bit by bit. I wish 
 I was rich, if it was only to have a glass to see oneself in. Oh ! there's 
 such a beautiful glass in Lady Sarum's boudoir. La ! my dear, shouldn't 
 you like to have a boudoir ? Such a love of a glass ! — one that you can 
 see your whole length in. I was there yesterday, and I was tii'ed with 
 waiting, so I got up and just tried how I looked in it. And what do you 
 think ? I was walking easy-like, and looking over my shoulder so— for I 
 wanted to see how my scarf set behind; — when I saw a man's face in the 
 glass ! I was so ashamed I couldn't move ; and there I stood like a 
 simpleton ! Dreadful, wasn't it ? How long he had been amusing himself 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOB. 83 
 
 With looking at me parading up and down, I'm sure I don't know ; but J 
 know I wished the floor would open and swallow me up. However, it 
 was only Lord Sarum ; he's quite an old man, my dear ; such grey hair \ 
 And when I found courage to turn round and try to say something — I 
 don't know what — ^he looked at me with such a sad expression — there — 
 just as you look now ; and then he apologized for disturbing me, and went 
 away. But there's some one at the door ; your mamma, I suppose ?" As 
 she uttered those words, Mrs. Sidney entered ; and from the bustling ex- 
 presssion of her countenance, it was evident that she was the bearer of 
 some important news. 
 
 " Some news for you, m^ dear Fanny," said the respectable old lady, 
 as she established herself in the arm-chair which the vivacious Julia had 
 deferentially vacated on her entrance. " Now, my dear child, come, guess 
 what it is ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOPE AND DISAPPOINTMENT. — A KIND RESOLVE.— A GOOD ACTION 
 
 SELDOM GOES UNREWARDED. 
 
 Poor Panny, whose head was full of vague and painful thoughts, which 
 the relation of her story to her young companion had excited, respecting 
 her own mysterious fate, w£ts instantly struck with the idea that some 
 discovery had been made of her parents. She was not in a fit state to 
 bear a violent shock. Her feelings had been deeply afiected by the ac- 
 count of the distress in which one of her own class was lying helpless ; 
 reflecting as in a mirror her own wretched and precarious condition, and 
 prophetic, perhaps, of the same miserable end. It was with extraordinary 
 agitation, therefore, that she received the sudden announcement of " good 
 news." The " good news" that she was ever thinking of — ^longing for — 
 praying for — was news of her parents. That one hope was her dominant 
 feeling ; with that hope she bore all her present privations ; on that hope 
 she fed. She loved her adopted parent ; she felt for her all the devotion 
 which gratitude added to love can inspire in a generous heart ; but Mrs. 
 Sidney was not her mother ; she was all else ; but that magic name was 
 wanting. The child yearned to know its parents ; it was not a mental 
 thirst, which thought, or reason, or argument, could quench ; it was not a 
 question of reason ; it was one of feeling ; of instinct. There was a void 
 in her heart ; a blank in her existence. The terrible feeling of loneliness 
 assailed her. She stood single and apart from all the world. No one o^vnied 
 her. Excepting her adopted mother, now far advanced in years, there 
 was no other human being to whom her aflections naturally could turn ; 
 nay, she had not even the melancholy solace of letting them rest on the 
 memory of the dead ; for she had never known her parents. To a sensi- 
 tive mind, and to an enthusiastic temperament — which the young girl 
 possessed — this was a continual torture. The gnawing at her heart was 
 eyer at work. A corroding care preyed on her imceasingly. One thought 
 a 2 
 
84 FAKXY, THE LITTLE MILLINER I 
 
 reigned paramount ; the mystery of her parents ; — to discover them was 
 the object of her life. 
 
 Filled with this thought, she fixed her eyes on her adopted parent with 
 an intense and almost wild gaze ; her features were pale and rigid as 
 marble ; stretching forth her hands, her opening lips suggested the ques- 
 tion she could not ask. 
 
 " My dear child," exclaimed the good old lady, " I have done wrong to 
 speak of good news to you so suddenly ; I know what you are thinking 
 of; — no, it is not that ; — but it is good news, nevertheless." 
 
 Fanny's countenance fell ; she clasped her hands, and bending down her 
 head, gave way to silent tears. 
 
 " My poor child ! my poor, dear child ! hear what I have got to tell 
 you ; it is good news ; it is, indeed !" 
 
 Fanny shook her head. 
 
 " Do tell it, dear Mrs. Sidney," said the impatient Julia ; " good news 
 don't come so often to us poor things that we should not be glad to hear 
 it, whatever it is. Wliat is it ?" 
 
 " Why, you must know that I have been to Mrs. Styche's, as I told you, 
 Fanny, for the few shillings that are due to you ; and who should come 
 in but a great lady, Viscountess Sarum. Lord Sarum, my dear, is the 
 son of the Earl of Grandborough, and they have come to town this season 
 for the first time for many years ; so Mrs. Styche has plenty of work to do 
 for her ; for a greater fright — in her dress that is — ^Mrs. Styche told me 
 privately, she never saw." 
 
 " How odd," said Julia, " when she can have just what she likes !" 
 
 "The very remark Mrs. Styche made. — Well, one of her footmen 
 brought in a head-di-ess that Lady Sarum wanted to have made, — ^that is, 
 one like it, — and it was the very one, Fanny, that you made up last week. 
 *I knew it directly. Mrs. Styche was not in the way when Lady Sarum 
 came in ; but she asked the forewoman, who was standing by me, if they 
 could make another like it. I couldn't help saying, ' My Fanny made 
 that ; and I am sure she could make another, if it was wanted.' Lady 
 Sarum smiled at me very kindly, and asked me, 'if the young person was my 
 daughter?' 'Not exactly,' I said; ' but she is my adopted daughter.' Then 
 she asked, if you would take the trouble to call on her with the head-dress, 
 when it was done, that she might point out any alterations that she might 
 like to have. I saw that the forewoman frowned at this. But what could 
 I do ? I could only say, ' Certainly you would call on her, and that I 
 would call with you.' ' Let it be so, then,' said Lady Sarum to the fore- 
 woman ; and so it was settled ; for, of course, they did not dare to disoblige 
 a great lady by making any objection. And here are the materials, my 
 dear, which I have brought with me ; for it is to be done by to-morrow 
 without fail. And I call it a lucky thing ; if you happen to please Lady 
 Sarum, it will be a credit to you at Mrs. Styche's establishment, and it 
 may do you good — you can't tell in what way : — and that's my good news, 
 my dear." 
 
 " I can't bear going to those great houses," said Fanny ; "^ the servants 
 look at one so. I do think the porters that stand in the halls are the 
 most dreadful monsters in the world ! But, of course, you will go with 
 me, mamma?" 
 
 " To be sme ; my love ; there can be no harm in that." 
 
aa^ oai'iijiis message to lannv 
 
OR, THE EICH AND THE POOR. 85 
 
 **Good bye, Fanny," said Julia. "How lucky that you are to do 
 something for Lady Sarum ; "we shall both be employed for the same 
 house ; it Avill be so handy, won't it ? I suppose you can't go to see the 
 poor girl this evening, as you have work to do." 
 
 " I shall certainly go," replied Fanny. " It is our duty, dear Julia. 
 How can we expject any one to help us, if we do not help one another. 
 Poor girl ! if this Lady Samm gives me the opportunity, I will try to 
 interest her to do something for her." 
 
 " Ah, my dear Fanny," replied Julia, " great ladies very seldom interes 
 themselves about poor millii)<er girls. We may toil and slave, and M^a 
 out our eyes and constitutions, and spoil our shapes, to make theii* person 
 attractive ; but little thought do they give to us who starve and die while 
 they revel in their dress and their luxuries. They consider us as mere 
 instruments and machines for administering to their pleasures." 
 
 " I will not believe it," said Fanny, energetically ; "I cannot believe 
 it. Think of that poor girl pining alone in her garret, without a shilling 
 in the world to buy necessary food ! Surely the rich — the high and noble 
 ladies of the land — cannot be aware of the unceasing toil, the privations, 
 and the unspeakable sufferings which those of their own sex daily and 
 hourly undergo in their forced and debilitated labours. And some of them, 
 too, the daughters of those of their own rank. You, Julia, are a captain's 
 daughter ; and a captain in the army is a gentleman of a rank to associate 
 with the highest in the kingdom; and now, what are you? — a poor 
 milliner girl, working for your daily bread." 
 
 The lively Julia burst into tears. 
 
 " It is so, Julia ; you are a lady born and bred, with as delicate feelings 
 and as high feelings as the rich viscountess whose handkerchief you have 
 to your eyes." 
 
 " Dear me ! I didn't think of what I was doing. Well, it's better to 
 have something for use instead of for show, after all. This rag of a thing 
 is of no use when you want to have a good cry." 
 
 " If such tears as those coidd only reach the hearts of the owners of 
 such fineries ! I am sure I feel that if I was a lady of ranlc, and money, 
 and influence, instead of the poor and humble thing that I am ; — I am 
 sure I could not lay my head in peace on my pillow, if I had not done my 
 best to relieve the many aching heads and desolate hearts that seek for 
 rest in vain — wanting food to sustain the body, and hope to support the 
 mind. But perhaps I say so because I know their miseries so well! 
 Riches might harden my heart, as they seem to harden the hearts of 
 others ; but I do not think they would." 
 
 " I am sm-e they would not, my dear child," exclaimed the affectionate 
 Mrs. Sidney; "but I confess I cannot understand the meaning of a great 
 deal that I see in the world ; I suppose there is a use for it ; but all I 
 can say is, I can't understand it. It seems to me that there must be 
 something wrong in a state of society where such extremes of wealth and 
 poverty exist ; where some are so very rich, and so many are so very poor. 
 Is it that in order that some may be very rich indeed, that a great many 
 must be very poor indeed ? I can't make it out ; but, for my part, I can't 
 see the use of it ; and as to the prosperity and wealth of the country, as 
 it is called, I must Kay, I don't see what good comes of it. Some few may 
 find their accomit in it, but to my poor understanding, if the greater part 
 
FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE ! 
 
 of the individuals of a country are to be in want and wretcliedness, to 
 enable tbe few at the top to add riches to riches for their own benefit, it's 
 not a state of things that ought to be, and I won't believe it was ever 
 so intended. There — that's what I say." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Sidney," cried out the vivacious Julia, " you talk like a 
 book. Well, I take things as they come ; it's of no use to fret. This 
 evening, then, Fanny, we shall pay our visit to the poor girl together." 
 
 " I will go, certainly," said Fanny. " If we can give nothing else, we 
 can give consolation ; and we can speak kind words to her ; that is some- 
 thing to the wretched." 
 
 "True," said the old lady. "Always remember, my dear girl, if ever 
 you should be rich, that kind words go more to the hearts of the poor than 
 cold charity." 
 
 " It's all very well," cried the vivacious Julia, putting on her bonnet, 
 and dodging her head at the Lilliputian glass, in which she could catch 
 glimpses of her pretty face only in fragmental portions, "but I am very 
 much inclined to think that the kindest words that ever were used are 
 much pleasanter to poor people, when accompanied by substantial assist- 
 ance. How do you like this trimming, Fanny ? As dear mamma says, 
 people may be ever so virtuous and economical, but they can't live without 
 money." 
 
 While such interchange of sentiments took plade in this humble abode 
 of virtuous poverty, a very difierent scene was presented at the splendid 
 mansion of the Earl of Grandborough, in Square. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 DICKER PARTY AT LORD GRANDBOROUGH S. — THE EXauISITE.— THE CONVERSATION. — 
 SUDDEN DISTURBANCE. 
 
 The Earl had taken it into his head to give a grand entertainment that 
 day, and the distinguished company was assembled in that complacent 
 sort of good-humour and readiness to oblige which people usually display 
 when called on to fulfil the daily duty of dining. Lord Grandborough sat 
 as one of his son's guests, having retired long since from the active duties 
 of host, from the performance of which his age and infirmities, and it may 
 be added, an occasional absence of mind and an eccentricity of manner, 
 had in some degree disqualified him. Lord and Lady St. Austin were 
 glad to assist in this family and friendly reunion; and among other 
 acquaintances, the Dowager Lady Baitwell, celebrated for her skill in 
 social diplomacy, and her daughter, Lady Hookem, herself the anxious 
 parent of marriageable girls, did themselves the honour to attend. Lady 
 Hookem had the satisfaction to be accompanied by her son, the Honour- 
 able Mr. Snob, not the least conspicuous of the company, and known in 
 the fashionable world as a>: exquisite of the most ultra cast ; and who had 
 condescended, on this special occasion, to depart from his usual rule of 
 ne\'er appearing in public with the vulgar members of his own family. It 
 
OR, THE mCH AND THE POOR. 87 
 
 is to this distinguished individual that the world is indebted for the estab- 
 lishment of the ciu'ious precedent of a man having the right to cut his 
 own father. It was on account of the unaristocratic appearance of his 
 paternal parent that the Honourable Mr. Snob felt himself compelled, as 
 he delicately expressed it, to *' decline acknowledging a gentleman who 
 was in other respects a very worthy man, but whose personal pretensions 
 were not such as to warrant his considering himself a fit companion for a 
 man of fashion." In truth, the mien and physiognomy of the unpretending 
 peer was sufficiently homely almost to justify the decided course of pro- 
 ceeding adopted by his son. He had unconsciously preserved, with much 
 faithfulness, the. air and style of ''dress in use by his own respectable father, 
 who, having accumulated a large fortune by trade, had been raised to the 
 peerage. It was to him — the grandfather — that a provoked wit made the 
 celebrated retort on the occasion of his boasting of his wealth before some 
 members of the upper house, who were richer in lineage than ready money, 
 *' that the minister had not done justice to his merits in making him a 
 baron — ^he ought to have made him a bishop." 
 
 " And why so ?" asked the newly ennobled Croesus. 
 
 " Because," replied the other, " you had been accuscomed to wear the 
 apron." 
 
 This Kttle anecdote, however, was forgotten in the third generation, 
 except by very intimate friends ; and the Honourable Maximilian Alex- 
 ander Theodosius Snob considered himself on a level with the descendants 
 of the primitive barons of the empire ; and as a leader in the world 
 of fashion, he plumed himself on being infinitely superior to men who 
 could boast only of distinctions in parliament or in the service of the state, 
 but who went about in iU-made coats, and were uninitiated in the art of 
 fashionable ties. 
 
 Of a very difierent character was the young Earl Manley. Despising 
 the frivolous pursuits of many of the idle members of the aristocracy, he 
 had devoted himself to study, and to the deep and solemn question of the 
 physical and mental amelioration of the labouring classes. Sincere in his 
 opinions, ardent in his desire to do good, and enthusiastic in his endea- 
 vours to promote, by the influence of his rank and wealth, the progress of 
 improvement, and to make mankind wiser, better, and happier, he stood 
 out in bright relief from the mass of the thoughtless and selfish of his own 
 order, and proved by the influence of his example how much can be done 
 by a single individual resolving to do all the good in his power, and finn 
 in his determination to efiect it. It was to this most incongenial mind 
 that Mr. Snob thought fit before dinner to communicate the good fortime 
 which had befallen him that very day : — 
 
 " You may say what you please, Manley, but London is the place for 
 adventures, after all ; no place like London ! To be sure, the English 
 women have not the tournure of the French, but for the perfection of the 
 mere animal they are far superior. It was only this morning that I met 
 the most fascinating little creature that eyes ever beheld; young — eighteen 
 or so — blonde^ grands yeux bleus, but the most wicked-looking that over 
 peeped out of a milliner's bonnet." 
 
 " Indeed." 
 
 " She came out of a milliner's place, rather gaily dressed, but fant soit 
 peu faded,— you understand ; but that's all the better. She couldn't help 
 
88 PAKNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 looking at me, (here Mr. Snob surveyed himself with much complacency,) 
 and the little devil smiled— rshe did indeed — it was almost a laugh— ^and so 
 I followed her." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 *• Yes; I know it's not quite comme ilfaut to let oneself down that way ; 
 I ought to have made my tiger do it. But I was on foot, and, veritahle- 
 ment, she was the prettiest little thing you ever saw, although she was 
 only a milliner's girl, I suppose." 
 
 "Very likely!" 
 
 *'She went down Oxford-street — just the place, you know, for an, 
 adventure — c'est le rendezvous des grisettes. She did not go far, luckily 
 for me, for my boots pinched me dreadfully, and I was not in walking 
 trim." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " I just blew 2i petit haiser to her from the tip of my finger as she got to 
 the door of a poor-looking house ; but the little minx chose to look vir- 
 tuous, and she gave me such a look with her great blue eyes, that, by 
 George, it made me feel quite uncomfortable. I suppose the mamma 
 was on the watch, and so it was a coup manque for that time ; but ndus 
 verrons.^' 
 
 The pleasing announcement of dinner, always a welcome relief to the 
 restraint and stiffness of the preliminary muster in the drawing-room, put a 
 stop to further confidences on this delicate topic. 
 
 " You will like that hock, Manley. There's your favourite sherry !'* 
 to Lord St. Austin. " Lady Baitwell, I hope my father takes care of 
 you." 
 
 " What is going on in the house to-night ?" 
 
 "Adjourned, I believe," said Lord Grandborough ; "but I seldom 
 attend. Ministers have my proxy." 
 
 " French chambers seem to be noisy." 
 
 "It's only noise; the war party are trying to get up a casus belli against 
 England, as usual ; but it will all end in nothing." 
 
 " War — bad thing — always better avoided." 
 
 " Horrid jobbing during the last war." 
 
 "It is very shocking to read of the killed and wounded at a battle,** 
 remarked Lady Hookem. 
 
 " I can recommend these pigeons aux petits pois,^* 
 
 " Opera good this season ?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 " Some tendency to riots in the countiy, I hear." 
 
 " It's the old story — striking for wages." 
 
 " Very improper ; but the labouring people are so unthankful." 
 
 " I agree with you, sir ; the agitation that the newspapers are getting 
 up again about the rich and the poor is mischievous in the extreme." 
 
 " State of the country" .... 
 
 " Taglioni" 
 
 " Agricultural labourers" , . . , 
 
 "Taglioni" 
 
 " Manufactming districts" • . . 
 
 "Taglioni".... 
 
 ** Condition of the poor" . . . • 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOE. 89 
 
 "Taglloni'*..:. 
 
 " Periodical distress" .... 
 
 "Taglioni".... 
 
 " Serious questions". . . . 
 
 " The great question is, which is ' la reine de la danse — ^Tagli >m or 
 Duvemay?'". . . . 
 
 " Cerito is getting on" .... 
 
 " The attention of the house ought to be called to the subject" .... 
 
 " They don't pay sufficient attention to the choruses". . . . 
 
 " Very true, sir ; the poor of jKhis country are too fond of indulging in 
 spirituous liquors" .... 
 
 " Champagne — Mousseux ?" 
 
 " No ; I prefer the still." 
 
 "Lord Manley, I see you are to bring forward the factory question again. 
 Anything be done?" 
 
 "It is cheap manufactures versus humanity," said Lord Manley. " I 
 am afraid the country is not prepared yet to take up the question as one 
 of justice to the industrious poor. The distress in the manufacturing 
 districts forms a frightful picture." 
 
 " Talking of pictures," said the watchful Lady Hookhem, " I think I 
 saw you at the great sale to-day ; adding to your store, I presume ? Any- 
 thing worth buying?" 
 
 "I was tempted to buy one picture; a fancy sketch — artist unknown." 
 
 "Pretty subject?" 
 
 " An Italian peasant-girl dressed in her native costume." 
 
 " The contrast of colours must be very pleasing." 
 
 " Very : but what struck me most was the extraordinary beauty of the 
 countenance. The more I look at it, the more I admire it." 
 
 " Young, of course." 
 
 " Quite a girl. I was surprised that no one else saw its value ; but it 
 had no great name to back it, so I picked it up for a trifle. I assure you 
 I am quite in love with it." 
 
 "Lord Grandborough, do you hear this?" said the dowager, raising 
 her voice, and calling his attention to the young peer's declaration. 
 " Young fellows now-a-days fall in love with pictm-es instead of originals : 
 it was not so in our time." 
 
 " You are a great collector of pictures, I am told," said Lord Grand- 
 borough ; " so is Lord Sarum — ^he is very fond of pictures." 
 
 "What is the subject, Manley?" asked Lord Sarum, joining in the con- 
 versation, and wishing to draw his young friend out. Lord Manley was 
 an especial favourite with Lord Sarum, and one of the very few who had 
 been encouraged to relieve the gloomy dulness at Grandborough Castle by 
 his cheerful society — " ^Vhat is the subject ?" 
 
 " Only a young girl, in the habit of an Italian peasant, but executed in 
 admirable style ; I am inclined to think it must be a portrait, it is so 
 speakingly drawn. Nothing can be more beautiful ; but the face and the 
 eyes have something about them singularly striking. Lady Baitwell, I 
 see, smiles at my enthusiasm ; but I assure you, if you were to see the 
 picture, you would be in love with it yourself." 
 
 " Not without my leave, I trust," interposed Lady Sarum; "however, 
 as it is only a picture, pass for that." 
 
90 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 " Lord Sarum would hardly be an admirer of my unknown beauty," 
 said Lord Manley, bowing to the hostess, seeing that he is an admirer of 
 blue eyes, and the eyes of my Italian girl are black. Yom* ladyship, there- 
 fore, need be under no uneasiness." 
 
 " Pray don't let youi- lord see it, Lady Sarum," exclaimed the dowager, 
 *' for he seems abeady troubled about those black eyes from sympathy. 
 Are you an admirer of the Italian style of countenance ?" she added, in a 
 careless tone, and looking at Lord Sarum with much composure, as she 
 asked the question. 
 
 " Not very much ; that is to say, it depends on circumstances ; I mean 
 that Italian faces are sometimes very fascinating. You know nothing of 
 the history of your picture ?" turning to Lord Manley. 
 
 " Oh, it had the usual auctioneer's history, but I did not pay much 
 attention to it. The sale was said to be a lot of pictures brought over by 
 a connoisseur from Florence." 
 
 " Bless me !" exclaimed the dowager, in a whisper to Lord Manley, 
 *' what is the matter with Lord Sarum ? How excessively pale he has 
 turned ; don't you see it ?" 
 
 " Perhaps the picture revives some old recollection that pains him," 
 replied Lord Manley; " we will change the subject." 
 
 " We must say something to enliven him," said the dowager ; " some- 
 thing to cheer him up ; he has been moping himself to death at that old 
 castle. Have you heard," she continued, raising her voice, " the reply the 
 Persian ambassador made to Lord Crescent the other day ? Lord Sarum, 
 I Want to tell you something droll. Crescent was inquiring about the 
 Persian's wives in his thoughtless way — how many he had — ^how he kept 
 them in order — and so forth. Abominable custom, Lady Sarum, that of 
 a man having more than one wife ; I am sure that is a practice which 
 your staid husband would never approve of; one at a time, Lord Sarum, 
 is enough. Don't you think so ?" 
 
 "There is a story of a Spanish king," observed Lord St. Austin, "who, 
 to punish a man for having married two wives, condemned him to live 
 with them both." 
 
 " Very good — ^but don't stop my story. I am sure it will amuse Lord 
 Sarum. But it was not a bad idea, that of punishing a man, was it ? For 
 my own part, I can't conceive a more wretched condition than that of a 
 man with more than one wife ; he can have no real domestic happiness. 
 But it is nonsense to talk of a man having two wives ; so your story does 
 not hold good there, my lord. A man cannot marry again in Spain any 
 more than in this country, his first wife being alive ; is it not so, Lord 
 Sarum ? — that is, unless he is divorced ; otherwise, his second marriage is 
 illegal. So that, properly speaking, in a Christian country, a man can 
 have only one wife. But these Persians and Turks have their own ways, 
 of course. But, thank Heaven, we are living in England, and not in 
 Turkey." 
 
 " I am sure we women should be against the introduction of such a 
 custom here," observed Lady St. Austin. 
 
 " It would put a man in a pretty mess in this country," continued the 
 dowager — " wouldn't it, Lord Sarum ? — if he was married to two women 
 at the same time." 
 
 " It's a felony in law," said Lord St. Austin. 
 
OR, THE EICH AND THE POOE. 91 
 
 " It is transportation, isn't it ? I think I have seen accounts in the 
 newspapers, of the common people marrying two wives sometimes, and of 
 their being sentenced to transportation ; I mean for maiTying the second 
 woman, while the first wife was living. Just suppose, now, that you were 
 a Persian or a Turk ; and that before you had married Lady Saram, you 
 had married somebody else; I say, just suppose — what would your 
 feelings be, if your first wife was to claim her rights ? And what a con- 
 fusion it would make with the children ! But T am forgetting my story ; 
 I must tell it you, it is so droll. But, bless me ! what is the matter with 
 my Lord Grandborough ?" ( 
 
 The attention of the company was instantly turned in another direction. 
 It seemed that the peer was suddenly seized with an apopletic fit. The 
 frightful appearance of his father's countenance was sufficient to account 
 for Lord Sarum's excessive agitation. Lord Grandborough was immedi- 
 ately removed to his own chamber, and medical assistance was procured 
 without delay. The fit was pronounced to be severe, but not immediately 
 dangerous. The company, however, considerately withdrew, and left the 
 family to themselves. 
 
 In the course of the evening. Lord Grandborough appeared to have 
 entirely recovered from the attack ; and Lord Sarum, having no fears on 
 that head, and his desire to renew his researches after Francesca having 
 received a fresh stimulus from the tortm-e which had been unthinkingly 
 inflicted on him by the merciless dowager, he announced his intention of 
 leaving England the next day. But first he determined to look at the 
 picture, which, from the description, seemed to bear a strange resemblance 
 to her whose image never could be erased irom his memory. He pro- 
 ceeded, therefore, to Lord Manley's house on foot, without saying to Lady 
 Eleanor where he was going, but determined before he slept to solve 
 this new mystery. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LOM> SARIJM HECOGNISES THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. — A PLOT IN PROGRESS. 
 
 It was with feelings of deep agitation, which it is impossible for language 
 adequately to describe, that Lord Sarirni traversed the streets, on his way 
 to see the painting which had made so powerful an impression on Lord 
 Manley. More than fifteen years had elapsed since he had seen the 
 Italian girl, whom he had so passionately loved, in the very costume of 
 the mysterious picture. It was at that time that he had attempted to 
 have perpetuated on canvass the brilliant traits of her remarkable beauty. 
 He had caused fi-equent inquiries to be made after this portrait by lus 
 agent at various times, but without success. Its strange re-appearance at 
 the present time affected him — weakened as his mind was by long years 
 of suffering — with a sort of superstitious fear. It seemed to him that the 
 time was fast approaching when the mystery which had so long shrouded 
 the fate of Francesca and of her'child would at last be unravelled; and 
 
^2 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK I 
 
 although a considerable portion of his life, which had been passed in the 
 continual agony of su pense, had been devoted to its accomplishment, he 
 now dreaded, with the anxiety of nervous trepidation, to encounter the 
 fact of its development. Such was his state of mind when he arrived at 
 Lord Manley's house. 
 
 " My lord is not returned," replied the porter, with a little surprise, in 
 reply to Lord Sarum's inquiry; " he left a little before seven, to dine with 
 your lordship." 
 
 " Yes ; but I expect him home presently. I will wait for him for a 
 few minutes in the dining-room." 
 
 " Certainly, my lord, as your lordship pleases." 
 
 The candles were lighted, and Lord Sarum was left alone. He had 
 wished to inquire about the picture which Lord Manley had purchased 
 that day ; but he could not bring himself to speak of it. He sat down 
 and considered for a moment. He did not like to have it reported that 
 he was so exceedingly anxious to see a picture. While he was endea- 
 vouring to devise some means of getting a sight of it without giving rise 
 to speculations as to his motives, he raised up his head, and on the side- 
 board, at the farther end of the room, he beheld a small half-length 
 picture, in the original wooden frame of the artist, with its face turned to 
 the wall. He started up, and stepped forward to grasp it ; but he was 
 seized with a convulsive trembling, which so shook his frame that he was 
 forced to reseat himself. Presently, he advanced again, clutched the 
 picture, and carried it to the light, but he hesitated to turn round its face; 
 he trembled to meet the eye, even in its animate image, of her whom he 
 longed but feared to look upon. And there he stood, motionless as a 
 statue ; with eyes fixed on vacancy, with breath suspended, holding in his 
 hand, as he felt assured, the portrait of her whom he had once loved so 
 fondly, and whom he knew not whether to number among the li™g or 
 the dead ! At last, he tremblingly turned round the picture, and revealed 
 the image to his sight ; — it was — Francesca ! There were those eyes of 
 light, those raven tresses, that face of rare and classic beauty, that 
 countenance of intelligence, that look at once proud and afi'ectionate, 
 that air of nature's true nobility ! A thousand recollections rushed on his 
 mind, as he contemplated the ravishing portrait. It seemed that in a 
 moment more than fifteen long years were annihilated; he felt himself 
 transported back, in imagination, to the sunny clime of Italy, when 
 he first wooed and won the proud Italian maid, and was too happy to 
 lay his heart and his coronet at her feet. He almost fancied he heard 
 the melting sweetness of her voice, when, in the language of love, 
 she breathed into his eager ears the confession of his conquest. The 
 present, with its cares and fears, was forgotten — ^the past only seemed 
 reality. Tears that had long been frozen up, flowed down his saddened 
 cheeks. Kneeling before the portrait, which called up all the emotions 
 of his youthful love, he gave way to deep and bitter grief. 
 
 But soon the stern reality of the present dissipated the momentary 
 illusions of the past. The picture might be the clue to the mystery of 
 Francesca's disappearance, which it had been the object of years of painful 
 inquiry to clear up. Still the question remained — Was she living, or was 
 she dead ? Until the solution of that fearful mystery, there could be for 
 him no rest ; filthough it might be, that, the discovery would prove not less 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOE. 93 
 
 terrible than the suspense ! — He resolved to pursue his inquiries the next 
 day, at the office of the auctioneer. — Pie replaced the picture, with a 
 timiness greater than he thought himself capable of, in the place from 
 which he had removed it ; and, thankful for not having been interrupted 
 in his task, he left the house to return home. But he felt his mind too 
 much unhinged to dare to face the affectionate inquiries of Lady Eleanor. 
 With the desire, therefore, to regain his calmness, he determined, as the 
 night was fine, to continue his walk, no matter in which direction, imtil 
 the traces of his emotion should be removed. In this mood, chance 
 directed his steps to Oxford-street. . He wallied slowly down the street 
 till he found himself at the end, near St. Giles's church. As the pavement 
 at this part ceased to be inviting, he retraced his steps, with the intentioa 
 of retm-ning home. — Here we must for the present leave him, as the course 
 of the narrative leads us to the abode of the poor girl, whom Fanny had 
 agreed with Julia to visit that evening. And it is necessary, also, to 
 record the proceedings of Lord Manley, and the Honourable Mr. Snob, 
 after their departure from Lord Sarum's house. 
 
 The Honourable Mr. Snob was not of a vicious disposition; he was 
 merely a most consummate donkey, generally harmless in his amusements. 
 Lord Manley, therefore, had no hesitation in acceding to his invitation to 
 pass the evening together, as the plans of both had been disarranged by 
 the unexpected illness of Lord Grandborough. Besides, they had been at 
 Eton togethei* ; and a distant relationship also, by the mother's side, which 
 existed between them, contributed not a little to the indulgence with 
 which he viewed the exquisite's ridiculous extravagances. 
 
 " Let us go to the club, Manley." 
 
 " I have no objection." 
 
 *' What a bore, that you did not order your carriage sooner at Sai'um's ! 
 We shall be obliged to walk, or get into one of these street cabs. I always 
 will have my own cab waiting in future, wherever I go. A street cab 
 always shakes me to death ; it confuses all one's ideas, and disan*anges 
 one's dress. Well, here we are !" 
 
 " No one here !" said Lord Manley, as they entered the room. 
 
 " I do think an empty club-room is the dullest thing in natm-e. Suppose 
 we see who is at the Opera to-night." 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " Horrid dull, isn't it ? and the heat excessive. How that girl contrives 
 to stand on one leg so long is utterly past my comprehension ! Will you 
 stay or go ? I shall go." 
 
 " What shall we do now r" said the restless exquisite, when they had 
 got outside. " By George, I have an idea ! Will you come with me ?" 
 
 " Where do you want to go r" 
 
 " I ever mind — ^will you come ? and perhaps we shall have some fun." 
 Well," said Lord Manley, good-natiu:edly yielding, " I wiU go with 
 you, but don't be foolish." 
 
 " That's a good fellow. Now, none of your nonsense ! I'm just up to 
 a lark. I'll try if I can't find out my little beauty." 
 
 Lord Manley, not without some hesitation, complied; and the two 
 proceeded in the direction of Oxford-street. 
 
94 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE POOR HAVE COMPASSION FOR ONB ANOTHER. — A VICTIM TO THE KEGLECT AND 
 THE SELFISHNESS OP THE RICH. — THE PLOT THICKENS. 
 
 The kind-hearted Fanny had consulted with Mrs. Sidney to contrive 
 something agreeable to carry to the invalid, for she did not like to go 
 empty-handed. Having provided herself with a small basket, she placed 
 in it two nice-looking French rolls ; to these she added an ounce of the 
 best tea she could buy, and a quarter of a pound of the whitest loaf sugar. 
 She would willingly have procured some cake, or other delicacy, but the 
 slenderness of her funds forbade it. Mrs. Sidney, with greater experience, 
 put up materials for making gruel. Julia Makepeace presently appeared. 
 
 She had "worried herself to death," she said, to think of something to 
 take to her sick acquaintance. She had the good luck, however, to 
 remember that she had a little love of a handkerchief for the invalid to put 
 round her neck when she sat up ; "for," as she remarked very seriously 
 to Fanny, " even if one is ill, one likes to look becoming." 
 
 With such considerate thoughts the friends set out on their way, the 
 glow of kindliness in their hearts illuminating their countenances with an. 
 additional charm of beauty, though, as Julia remarked, she was glad it 
 was lamp-light, as she had on her second-best bonnet. — Fanny was silent 
 and pensive. — The distance was not great ; so that they quickly arrived 
 at the abode of the sick girl. 
 
 " I am afraid your young friend is very bad," said the mistress of the 
 lodging-house to them, as they entered. " She has eaten nothing for the 
 last twenty-four hours. She said she wanted nothing ; but she's been 
 badly off for a long time, poor thing." 
 
 " We have brought her something nice," said Julia, showing her basket. 
 " Has any doctor seen her ?" 
 
 " I don't think she will ever eat again," replied the woman ; " she has 
 been working herself to death — that's the fact ; the doctor has been here, 
 but he gives no hopes of her, and it's a sad thing to die in the lonesome 
 way she is in ! For my part, I don't care about the rent, though there's a 
 fortnight due come Friday, and there's nothing to take. But she always 
 paid regular while she could, and it's not me that would disturb a poor 
 creature that's dying with such things." 
 
 " We will go up to her," said Fanny. 
 • They found the poor girl sensible, but weak and wandering. She was 
 wretchedly weak and emaciated ; it seemed as if her body had wasted 
 away bit by bit, and that the flame of life was expiring from want of 
 sustentation. 
 
 Fanny immediately busied herself to light a lire ; there were neither 
 coals nor wood. She quickly ran down stairs and fetched some. The 
 landlady helped her willingly. Julia procured boiling water in a kettle 
 from below and the tea having been duly set " to stand," they turned 
 
OE, THE niCH AND THE POOE. 95 
 
 their attention to other comforts for the sufferer. Fanny had known her 
 scarcely by sight, but Julia was better acquainted with her. 
 
 *' Speak to her, Julia," said Fanny ; " she does not know me." 
 
 " It is Fanny Sidney, who is come with me to see you," said Julia, 
 softly; *'it was only to-day that we heard of youi* illness. Have you any 
 pain ?" 
 
 " No pain ; I have been in pain, but I am quite easy now." 
 
 ** I dare say you will soon be better," said Julia, cheerfully; "we have 
 come to drink tea with you." 
 
 " There has been neither tea nor sugar here for a long while past," the 
 yoor girl said, feebly ; and as she spoke she blushed, for the feeling of the 
 ignominy attached to poverty added an additional pang to her dying 
 hours. 
 
 " We have brought some with us," said Fanny. " A cup of warm tea, 
 perhaps, will do you good." And as she said this, she endeavoured to 
 proportion the mixture with critical skill, so as to render it as palatable as 
 possible to the invalid. 
 
 The silver tones of Fanny's voice, and the earnest kindness of manner 
 which springs from the heart, penetrated into the soul of the dying girl ; 
 she looked at Fanny's lovely countenance — ^melancholy, but sweet — ^and 
 thought there was in it something more than earthly< 
 , " You are an angel from heaven !" she said. 
 
 ' "Drink this, and try to have courage," said Fanny. "With a little 
 care, I am sure you may soon get strong again. What is your illness ?" 
 
 The poor girl almost shrieked as she repUed to this question. Her 
 hollow eyes glared almost fiercely. There was the energy of frenzy in her 
 manner ; — 
 
 " It is not illness," she said, hysterically ; " it is want that kills me ; I 
 am starved — dying from want of food !" 
 
 The yoimg girls shuddered, and regarded each other with looks of 
 horror. 
 
 Fanny first recovered herself. " Drink this," she repeated ; " it will 
 refresh you. If it is only nourishment that you want, surely that cannot 
 be wanting in such an extremity as this in a Christian country ! Dear 
 girl, you may yet live." 
 
 " Do not say that : I know they are meant for kind words, but they are 
 not kind to me ; the gi-eatest blessing that you can hold forth to me is, 
 that I may soon die !" 
 
 " But it is wicked to wish to die," replied Fanny, gently. " The gift of 
 life is one that may not be lightly throwTi away; we must bear our 
 sufferings with patience." 
 
 " I have borne them long enough," muttered the dying girl ; "I can 
 beai* them no longer. The grave is the only resting-place for the poor 
 and wretched such as I ! That is one comfort which the poor have in 
 their misery ; they need not fear death ; they have nothing to lose in 
 losing life, but everything to gain. Can you wish me to Hve? WTiat 
 have I to live for ? Poor, iriendless, hopeless I To me life is one continual 
 scene of privation and misery !" 
 
 She sunk down on the bed exhausted by the effort of speaking, to which 
 she had been temporarily excited. The two girls sat by her bed in silence; 
 and presently the patient slept, or seemed to sleep, calmly. 
 
9 6 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE I 
 
 " Perhaps there may be some one whom she might like to see," Fanny 
 whispered cautiously to Julia, who was trying to stifle her sobs, that they 
 might not disturb the patient. 
 
 " We will ask her when she wakes," said Julia. 
 
 " I wish mamma had come with us," said Fanny. " I had no idea the 
 popr girl was so ill. If mamma does not find us at home when she returns 
 from your mother's, no doubt she will come for us directly." 
 
 " It's very shocking," said Julia, with streaming eyes ; " perhaps she 
 may die while we are here ! What shall we do ?" 
 
 " Stay with her till mamma comes ; but I wish she was here. And I 
 think she ought to see a clergyman. I think, Julia, either you or I ought 
 to go for mamma, and bring her here." " 
 
 " Let us wait a little while ; perhaps she will come." 
 
 All this the two girls spoke in whispers ; fearing to make the slightest 
 noise, lest they should disturb the sufferer from her slumber. 
 
 At last they heard the clock strike ten — half-past — eleven ; the patient 
 still slept. 
 
 "Julia," whispered Fanny, "either you or I must go for mamma; I 
 am getting frightened to stay here any longer by ourselves." 
 
 "Do you stay here, Fanny," said Julia, noiselessly putting on her 
 bonnet and shawl. "It is not far ; I can run there in less than five 
 minutes." 
 
 " Make haste," said Fanny ; "I shall be very uneasy till you come 
 back." 
 
 Julia felt her way down stairs, and leaving the house skipped rapidly 
 over the pavement to Mrs. Sidney's lodging. 
 
 It was at this time that the Honourable Mr. Snob, accompanied by 
 Lord Manley, reached the turning from Oxford-street in which was 
 Fanny's residence. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MR. SNOB CONTINUES HIS PURSUIT. — A NIGHT-CHASE.— ACTIVITY OP 
 
 THE POLICE. 
 
 " This is the street," said the exquisite ; " and this is the house. Now, 
 Manley, are you of a mind for a lark ? Here are lots of bells on the door- 
 way ; I wonder which is the right one ? Here goes, for a venture !" 
 
 " Stop !" said the young Earl ; " I don't pretend to be a saint ; but I 
 don't like this work ; so, now I shall wish you good night. But remember, 
 these intrigues sometimes turn out more embarrassing than one calculates. 
 Besides — ^but I won't moralize; so good night." And saying this, he 
 re-entered Oxford-street, where, to his surprise, he met Lord Sarum 
 returning home. The surprise was mutual. 
 
 " Come with me," said Lord Sarum ; and they went on together. 
 
 In the temporary pause which they made at their meeting, a young girl 
 shot rapidly past them. 
 
 " Pretty girl that, upon my word !" said Lord Manley. 
 
OE, THE KICH AND THE POOK. -^^ 
 
 *' It IS a sad sight to see," observed the Viscount, " the numbers of 
 young women living on scanty means, and exposed to all sorts of tempta- 
 tions. There is something wrong in the present constitution of society* 
 It ought not to be ; but I confess I don't see the remedy for it." 
 
 " Some remedy might be found, if the effort were made," replied his 
 companion. " The colonies, for instance, are in want of women ; the dis- 
 proportion in our colonies between the sexes is very great, and the conse- 
 quences are pernicious in the extreme." 
 
 *' But who is to set about it?" 
 
 *' That is the evil of the thing ; it is nobody's business, and nobody sets 
 about it. But I think much gooa might be done, if we could only make 
 the beginning. But it is a question that the matrons of England ought to 
 take up. I have thought if a board or committee of women of rank and 
 influence could be established ; a board of protection, and encouragement, 
 and of relief when necessary, much practical good might be effected." 
 
 *' But women of a certain rank," said Lord Sarum, " have so many 
 things to attend to ; and they are so ignorant generally of the affairs of 
 real life. Still I agree with you, that some good might be done, if it could 
 only be set about." 
 
 " I am surprised," continued Lord Manley, " that the middle classes do 
 not attempt some plan of amelioration. It is a question that affects them 
 more nearly than it does us, seeing that they are exposed to reverses of 
 fortune from which we are exempt, and which often subjects their chil- 
 dren to the most terrible privations and trials of poverty." 
 
 " True," said Lord Sarum. 
 
 " As I was saying, the question affects the middle classes more 
 nearly than it does us. You or I, for instance, by no possibility could 
 have a daughter exposed at this time of night to be running about the 
 streets. — ^What is the matter? — are you ill? — lean on me. As I was say- 
 ing, one in our rank of life could not by possibility have a daughter " 
 
 " Let us walk on quicker," said Lord Sarum, hurriedly. 
 
 Lord Manley was surprised at Lord Sarum's oddness of manner. He 
 pondered on the events of the evening, but he could find no satisfactory 
 solution of the mystery. They continued their walk in silence. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Honourable Maximilian Snob remained with his hand 
 on one of the bells of the house in which Mrs. Sidney resided. He w^as 
 about to give it a pull, when he observed a light female form coming 
 down the street at a quick .pace. He suspended his summons at the door, 
 and retired on one side. 
 
 Julia approached, and was about to ring ; but Maximilian, making sure 
 that she was the object of his search, darted forward, and thinking that a 
 young girl being alone at that hour of the night, fully warranted the 
 liberty, without ceremony he attempted to clasp her round the waist. 
 The terrified girl screamed, and ran away in the direction of her own 
 home, which she had the good fortune to reach before her pursuer could 
 overtake her. She rang the bell violently ; and then, feeling reassured by 
 being at her own door, she turned round, and boldly confronted her 
 tormentor. 
 
 The Honourable Mr. Snob was considerably out of breath from the 
 effects of an exertion to which nothing but an extraordinary excitement 
 could have aroused him ; but while he was endeavouring to give utterance 
 
 H 
 
98 FANNY, HIE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 to some compliments of a particularly insinuating nature — ^which gstve 
 time to the pretty Julia to smooth her collar and to bend her bonnet into 
 shape, which the rapidity of her flight had slightly discomposed — the door 
 was opened by a respectable-looking, middle-aged woman ; Julia vanished 
 within ; and the door, to the excessive disconcertment of the Honourable 
 Maximilian Alexander Theodosius Snob, was instantly shut in his face. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I have had such a fright ! A gentleman tried to take 
 hold of me as I was going to ring Mrs. Sidney's bell ; and I was obliged 
 to run ! And he was dressed quite like a gentleman, too ! I was so 
 frightened ! I wonder if he is at the door now ?" 
 
 *' Don't look, my dear ; it would be to invite him." 
 
 " I will just peep through the curtain : — What impudence ! I declare 
 if he is not standing opposite, looking up at the window !" 
 
 *' Never mind, my love ; when he is tired he will go away." 
 
 *' But I must go back to Fanny ; I left her with Miss Clifford, while I 
 went to fetch Mrs. Sidney." 
 
 "Mrs. Sidney is gone home, and no doubt when she finds that Miss 
 Sidney is not returned, she will go for her at Miss Clifford's. At any 
 rate, my love, I will not let you go out again to-night ; particularly, after 
 the rudeness which has been offered to you ; the man may be watching to 
 insult you again." 
 
 There were two other persons watching the Honourable Mr. Snob, 
 whom Julia did not observe, but who were particularly interested in his 
 proceedings, though far from being aware of the distinguished position 
 which that enamoured individual held in fashionable society. The cause 
 of their suspicion may best be gathered from the following short col- 
 loquy, which took place between the parties : — 
 
 "Jem — ^look; — d'ye see that cove trying the street-door, at No. 20? 
 That's one of the swell mob, I take it, that we are after. He's dressed 
 just like one of the gang ; do you twig his gold chain ? There, he is 
 trying the door again. We had better take him ; he's sure to be one 
 of 'em." 
 
 " Don't be in a hurry ; wait till he is fairly in, and then we can grab 
 him in the act, as the magistrate says." 
 
 With this wary intention, A 292, and B 468, remained, cat-like, on the 
 watch, ready to pounce on the immoral Maximilian, who, from his appear- 
 ance and flashy style of dress, coupled with his stealthy and suspicious 
 movements, they concluded was one of the swell mob they had been spe- 
 cially instructed to look out for in that locality, and who now was plainly 
 scheming an unlawful entry. 
 
 Leaving him, for the present, in this burglarious predicament, we return 
 to the solitary chamber, where Fanny, fearing almost to breathe lest she 
 should disturb the apparently tranquil slumber of the sick girl, sat in 
 anxious expectation of Mrs. Sidney's arrival 
 
99 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT ^^G^L.— THE gf^EEP OP DEATH. — FAXNT's TERRORS. 
 
 Twelve o'clock struck, and no one arrived to assist poor Fanny in her 
 sorrowful task of watching by the bedside of the sick girl. But she waited 
 patiently, though lost in conjecture as to the reason why Mrs. Sidney had 
 not come to relieve her. The clock struck one ; Fanny made an invohm- 
 tary start at the sound, and feared that she had awakened the sleeper ; 
 but the sick girl lay still, and gave no sign of having been disturbed. 
 
 All was silent in the. house, and in the street. It was a street seldom 
 disturbed by the sound of wheels even in the day-time ; and now all was 
 hushed and still. Fanny turned to the fire ; but its few embers were 
 nearly extinct. She snuffed the thin bit of candle very cautiously, so as 
 not to make a noise, and calculated that it would last perhaps half an hour 
 longer. She waited — and watched — and wondered! The sick girl did 
 not move. Spark by spark the fire went out ; the light of the candle grew 
 dimmer and dimmer, as it burnt down in the socket. She looked care- 
 fully about for another, and examined the little cupboard in the corner ; 
 but it was bare of everything save a few odd pieces of earthenware. 
 While she was searching with some anxiety — for she had a vague fear of 
 being without a light in the room — the clock struck two : at the same 
 time the expiring flame of the candle flickered for an instant, and then 
 became suddenly extinguished. The tones of the clock had a solemn 
 sound, and the sense of darkness oppressed her painfully. She remained 
 for some minutes where she stood, feeling she did not know why, a little 
 frightened and having an hysterical inclination to cry out ; but she con- 
 quered that weakness, the fear of awakening the sleeper lending strength 
 to her resolution ; and presently, with an effort — ^for the sound of the 
 rustling of her own dress struck on her ear strangely — she felt her way 
 back to her chair, and sat down again by the bed. 
 
 She remained for some time without moving ; she began to feel alarmed 
 at the stillness of the sleeper. The clock struck three. She was glad to 
 hear even the sound of the clock ; it took off from her sense of loneliness ; 
 but she wondered what could keep Mrs. Sidney away. She thought she 
 would gently leave the room and run home ; but she did not like the idea 
 of being in the street at such a strange hour in the morning ; — and more 
 — she thought it would not be right to leave the sick girl alone ; but she 
 longed intensely for some one to come. The silence — the loneliness — the 
 strange house — the occasion — the continual stillness of the slumbering 
 girl — affected her with unusual fears. Her sense of loneliness became 
 insupportable. — She would have given worlds to hear the sound of a 
 human voice ; — but all was still and silent as the gi-ave. — Tlie sick girl 
 did not stir. — She determined, in her desperation, to speak to her : the 
 H 2 
 
100 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 continued state of suspense was too painful to bear ! — Her yoice shook as 
 she with difficulty said in a faint whisper : — 
 
 "Miss Clifford!" 
 
 The sound did not seem to wake her. 
 
 Fanny spoke in a louder whisper : — 
 
 " My dear Miss Clifford !" 
 
 The sick girl gave no sign of having heard her voice. 
 
 *' My dear Miss Clifford !" repeated Fanny, in excessive tremor, and 
 speaking above a whisper, though the sound of her own voice in that 
 lonely chamber increased her agitation. " My dear Miss Clifford, how do 
 you feel ? Are you awake ?" 
 
 There was no reply : — ^Fanny's trepidation increased ; the thought 
 flashed on her, that the poor girl was dead ! — ^that she had been watching 
 by a corpse. Silently she sunk on her knees, and, as if drawn by some 
 invincible attraction, she extended her hand to the girl's face ; — it was icy 
 cold. She shuddered convulsively, and nearly fainted ! She had scarcely 
 power to remove her hand ; drawing it slowly and silently down the bed, 
 she felt for the hand of the poor girl, which she remembered she had 
 observed, before her light had burnt out, extended on the outside. Tracing 
 her way down the arm, she came to the girl's hand ; the shrivelled fingers 
 of that thin hand felt like cold sticks ! Fanny raised up the arm ; — it did 
 not bend ; she let it drop ; — it fell on the bed stiffly ; there was the 
 inertness of death in that stifled sound. — ^Fanny felt a swimming in the 
 head, and the veins of her forehead seemed to her to be swelling out to 
 bursting. And there she knelt in silence. — ^Wearied with watching ; and 
 worn out with anxiety and expectation, she grew more and more nervous ; — 
 a cold shivering seized her ; she shed involuntary tears. By degrees, a 
 creeping fear, inexplicable — undefined — stole over her. — She was filled 
 with a superstitious dread of she knew not what ! In the darkness, she 
 fancied strange forms flitted about the room ; her terrors grew stronger ; 
 her very hair seemed to bristle up on her head : she would have cried out 
 — ^but her voice stuck in her throat ; and she could only listen, as if to 
 catch the slightest sound to break the horrible stillness of the chamber of 
 death. — But she could hear nothing but the violent beating of her own 
 heart. — She knelt — and she strained her ears to listen — but all continued 
 still ; and she grew colder and colder, till her blood seemed to coagulate 
 and freeze in her veins. — She tried to pray ; — ^but she had not the power 
 to articulate ; terror stifled her voice. In this state of horrible suspense, 
 every minute — every second — seemed an age of intolerable pain ! At last, 
 nature gave way ; her senses, from excess of emotion, lost their acuteness; 
 a dim sensation of coming insensibiHty possessed her ; and, her head 
 sinking on the bed in a state of unconsciousness, the living reposed with 
 the dead. 
 
 In the meantime, an accident had befallen her adopted mother, which 
 had important consequences on her future fate. 
 
101 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 J{TB A CHAPTER OP ACCIDENTS. — LORD MANLEY MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE . — 
 HE FINDS HIMSELF IN LOVE "NyiTH A PICTURE. — HIS DREAM. — A TISIT OF 
 CHARITY. V 
 
 Lord Manley and Lord Sarum had not proceeded far in their walk 
 towards home, after the rapid vision of the pretty Julia, whose appearance 
 had given rise to remarks the cause of so much acute pain, when their 
 attention was attracted by a group of three or four persons, among 
 whom was a policeman, surrounding the body of a female lying on the 
 pavement. 
 
 " She's drunk ! " said a bystander. 
 
 *' Dead drunk ! " echoed a woman. 
 
 *' As drunk as an owl in fits ! " chimed in another, as the countenance 
 of the prostrate female was observed, by the aid of the policeman's 
 lantern, to work about convulsively: — this remark gave rise to some 
 merriment. 
 
 " It's not a bad shawl that she has got on," said the woman, fingering 
 it, and muttering an impromptu wish that the inconvenient policeman 
 was in a certain place usually supposed to be at an indeterminate distance^ 
 and of a warmth greater than agreeable. "You had better go for a 
 doctor." 
 
 The officer made no reply to this appeal, but remained in an attitude of 
 reflection, as if absorbed in the contemplation of the arduous nature of his 
 duties. He held very decided opinions on the culpability of people getting 
 so di'unk as not to be able to walk, and who consequently required to be 
 carried to the station-house — an extra amount of work which, as it led to 
 no extra pay, the worthy functionary was particularly opposed to. 
 
 " Let us try," he said, " to set her on her legs ; perhaps when she feels 
 her legs she may be able to walk." But the form of the female remained, 
 like an inanimate mass, in their arms. 
 
 " It's no go," said the man. They laid the female down again, sup- 
 porting her back against the wall. 
 
 " You had better start for a doctor at once," repeated the woman who 
 had made the remark about the shawl. " K the woman dies, you'U be 
 shown up for it before the magistrate." 
 
 " By George ! " said the male bystander, who had spoken before, " it 
 looks as if the old gal had cut her stick already." It was at this moment 
 that Lord Manley and Lord Sarum appeared. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " asked Lord Manley. 
 
 " Only a woman that's di'unk." 
 
 *' She's dressed respectable too," observed the female bystander ; " but 
 the old lady has had a drop too much for once — that's certain." 
 
 " It is my opinion," said the officer, with much emphasis, and in a tone 
 which impHed his conscious superiority of his own penetration — " it is my 
 
102 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 opinion that the woman is in a fit ; for if she was drunk, it stands to 
 reason that her breath would smell of the drink ; and there's no smell in 
 it," he added, after a vigorous sniff at the woman's mouth, " in this here 
 woman ; so that it's my opinion she is in a fit, and that makes her twitch 
 her mouth about that queer way."^ 
 
 \Vhile the officer delivered his professional opinion. Lord Manley, 
 approaching nearer the woman, saw at once that she was suffering from 
 some sort of fit. Without a moment's delay, he had her conveyed to the 
 nearest hospital, which fortunately was at no great distance. After the 
 lapse of an hour, the violence of the fit abated, but the female remained 
 speechless, and, to all appearance, insensible. As she was in good 
 hands, however, and as the presence of strangers was not wanted, 
 Lord Manley and Lord Sarum returned home. As they passed the door 
 of the former's house, the Earl invited Lord Sarum to come in and see the 
 picture. 
 
 " Come in and look at it ; upon my word, you will say you never saw 
 anything more beautiful in your life." 
 
 " I have seen it," said Lord Sarum, hun-iedly and confusedly. 
 
 "Indeed! When?" 
 
 " I just looked in to see if you were at home ; and I saw the pictm-e in 
 the dining-room. But I don't feel at aU well — good night." 
 
 " Good night ! " said Lord Manley. " What can be the meaning," he 
 thought to himself, " of Sarum's odd manner ? " 
 
 " Lord Sarum called," reported the servant in waiting, " while your 
 lordship was out. He waited for your lordship about an hour in the 
 dining-room." 
 
 "Very odd," thought Lord Manley ; "there is something in all this 
 that I don't understand. Who has been touching this picture ? " he said, 
 aloud, to the servant. There were marks on it of damp, and it had the 
 appearance of having been recently smeared with water. 
 
 "No one has been in the room except Lord Sarum," replied the 
 servant. 
 
 " Have the kindness to take the picture carefully to my bed-room, and 
 place it on the mantel-piece." The young nobleman retired to bed ; his 
 last look was on the portrait of the beautiful unknown ; it had fascinated 
 him, he felt, in a manner that was extraordinary. His sleep was dis- 
 turbed. He dreamed that, as he stood before the picture, admiring its 
 exquisite beauty, the cheeks flushed ! the mouth breathed ! and the eyes 
 looked at him lustrously but mournfully ! The mii-acle of a picture starting 
 into life seemed to him in his dream not at all extraordinary, though the 
 delight of such a vision shook his frame with overpowering emotions, and 
 he was about to address his idol with the enthusiasm of an in-esistible 
 passion, when the effort to speak awoke him ! 
 
 It was early morning ; the eyes of the portrait seemed still to be fixed 
 on him with tlie same supernatural expression, and the colours of the 
 canvass retained, to his half-recovered senses, the reality of life, so highly- 
 Avrought had been his feelings, and so skilfully had the artist depicted the 
 traits of surpassing beauty. He tried to sleep again ; — but the eyes of the 
 portrait remained fixed on his with an expression so real, that, as he raised 
 himself on his elbow and gazed on it, it seemed to his excited imagination 
 as if it was about to speak to liim ! He coidd not sleep again : he got up; 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. |0S 
 
 dressed himself ; and then his thoughts reverted to the case of the poor 
 ^oman of the night before, whom he had caused to be conveyed to the 
 hospital. — " Poor creature ! perhaps she was in distress ; perhaps her 
 family were expecting her home ?" He felt excited and feverish ; — what 
 was better to soothe and calm his mind, than to endeavour to do good to 
 others ? He resolved, although it was so early, to go and see the poor 
 woman. As he left his bed-room with this determination, he cast his eyes 
 on the picture ; the eyes of the portrait followed him, and seemed to 
 regard him with a smiling expression of approval. 
 
 " This picture," he repeated to^imself, '* has taken a singular possession 
 of me. If I was a believer in omens, I should suppose that there was 
 some mysterious sympathy between us !" 
 
 With this feeling, giving rise to many fanciful imaginings, he proceeded 
 to the hospital where the patient was lying. As he was recognised as the 
 gentleman who had brought her to the house the night before, he was 
 admitted to see her without difficulty. He was glad to find that the old 
 lady had recovered the use of her speech, though she was not able to con- 
 verse without much difficulty ; and she was exceedingly weak. The nurse 
 communicated privately to her visitor, whom she judged, from his marked 
 attention, to be some relation of the patient, that it was the opinion of the 
 surgeon, that the poor lady could not long survive the attack, which the 
 nurse designated, in an attempt at technical description, as a something 
 which was utterly beyond her auditor's comprehension. However, it was 
 clear, that the poor woman was in a very dangerous state. Under these 
 circumstances, the kind-hearted nobleman immediately tmned his attention 
 to inquiries after her relatives. He explained to her that he, in company 
 with a friend, had found her extended on the pavement in a fit ; and that 
 he had caused her to be taken to the hospital. He offered his services in 
 any way that could be useful, and invited her to communicate freely with 
 him respecting her circumstances. He added also, that, although there 
 was no immediate danger, the medical man's opinion was, that she was 
 threatened with illness perhaps of a serious natm-e. 
 
 Thus urged, and entii-ely won by the gentlemanly and frank manner of 
 the stranger, the patient made an effort, though it was with considerable 
 difficidty that Lord Manley could collect the meaning of her words, and 
 stated that her name was Sidney ; that she had fallen down suddenly in 
 the street in a fit, while on her way to her daughter, who had gone 
 out to see a sick friend ; that she feared her daughter would be much 
 alarmed at her not coming ; but here the old lady got confused, and her 
 speech, at best difficult to be understood, rambled. All that Lord Manley 
 could make out was something about a friend of the name of Makepeace, 
 whose address he contrived to learn from her. The nurse now interposed ; 
 and on her representation that any further attempt at conversation woidd 
 be prejudicial. Lord Manley withdrew, leaving a sovereign in her hands, 
 with strict injimctions to take care of the sick person. He then, 
 early as it was, bent his steps to the residence of the poor woman's 
 friend. 
 
 His inquiry at the door, after he had succeeded in ringing up the maid 
 of all- work, was received with some ill-humour ; but when he explained 
 that he came on an important matter from a lady of the name of Sidney, 
 the servant, mollified, besides, by the good looks of the applicant, under- 
 
104 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 took to ascend the stairs, and deliver his message ; not without taking the 
 very proper precaution, however, of shutting the door, and of leaving the 
 visitor, for greater security, on ^he outside. 
 
 *' A gentleman wants — I suppose it's your mamma, miss," cried out the 
 maid, speaking through the door. 
 
 *' Say we are not up," said Mrs. Makepeace. 
 
 *' What sort of a gentleman ?" asked Julia. 
 
 **A youngish-looking gentleman, very handsome," replied the maid, 
 ** and dressed quite genteel." 
 
 Julia, instinctively, immediately began to take out her curl papers. 
 
 " He says he wants to see you," continued the maid, " because he's 
 come from Mrs. Sidney." 
 
 " Who can it be ?" said Julia, dressing herself with all haste ; " make 
 haste, mamma, and get ready." 
 
 " It is your tormentor of last night, I've a notion," observed her 
 mother. 
 
 " But he says he comes from Mrs. Sidney's," said Julia ; " we must see 
 him, mamma. How do I look this morning?" Without waiting for a 
 reply to this characteristic inquiry, the young lady set about the duties of 
 the toilet with an earnestness and a rapidity, which at any other time 
 would have elicited her parent's most hearty commendations. 
 
 " Shall I go do^\Ti r" asked Julia. 
 
 *' No, my dear, I will go down myself ; it is not proper for young girls 
 to put themselves in the Avay of strange gentleman." 
 
 *' Gracious goodness !" exclaimed Mrs. Makepeace, to her daughter, 
 as she made her way up-stairs again, quite out of breath ; " poor Mrs. 
 Sidney fell into a fit last night, and she was taken to the hospital, the 
 gentleman says. Quick, Julia, shut the bed-room door ; I declare the 
 gentleman has followed me up-stairs." 
 
 As she spoke. Lord Manley appeared, and bowing with a courteous air, 
 looked as if he waited to be invited inside the sitting-room. Julia had 
 only time to give her favourite curl one twist through her fingers when 
 he entered. 
 
 " As well as I could make out," said Lord Manley, in continuation of 
 the communication he had made at the street door, " the poor lady, Mrs. 
 Sidney, wished to see you ; and she talked also of her daughter expecting 
 her somewhere ; but I could not make out her meaning in that respect, 
 her words were so very indistinct." 
 
 " It is Fanny she means," said Julia. " Good Heavens ! has that poor 
 girl been alone with Miss Clifford all night ? Mamma, do come ; let us 
 go directly. We will first go to Mrs. Sidney's house, and see if Fanny 
 is there." 
 
 Mrs. Makepeace, who was really good-natured, and prompt in her pro- 
 ceedings when any assistance was required at her hands, immediately 
 retired with her daughter into the bed-room; and presently after, the 
 mother and daughter re-appeared dressed for walking. 
 
 " Can I be of any assistance if I accompany you?" asked Lord Manley> 
 
 Julia looked at her mother ; Mrs. Makepeace hesitated a moment, and 
 looked at Julia ; then she looked at the gentleman, doubtfully. 
 
 '"This is not the gentleman who ran after me last night," said Julia, to 
 her mother, in a whisper. 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOR. llJS 
 
 " May I know your name ?" asked Mrs. Makepeace. 
 
 " Manley, madam." 
 
 lliere was something in tlie air of the gentleman that prepossessed Mrs. 
 Makepeace in his favom: ; with the instinct of a gentlewoman, she per- 
 ceived that her visitor was not an ordinary person. 
 
 *'Mr. Manley," she replied, *' we are much obliged to you; very much 
 obliged, for taking this trouble on behalf of our friend Mrs. Sidney; 
 if it is not trespassing too much on yom- kindness, I should be glad to avail 
 myself of your assistance at the hospital where our friend is lying." 
 
 Lord Manley felt that he wa6 speaking to a lady accustomed to good 
 society, though now, it seemed, in humble circumstances. He renewed 
 the offer of his services. Giving his arm to Mrs. Makepeace, they left 
 the house, Julia modestly taking her mother's arm on the other side ; 
 who observed, for the first time, that her daughter had on her best bonnet, 
 and her last new collar — a piece of extravagance, especially at that 
 early hour in the morning, which her economical parent considered quite 
 uncalled for. 
 
 On calling at Mrs. Sidney's place of residence, on their way, they found 
 that neither Mrs. Sidney, nor Fanny, had been home on the preceding 
 night. 
 
 " We shall pass the door of the house where Miss Clifford lives," said 
 Julia, to her mother ; " and you can leave me there as you go by ; I am 
 quite alarmed about Fanny, for the poor dear girl must be in a dreadful 
 state not to have heard from any of us all night." 
 
 *' You are right," replied her mother ; "I am quite uneasy about 
 Fanny myself; but we must hope that Miss Clifford is better." 
 
 As she said this, they reached the door. 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Julia, " I will just run up-stairs, to see if she 
 is there." 
 
 Her mother and Lord Manley remained in the passage, waiting for her 
 return, when suddenly a scream was heard from above ; a scream — shrill 
 — ^penetrating — and bearing in its sound the tidings of some terrible 
 disaster! The mother ran up the stairs with nervous haste, and Lord 
 Manley, supposing some accident had happened, followed her quickly; 
 when a scene presented itself to her sight, which at once accounted for 
 Julia's alarming summons. 
 
 CHAPTER XXHI. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. — LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.— STRUGGLE BETWEEN HONOUR AND 
 PASSION. — LORD MANLEY RESOLVES TO GO ABROAD. 
 
 On the humble bed of that lonely chamber lay the coi-pse of the poor 
 girl, who at last had found, in her early grave, a refuge and a resting-place 
 from the sorrows and privations of the poor. There could be no mistake 
 about that aspect! The half-opened mouth; the half-closed eyes; the 
 rigid features ; the marble fixedness of the sunken cheeks ; the stiffened 
 
106 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 pointedness of the bony fingers of that attenuated hand, which seemed to 
 have been struck out by the chisel of the sculptor from the hard stone ;— • 
 all revealed, with frightful distinctness, the reality of death ! 
 
 But by the side of the dead, there was a living form ; yet one so pale 
 and lifeless-looking, that it seemed the inanimate companion of its sister 
 clay. Worn out by her long and fearful vigil, Fanny had slept, and in 
 her sleep had crept unconsciously into the bed which contained the corpse, 
 on which one of her arms was resting. Mrs. Makepeace, making a motion 
 with her hand to Lord Manley, to signify that he could not enter, closed 
 the door. She had no difficulty in comprehending at a glance the state of 
 the case ; but she was surprised that Julia's exclamation had not awakened 
 Fanny. She almost feared the worst; but on approaching nearer she 
 found that she breathed. She put her finger to her lips, to caution silence 
 to her daughter, and for a few seconds she reflected how to act. She 
 feared that if she were to take means suddenly or violently to arouse 
 Fanny, the shock of finding herself the companion of a corpse, under cir- 
 cumstances so di-eadful, might perhaps be fatal to her reason. But it 
 was necessary to do something promptly. The best thing she thought 
 was immediately to convey Fanny to her own home, that she might be 
 soothed by the sight of well-kno^vn objects. In a whisper, she desired 
 Julia to call up the landlady of the house : Julia, sobbing, obeyed. At 
 the same time she requested Lord Manley to procure a coach — this was 
 quickly done. With the assistance of the landlady, whose murmured 
 exclamations of surprise and horror she had great difficulty in subduing, 
 Fanny was gently lifted from the bed, wrapped in her shawl, and Lord 
 Manley, understanding more from her signs than her words what he was 
 required to do, received the unconscious Fanny in his arms, and carried 
 her dov*Ti stairs. 
 
 The passage and the stairs were dark, so that it was not until he had 
 emerged with his burden into the open street that he perceived to his 
 amasement that the young girl whom he bore in his arms presented the 
 likeness of his mysterious portrait! Excited by the events of the morning, 
 he uttered a cry of surprise, when Fanny, stimulated by the reviving 
 freshness of the open air, and roused by the strange voice, opened her 
 eyes — the very eyes of his picture ! The young nobleman trembled so 
 violently, that it was with difficulty that he placed liis charge by the side 
 of Mrs. Makepeace in the carriage ; and then, prompted by an irresistible 
 impulse, he took his place opposite, forgetting, for the moment, his accus- 
 tomed politeness, and leaving Julia to find her way in after them without 
 assistance. 
 
 The landlady had followed them to the coach door, her mind agitated 
 with mingled feelings of rough commiseration for the deceased, and 
 anxiety for the payment of her expenses. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, opposing for a moment the drawing-up of the 
 coach- window with one hand, and with the other wiping away some real 
 tears from her anxious face — " I suppose, as you are friends of the young 
 lady that's dead — ^poor thing ! but we must all die — there's nothing cer- 
 tain in this life but death and taxes " 
 
 "Do not stop us now," said Lord Manley; "another time we will 
 attend " 
 
 *' Ah ! that's always the way with a lodger, begging your pardon, sir. 
 
■j-.aiu^rbU'Yi >ii. 
 
 'pdW^' 
 
 O 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 107 
 
 When they go away, it's always "another time;" but another time never 
 comes ! Aiid I that have got to pay rent and taxes ! and the poor young lady 
 that's gone, she will owe for a fortnight's rent next Friday ; and then the 
 body must be attended to, as is proper ; and no nurse would come under 
 
 half-a-crown, or say two shillings at the least-^ " 
 
 "Do whatever is necessary and proper," interposed the young nobleman, 
 taking out his purse, at the sight of which the landlady's countenance 
 assumed an expression of the most profound respect ; " I will pay for the 
 funeral, and all expenses ; in the meantime here are five pounds," (the 
 landlady curtseyed low, and 'Mfs. Makepeace could not restrain a look of 
 surprise;) "and now, desire the coachman to drive on." 
 
 While this little scene took place, Fanny began to recover from her 
 lethargy, and she regarded Mrs. Makepeace, and Julia, and Lord Manley, 
 alternately, with looks of inquiring wonder. Fixing her eyes with an 
 earnest gaze on the latter, like one awakening from a dream, and striving 
 to recover the command of her senses, to comprehend the meaning of what 
 was passing around her, she endeavoured in vain to make out the purpose 
 of what she saw. By degrees she awoke to the consciousness of the 
 reality ; and then, the whole scene of the anxious night rushing to her 
 recollection, she burst into a passionate flood of tears ! 
 
 Presently the coach stopped at the door of her dwelling. Lord Manley 
 quickly alighted, and having assisted Mrs. Makepeace and her daughter 
 from the vehicle, he suggested the expediency of his carrying Fanny up- 
 stairs ; but, as Fanny shrunk from this, he was excessively assiduous in 
 supporting her in the most delicate manner round the waist ; but Fanny 
 gave an imploring look to Mrs. Makepeace, which that lady with feminine 
 readiness understood, and she contrived, therefore, with the assistance of 
 her daughter, to convey her up-stairs to her own sitting-room, where 
 they placed her in the great arm-chair. Julia whispered to her by the 
 way, that " her bonnet was quite safe." Her first inquiry was for her 
 " mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Makepeace beckoned Lord Manley on one side. 
 
 " Sir," she said, " I do not know who you are, and I am perhaps asking 
 too much from a stranger on such short acquaintance ; but this dear girl 
 is the daughter of the lady whom you assisted last night to the hospital ; 
 if you could permit me to trespass on your kindness so for as to beg you 
 to endeavour to have Mrs. Sidney conveyed hither, it would be an obliga- 
 tion, which, although I at present do not well know how to repay, would 
 be deeply and gratefully considered." 
 
 Mrs. Makepeace was poorly, not to say meanly, dressed ; but there was 
 a mildness and ladylike manner in her language and demeanour, which 
 struck the young nobleman the more forcibly as it was in strong contrast 
 with her humble appearance. He bore himself towai'ds her, therefore, 
 with a deference and respect usually paid only to those of an ostensibly 
 higher rank, and he could not fail to observe that she received his courte- 
 sies as forms to which she was not unaccustomed. He replied, briefly, 
 " That if it was possible to remove Mrs. Sidney, she should be restored to 
 her daughter immediately." 
 
 Fortunately he found the old lady much recovered, and very anxious to 
 be removed at once to her own home. In a short time, therefore, he had 
 the pleasure to see the mother and daughter re -united, though both in tho 
 
108 FANNY, THE I-ITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 condition of invalids. Leaving them thus restored to each other, he took 
 his leave, to ruminate at leisure on the extraordinary discovery, as he 
 supposed, of the original of his picture, which, on his return home, he 
 immediately locked up, an undefinable feeling of delicacy prompting him 
 to conceal his treasure from the gaze of all eyes but his own. Then he sat 
 down to collect his thoughts, and to ponder over the strange circumstances 
 of the night and morning. 
 
 Lord Manley was three-and-twenty years of age ; and although he was 
 by no means insensible to the charms of female society, he had never been 
 in that confirmed state of psychologic transcendentalism which is vulgarly 
 described as being " in love." He had escaped that misfortune, not from 
 any coldness of disposition, but from a certain fastidiousness of sentiment 
 which made him dissatisfied with any degree of perfection below that 
 which was pictured in his romantic imagination. He had lost both his 
 parents when a child, so that the produce of the large family property had 
 accumulated during his long minority to an amount which placed him, 
 when he came of age, in a position of independence, in respect to that 
 useful adjimct to landed property, ready-money, not usually enjoyed by 
 the heirs of noble inheritances. But although he was far from being 
 parsimonious, either in his establishments or in his gifts, he was, happily, 
 from habit and from the effects of good moral training, by no means 
 inclined to fall into the fashion of profuse and unmeaning expenditure, too 
 often the concomitant of large fortunes. Money was absolutely a matter 
 of no moment to him ; he had more than enough ; the greatest difficulty 
 which he felt was to dispense it usefully. Regarding himself as the 
 trustee of the fortune which he possessed rather for the benefit of society 
 than for his own amusements or dissipations, he always rejoiced in the 
 opportunity of being able to bestow it where it could be beneficially 
 employed. It was with particular pleasure, therefore, that he contem- 
 plated the present occasion of distributing some fractional portions of his 
 wealth in a way most gratifying and satisfactory. Here was evidently a 
 family in distress, or bordering on distress, and suffering under illness ; a 
 mother and daughter, apparently, who had seen better days ; the mother 
 struck with an affliction which, probably, and at no distant date, would be 
 fatal to her ; and then the daughter might be friendless, wanting assist- 
 ance — and so exceedingly beautiful! — To an observer of the young noble- 
 man's countenance, as the thoughts to which this last idea gave rise, it 
 would seem that he was by turns excited, perplexed, and dissatisfied with 
 his own reflections. 
 
 " No," he said at last, speaking aloud, " I would never do that ; that 
 would be brutal. So innocent and so lovely ! She might marry well in 
 her own sphere of life. — I will keep my eye on her ; and provide her with 
 a marriage portion ; and then the feeling will be far more satisfactory 
 than " 
 
 But the feeling, somehow, was not satisfactory ; there was something 
 in the idea of the young gu-l — the living resemblance of his picture, with 
 which he had laughingly said he was in love — of her marrying any other 
 than himself, that was exquisitely painful. His plan of watching over her, 
 of observing her, of guarding her, it might be, from harm, was pleasurable 
 enough ; but after all that there must come a time when the consideration 
 would arise of " what was to be done with her ?" Por himself to form an 
 
OE, THE KICH AND THE POOR. lOft 
 
 alliance so unequal, never entered his imagination ! To bring her to 
 shame, his better feelings revolted at ; and there was an additional senti- 
 ment which he could not exactly define, which forbade the possibility of 
 his considering her in a degraded light. — He looked at the portrait, and 
 the power of its beaming and searching eyes gave him a thrill so softly 
 pleasing, that he hastily closed the door which contained the picture. 
 Though alone, and secured from the observation of all human eyes, he 
 blushed, as the consciousness assailed him that he was struck with an 
 overpowering passion for this humble girl. 
 
 " This is folly," he repeated to himself, as he paced up and down the 
 room in troubled thought ; " this would be love at first sight indeed ! But 
 it would never do. — No ; the one is impossible ; and the other alternative 
 is villainous. — I will go abroad. Sarum is going to Italy ; I will go with 
 him if he has no objection. How very strange ! A man to fall in love 
 with a picture ! But then, here is the original ! Only one way to save 
 myself : I'll go abroad. But first I will see that the poor old lady is well 
 cared for ; — that is a duty ; it is a good action to be done — thrown acci- 
 dentally in my way — and it would be wrong to neglect it ; so I will see 
 the old lady again, just to put things right ; — and then I will be off." 
 
 With this praiseworthy resolve, he rang the bell, which was answered 
 by a servant with a dirty-looking note, bearing on its face the words, 
 always so disagreeable and sometimes so embarrassing, " waiting for an 
 answer." The contents of this epistle forced him to turn his thoughts 
 abruptly in another direction. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MR. SNOB IN TROrBLE. — THE POQR IN INFANCY AND IN OLD AGE. — A FEW- 
 WORDS ON DESTITUTION AND CRIME. 
 
 The contents of the note were as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Manley — Pray come to me directly ; pray do. The ^vretche3 
 have kept me in the station-house all night ; and they will persist that I 
 wanted to break into the house of that confounded girl — the devil take 
 her ! Ask for me in the name of Smith — John Smith — and, for Heaven's 
 sake, don't let anybody know what has happened : I should never hear the 
 last of it ! I know I can trust you. 
 
 " P. S. — If you can put your hand on a bottle of eau-de-Cologne, put it 
 in your pocket for me. What I have suffered !" 
 
 This summons was rather annoying ; but Lord Manley was too good- 
 natured to allow any feeling of fastidiousness to stand in the way of the 
 duties of acquaintance and school-fellowship. So, getting into a street 
 cab, he desired the man to drive to the police-office. 
 
 How he should be able to extricate the Honourable Mr. Snob from his 
 embarrassment, without making known his family dignities, and explain- 
 ing the real intention of the amorous exquisite in making his midnight 
 
110 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER ! 
 
 attempts on a street-door, rather puzzled him ; but, leaving that matter to 
 chance for the present, he asked to see one of the prisoners who were to 
 be "brought up" that morning. The functionary to whom he addressed 
 his inquiry immediately led the way to a part of the premises where the ^ 
 tmfortimates were promiscuously huddled together waiting for the arrival 
 of the magistrate. There was something in the air of Lord Manley which V, 
 at once impressed the officer with the idea — sharpened by experience, as ' 
 the eyes and wits of the police usually are, in detecting personal preten- 
 sions — that the inquirer was a "nob" of some sort. Eyeing Lord Manley, 
 therefore, with professional keenness, but not disrespectfully, and then 
 scrutinizing the motley group, as if to discover wherein the affinity lay 
 between the gentleman before him and the ragged wretches in durance, 
 he asked the usual question ; — 
 
 " Friend of one of the prisoners ?" 
 
 Lord Manley cast his eyes over the group, and felt by no means inclined 
 to claim a personal acquaintance with any individual of the lot. He con- 
 tented himself, therefore, with replying: — 
 
 " I want to see a gentleman of the name of Smith." 
 
 " A gentleman !" returned the officer, searching among the crowd for 
 some one likely to answer the designation ; " I don't think he can be 
 among this batch. — Smith," he said aloud ; — " Smith wanted." There 
 were between thirty and forty people " in trouble ;" at this name about a 
 dozen started forward. 
 
 " John Smith," repeated the officer ; half of the nmnber drew back. 
 
 Lord Manley shook his head. 
 
 " What is your friend charged with ?" asked the officer. 
 
 This was a very unpleasant question. To inquire at a police-office for 
 " a friend" charged with " house-breaking," is the last thing in the world 
 to reflect credit on the inquirer. But as he had gone so far, and as the 
 case was really pressing, Lord Manley would not shrink from endeavouring 
 to save his school-fellow from public exposure ; so, making a little effi)rt, 
 but growing excessively red as he reluctantly stated the predicament in 
 which his friend was placed, he gave the officer to understand that the 
 " party was charged, he believed, with attempting to get into a house." 
 
 " Solicitor?" asked the officer. 
 
 '* No : I am not a solicitor ; I am only a friend of the party." 
 
 The officer looked at Lord Manley with some surprise, not unmixed 
 with a certain air of suspicion. He retired to make inquiry, and pre- 
 sently returning, declared that " it was all right ; there was a John Smith 
 on the ' sheet.' Can't you make him. out among 'em?" Saying this, the 
 officer caused the group to separate themselves, so far as it was possible to 
 do so in the small space in which they were confined, and brought to 
 light a wretched-looking object, seated on the floor in a corner, in an 
 attitude of the most miserable dejection, and attempting, it seemed, in its 
 humility, to retire, as much as possible, from popular observation. 
 
 " That is my friend," said Lord Manley. 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 " That gentleman sitting in the comer." 
 
 " That chap ? Well, you had better lose no time in speaking to him, 
 for depend upon it, that ' gentleman' will soon set off on his travels. He 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. Ill 
 
 was taken in the very act of breaking into a house hard by Oxford 
 Street :— he's booked !" 
 
 Certainly, if outward signs and tokens were to be taken as indications 
 of professional pursuits, the personal appearance of the Honourable Mr. 
 Snob was decidedly against him. His coat was torn from top to bottom, 
 forming two festoons, with all the inconvenience, without the dignity, of 
 the ancient toga ; his shirt was covered with blood, the result of his fight 
 with the polieemen, who declared to their brethren, " that though he was, 
 no doubt, a bad 'un, he was a game 'un;" his white satin waistcoat 
 presented the appearance of some excessively dirty bit of rag that had 
 been discarded from the bag of an old-clothes man ; his black satin stock 
 had been torn from his neck and hung in shreds ; and that fashionable 
 appendage which once bore a semblance to a hat, was torn and battered 
 into a form indescribable; add to this that he was unshaved, and 
 uncombed, and that his face and hands were begrimed with mud. It was 
 in such guise that Lord Manley had the infinite mortification to recognise, 
 though not without considerable difficulty, the once-perfumed person of 
 The Honourable Maximilian Alexander Theodosius Snob. 
 
 Snob's visage presented a most rueful appearance, as he crawled forward 
 to give some necessary explanations to his friend through the bars. His 
 greatest fear was lest his name should be known, and his mishap reported 
 throughout the fashionable circles in which he was wont to hold distin- 
 guished place : — 
 
 " I should never hear the last of it," he said, dolorously. "And look 
 at me ! Did you ever see anything so horrid ! Only think that I have 
 had to endure the smell of these creatures all night !" 
 
 " If y(5u don't declare yourself," replied Lord Manley, through the bars, 
 " I fear you will be committed for attempting a burglary." 
 
 " Oh ! the devil take that girl !" 
 
 " Look sharp," called out an officer, " the magistrate's come." 
 
 *' I will try to speak privately to the magistrate," said Lord Manley. 
 
 *' Do anything," implored the Avretched Snob ; " but don't let my name 
 be known ; it would be the death of me — it would indeed !" 
 
 " Now, sir," said the policeman to Lord Manley, " if you want to get 
 in you must look sharp." 
 
 Lord Manley took the policeman on one side, and requested him to 
 hand his card privately to the magistrate. 
 ^ At the sight of the magic w^ord " Earl," ' the man immediately doffiid 
 his hat, and departing on his errand, returned in less than a minute, with 
 the invitation to take a seat near the magistrate on the bench ; but before 
 he could make any communication on the subject of the unfortunate Snob, 
 the first case was called on, and Lord Manley, in deference to the forms of 
 justice, deferred speaking till a fit opportunity. 
 
 The party accused on the present occasion, was an urchin of about ten 
 years of age, who looked more like a lump of dirt patted up into the 
 semblance of a child, than anything human. 
 
 " What is the charge ?" asked the magistrate. 
 
 *'Step,ling, your worship," replied an officer, coming forward; "I 
 watchect him a goodish bit, for I thought he was hatching mischief ; and 
 so it was, for he snatched a roll from the inside of the shop window, and 
 
112 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER t 
 
 cut off. This is it," producing a penny roll carefully wrapped up In his 
 handkerchief. S 
 
 " What have you to say to this, boy ?" said the magistrate to the little 
 culprit, who was just tall enough for his dirty face to peer above the rail. 
 
 The boy began to blubber. 
 
 " What have you to say ?" repeated the magistrate ; *' you hear what 
 is said — that you stole the bread. It seems very clear against you." 
 
 It was a clear case. The little rogue felt, with the instinct of his 
 calling, that his best game was an appeal to mercy. 
 
 " I can't say but what I prigged the roll," he broke out, blubbering 
 afresh ; " but I was so hungry." 
 
 " Hungry !" said the magistrate, " that will not do ; if every hungry 
 person was to take what he wanted, there wouldn't be a bit of bread left 
 in a baker's shop. How old are you?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Where do your father and mother live ?" 
 
 " I never had any father or mother." 
 
 " Where do you live ?" 
 
 *' I don't live anywhere.'* 
 
 *' Where do you sleep at night ?'* 
 
 " Sometimes in the park, or under the arches of the bridges, or in a 
 doorway — any place that's comfortable." 
 
 The magistrate seemed a little perplexed. He continued his ques- 
 tions : — 
 
 *' Can you read and write ?" 
 
 *' No : — ^nobody ever taught me.'* 
 
 *' Do you ever go to church ?" 
 
 The boy seemed astonished at this question. 
 
 " Me go to church ! your worship, I ha'nt got no clothes to go to 
 cnurch in." 
 
 The magistrate was obviously troubled by the replies of the wretched 
 outcast before him ; he paused for a short time, and then, as if desirous to 
 probe into the condition of the child with still more minuteness, he asked 
 him, in a mild tone : — 
 
 *' Do you ever say your prayers ?" 
 
 " I never knowed any," replied the boy. 
 
 " Do you not Imow," continued the magistrate, " that it Is wrong to 
 steal?" 
 
 " I have no other way to get anything," said the boy, with sullen dogged- 
 ness ; *' nobody gives me anything, and nobody cares for me." 
 
 *' Have you no friend at all in the world ?" 
 
 The boy considered for a moment. *' Yes," he said, " I had a friend 
 once." 
 
 " And who was that ?" 
 
 *' It was Bill Smith ; and when he was lagged for prigging a gentleman's 
 ticker, then I had nobody left to be my friend." 
 
 The magistrate remained in reflection for a short time. 
 
 "This is a most extraordinary case," observed Lord Manley to Kim, In 
 an under tone. 
 
 *' Nothing extraordinary," replied the magistrate ; " these cases occur 
 
OE, THE HIGH AND THE POOR. 118 
 
 every day ; the difficulty is to know how to deal with them. Where is 
 the party to whom the bread belongs?" asked the magistrate. 
 " He is expected every moment," replied the officer. 
 "It seems a thing hardly to be believed," observed Lord Manley, 
 *' that such a case of utter abandonment and destitution as this can exist in 
 a civilized country. What is to become of this child ?" 
 
 " He will go on robbing until he gets sent out of the country, and that's 
 the best thing, perhaps, that could happen to him. But this is only a 
 single example of thousands of persons of both sexes and of all ages, who 
 are in a state of destitution, nearly, if not quite as bad as this. In London 
 alone, there are not less than fifteen or twenty thousand persons who do 
 not know, when they get up in the morning, where they shall get a meal 
 during the day, or where they shall sleep at night ; and it is a remarkable 
 and perplexing fact, that what is called the increase of the wealth of the 
 country, is accompanied, in the most curious proportion, by an increase of 
 poverty, destitution, and crime." 
 
 " That is a most perplexing anomaly ; but may not the increase of crime 
 be the cause of the increase of the destitution ?" 
 
 " Supposing that to be the case, it gives rise to a consideration not less 
 emban-assing : — that the increase of crime in a civilized community is 
 in proportion to the progress of its prosperity. But I do not think it 
 necessaiy to go into that question, because, from my own experience, I 
 have the decided opinion, that crime is almost in all cases the result of 
 want and privation, and of the unsettled state of mind produced by the 
 constant irritation of the precariousness of subsistence. I do not mean to 
 say that there are no exceptions; but I speak of the generality of criminal 
 offenders, amomiting in number annually to not less than one hundred 
 thousand. To my mind, it is idle to expect a moral reformation of the 
 destitute poor until you effect an ameKoration in their physical condition. 
 The great thing to be done, is to remove the temptation — nay, I must go 
 farther than that, and almost say, the necessity of crime. People, in 
 general, are well enough inclined to be honest, if they are afforded the 
 means of being so ; but it is vain to attempt to put down, by penal enact- 
 ments, the offences which are the consequences of physical want as well 
 as of imperfect moral training." 
 
 " And yet the country produces sufficient wealth," observed Lord Man- 
 ley, " to enable every one of its inhabitants to live in a state of sufficiency 
 and comfort." 
 
 " That is true ; and yet it may be computed that not less than a million 
 of the inhabitants of England alone live on the labour of others ; not from 
 any disinclination to work, and to contribute their part to the general 
 production of the wealth of the country, but from the imperfect machinery 
 of society, which allows the wealth- creating power of so many human 
 beings to be lost to themselves and to the community. I have long since 
 come to the conclusion that it is not from any deficiency of the power of 
 creating wealth, or, in other words, of creating that which administers to 
 the necessities, the comforts, and the luxuries of mankind, that the labour- 
 ing classes of this countiy are in a state of such physical, and consequently 
 moral dcgi-adation, but that the evil arises from the defect of the com- 
 binations of society, in the distribution of its wealth. There is enough for 
 all, and more than enough for all ; but by some error in the social system, 
 I 
 
il4 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER C 
 
 while some few are immoderately rich, there are vast numbers dispropor- 
 tionally poor, and many in absolute want of the daily necessaries of life. 
 But, excuse me, I see the prosecutor has arrived ; I must attend to the 
 duties before me." 
 
 The owner of the roll proved his case in few words, but he had no 
 wish to prosecute. 
 
 " What will you do with the boy?" asked Lord Manley. 
 
 "These cases are always painful and embarrassing. If I were to 
 let him off, he would only go into the streets again and rob the next 
 minute. The best thing to do, is to have him shut up somewhere, to keep 
 him out of mischief. Stand aside," he continued, addressing the juvenile 
 delinquent ; " I shall consider what is to be done with you presently. — 
 What is the next case ?" 
 
 "John Lode," said the clerk, "charged with sleeping in Newgate 
 Market in the open air !" 
 
 " Let him stand forward," said the magistrate. 
 
 The individual called on to reply to the grave accusation of being 
 destitute and without a home, was an old man, apparently bent down 
 with the combined weight of age and want. There was a gaunt, hollow 
 appearance in his look, and an expression of sternness in his countenance 
 that was bordering on defiance. When he was placed at the bar, he put 
 his brown hands, hardened with labour, on the rail ; and, gathering him- 
 self up, as if with the last effort of despair, stood like an old stag at bay. 
 Lord Manley was much struck with his appearance. 
 
 What have you to say to this charge ?" asked the magistrate. 
 
 The old man looked inquiringly, but said nothing. 
 
 " What have you to say to the charge," repeated the magistrate, " of 
 sleeping in the open air ?" 
 
 " Where was the harm ?" asked the old man. 
 
 "The law will not allow it," replied the magistrate, in a severe tone; 
 and then, in a milder voice, he added, " you must promise not to repeat 
 this ofience, or I shall be obliged to commit you. How old are you ?" 
 
 " Seventy- two." 
 
 " Have you no home ?" 
 
 "Home! where should the like of me find a home? Now that I am 
 too old to work, where can I find a home ?" 
 
 " You ought to have been provident in your youth," said the magistrate, 
 " and have saved something against old age." 
 
 " Save !" said the old man ; " what can a working-man save out of the 
 
 ?ay that he gets for his labour ? For two-and-sixty years, man and boy, 
 have always worked hard when I could get work to do, and never 
 minded it while I had strength to do it — and every day too ; no holiday 
 for a working-man ; all work ; nothing but work ; no time for anything 
 but work ! And what do we get for it ? Just enough to keep body and 
 soul together — no more : those that have the money take care of that. 
 They just give us enough to keep us a-going ; and then when they have 
 worked all our work out of us, and used as up, they look on us like an old 
 horse that's only fit for the knacker's." 
 
 " You must not talk in that way here," interposed the magistrate, in a 
 tone of authority. " I shall be obliged to' deal severely with you if you 
 do not conduct yourself respectfully." 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOE. 115 
 
 " What's the odds ? I say for two-and-sixty year I haye worked and 
 toiled and sweated, living on scant fare — and sometimes on none — and all 
 for the good of the rich folks ; and now when I am old and worn out, 1 
 am to be punished because I haven't got a home to go to ! Dang it, that 
 beats all !" 
 
 " You must go to your parish, and they will take you into the work- 
 house." 
 
 " That's the same as saying, you must go to prison ; and worse than 
 that, for in the prisons they tell me they do give you something to eat, 
 but in the workhouse it's downrighrt; starvation ; not that it matters much 
 perhaps which I go to, for I can't have long to live anyhow — that's some 
 comfort." 
 
 " I don't like to be severe with you," said the magistrate — "at your age 
 especially ; but you must promise me not to lie about in the streets at 
 night, or I shall be obliged to commit you." 
 " I can't promise ; I've nowhere else to go." 
 " You must go to the workhouse." 
 
 " I won't go to the workhouse : if I tnust starve. 111 starve outside, and 
 at liberty. I'd rather lie and rot in the deepest mine that ever Was sunk, 
 tbnn go to a workhouse !" 
 
 "Is there auy objection," asked Lord Manley, "to my relieving this 
 old man ?" 
 
 " None in the world ; except that you will find that you will have more 
 on your hands than you can provide for, if you give relief to all who are 
 destitute and without homes in this city." 
 
 " The old man has an honest look about him," said the Earl ; " and I 
 should like to do something for him. He comes from the north, by his 
 tongue. If you can with propriety discharge him, I wiU engage that 
 he shall not be brought up on this charge again, for some time to come at 
 least." 
 
 " Be it so," said the magistrate. " John Lode, this gentleman has the 
 kindness to say he will assist you, if he finds, on inquiry, that you deserve 
 it. You are discharged. What is the next case ? — John Smith ; — ^bring 
 up John Smith." 
 
 An officer in full uniform, and of an imposing appearance, stepped 
 forward at this call, and announced to the magistrate, with evident satis- 
 faction, that the police had, at last, been successful in capturing one of the 
 most artful and desperate of a gang of burglars the most cunning and 
 ferocious that had ever infested the metropolis, or defied the exertions of 
 the police. The two officers whom he shovdd bring forward would prove 
 that the party was in the very act of breaking into a house when he was 
 taken, notwithstanding a desperate resistance on his part, in which tlie 
 officers had received many severe contusions. 
 
 This flourishing exordium produced a considerable excitement in the 
 crowd of the curious eager to have their ears regaled with something out 
 of the common way ; and the miserable Snob perceived to his horror that 
 a whole array of reporters began immediately, with professional glee, to 
 prepare their note-books and to sharpen their pencils for his especial 
 illustration. 
 
 "Bring forward the prisoner," said the magistrate, in a voice which 
 I 2 
 
116 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 sounded to the exquisite like the knell of the last trumpet; and the 
 wretched Maximilian Alexander Theodosius stood in miserable plight 
 before him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE EXQUISITE APPEARS AT THE BAR. — AN UNEXPECTED ADVOCATE. — INCIPIENT 
 
 JEALOUSY. — Julia's soliloquy. — fanny visits lady sarum. 
 
 "What is your name?" asked the magistrate, concentrating in one 
 penetrating look, which to the unhappy Snob seemed quite ferocious, 
 the appalling dignity of a whole bench of justices — "what is your 
 name ?" 
 
 " Thomas Smith," replied Snob, in a deprecating tone. 
 
 " He said John at the station-house," said the officer who conducted 
 the case; " but I'll be bound, your worship, he has a dozen aliases." 
 
 Snob cast an imploring look at the officer. 
 
 "What name, man," said the magistrate, in an angry voice, "are you 
 to be known by?" 
 
 " Any name," replied Snob. " I mean — that name — John Smith." 
 
 " I am inchned to think you are a bad one," said the magistrate, 
 shaking his head. " Go on," — to the officer. 
 
 The officer produced his witnesses, who deposed that they saw the 
 prisoner in the act of endeavouring to open the street door of the house 
 by picklock keys, which, however, after the most diligent search, they 
 had not been able to find ; and they conjectured they had been conveyed 
 away by a confederate while they were taking the prisoner to the station- 
 house. 
 
 "Have you nothing more to bring forward than that?" asked the 
 magistrate. " Did you find anything suspicious about his person ?" 
 
 Lord Manley wished to interfere, but the magistrate requested him to 
 allow the case to take its course. 
 
 " What did you find on him — any suspected property ?" 
 
 " Several things very suspicious," replied the officer, " which prove 
 that he had been at his tricks somewhere else before he was taken. First, 
 here's a handkerchief marked M. A. T. ; this can't be his of course — 
 picked from some gentleman's pocket, as I dare say we shall be able to 
 prove." 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 " A pocket-book, with writing in it — all in French, belonging to some 
 foreign gentleman most likely ; and then this," said the officer, displaying 
 triumphantly a crimson silk purse with gold tassels. 
 
 " Any money in it ?" 
 
 " Two tens, one five, and seven sovereigns. There can be no doubt, 
 your worship, that he had been picking pockets. He had on this gold 
 chain too, round his neck, quite oudacious — ^like as if it was his own." 
 
 " Anythuig more ?" 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE rOOR. 117 
 
 " A pocket looking-glass, that looks as if it had been a good deal used 
 — some lady's, perhaps ; and a pair of tweezers." 
 
 " What are tweezers for — to pick pockets with ?" 
 
 " No, 3^our worship, such chaps as these have 'em to pick the hairs out 
 of their eyebrows. And here's a funny little brush which we can't make 
 out the use of; but one of our men says it's what the foreigners have to 
 smooth their moustaches. You see, your worship, this chap has got 
 moustaches: that's a new go with 'em; they think it makes 'em look 
 nobbish; and with the women it takes wonderful. We thought they 
 were sham 'uns at first, for thei^ are regular places where you can hire a 
 pair for the day ; but when one of our men gave a pull at 'em, he roared 
 out quite natural." 
 
 Here Snob shuddered. 
 
 " Anything more r" 
 
 " No^ yom- worship ; only our man caught him, as I said before, in the 
 veiy act." 
 
 ''What have you to say to this charge, man?" said the magistrate, 
 casting a severe look at the prisoner. 
 
 Lord Manley here interposed, and communicated privately to the bench 
 the real state of the case, adding, that the party accused was a gentleman 
 of family and fortiuie, and that it was very desirable that there should be 
 no public exposure of the circumstances, as it could do no possible public 
 good, and would only give pain to his family, &c. 
 
 '' We must have the young lady here," said the magistrate ; " it's very 
 unpleasant, no doubt ; but as the foct has been positively deposed to, I 
 cannot discharge the prisoner without some explanation. But I will hear 
 the continuation of the case in my private room ; and in the meantime, 
 cannot you contrive that your friend should wash his face, and pay 
 a little attention to his personal appearance ? He is a most deplorable 
 object at present, I must say." 
 
 The prisoner was in consequence removed, and an officer having been 
 sent, with a polite note from the magistrate, to the place of Julia's abode, 
 that young lady in a short time arrived with her mother, much flushed 
 and embarrassed at making her first appearance in public life on the 
 boards of a police-office. She made her statement with so much modest}^ 
 and blushed so very prettily as she exculpated Mr. Snob from any felonious 
 intentions, that she received the compliments of the magistrate ; and the 
 Honourable Maximilian, who had taken courage, and brushed himself up 
 for the examination, looked so little like a housebreaker, that the young 
 lady required no entreaty to induce her to accept his apologies for his 
 "indiscretion," as he called it, of the preceding night. He added his 
 earnest assurance, that had he been aware of her being a daughter of 
 Captain Makepeace,lie never should have been guilty of the impropriety, 
 &e. &c. The matter being thus satisfactorily explained, and amends 
 having been made to the police-officers for the wounds they had received 
 in the encounter, the parties retired ; but to the extreme astonishment of 
 the rejoicing Maximilian, Miss Makepeace entered into a conversation 
 apart with Lord Manley, which was obviously confidential, and indicative 
 of a former acquaintance. The exquisite had been so struck with Jidia's 
 personal attractions, so far beyond what he had surmised from his pre- 
 vious brief observation of her, and he had been so penetrated with the 
 
118 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 charming complaisance with which she had given her evidence in his 
 favour, that he viewed the seeming familiarity of Lord Manley with a 
 feeling of jealousy which gave him a twinge of a novel and excessively 
 disagreeable description. However, he had the discretion to keep his 
 thoughts to himself ; though he inwardly resolved to keep a close watch 
 on his friend's proceedings, which he suspected had their object in other 
 feelings than pure benevolence of disposition. In this humour, he parted 
 rather abruptly from Lord Manley ; but the latter was too much occupied 
 with his own thoughts to observe the alteration in his manner, and quitted 
 him, with the intention of calling on Lord Sarum, and of offering to 
 accompany him on his tour through Italy. 
 
 Julia returned home with her mother in a very sentimental mood ; and 
 it was a remark that occurred afterwards to that worthy lady, that in 
 relating the event of the morning to Miss Sidney, she carefully avoided 
 casting any ridicule on the ludicrous misfortune of the delinquent Maximi- 
 lian. On the contrary, she gave expression to several indulgent observa- 
 tions on the "wild freaks" of "young men;" and seemed to regard him 
 with a sort of pity, as one who had suffered in her cause and on her 
 account. With kindly intent, they proceeded at once to the residence 
 of Mrs. Sidney, when Julia lost no time in making Fanny acquainted with 
 her " discovery." 
 
 " What do you think, Fanny ? Who do you think the Mr. Manley is 
 that came to us this morning ? The secret came out at the police-office. 
 He is an earl, my dear ; yes, my dear, an earl. There's for you ! Only 
 think of an earl taking so much trouble, and doing a kindness, just like an 
 ordinary person ! But I don't think him so good-looking as the other ; 
 besides he is so very grave, and he has got no moustaches — I do think 
 moustaches make a man look so noble ! But only think that an earl has 
 actually carried you from the top of the stairs to the bottom ! Upon my 
 word, little milliners are getting up in the world ! How did you feel, 
 Fanny — a little frightened- — eh?" 
 
 A flush came over Fanny's face, as she replied, quietly, " I was not 
 sensible, Julia, or you may be sure I should not have allowed it." She 
 laid down her work, and pressing her hand to her forehead, seemed to be 
 overcome with the recollection of that terrible night. A gloom came over 
 the party at this retrospection, and they discoursed for a while on the sad 
 fate of their late companion in distress. 
 
 " Don't you think. Mamma," said Julia, after an interval of unusual 
 silence on her part, " that the police are veiy hasty sometimes, in taking 
 people up — just for nothing?" 
 
 " Upon my word, I think the police are very useful, and I don't know 
 what would become of us all without them." 
 
 There was another long silence. 
 
 "Mamma," suddenly asked Julia, "if poor Papa had lived, he might 
 have been a general — ^might he not?" 
 
 Her mother laid down her work. " My dear Julia, what a strange 
 question to put to me ! Certainly, your poor father might have risen to 
 the rank of general ; but all that is past ! Finish your handkerchief, my 
 dear ; all such thoughts had better be laid aside now ; we must submit to 
 our condition." 
 
 " I have had to unpick my work three times," said Julia, laying down 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE rOOK. lXj9 
 
 her work disconsolately. " I really am so fluiTied with everything that I 
 can't do a stitch." 
 
 " You had a lucky escape last night," said Fanny, mthout taking her 
 eyes from her work ; "I think it served the fellow right for his imperti- 
 nence ; a night in the station-house will be a lesson to him." 
 
 " My dear Fanny," said Julia, a little hastily, and with just a shade of 
 testincss in her manner, " I wonder you can apply such a term as 'fellow' 
 to a gentleman; besides he is the son of a nobleman, and those who are 
 the wildest at first often turn out the steadiest at last — don't they, 
 Mamma ? Besides I have no liking for your good young men— they are 
 so insipid." ' 
 
 No one seemed inclined to contradict this assertion, and the party 
 relapsed into silence ; but presently Julia gave vent to her thoughts, in a 
 question addressed generally to the company : — 
 
 " I dare say Lord Manley will call again to inquire after Mrs. Sidnpy, 
 and I shouldn't wonder if that ' poor fellow' was to come with him to 
 apologise again for his ' impudence.' But it would not be right for me to 
 see him after what has occmTed ; — not that I believe he really meant any 
 harm ; and he expressed his regret in such a very gentlemanlike manner 
 before the magistrate ; and said he should be happy to repeat his apology 
 at a more fitting opportunity — those were his very words, were they not, 
 Mamma? Fanny, my dear," she added, with great seriousness, " do you 
 really think that my hair looks better in curls than plain ? By the by, 
 now I think of it, that light-blue ribbon, if it was washed and ironed out 
 nicely, would do very well for my best bonnet. I think blue becomes me ; 
 what do you think, Fanny — it isn't too light, is it ? Good heavens ! what 
 shall I do for gloves ? I dropped my best pair last night, and I felt so 
 ashamed before the magistrate with these old things on— but I was in 
 such a flurry ! Oh, dear ! Life is full of troubles ! as you say, dear 
 Mamma ; and the summer is coming on, and I have no parasol fit to be 
 seen ; my old one has such a hole in it ! Last summer I had to turn the 
 good side of it to any one that looked at me. But I think that buff" dress 
 will last another season, and with blue ribbons — yes — that will match the 
 bonnet. Fanny, how dull you are ! Why don't you talk?" 
 
 But Fanny was too busily occupied with her work, to pay much atten- 
 tion to JuHa's conversation, and she was herself engaged with her own 
 sad thoughts. She did not know how she shoidd summon up sufficient 
 courage to call on Lady Sarum alone that afternoon, to apologise for not 
 having her turban completed, and to explain the reason of it. !Mrs. 
 Sidney was able to converse a little, and was free from pain, but she had 
 not strength to accompany her, and her constitution had evidently received 
 a shock from w^hich the most fatal consequences were to be apprehended. 
 Then there was medical attendance to be considered ; and how, Fanny 
 thought, was it to be paid for ? and she was herself weak and ill from the 
 exhaustion of her sufiering on the previous night. But her difficulties, 
 and the condition of her adopted and dear parent, only stimulated her to 
 greater exertion. She worked hard, therefore, at her task, and endea- 
 voured to console her sufiering mamma with cheering assm-ances of her 
 own recovery. In this way the day of labour — for wliethcr in joy or in 
 sorrow, the poor must labour — wore on. With the assistance of JuHa, 
 the important turban was completed, and the hpur of the afternoon arrived 
 
120 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 when it was necessary for Fanny to wait on Lady Sarum. Requesting 
 Mrs. Makepeace to accompany her — leaving JuHa to take care of Mrs. 
 Sidney — the little milliner, carrying a band-box in her hand, set out 
 on her way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 lORB GRANDBOROUGH S TRAVELS IN TOWN. — MISTAKEN CHARITY. — EMBARRASSMENTS 
 OP GOOD NATURE. — LUCIFER MATCHES, BATH BRICKS, AND CANARY BIRDS. 
 
 It chanced that Lord Grandborough had taken it into his head to make a 
 tour of charitable inspection that morning, to which he was the more 
 strongly prompted by the recollections to which the conversation on the 
 subject of Lord Mauley's Italian picture had given rise the day before. 
 The worthy peer was much changed since the time when he had dismissed 
 from his door, unknowingly, the wife of his son, whose rejection had led 
 to consequences so disastrous. Instead of being the hard and systematic 
 opponent of casual relief to the suffering poor, he had become the habitual 
 dispenser of charitable donations with almost undistinguishing profusion. 
 The desire to atone for his former hardness of heart had produced in him 
 a nervous sensibiUty to any tale of distress, amounting to weakness. 
 There was one point, however, to which his mind clung with the perti- 
 nacious obstinacy of a systematizer; and that was, the propriety of turning 
 his charitable gifts into the means of " setting in motion," as his lordship 
 was pleased to express it, " the industrial capabilities" of the population. 
 *' If you give money," he was used to repeat, " you ought to do so for a 
 definite purpose ; — don't give it to be spent unprofitably ; but when you 
 see poor people doing all they can to earn an honest livelihood, then help 
 them. Buy the produce of their labour ; that induces them to work, and 
 preserves them in the habits of industry." The learned Dr. Sawdust, who 
 would have turned with disgust from the enunciation of principles so 
 abhorrent to his doctrines, would have been not a little gratified could he 
 have been the spectator of the misadventure which befel the excellent 
 peer's determination to act up to his principles on the present occasion. 
 
 The Earl had strolled farther in his walk that morning than was his 
 wont, and had accidentally wandered into districts known to the aristo- 
 cratic classes only by their description in the maps. In this way he had 
 penetrated into the distant region of Brunswick Square, which roused his 
 observation much in the same way as the curiosity of the enterprising 
 traveller is excited by the discovery of a new country in the depths of an 
 interior yet unexplored, and peopled by an unstudied race of inhabitants. 
 It was in this distant spot that the Earl, stopping to look about him, and 
 filled with a sort of wonder as to where he could possibly be, was accosted 
 by an old man, dressed very shabbily but cleanly, with a box of lucifer 
 matches — a favorite stock with his numerous fraternity, which for some 
 mysterious reason operates as a talismanic charnj. to protect the mendicant 
 from the fatal consequences of the laws against begging in the streets. 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 121 
 
 The old man said nothing, but, with a mute eloquence more expressive 
 than words, took off his hat, exposing to the air his venerable gray hairs, 
 and held out his commodity in a timid and supplicating manner. This 
 was too evident an appeal to charity to be passed over ; but the peer took 
 a pride in showing that he was not ignorant of the value of articles of 
 commerce. With an air, therefore, partly benevolent and partly signifi- 
 cant of the practical information supposed to be possessed by a president 
 of the Board of Trade, he shook his head at the old man, and remarked : — 
 
 " Poor trade, that, my man." 
 
 The old man made no reply ; but looked at his box of matches, and then 
 at his threadbare garments, barely covering his limbs — and then at the 
 person of his questioner. And then he again proffered his matches :- — it 
 was a study for an artist ; — a melo-dramatic actor might have taken a 
 lesson from him. 
 
 " How many of these boxes," asked the peer, in a condescending tone, 
 but still business-like, " must you sell before you can gain a shilling ?" 
 
 " They are only a penny a piece," replied the old man, in feeble accents, 
 and with a strong Irish brogue ; " and it's a hard matter to get anything 
 by them any way. Some people buy 'em at the penny, and some good 
 gentlemen and ladies give me the penny and leave the box for me ; — but 
 I am in great distress, and very hungry," he added, cautiously looking 
 round to see if any policeman was in sight, and extending one hand with 
 his hat for charity, while with the other he vrithdrew his box of matches 
 behind him, " and any trifle that your honour could give would have an 
 old man's blessings, and the blessings of his fatherless children !" 
 
 But the peer was not to be cajoled into bestowing charity in any other 
 way than his own. 
 
 " How many boxes have you got to sell?" his lordship asked, with as 
 much as possible the air of a dealer. 
 
 The old man produced from some curious recesses of his garments a 
 tolerable stock; the Earl counted them carefully; there were twenty-four. 
 
 " Four- and- twenty, at a penny a piece, come to two shillings," said the 
 Earl, taking the money from his pocket. The vendor of matches looked 
 surprised ; he had not been accustomed to dealings in such a wholesale 
 way ; but as it was a fair bargain and sale, he could do nothing, though 
 considerably disappointed at the result, but hand over to the buyer the 
 whole of his stock in trade, and receive the price ; at the conclusion of 
 which transaction the Earl, wishing him success in his occupation, and 
 throwing in a few moral observations on the evil practices of begging, and 
 the propriety of every man seeking to earn his bread by his industry 
 disposed of the matches in the pockets of liis coat, and proceeded home 
 wards with considerable satisfaction at having exercised his benevolence 
 without any departure from his system ; besides — without counting th 
 matches — the blessings were cheap at the money. In this state of plea- 
 surable excitation he arrived near his own house, when he was accosted 
 by another applicant, carrying a moderate load of Bath bricks ; to whom, 
 as he was evidently pursuing an industrious calling, the peer was imme- 
 diately inclined to pay favourable attention. But unfortunately the 
 merchandize of this fresh suppliant for relief was of a nature not so 
 commodious for transport as the last, and the benevolent peer was 
 embarrassed for a moment how to act. The man, however, was too urgent 
 
122 FANNY, THE LJTTI-E MILLINER: 
 
 in his appeal to allow him to hesitate ; — " sick wife" — "young children" 
 — "unfortunate mechanic" — "hard times" — "out of work" — 'Were uttered 
 in an accent of the deepest distress, and with a volubility that was 
 absolutely astonishing. He saw plainly that he had a benevolent old 
 gentleman to deal with ; though if he had been aware of the rank of his 
 customer he would no doubt have made more of the opportunity. 
 
 " Only buy one, good gentleman. It is to get bread — ^it is indeed — ^to 
 get a morsel of bread for my poor famishing children." 
 
 " What is the price," asked the peer, true to his system, " of those 
 things?" 
 
 " Four-pence for a brick; cheap as dirt; here are four of them; take 'em 
 all, your Honour, for a shilling." 
 
 The Earl was by no means learned in the qualities of Bath bricks, and 
 he was rather embarrassed how to dispose of such weighty commodities ; 
 but as he mechanically took out the money and held it with a hesitating 
 air between his fingers, the vendor of Bath bricks, with a sudden burst of 
 exclamation at his purchaser's liberality, suddenly transferred them to the 
 arms of the astonished peer, and possessing himself of the shilling, imme- 
 diately disappeared, and dived into the public-house round the porner. 
 
 The bricks were heavy; and the Earl, unaccustomed as he was to 
 appear in public as the carrier of such unaristocratic curiosities, was 
 inclined to place them on the pavement, and leave them for the benefit of 
 the first comer ; but his much-cherished system prevailed, and he deter- 
 mined to remain the possessor of the property of which he had become 
 the charitable owner. He looked round, however, for some one to assist 
 him in conveying the articles to his own house, by which course he should 
 perfect the transaction, he considered, in a business-like manner, and at 
 the same time give temporary occupation to some one seeking for 
 industrious employment. But he could see no one to whom he could 
 apply. Thus compelled either to abandon his principles or carry the 
 bricks himself, he chose the latter alternative ; allowing himself, however, 
 so far to compromise his dignity as to stow them away in the pockets in 
 which he had deposited the lucifer match-boxes ; forgetting the inflam- 
 mable nature of the materials which he was exposing to such dangerous 
 propinquity. The bricks dangling behind, impeded his progress woefully, 
 and as they knocked against the calves of his legs, he was more than once 
 tempted to disencumber himself of his uneasy load: but principle 
 triumphed ; besides, he looked on himself as a sort of martyr to the cause 
 and the principles he had espoused; so, wrapping himself up in his 
 virtue and his capacious coat, which he buttoned with a vigorous deter- 
 mination, he proceeded sturdily on. The unavoidable slowness of his 
 pace, however, exposed him, before he reached the end of the street, to 
 another attack. 
 
 One of those itinerant dealers in supposed canary birds, who prowl 
 about in search of the simple and unwary, marked him for a victim. He 
 had, in an indescribably small cage, a remarkably fine sparrow; cmiously 
 transformed, by a process of manufacture known only to the ingenious, 
 into a brilliant canary of a splendid yellow colour. Thus provided, he 
 confronted the Earl with a doleful countenance. Now, among all the 
 variety of articles that the excellent peer had picked up in the course of 
 his peregrinations, and in the upholding of his system, it had never been 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 12(J 
 
 his lot to make a purchase of this description ; and being akeady heavily 
 laden with his last acquisitions, he was inclined to resist the present 
 appeal to his feelings. At first therefore he refused, but with a denial so 
 mild as to encourage rather than repel the assaults of his aggressor. 
 Besides, he was obliged to walk so slow that he had no chance of escape ; 
 and the proprietor of the canary bird had full opportunity not only to 
 expatiate on the extraordinary qualities of the article, but to descant with 
 professional pathos on his own distresses, and that of his wife and children, 
 all lying sick of a fever, and of his grandfather and grandmother, including 
 various other relations, whose bread that day, he solemnly averred, alto- 
 gether depended on the success of his exertions. The wonderful little 
 bird, he added, had been taught with prodigious labom- to go through a 
 variety of surprising performances, — amongst which, however, his owner 
 refi'ained from mentioning the astonishing one undescribed by Linnaeus, of 
 a spontaneous change from the canary to the cock-sparrow species. At 
 last the kind-hearted peer, moved by a pathetic description of unexampled 
 distress — the story of which the relator had got by heart that very morn- 
 ing, having paid the sum of two-pence for the composition thereof to a 
 professional scribe, skilful in such inventions, — consented to make the 
 purchase ; declining the accommodation which the seller offered of taking 
 an old coat in exchange. The Earl paid the five shillings demanded, and 
 became the fortunate possessor of the rarity ; which the seller immediately 
 placed on the pavement, and moving off at a quick pace was seen no more. 
 As the Earl was not far from his own door, he determined, true to his 
 system, to convey his purchase thither ; and thus provided with articles of 
 utility and luxury, he arrived, to the infinite amazement of those who 
 witnessed his appeai-ance, at his house in Square. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ▲ SUPPOSED BECOGNITION. — FRIGHT.— FANNy's WONDEK. — AN EXPLOSIOV 
 
 In the meantime, Fanny, carrying her bandbox, and accompanied by Mrs. 
 Makepeace, arrived at Grandborough House. It was on a mild afternoon 
 in the month of May that the unconscious girl first set her foot on the 
 threshold of the noble mansion where, more than sixteen years before, her 
 mother had been driven as a rejected suppliant for charity. In the 
 humility of her poverty she shrunk from the awful interview with the 
 high-born peeress, whom she pictured to herself as combining all the 
 haughtiness of aristocratic pride, with the supercilious contempt so often 
 undisguisedly expressed by the Rich towards the Poor. Her heart 
 fiuttered, and she hesitated : — 
 
 " Shall I knock or ring ?" she asked of her friend. 
 
 " Give a very gentle knock," replied her companion ; "just three slight 
 tat- tats." 
 
 Fanny placed her little hand on the knocker, and was considering how 
 "he could contrive a knock of sufiicient humility corresponding with her 
 
124 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 condition, in her summons at the rich man's door, when a portly per- 
 sonage, bearing a bird in a dirty cage, arrived before the house, stopped 
 for a moment to take breath, and then ascended the steps with the air of 
 one who was at home. Fanny and Mrs. Makepeace drew back ; for there 
 was a something in the air of the gentleman, who seemed far past the 
 middle time of life, which betokened a self-confidence in his right of 
 admission, though his immediate occupation did not convey the impression 
 of his being the noble owner of the aristocratic mansion. 
 
 Lord Grandborough, for it Avas the noble Earl himself, exhibited an 
 appearance of depression caused by excessive fatigue ; albeit there was 
 that in his countenance expressive of the "secret satisfaction" which 
 " good men feel who have done a virtuous action." Seeing some one 
 with a something in a box, it immediately occurred to him that the bearer 
 was another claimant on his benevolence with articles for charitable sale ; 
 but Fanny, observing that the old gentleman was embarrassed with his 
 stick in one hand and his birdcage in the other, which left neither at 
 liberty to use the knocker ; and glad, besides, to devolve on another the 
 responsibility of summoning the porter to the door, asked in her gentle 
 voice : 
 
 " Will you allow me, sir, to hold the birdcage for you ?" 
 There could not well be, it would seem, a more simple question ; but 
 the old gentleman, fixing his eyes on the young girl, and scanning her 
 features with an earnest and frightened look, as if struck by some extra- 
 ordinary recollection, let fall the cage ; thereby performing another act of 
 generosity by giving liberty to the captive, which at once rejoined its 
 brethren on the house-tops; while they, like unplumaged bipeds of a 
 larger growth, instantly attacked the innovator with peckings and 
 revilings for presuming to appear different from themselves. Lord Grand- 
 borough gave a knock so plainly authoritative, that Dennis, now grown fat 
 and bm'ly, opened it with instinctive promptitude. The Earl entered 
 without looking behind him, and overcome either by emotion or fatigue, 
 plumpled himself down on one of the hall chairs. It was then that the 
 fact of his benevolent toils of the morning blazed into light ! The lucifer 
 matches, violently compressed between the bricks, instantaneously ignited, 
 and their quantity being sufficient to furnish the ingredients of a respecta- 
 ble firework, the explosion was commensurate with the strength of the 
 composition, and the alarmed nobleman made a spring from the chair, 
 which, as Dennis confidentially remarked to the under butler, was quite 
 wonderful for a gentleman of his years, particularly as he had never seen 
 his master jump before. But the matches continuing to inflame with a 
 succession of explosions, and with a whizzing noise like smothered squibs, 
 the poor old gentleman, much in the same condition as a mad dog with a 
 tin kettle tied to his tail, made frantic plunges to escape from the 
 volcano in his rear, v/hich presently affected him with a sensation of heat 
 calculated to give rise to still more painful anticipations. In this way he 
 galloped round and round the hall, the bath bricks serving as ballast to 
 keep his coat-tails in close proximity to his person, and the lucifers 
 detonating, box after box, as if in rivalry one Mdth another as to which 
 should go o& fiercest and fastest. It was in vain that Dennis and other 
 domestics who had quickly assembled, endeavoured to .put a stop to the 
 explosions of the detonators, filled with wonder as they were as to the 
 
^r^VujJlu|rJ'(^^ 
 
^^mv 
 
 The Kx 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOK. x25 
 
 cause of their respected master appearing in the character of an ambu- 
 latory Mount Vesuvius ; till at last the porter, more determined in his 
 character from his habitual avocations than the rest, tore off his master's 
 coat, and flung it in a corner, where it continued to vomit forth sparks 
 and noises like an angry cracker ; while Lord Grandborough, in a very 
 nervous state after his pyrotechnic display, was supported to his own 
 apartment. 
 
 The attention of the house was then drawn to Fanny and her com- 
 panion, who had retired during Lord Grandborough' s performance to a 
 corner of the hall. Dennis looked at Mrs. Makepeace, and looked at 
 Fanny with an air of doubt as to the important point of the exact position 
 of the females in the social scale. On the one hand there was a ladylike 
 air in both, which Dennis from long experience had learned to distinguish; 
 but on the other his practised eye detected a certain expression in the 
 countenances of both, which denoted they were not at ease in their visit. 
 The bandbox, too, was a very suspicious object ; this last consideration 
 decided him. Without much ceremony he asked, 
 
 " What may be your business ?" 
 
 Fanny looked at her friend, hoping that she would reply to this 
 question ; for as it was the first time that she had stood in the presence of 
 the Janus of a rich man's mansion, she was at a loss how to propitiate so 
 important a personage. But Mrs. Makepeace looked at Fanny in return, 
 as if expecting her to state her business. In the meantime the vigilant 
 Dennis was searching her with his looks, and examining her countenance 
 with much attention. 
 
 " I am come," said Fanny, " to call on — ^to see — I mean to wait on — 
 Lady Sarum. I have brought home," she added, growing exceedingly red 
 as she stated her errand, and pointed to her bandbox, *' I have brought 
 home her ladyship's turban." 
 
 Dennis piqued himself on being gallant ; that is, so far as the serious 
 nature of his duties would permit ; he was pleased to regard the " young 
 person," therefore, with a smiling air, as he rang a bell to communicate 
 the message to the proper functionary. 
 
 " You have been here before," he condescended to remark. 
 
 " No," replied Fanny, looking round at the splendid appearance of the 
 place, "I was never here before." 
 
 " Some time ago," suggested Dennis; "I am sure I have seen your face 
 before. It must have been some time ago," he added, musingly. 
 
 "You have never been here before, Francesca," said Mrs. Makepeace. 
 
 *' Francesca, Francesca," repeated the porter, trying to recal some long- 
 forgotten incident; "Francesca," he continued to himself, "I'm sure I 
 have heard that name before, and I have seen that face before ; — it's just 
 like the picture of the Virgin in St. Mary's Chm-ch. Yes, — no, — that 
 can't be ; that is years ago ; more than a dozen years ago, (a pretty con- 
 fusion there was about it!) and this girl is quite young : no, — it can't be 
 that." He looked at her again and again, endeavouring to bring to his 
 recollection all the circumstances of that old affair ; and he had ample 
 leisure to examine the face of the young girl, as they were compelled to 
 wait some time until Lady Sarum had recovered the agitation which had 
 been caused to her by the accident to Lord Grandborough, whose eccen- 
 
126 FANNY, IHE LITTLE MILLINEB t 
 
 tricities had long been a source of considerable anxiety to his daughter- 
 in-law. 
 
 Dennis's cogitations were interrupted by Lady Sarum's own maid. 
 
 This complacent individual was dressed in the most fashionable style ; 
 and if it had not been for a certain air which unerringly betrayed her 
 station, she might have been mistaken, from her attire, for the mistress of 
 the mansion herself. Carelessly thrusting her hands into two little pockets 
 of an exceedingly coquettish apron, she mincingly inquired of Fanny, " If 
 she was the 'young person' whom her lady expected?" 
 
 Fanny, though a little abashed by the distinguished air of the inquirer, 
 summoned up courage to answer in the affirmative ; and, preceded by the 
 lady's maid, who had condescended to make her inquiry in person, she 
 was invited to walk up stairs, leaving Mrs. Makepeace waiting humbly in 
 the hall. A door was opened, the lady's maid assumed a demure look, 
 and Fanny found herself in the presence of Lady Sarum. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 INTERVIEW BETWEEN LADY SARUM AND FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER. 
 
 Lady Saeum received the little milliner in her dressing-room, adjoining 
 her favorite boudoir. A costly toilet-table of rare taste and surpassing 
 richness, the possession of which an empress might have envied, stood in 
 a principal position between two windows; opposite was a splendid 
 looking-glass, occupying a large portion of the wall, which, where it was 
 left unoccupied by choice specimens of cabinet pictures, was ornamented 
 with a paper of white satin of the softest hue, bordered with running 
 wreaths of roses executed with exquisite skill. On various tables taste- 
 fully displayed were valuable specimens of curious china ; jars from the 
 East, from which exhaled a delicious perfume; grotesque monsters of 
 Chinese ware ; antique groups from Dresden, in quaint costumes ; baskets 
 from Sevres, containing natural flowers fresh-gathered from princely con- 
 servatories built at a prodigious expence by the grandfather of Lord 
 Sarum. The carpet, of soft and luxurious velvet, which adorned this 
 sanctuary of aristocratic refinement, was of a claret ground, interspersed 
 with bouquets of flowers on which the foot hesitated to tread. A chan- 
 delier of elaborately cut glass, sparlding like diamonds, depended from the 
 ceiling, in which were placed tapers of fragrant wax prepared for instant 
 use, and in numbers sufficient to shed a brilliant light over the whole of 
 the spacious apartment. 
 
 Lady Sarum was seated on a couch of the fashion of the court of 
 Louis le Grand, elaborately carved and gorgeously gilt, and covered with 
 rich crimson brocade of a variegated pattern, corresponding with the easy 
 chairs and ottomans disposed invitingly around. 
 
 Fanny cast a furtive and timid glance over the splendour which sur- 
 rounded her, and waited with a modest air for the divinity of this 
 enchanting temple to speak her pleasure. But the mistress of the mansion 
 remained for some time silent, her brow clouded with anxious thought, 
 
OE, THE HIGH AND THE POOR. 127 
 
 and lier eyes red as it seemed with recent tears — -justifying the ancient 
 proverb, that Care not only invades the dwellings of the humble, but 
 penetrates into the palaces of the great ; and exhibiting in mocking con- 
 trast the uncompensating vanity of wealth, and the sorrow of the heart 
 which all humanity is heir to. The vivacious waiting- woman, hushed 
 into respectful silence by the aspect of her mistress, executed her little 
 commissions about the room noiselessly and promptly; and Fanny, to 
 whom the protracted silence of the lady gave time to recover her thoughts,, 
 studied the features of her patroness with awakened interest. The pre- 
 dominant characteristic of Lady Sarum's countenance, Fanny could not 
 fail to remark, was softness and!^ good-nature, with that peculiar air of 
 quiet self-possession which those who are bom to greatness acquire from 
 the early habit of receiving deference as due to their birth, and from their 
 social rank being fixed and determined ; a considerable advantage which 
 they possess over persons of questionable grades, who, from their position 
 in society being less determined, are apt to betray imeasiness from the 
 fear with which they are perpetually haunted of their merits or preten- 
 sions being neglected or overlooked. After the lapse, however, of little 
 more than a minute, which her waiting- woman thought immeasurably 
 long, but which seemed to Fanny very short, the peeress spoke. Regard- 
 ing Fanny with an air of kindness and surprise, and powerfully struck 
 with the incongruity of the aristocratic-loolang air which she bore, and 
 the plebeian bandbox which she carried, she asked : — 
 
 " Are you the young person who was to bring my turban home to-day?" 
 
 "It is here," replied Fanny, opening her box, and reddening as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Lady Sarum observed her confusion ; she made a sign to her waiting- 
 maid, who, advancing with a sprightly step, took the elegant appendage 
 from its case, and presented it to her mistress. 
 
 Her ladyship examined it with great care, and was pleased to express 
 her approbation of the taste displayed in its workmanship in flattering 
 terms. Her waiting-maid, who had conceived for the little milliner that 
 instinctive feeling of aversion with which almost every woman at first 
 regards one of the same sex who is prettier than herself, took occasion, 
 with the decision of an artiste, and the pertness of a lady's-maid, to differ 
 from her ladyship's opinion : — 
 
 " Your ladyship forgets," she said — casting a forced smile at the little 
 milliner, which spoke as plainly as such a smile could speak, that the fear 
 of a rivalry in her mistress's good graces prompted the remark, as much 
 as the desire to maintain her character for taste as the conservator of her 
 mistress's person : — " your ladyship forgets that your ladyship's di-ess is 
 light blue and silver, and the tissue of the turban is red ; why your lady- 
 ship would look like a poll-parrot !" And saying this she ventured to 
 give a triumphant glance at the young milliner, as if she considered that 
 her prompt detection of the false association of colours was a settler. 
 
 "True," said Lady Sarum, "but, perhaps the 'young person' could 
 make another in time. Did you put this tui'ban together yourself, my 
 good girl ?" 
 
 "The materials were brought to me to make up by my mamma," (the 
 lady's-maid made a grimace at the word " mamma" and tossed her head 
 iu a significant manner,) " and I had no choice," said Fanny. 
 
128 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER : 
 
 " Then it was not your fault, my good girl," good-naturedly observed 
 the peeress ; " you see, Alice," she said, addressing her prime minister, 
 *' it was not the young person's fault ; and you can alter it, I dare say," 
 turning to Fanny : " but you will not have time to take it home ; could 
 you not make it up here if we furnished you with what is wanted for your 
 work ?" 
 
 Fanny curtsied, and said something to intimate her assent. 
 
 " Go, Alice," said Lady Sarum, " and put the things that are necessary 
 in the dressing-room boudoir ; and the ' young person' can finish it there, 
 without being disturbed. And tell Martin to let me Imow directly my 
 lord returns from Eton." 
 
 The waiting-maid lingered as if waiting to be accompanied by the little 
 milliner ; but her mistress motioned her to retire. 
 
 " You need not come," she added, " till I ring ; I wish to have some 
 conversation with this ' young person.' " 
 
 " Certainly, my lady, as your ladyship pleases !" ejaculated the indig- 
 nant waiting-maid at this pointed affront in excluding her from delibera- 
 tions in which her mistress's attire was concerned ; " certainly, your 
 ladyship, if your ladyship thinks I cannot be of any use ; it is your lady- 
 ship's wish that I should not come up till your ladyship rings ? Oh ! 
 certainly, your ladyship ! I dare say the ' young person' knows best what 
 will become your ladyship ;" and so saying she cast a look of fury, 
 disguised in the shape of a terrific smile, at the " young person" who it 
 seemed had thus usurped her functions, and with manifest symptoms of 
 being in a state highly combustible, she ambled in a zig-zag direction 
 across the room, and made a di^amatic exit, giving vent to her passion in 
 an attempt almost to slam the door. Her mistress did not observe, or did 
 not condescend to notice this display of pettishness, but turning to the 
 milliner, examined her with much attention. 
 
 Lady Sarum had been solicited to join a benevolent association of ladies 
 of rank and influence, desirous of alleviating the hardships, privations, and 
 temptations to which the class of young females in the employment of 
 milliners and dress-makers is particularly exposed ; and she was desirous 
 of learning something of their actual condition, from one who she presumed 
 was qualified to give information on the subject, and whose youth rendered 
 it likely that she would communicate the real truth of the matter, without 
 attempt at disguise or exaggeration. 
 
 "You may sit down," she said, pointing to a chair; on the edge of 
 which Fanny seated herself in an attitude of humility. " Have you been 
 brought up to this employment ?" continued her ladyship, in an encou- 
 raging toiie : " how long have you been studying the art of millinery; you 
 seem very young, what is your age ?" 
 
 " I am seventeen, I believe," said Fanny ; " but I don't know exactly." 
 
 *' Don't know your own age, my good girl," observed Lady Sarum, 
 smiling ; " you are too young to care for concealing it at your years ; did 
 you never have the curiosity to ask your mother your age ?" 
 
 " Mamma does not know it exactly," replied Fanny, "but she thinks I 
 must be about seventeen — ^but not quite." 
 
 Lady Sarum made a little gesture of surprise at this odd communication 
 of the ignorance of a mother respecting the age of her own child. She 
 was inclined to regard Fanny as deficient in intellect; biit there was some- 
 
OR, THE BICH AND THE POOE. 129 
 
 thing about tlie brow and the eyes of the " young person," which con- 
 tradicted that supposition. But the incident was amusing ; and her lady- 
 ship could not resist the inclination to indulge for a short space in the 
 subdued merriment which so novel a circumstance gave rise to. She pur- 
 sued the inquiry : — 
 
 " I think I saw your mother at the rooms," she continued ; " an elderly 
 and very respectable-looking person ?" she added, kindly. 
 
 " Yes," replied Fanny, hesitatingly, and speaking with some embarrass- 
 ment, "it was Mrs. Sidney — my mamma — ^that is, not my mamma 
 exactly" — and here she stopped. 
 
 " Don't know her age exactly !7 thought Lady Sarum, — " and her mamma 
 is not her mamma exactly ! — what a strange girl ! No wonder these young 
 milliners give way to temptation, when their state of ignorance is such that 
 they don't know their own age, nor their own mother ' exactly !' But she 
 is an exceedingly handsome girl : poor thing !" — Her ladyship had really 
 a kind heart, and was of a most benevolent disposition ; she felt compas- 
 sion for the humble girl before her : but as she was desirous of obtaining 
 infornfetion of the actual condition of the class to which the " young per- 
 son" belonged, she was desirous of testing her further ; for, as she argued 
 to herself, the information, to be useful, must proceed from some one who 
 has at least common sense to guide her in her replies to inquiries. 
 
 " My good girl," she said, aloud, " you reaUy surprise me when you say 
 that you do not know your own age exactly ! And what do you mean by 
 Mrs. Sidney ? — that was the name, was it not ? — ^What do you mean by 
 your mamma not being your mamma exactly ?" 
 
 Fanny raised her eyes to the countenance of the peeress, and seeing there 
 only the expression of interest and benevolence, she now answered without 
 hesitation : 
 
 " My story," she said, " is a strange one and a sad one : but I do not 
 know that I ought to trouble your ladyship with the history of my mis- 
 fortunes and troubles ; I never knew my father — nor my mother." 
 
 This exordium was quite sufficient to stimulate the desire of Lady Sarum 
 to hear more ; for in every condition of life, the characteristic curiosity of 
 the sex never fails to display itself on all occasions. 
 
 " Come nearer to me !" she said to Fanny ; "sit there. How is this ! 
 Do you mean that you do not know who were your parents ? Who is this 
 Mrs. Sidney, then ? — and how did you come to live with her as her 
 daughter ? You may tell me all you know, my good girl ; and perhaps," 
 added her ladyship, " I may be able to assist you in some way." 
 
 At this moment the lady's-maid knocked at the door, and immediately 
 entering, beheld to her astonishment the "young person" in close and 
 intimate conference with her mistress, and, as it seemed, in the very act of 
 extraordinary — confidential conversation ! This was almost too much for 
 the nerves of the jealous Abigail ; it was a sort of defiance on the part 
 of her mistress of a lady's-maid's supremacy ! That the conference could 
 relate to any other matter than those appertaining to caps and turbans 
 never entered her imagination ! 
 
 " What is the matter ?" asked her ladyship ; who was struck with her 
 air of mingled astonishment and indignation. 
 
 "Nothing is the matter, my lady," — alternately regarding her mistress 
 
 K 
 
130 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 and the suspicious ' young person ;' " only my Lord Grandborough is in the 
 library, and Martin requested me to say that he had been inquiring for 
 your ladyship." 
 
 " Very well," said her mistress ; " you may go." 
 
 " Perhaps your ladyship would like me to arrange the drawers of the 
 toilet-table ? I saw that the flowers in the top one were all crumpled this 
 morning, dreadfully !" 
 
 " Not now," said her ladyship, quickly, — ^for she was anxious to hear the 
 story of the little milliner ; " you may leave us now." 
 
 " And your ladyship's dress wants getting ready ; and there is a dread- 
 ful deal to do," added her persevering minister, " and your ladyship likes 
 everything to be ready in time." 
 
 " Never mind : there — there — that will do ; I have something to say to 
 this ' young person :' you may go — you may go." 
 
 " Go !" ejaculated the mortified waiting-maid, as she sought the privacy 
 of her own apartment, to revolve unobserved the insults which she had re- 
 ceived at the hands of her unworthy mistress, and not forgetting in her 
 anger the share which the " young person" had in her disgrace : — " Yes ; 
 I'll go ! and go I will ! I'll not stay here to be put upon by every nobody 
 who comes into the house ! There's Lady Carmine dying to have me ; and 
 then let her ladyship (meaning her mistress) see who she will get to arrange 
 her turbans — there's not one in a thousand can arrange a turban properly. 
 But I'll go — I will ! I'll not stay here to be insulted in this way : and all 
 through a little — ^mean — pale-faced — ^bandbox-carrying minx — that is no 
 better than she should be, I dare say — if the truth was known !" Having 
 given vent to these exclamations, the lady's maid felt easier ; but it was 
 not before she had studied herself for nearly ten minutes in her glass that 
 she recovered sufficient composure of mind to seek, in the society of the 
 sympathizing Mr. Martin, some solace in her affliction. She would have 
 felt pangs still more bitter had she been aware of the interest which the 
 impertinent little milliner was awakening in the heart of her compassionate 
 mistress. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 PANNY HfiLATES HER STORY. — THE LADY'S-MAID,— JEALOUSY. 
 
 **Do you mean that you do not know who were your parents?" repeated 
 her ladyship, regarding Fanny with increased interest. 
 
 "I have never been able to discover them," replied Fanny; 
 " I know only that two persons, a man and a woman — ^who the captain 
 said were not my parents, but who had the care of me — were proceeding 
 with me to America ; the ship was wrecked, and only I with the captain 
 and another man were saved. Mrs. Sidney took charge of me ; she was 
 then residing with her husband, in flourishing circumstances, at New York. 
 Mr. Sidney made many inquiries after my parents, but he could discover 
 nothing. About two years since they came to England. Mr. Sidney lost 
 
OE, THE EICH XVD THE POOR. l^l 
 
 all his fortune, and died, lea\dng his widow with nothing to support her. 
 Since then I have helped to earn by my work enough for our subsistence 
 in the humble way in which we live ; and I thank God that I have been 
 able to contribute something in return for all the kindness, never to be 
 repaid ! which I have received from my good — my excellent mamma!" 
 
 " You are a good girl, I have no doubt," said Lady Sarum, searching 
 for her handkerchief. " This is a sad tale ! Have you no clue whatever to 
 your real name ?" 
 
 " Only one," replied Fanny. 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 " It is this ;" drawing her gold' cross from her bosom. 
 ^ " It is a very elegant thing," said the peeress, examining it with atten- 
 tion ; " and what is this engraved on it ? ' Francesca ;' that is more like a 
 foreign than an English name ; — you suppose that this cross may have 
 belonged to your mother: and this is the name which you have adop- 
 ted?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " This is an ornament," continued her ladyship, " which certainly must 
 have been the property of no mean person. How did you become possessed 
 of it r ' 
 
 " It was found carefully attached to me^ when I was saved from the 
 sea." 
 
 " Then it would seem that the persons who had you in their charge 
 considered that this cross would be of importance in identifying you." 
 
 "We have always thought so," said Fanny; "and it was for that 
 reason that it has been carefully preserved, notwithstanding all our 
 difficulties and privations." 
 
 " You have suffered many privations, then ?" said the peeress, " I 
 fear there is more secret sijiffering among respectable persons reduced 
 to poverty than the world ever Ibiows of! But at any rate you have 
 always" — ^her ladyship hesitated as she spoke — " you have always had a 
 shelter for your head— and the aliments necessary for your health ?" 
 
 " Not always," said Fanny, her voice subdued by emotion. 
 
 " My poor girl," said Lady Sarum, much affected, "this is very terrible! 
 to want food in the midst of such abundance ! My child, yours is a 
 romantic and a sorrowful story : but I am glad that I have heard it ; for 
 I will confess I was nearly forming an opinion not favourable to you. 
 How necessary it is before judging any one, to know their real circum- 
 stances ! Even that cross (sacred relic as it is) I was disposed to think — 
 from the riband being visible round your neck — was some light love- 
 token. — Come in!" said her ladyship, in reply to a knock at her 
 door. 
 
 Her maid entered. 
 
 The countenance of the damsel bore a very serious expression ; and she 
 advanced towards her mistress — against whom she was plotting the treason 
 of a prompt desertion — with the air of an injured martyr. 
 
 "My Lord Grandborough, my lady, has been inquiring for your 
 ladyship again, and Mr. Martin requested me to say, that he was in the 
 library with Dr. Sawdust," (she knew that her lady hated Dr. Sawdust ; 
 she repeated his name twice, therefore, to annoy her,) "and Lord 
 
 K 2 
 
132 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 Manley :" — ^and having said this, without making any attempt to remain, 
 she backed herself out with a formal air, and majestically retired. 
 
 Lady Sarum might have taken notice of her remarkable demeanor, and 
 the air of fixed determination which was visible in the features of her 
 handmaiden, had not her attention been excited by the sudden embar- 
 rassment of Fanny, who, at the mention of Lord Mauley's name, instantly 
 coloured up, till all that was visible of her neck and face became crimsoned 
 with blushes. 
 
 " Are you acquainted with Lord Manley ?" inquired the peeress, with 
 some surprise, and in a voice in which might be detected the slightest 
 possible intonation of displeasure. 
 
 Fanny related the story of her midnight vigil by the bedside of the 
 dying girl ; Mrs. Sidney's accident ; and Lord Mauley's kind inter- 
 ference. She related also, though with considerable hesitation, that 
 Lord Manley had carried her down stairs in his arms in her death- 
 like swoon ; she was very particular to impress it on Lady Sarum that 
 she was quite insensible at the time : and here she blushed more deeply 
 than ever. 
 
 " This must be looked to," said Lady Sarum, speaking to herself 
 aloud ; " young noblemen ought not to be nurses to handsome young 
 girls after this fashion." She desired Fanny to ring the bell for her 
 waiting-maid. 
 
 " This young lady," she said to her astonished maid, " will sit in my 
 boudoir adjoining, till I return. Go, my dear girl," she said to Fanny — 
 ("dear girl! — ^what's the meaning of all this?" — )" and proceed with 
 the alteration of the turban; that will both employ and amuse you. 
 My maid will attend to you." Her ladyship then descended to the 
 library. 
 
 " This way. Miss ! if you please," said the lady's-maid, indignant to the 
 last degree at having assigned to her the office of waiting on a milliner's 
 girl: — " This way. Miss ! — Here are needles. Miss ! and thread. Miss ! and 
 a thimble, and scissors. Miss ! Is there anything else that you may please 
 to want. Miss ? — ^Very well — ^Miss ! Then with your permission. Miss ! I 
 will retire. Miss ! — ^WeU ! " she exclaimed, as she closed the door on 
 Fanny, and recovered her breath, — " well ! I never ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 i)R. SAWDUST EXPATIATES ON POLITICAL ECONOMY. — LORD MANLEY TAKES THE 
 LIBERTY TO DIFFER IN OPINION FROM THE LEARNED DOCTOR, — LADY SARUm'S 
 COMMUNICATION. 
 
 Lady Saeum, on her entrance into the library, had only time to say to 
 Lord Manley that she had an interesting story to tell him, before the 
 attention of the company was engrossed by an animated discussion 
 between two combatants who had on more than one occasion engaged in 
 similar controversies. 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 133 
 
 Among the visitors assembled in the library — where at a side-table a 
 tray of the usual mid-day refreshments was standing — the most con- 
 spicuous, if not the most distinguished, was the celebrated Dr. Sawdust, 
 with whom in former times Lord Grandborough took delight to hold 
 congenial converse on his lordship's favourite topic — " The treatment of 
 the Poor." Owing to the retirement in which the Earl had lived for many 
 years, the Doctor had not become aware of the change which had taken 
 place in his noble friend's opinions. For his own part, that doughty 
 philosopher vigorously adhered to the dogmas which he had propounded 
 in his learned treatise on political economy, in which he had proved by A 
 plus B, minus X, that the Author of Nature had committed a considerable 
 mistake in his calculations respecting the comparative ratios of the 
 increase of the human race, and their means of subsistence ; and in which 
 treatise he had given the public clearly to understand, that he (Dr. Sawdust) 
 would have managed things better at the creation of the globe had he been 
 allowed the opportunity; 
 
 One of the axioms in the maintenance of which the Doctor was most 
 inflexible, was his politico-economic dogma, which he also proved by A -j- 
 B — X, that the exclusive right to the earth and the fruits thereof belonged 
 entirely to those who had already got possession of them, or who held 
 dominion over them : and that those bom afterwards, (whom the sour 
 Doctor fiercely proscribed as intruders who had no business on the earth at 
 all,) — that is to say, not more than were necessary to serve as labourers or 
 slaves to the fortunate few who were in possession of capital, ought 
 properly not to have been created. This position he also demonstrated by 
 A plus B, minus X, proving algebraically that he, Dr. Sawdust, was 
 altogether right, and that the Author of nature was altogether -vvTong. 
 
 His hatred of the existing poor was exceeded only by his indignation at 
 their continued increase against all the rules of (his) political economy ; 
 for, as he argued, with a precision and a selfishness which it was impos- 
 sible to deny, — ^the greater number of the consumers, the less there must be 
 for the present occupants, including especially himself; and this latter 
 consideration ever afiected him in a manner the most sensible. Nothing 
 therefore more disturbed the equanimity of his philosophy than the fact of 
 the rapid increase of the human race, and especially of those comprehended 
 under the head of " the industrious classes," — a term which has become in 
 these days synonymous with " the poor." 
 
 His abhorrence of the marriages of " the poor" was so intense, that in 
 his vehement spite he went so far as to maintain that the Legislature ought 
 to take up the matter in a summary way ; and the brute even hinted that 
 there were ways of keeping down the redundant population similar to those 
 in practice for regulating the numbers of the animal kingdom, which might 
 be put in force in respect to " the poor" with ease and advantage to those 
 who were troubled with their clamorous and impertinent demands for em- 
 ployment and subsistence. 
 
 There were some malicious persons — for all great men have enemies— 
 who were wicked enough to assert, that the propounder of these abomi- 
 nable doctrines was himself so ugly and disgusting that it was impossible 
 for the creature to discover any one among the female sex sufficiently 
 callous in sensibility to induce her to marry him, philosopher and alge- 
 braist as he was ; others declared that the animal was utterly destitute of 
 
134 FANNY, THE XITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 all qualities but the love of self ; and that the whole amount of his human 
 sympathy or love for mankind might be best expressed by one of the 
 scientific fictions of the language in which he most delighted — namely, by 
 a negative quantity — or as something less than nothing. 
 
 It was, perhaps, because this stony-hearted individual was perpetually 
 haunted with the fear of the inhabitants of the earth increasing faster than 
 their means of subsistence, that he took especial care on such occasions as 
 the present to guard against the possible contingency of a fast on the mor- 
 row, by laying in as large a store of provender as he could possibly stow 
 away ; not condescending to reflect, that by such an unphilosophic and 
 greedy course of proceeding he threatened to accelerate the general famine 
 which he deprecated. Neither was he more sparing with the liquids than 
 the viands ; so that at the conclusion of the repast, if it was possible that 
 any amount of liquor could affect a head which, like his heart, was as hard 
 as the nether-millstone, it might be insinuated that the great champion of 
 the doctrine of the " starvation and celibacy of the poor" was in a state of 
 vinous or rather of acetous fermentation, or in other words was pretty con- 
 siderably dnmk. In this condition of excitement he looked round for an 
 antagonist— -for he dearly loved the controversial discussion that gave him 
 the opportunity of -abusing an opponent: and the word "population" 
 pronounced by Lord Manley, with whose person the Doctor was unac- 
 quainted, striking his ear, acted like a key-note to set him off : he hastily 
 swallowed an enormous glass of sherry, and rushed to the encounter ; — 
 Lady Sarum and Lord Grandborough remaining passive spectators of the 
 conflict. 
 
 " It is my opinion," harangued the Doctor, raising his voice, and speak- 
 ing dictatorially, " that the only mode of relieving the distress of the coun- 
 try — I mean, of course, the distress of the richer classes, for the poor 
 deserve their distresses, as they are all brought on by themselves — I say, 
 that the only mode is to repress the increase of the population. It is the 
 poor-rates that eat up all our estates ; nothing impoverishes a country 
 more than a redundant population. A redimdant population, sir ; that is 
 the mischief: there are too many people, sir, and their numbers must be 
 kept down. The people are too well fed, sir, particularly in the work- 
 houses. It is above aU things important to enforce among the labouring 
 classes habits of self-restraint and frugality; not to want always to be 
 marrying and eating, as they do. Sir, the poor have no right to maiTy 
 nor to eat. What they get is by favour, not by right. A poor man, sir, 
 has no business at all on the earth, and he ought to know it. But by 
 degrees we shall be able to accustom them to coarser sorts of food, so that 
 their maintenance may be less expensive to the possessors of property." 
 Here the doctor filled for himself another glass of wine. 
 
 *' I always thought," Lord Manley ventured to remark, " that the strength 
 of a state mainly consisted in the fulness of its population. Besides," he 
 added, jocularly, " without a large population, where are you to get your 
 soldiers and sailors, your labourers, and servants ? and more than that, who 
 are you to get to pay the taxes, if you have not a large population to con- 
 tribute to them ?" 
 
 *' Sir," said the professor, " I am astonished that any one should be 
 found to maintain the delusion that it is the poor who pay the taxes ; it is 
 the rich, sir, who pay the taxes : the labouring classes being in a condition 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOB. 185 
 
 of necessary poverty, possess nothing ; and from thost; who have nothing, 
 nothing can be obtained." 
 
 " But, if I might ventmre to observe," replied the other, " is not the 
 labour of the industrious classes the source of all wealth ? without their 
 labour, would not the accumulated wealth even of the possessors of capital 
 be useless ?" 
 
 " There, sir," rejoined the professor, " you are wrong ; it is the labour 
 of the poor that is worth nothing ; it is the money of the capitalists that 
 sets their labour in motion : it follows clearly, therefore, that they are 
 beholden to the possessors of capital for all that they receive. But the evil, 
 sir, the great evil is the licence which is permitted to the poor to increase 
 their numbers in pursuance of their own inclinations, instead of the amount 
 of the population being regulated by the State, according to the wants of 
 society, and in due proportion to the demands of capitalists for labour. 
 The numbers of the human machine, sir, in which light only a labouring 
 man can scientifically be considered, ought to be regulated like all other 
 machinery. But the misfortune is, sir, that in man the machine produces 
 the machine ; and the human race increases in a geometrical ratio with a 
 rapidity which in a short time will entirely occupy the whole surface of the 
 earth : a result, sir, to be provided against with the utmost precaution by 
 the legislature." 
 
 " But surely," replied his antagonist, with some surprise in his manner, 
 and with serious earnestness in his tone, " that is a result which might 
 safely be left to the wisdom of the great and good Being who created the 
 earth, and man to inhabit it. Besides, it does not seem necessary to 
 endeavour by legislative enactments to restrict the increase of man- 
 kind, so long as the greater portion of the earth remains iminhabited ?" 
 
 *' Sir, it is not the increase of the population that is to be dreaded, 
 viewing it as a question of mere increase of numbers — though that is bad 
 enough — but it is the disproportionate power of the increase of the popu- 
 lation compared with the power of the increase of food, that is to be 
 guarded against. You will observe that mankind increases in a geome- 
 trical ratio." 
 
 "I do not pretend to be very learned in these matters," interrupted 
 Lord Manley ; " will you do me the favour to explain what you mean by 
 the population increasing in a geometrical ratio ?" 
 
 " I am not accustomed," said the professor, angrily, " to supply under- 
 standing as well as information ; but for your enlightenment I will explain 
 that it means, that population increases in the proportion of one, two, four, 
 eight, sixteen, and so on ; while food increases only in the proportion of 
 one, two, three, four : so that it is plain to the commonest understanding 
 that population increases faster than subsistence." 
 
 " Does experience prove that fact ?" asked Lord Manley. 
 
 " Algebra proves it," said the professor ; "by subjecting the question 
 to the rigid examination which that sublime science aflfords, the unavoid- 
 able deduction is worked out which I have laid down." 
 
 " I have no idea of attempting to depreciate the value of the sublime 
 science of calculation, when applied to insensible figures," said Lord Man- 
 ley ; " but it seems to me that it is by no means infallible when it attempts 
 to solve moml equations, and to deal with human passions and feelings as 
 with inanimate points and surfaces. What I want to know is, if the 
 
186 FANJTY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 experience of history'proves that mankind, under tlie most favourable circum- 
 stances, have increased according to the scientific ratio which your alge- 
 braic deductions work out ; because, if they have not so increased, I should 
 be inclined to think that there are some questions in the government of 
 the human race which all man's science at present is inadequate to 
 solve." 
 
 " But the food, sir," said the professor ; " what do you say with respect 
 to the food ? How is that to be raised so as to keep pace with the alarm- 
 ing increase of the population ?" 
 
 " Truly," replied his antagonist, " I don't see why you should be in 
 fear for the subsistence of the human race, so long as you have vacant 
 ground to occupy and cultivate. On this point — of the food of the human 
 race — I may perhaps hold peculiar opinions. It seems to me that the 
 wise and benevolent Creator of this globe has taken particular pains to 
 provide against a scarcity of food among its inhabitants. The seas that 
 cover the earth abound with food. The water is in the proportion of 
 three-fifths to two-fifths of the surface of the earth ; and in every sea, and 
 indeed in every river and lake, food for man is abundantly provided. The 
 depths of the sea seem purposely contrived as immense reservoirs for this 
 purpose. Nay, more ; it is remarkable that the prolific nature of fish is 
 such, that unless the numbers were kept down by their own voracity, their 
 solid bulk would soon fill up the very seas from the rapidity of their 
 increase. And besides the creation of this inexhaustible supply of food 
 for man, it seems as if by some ordination of natm-e they were prompted 
 periodically to visit the shores of the land, on purpose to be more easily 
 procured by man for his sustenance. But, after all, to talk of the danger 
 of the failure of subsistence for the population of the earth before a 
 hundredth part of even the most salubrious portions of it is occupied, 
 seems to me, with great deference to your superior learning, to be an idle 
 fear, to say the least of it ; to my mind, it is blasphemous folly." 
 
 " Sir," exclaimed the learned professor, with an expression of con- 
 temptuous disdain, " I pity your ignorance ; yes, sir, I pity it : I lament 
 that a fellow-creature should be wrapped in such Egyptian darkness. And 
 pray, sir, I ask, what do you say, sir, to the fact, — the actual fact, sir,— « 
 that at the present moment there are more people in this small island, sir, 
 than can find employment ; who are starving, sir, from want of employ- 
 ment ? What do you say, sir, to the fact ! — the fact ! — ^there is the fact 
 before your eyes, sir ! Does not that fact prove that the present popula- 
 tion of the country is too large? — and that it ought to be stopped? 
 Answer me that." 
 
 The professor looked round triumphantly, and tried to catch the eye of 
 Lord Grandborough, who, however, continued silent, much to his surprise; 
 as in former times he had ever found in him a ready ally. Lady Sarum 
 did not interrupt the discussion, and the rest of the company seemed to be 
 content to act the part of listeners on the occasion^ The contest, there- 
 fore, between the man of feeling and the man of science was continued. 
 
 "Answer me that," repeated the professor, whose head was waxing 
 warm. "What will you do with our surplus population which cannot 
 obtain subsistence by its labour ?" 
 
 "Presuming that there is a surplus," repKed Lord Manley, "which I 
 by no means admit ; it seems to me, you must do with it as Nature points 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 137 
 
 out in her numerous examples, as if to set a lesson to man for such 
 occurrences." 
 
 " And pray how is that?" asked the professor, with a sneer. 
 
 " When the inhabitants of a country increase to such an extent as to 
 press on one another inconveniently, why not do as bees do ? Swarm to 
 another hive. There is land enough on the earth destitute of inhabitants; 
 fertile, and in healthy climates ; easily accessible ; where a hundred times 
 the present population of Great Britain might maintain themselves with 
 the greatest facility. And do not let it be said that the sea acts as a 
 barrier to the transit of a civil^ed population abounding in ships and 
 scientific appliances ; it may be considered rather as afibrding a facility 
 for the transport of the heavy burdens necessary in colonization." 
 
 "And pray, sir," inquired the philosopher, getting more and more 
 angry, and almost at the end of his patience, " how is your notable scheme 
 to be carried into efiect ? How are your new swarms, as you call them, 
 to be conveyed to the lands across the sea that you speak of? Before a 
 man propounds a scheme, sir, he ought to be prepared to show the means 
 by which it is to be carried into efiect. It is very easy to talk of emigra- 
 tion and colonization, but where is the money to come firom ? How is the 
 capital to be raised ? And in the meantime, sir, while your grand scheme 
 is being prepared, how is the increasing population to be fed, sir, if you 
 allow it to continue to increase without check or restriction ? Yes, sir, I 
 ask, how is it to be fed ? The workhouses, which are full of the poor in 
 every direction, find it difficult to de\ise means for lessening the quantity 
 of food which they are forced to allow the paupers ; although I am happy 
 to say they have almost arrived at the minimum quantity on which the 
 human being can exist ; and it is a gratifying sign, which evidences the 
 favourable manner in which the New Poor-Law works, that the people 
 prefer starving outside, or going to gaol, rather than to apply to be 
 received in the Union workhouses. But it is the food, — that is the great 
 difficulty; even as it is, the expense to the possessors of capital is 
 enormous. If any man could point out how this expense might be further 
 reduced, and the quantity and quality of food of the paupers lessened, he 
 would be considered, sir, the greatest benefactor of mankind by the 
 wealthy classes, that ever appeared on the earth." 
 
 " I am informed," said Lord Manley, " that the desirable discovery has 
 actually been made." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the professor, not quite satisfied mth the tone in which 
 it was made, nor with the laughing expression of the handsome coun- 
 tenance of the speaker ; — " Indeed ! And pray what may this discovery 
 be ?" 
 
 " You are no doubt aware," said Lord Manley, " that the human body 
 contains a demonstrable portion of iron, which the ingenuity of modern 
 chemists has detected." 
 
 " Well," said the professor, considerably puzzled ; " what has that to do 
 with the discovery ?" 
 
 " It is necessary to premise that fact," said the young Lord, " in order 
 that you may appreciate the fuU value of the curious invention which I 
 have the honour to bring to your notice, and which will form a remedy so 
 efiectual for the evil which you so eloquently deplore — I mean the evil 
 of the impertinent obstinacy of the poor in insisting on having some- 
 
138 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER 
 
 thing to eat— that I cannot doubt it will meet with your cordial appro- 
 bation." 
 
 " Sir," said the professor, more and more puzzled, and strongly suspect- 
 ing that he was being politely quizzed ; and internally vowing vengeance 
 against the perpetrator of the impertinence — ^" I don't understand your 
 meaning." 
 
 " Iron," continued his tormentor, " constituting, as it is said, a portion 
 of the human frame, it is to be presumed that it performs an important 
 function in the regulation of the animal economy (thought Lord Manley, 
 as he adopted the phraseology of the learned Doctor, ' suo sibi gladio huno 
 jugulo); for instance, we say 'an iron-framed man/ " 
 
 "Well, sir r; 
 
 "Now the invention," continued Lord Manley, "is this; — ^it is to 
 provide for the poor, loaves made of cast iron : you cannot deny that such 
 fare would be substantial, and at the same time economical, and not likely 
 to be wastefuliy consumed ; in short, a sort of perpetual food which they 
 might bite at without fear of coming to the end of it. Ah ! — I see by 
 your face that you are ready to make the objection, that these loaves woi^d 
 not digest. You are quite right ; that was a difficulty : but the ingenious 
 inventor, who is one of the officers of an union workhouse, has got over 
 it with great cleverness. He accompanies his loaves with a sufficient 
 quantity of sulphuric acid. I see your readiness catches the idea at once ; 
 the acid dissolves the iron, and makes the mixture at the same time 
 palatable and digestive. He proposes that each pauper shall have a quar- 
 tern loaf of this solid stuff on his entrance into the union, with a gill of 
 the acid ; small rolls of the same material will be provided for the children. 
 So that with cast iron loaves for bread, and oil of vitriol for drink, the 
 poor of your workhouses may be maintained at a cost so trifling that there 
 can no longer be any fear of the parish rates consuming all the property 
 of the country." 
 
 The professor made no reply to this sally ; but rising from his seat in a 
 violent passion, left the room — much to the satisfaction of the company. 
 
 "Upon my word," said Lady Sarum, "you were too hard on the 
 Doctor. He will never forgive you for this impertinence." 
 
 " It was the only way to put an end to the controversy," replied Lord 
 Manley, " and you ought to be much obliged to me for my ingenuity ; in 
 return I will claim from your ladyship the interesting information which 
 you did me the honour to speak of." 
 
 " Well, I have been thinking of it ; but on second thoughts I don't 
 think it right to teU my secrets relating to young ladies ; — though I have 
 kno\\Ti you ever since you were as high as that music-stool, in a blue sash 
 and red shoes — particularly to so susceptible a young gentleman as your- 
 self, who can fall in love with a picture. Now don't blush ; I can't bear 
 to see men blush. And pray how long have you taken to the office of 
 carrying young girls down stairs ? Ah ! you see I know all about it. 
 That's more dangerous than falling in love with a picture ! But bless me, 
 you seem to take it very much to heart ! I do believe you are very— 
 what shall I say ? — ^romantic ? Yes — ^romantic ; you are a romantic 
 young gentleman ; and by-the-by, if you are fond of romance, there is a 
 poor girl in the house now who is the very heroine of a romance." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
on, THE RICH AND THE !P00». i6# 
 
 "Indeed! Yes, indeed. But really you must not do these things. 
 When the poor girl related to me how you carried her down stairs in 
 your arms, her confusion was quite pitiable ! She blushed at your very 
 name ! I am afraid you have turned the poor child's head !" 
 
 " That girl ! Is she in this house ; and do you say that she is the 
 heroine of a romance ? Lady Sarum, there is some mystery here which 
 it seems fate has determined that I shall be the means of clearing up. 
 That girl — do not you think that she is surpassingly beautiful ?" 
 
 " Well, well : pretty fair — ^but you need not be so energetic." 
 
 " That girl " Lord Manley^paused for a moment ; it seemed to him 
 
 that there was a something sacred in his secret, and he hesitated to 
 divulge it : in that moment a loud knock was given at the door ; a well- 
 known step was heard on the stairs ; and Lord Sarum entered the room. 
 His entrance instantly turned Lady Sarum's thoughts into another 
 channel. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 CONVERSATION BETWEEN LORD AND LADY SARUM. — DENNIS, THE POETJJR, IS 
 UNEASY IN HIS MIND. — ANOTHER VISITOR. 
 
 t 
 
 " How is Augustus ?" was the mother's first question. 
 
 " Well, and happy ; but here he is to speak for himself ; I could not 
 resist the desire to bring him back with me for a day, though he has no 
 time to lose in getting up his Greek." 
 
 But the mother paid no attention to the Greek part of the case ; she 
 was rejoicing in the embrace of her son. 
 
 " He must go back to-morrow," said his father, " so you must make 
 the most of him. I shall leave town for Dover immediately ; but that, 
 my love," he said to Lady Sarum, "you knew before." 
 
 " I did," replied his wife ; " but the parting with you is not the less 
 painful. I must have a little quiet talk with you before you go." 
 
 " Let it be in your private boudoir," said Lord Sarum, "where there is 
 no chance of our being interrupted. Manley," he said, " you will dine 
 here to-day, of course ? there will be only Lord Grandborough and my 
 wife." 
 
 " With pleasure," said Lord Manley, eagerly accepting the invitation ; 
 " but before you go, I should like to have a little conversation with you 
 myself, on a singular circumstance that has occurred." 
 
 " Very well ; we can talk together presently. What is it ?" he asked 
 of the page who entered the room, the bearer of some message as it 
 seemed to his master. 
 
 " My Lord," said the page ; " Dennis, the porter " 
 
 " Well — what does he want ?" 
 
 " He says, my Lord, that he wants particularly to speak to your lord- 
 ship ; he has something to communicate, he says, about a poor person 
 who " 
 
140 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEH! 
 
 " Well — I will see him before I go : why ! everybody seems to have 
 something to say to me ; it is always the case when a man is midertaking 
 a journey ; always something to stop him ; the best way is to set off at 
 once, without saying a word to any one. I will follow you immediately," 
 he said to Lady Sarum. " I will first hear what Manley has got to say to 
 me, and then I will join you in your boudoir. Now, Manley," he said, 
 when her ladyship had retired, "what can I have the pleasure to do for 
 you ?" 
 
 " I have been thinking," said Lord Manley, after a pause, " that there 
 wiU be nothing particular in the House to attend to this session." 
 
 " I thought you had given notice of a motion relative to the employ- 
 ment of children in factories: but, my dear friend, I have not time to 
 talk politics ; indeed, my mind has been a good deal disturbed of late by 
 • — ^by various matters." 
 
 " Lord Grandborough's health seems very infirm." 
 
 *' It is ; but what is it that you wished to talk to me about ?" 
 
 "Why, to tell the truth, my mind has been a good deal distm'bed 
 recently." 
 
 "Your mind disturbed! about what? matters political, or matters 
 feminine ? Ah ! my young Mend, I wish I had no more to disturb my 
 mind than you have." 
 
 " Well, the real fact is, that it is about matters feminine." 
 
 " I thought so ; whenever any disturbance takes place in this world, 
 depend upon it a woman has something to do with it. But what scrape 
 have you been getting into ? Nothing very embarraping I hope." 
 
 " No — no — it is not that ; you quite misunderstand me. But I have 
 been thinking a good deal lately on the subject of unequal marriages. In 
 my opinion, a man of a certain rank ought to be exceedingly careful how 
 he forms an alliance with a family of whose connexion he would after 
 wards feel ashamed, or whose claims he would find embarrassing." 
 
 " My dear Manley," said Lord Sarum, with a serious air, alarmed at the 
 turn the conversation was taking, which accorded so painfully with the 
 subject ever uppermost in his thoughts, " you must excuse me if I decline 
 entering into this subject at present. My own opinion is, that every man 
 is the best judge of what is likely to be most conducive to his own happi- 
 ness in a point so delicate and important ; but I agree with you, that 
 nothing — generally speaking — is more afilictive to both parties than an 
 unequal marriage. But surely this was not the matter that you wished to 
 speak to me about. There is something on your mind ; out with it : if 
 there is any advice that a sincere Mend can give you — or anything that 
 he can do for you — ^you know you can depend on me." 
 
 "The fact is," said Lord Manley, with some hesitation, — ^his mind 
 alternately swayed by the new and indefinable hope which the communi- 
 cation of Lady Sarum had given rise to, and by the fear of an involvement 
 of the heart which might prove fatal to its object and to himself, and the 
 temptation of which it was his earnest desire from principle to avoid; 
 " the fact is, that I have been thinking of going abroad for a short time ; 
 but " 
 
 " Come with me, then ; I will put ofi" my journey with pleasure for a 
 day or two, for the sake of having you with me." 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOE. 141 
 
 " When I say that I have resolved, I ought to say that I did resolve ; 
 but perhaps something may detain me for a short time. It is a very 
 extraordinary case ; but on second thoughts, I don't think it likely that 
 anything can occur to prevent my going ; therefore I may say I am 
 resolved to go ; quite made up my mind ; I mean, unless circumstances 
 should arise—but that is impossible— so that I accept your offer with 
 pleasure." 
 
 " How soon could you be ready to set off?" 
 
 " Oh ! immediately, — that is, not immediately, because perhaps it 
 would be best for me to stay for a short time : but still, when I think of 
 it, that would be weakness ; so h it is my duty to go at once, you may 
 consider that I have resolved — yes — ^finally resolved — to take a few days 
 to make up my mind what to do." 
 
 " Forgive me, my dear young Mend," said Lord Sarum, " but it seems 
 that you have not yet come to a decision." 
 
 " Yes — ^yes — I have. I will join you in Italy ; so it is agreed, that is 
 a matter settled. What is your route ?" 
 
 " I shall go first to Florence." 
 
 " Florence ! How very singular ! It is precisely the place I was 
 thinking of going to myself. Well, you may expect me there. I must 
 settle one or two things before I leave town. At Florence, then ; there, 
 perhaps, I may have the courage to teU you my secret." 
 
 " What ! have you a secret, too ?" said Lord Sarum. 
 
 " My lady, my lord, is waiting for you," interrupted the lady's-maid, 
 coming in. 
 
 " Then you will permit me now to join Lady Sarum, who is waiting for 
 me in her boudoir." With these words Lord Sarum took leave of his 
 young friend, and ascended the stairs. 
 
 " In my lady's dressing-room, if you please, my lord." 
 
 "Why not in the boudoir?" asked Lord Sarmn of his wife as he 
 entered; "we should be more quiet there; your eternal maid will be 
 frisking in and out of this place, as she always does — always wanting 
 some fiddle-faddle." 
 
 " There is a young person in the boudoir," said his wife, "who is doing 
 a little work for me. Poor child ! she has been sadly unfortunate." 
 
 " Is it a young milliner girl ?" asked Lord Sarum. " I remember ; I 
 have seen her here before. I caught her parading before the glass one 
 day when I came in accidentally ; the poor girl was sadly confused when 
 she found that she was obser>'ed. A very pretty girl, too, if a man may 
 be allowed to say so in the presence of his wife." 
 
 " I should rather call her handsome than pretty," said his wife ; " but 
 I wanted, among other things, to ask you whether you approved of my 
 joining this projected Ladies' Association for the protection of young 
 milliner girls, and others of that class." 
 
 " By all means. No employment could be more fitting, and more con- 
 ducive to benefit the class to which its attention would be directed. I 
 approve of the object most heartily, and I should be glad to know that 
 you have contributed your active exertions to promote the praiseworthy 
 objects of an association so truly admirable." 
 
 " It is bringing oneself before the public in rather a more prominent 
 
142 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB : 
 
 manner than I like," suggested Lady Sarum; "I would rather do my 
 good actions in private." 
 
 "It is giving the sanction of your name, and the influence of your 
 rank," replied her husband, " in precisely the manner and for the object 
 which justifies a departure from the usual privacy of feminine interference 
 with public matters. But there is a recognised evil in society, which it is 
 the peculiar province of women to correct ; and I wish every woman with 
 rank or influence to exert would think so, and then the mischief which 
 every one sees and deplores, would, if not entirely obviated, at least be 
 materially lessened ; there is no class in society that sufiers more priva- 
 tions, and that is more exposed to temptation, than the class of young 
 milliner girls, in London especially." 
 
 " There is a great deal of suffering among them," said his wife ; "much 
 more, I fear, than we have any idea of : but this young girl's fate is very 
 sad indeed. I should like you to see her, and to hear her tell her story." 
 
 " I have not much time to spare," said Lord Sarum, " before I go ; but 
 if it will give you any satisfaction, I will see her." 
 
 " I will tell her to come in, then," said Lady Sarum. As she laid her 
 hand on the handle of the door, she turned round to Lord Sanma, and said 
 playfully, " I am sure you will be struck with her. Do you know there 
 is something in her countenance that haunts me with the idea of a like- 
 ness to some one I have seen before." 
 
 " Let her come in," said Lord Sarum, smiling with a mournful expres- 
 sion, " and I will try if I can discover the likeness that you speak of, and 
 then your mind will be at rest." 
 
 Lady Sarum immediately opened the door to summon Fanny to his 
 presence. At this moment the eternal lady's-maid appeared again, with 
 a communication from his lordship's own man that " there was a person 
 below" who said his name was " Lode," or some such name, and who was 
 very pressing to see his lordship. The person was a sort of labouring 
 man, — an old man, — and he talked of having gone down some pit with 
 his lordship many years ago. 
 
 *' Wait," said Lord Sarum to his wife, " till I have seen this man ; I 
 think I recollect something of him ; and then I wiU return, and see the 
 protegee you have taken such a fancy to. I have no doubt that she will 
 amply return the good intentions which you seem to entertain towards 
 her." And so saying, he descended to the dining-room ; his mind 
 rapidly revolving old recollections, and painfully distracted with anxious 
 thoughts. 
 
 As he was about to enter the room, he was intercepted by Dennis, who 
 with a very grave face craved permission to speak with his master on an 
 affair of importance. 
 
148 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Dennis's blunders. — most haste worse speed. 
 
 Dennis, the hall-porter, had bee^ cogitating profoundly on the recollec- 
 tions to which the sight of the little milliner had given rise, and he strove 
 diligently to clear up the confusion of thought which perplexed him, 
 from the double resemblance to the picture of the Virgin, in St. Mary's 
 Church, of the forlorn outcast who had sought charity at the door many 
 years ago, and of the young girl to whom he had lately given admittance. 
 The convulsion which he had experienced at the time from the reprimand of 
 his master, and the wild excitement of his young lord, had been fixed too 
 strongly on his mind ever to be forgotten ; and the sound of the name— 
 an unusual one in England — and the remarkable expression of the eyes, 
 recalled the circumstances so forcibly to his memory, that between the 
 fact of the likeness and the impossibility of the identity from the extreme 
 youth of the counterpart of the woman with the begging letter, his intel- 
 lects were in a state of the most pitiable bewilderment. In this state he 
 was summoned by Lord Sarum, to explain the purport of his communi- 
 cation. 
 
 In his struggle to give expression to his thoughts, he commenced with 
 the idea uppermost in his mind i — 
 
 " The picture of the virgin" ..<... 
 
 "The what!" 
 
 « The picture of the Virgin, in St. Mary's Church" 
 
 "What of that?" said Lord Sarum, a little impatiently. 
 
 " It's the eyes that are so like : your lordship has observed her eyes ?" 
 
 " Whose eyes ?" 
 
 " The Virgin's ; — ^that is, the woman's — I mean the poor womaa who 
 brought the begging letter years ago." 
 
 " Man !" cried out Lord Sarum, in a paroxysm of excitement, " what 
 do you know of that woman ?" 
 
 "Nothing — ^mylord." 
 
 " Have you ever seen her since ?" 
 
 "No, my lord." 
 
 "Or heard of her?" 
 
 "No, my lord." 
 
 " What have you to say of her, then ?" 
 
 " It's the likeness, my lord ; it's wonderful ! it is, indeed ; it is like a 
 dream ! the picture of the Virgin" 
 
 "Go — go," said Lord Sarum; "leave me; I have not time to attend 
 to your dreams. Send to me the man who is waiting to see me." 
 
 " Yes, my lord : but I assure your lordship the likeness " 
 
 " Go— -go ; send the man to me." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
144 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 "Well!" said Lord Sarum to the miner, stringing up his nerves to 
 face one who had been a witness of the events of that terrible night, the 
 remembrance of which had been burned into his brain as if with a red-hot 
 iron ; " what have you to say to me ?" 
 
 " It was one of the helpers that told me to come to your lordship," said 
 the miner, noways abashed either by the splendour of the apartment in 
 which he found himself or by the manner of Lord Sarum, which exhibited 
 a sternness that would have awed ordinary minds ; "he said he was sure 
 your lordship would be glad to see me." 
 
 "And who was it that told you so ?" 
 
 " Bob told me." 
 
 "Bob!" 
 
 " It's Bob ; the lad that always had his mouth open — that was at the 
 White Bull, at Sandy Flats, the time when your lordship went down the 
 pit after the poor woman that fell in with the child, poor little thing ! 
 You know the child was saved — ^but the woman was lost. I did hear tell 
 that the woman was got up afterwards; but I was in Scotland many years, 
 and didn't know the rights of it well. Hope the poor little child is well, 
 my lord ? She must be a young woman now ; terrible thing to lose her 
 mother that way, wasn't it, my lord ?" 
 
 " Did you ever hear of that child again ?" asked Lord Sarimi, in an 
 agitated voice. 
 
 " Me hear of her ! No, my lord ; I heard say your lordship took care of 
 her, and put her with Ned Lacey's mother; and Ned left the country, they 
 say, because the justices were down on him for that little affair in the 
 bam : but he wasn't there ; and Bob said that your lordship would be glad 
 to see me. It's that chap that always had his mouth open — your lordship 
 remembers him now ; and it was he that found the cross in the snow, and 
 gave it to old Matthew the woodman; — ^your lordship remembers Matthew 
 the woodman?" 
 
 "And what do you want with me ?" said Lord Sarum, — wishing to stop 
 the garrulity of the old man, and desirous of sparing himself the infliction 
 of remembrances so bitter. " What do you want with me ?" 
 
 " What do I want?" repeated the old man. " Well — I want nothing ; 
 only Bob said as I had gone down with you in the pit, and saved your 
 life — not that I reckon that anything, I'd have done the same for any 
 one else — and my Lord Manley told me to come up to him ; and it was 
 there I met Bob ; — ^but I've seen another of them that was about the pit 
 that night." 
 
 "Hah! Who was that?" 
 
 " Does your lordship remember a sort of crazy woman that was called 
 Rebecca ? — ^Your lordship has reason to remember her, I'm sure, for she 
 was terrible mad that night ; she you gave the child to when it was got 
 out of the pit ?" 
 
 " Well ! — I remember her. — What of her ?" 
 
 " Only I saw her as I passed through London streets to-day, as crazy 
 as ever ; she knew me again in a minute — ^mad people always remember 
 folks." 
 
 " And what had she to say?" 
 
 " Oh ! nothing ; she only asked me where I was going, and I told her 
 to Lord Mauley's; and she said, 'Who is he? one of the cruel aristocrats?'. 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 145 
 
 That was always her way ; and she asked me if I knew what had become 
 of Ned Lacey and the child." 
 
 " Then she knew nothing of the child ?" 
 
 " So it seems, my lord." 
 
 "And Lord Manley, you say, is going to do something for you?'* 
 
 " Ah ! he's a right good one is that young lord ; you've only to look in 
 his face to see that he has got a heart, and a kind look for a poor man. 
 He took me away from the police-office, where they were going to put 
 me into prison for sleeping in the streets at night ! Odd enough that, 
 thought I, to send a man to prison because he's no home to go to !" 
 
 Lord Sarum inquired into the meaning of this, and the miner related to 
 him the proceedings before the magistrate. A servant now appeared, to 
 say that his lordship's travelling-carriage was at the door. Immediately 
 seeking Lord Manley, Lord Sarum related to him his reasons for wishing 
 to provide for the old man, whom he had long lost sight of, and whose 
 ease of old age and destitution had interested his young friend at the 
 police-office. Lord Manley insisted on his right to perform that duty, as 
 he had already taken it on himself ; and Lord Sarum waving his prior 
 claim to do the act of charity, it was agreed that Lord Manley, before he 
 left London to join his friend in Italy, should endeavour to put the old 
 man in the way of earning something for his living, and at all events that 
 he should not be thrown destitute again on the world. This being settled, 
 he was about to rejoin his wife in her dressing-room ; but Lady Sarum 
 wondering at his long absence, came down to seek him, and his son 
 Augustus with Lord Grandborough having joined them in the dining- 
 room. Lord Sarum, wearied with the interruptions which had delayed his 
 departure, and anxious to leave a spot where all sorts of accidents seemed 
 to combine in recalling painful recollections ; and full of anxious desire 
 also to seek in Italy for the solution of the mystery which had embittered 
 and still embittered his life, took leave of his family. 
 
 " You will not see my little protegee, then ?" were nearly the last words 
 which Lady Sarum addressed to him. 
 
 " It is not necessary, my love ; she will be safe in your hands : I have 
 no doubt that your kindness to the poor girl will meet with its due 
 reward." 
 
 Prophetic words ! how little did the father of that girl then know their 
 meaning ! 
 
 Stepping into his carriage, and shaking Lord Manley warmly by the 
 hand for the last time, out of the window, the equipage was di'iven from 
 the door ; bearing away the father from the child, whom it was a principal 
 object with him to discover ; — the long-lost child who was even then 
 sitting under her father's roof, and whom he had committed to the care 
 of her to whom her presence was fated to bring such mortal agony. 
 Strange omission ! — and still stranger destiny ! Is it that Fortune takes 
 delight in sporting with the designs of men ? — or is it but the action 
 of that Power ruling supreme, and conducting to fore-destined ends by 
 means and through events which to short-sighted mortals seem the 
 accidents of life, but which in truth are the links of a chain of conse- 
 quential results to accomplish the great and imiversal plan of Retributive 
 Justice. 
 
146 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE VOID LEFT BY ABSENCE. — AUGUSTUS HEARS A ROMANTIC STORY. 
 
 The family in the dining-room remained for some time in silence after 
 tlie departure of Lord Sarum, each revolving his own. thoughts, and giving 
 way to the reflections which the grief or the hopes or fears of each gave 
 rise to. Lady Sarum felt an unaccountable depression at the departure of 
 her husband, and she blamed herself for not having insisted on accom- 
 panying him; and when she reflected on the disincUnation which he 
 could not disguise, to have any companion in his journey, she was filled 
 with that vague feeling of disquietude which ever attends mystery of 
 conduct on the part of those we love. Lord Manley could think of 
 nothing but the young girl who bore so extraordinary a resemblance to 
 the mysterious picture ; and the new and undefined hopes to which Lady 
 Sarum' s information had given rise agitated him in a manner which he 
 felt was too surely the indication of a fervent passion which he feared to 
 cherish, and which Avas cherished the more deeply from his fears. The 
 young Augustus, — albeit that his Etonian liabits w^ere by no means favour- 
 able to stillness and confinement, — was repressed in his vivacity by the 
 serious countenances of those around him : but as the ennui of such still- 
 life was by no means agreeable to his habits of activity, he meditated an 
 escape to the stable M^hich was situate at the back of the house, at the 
 end of a garden of no great extent ; where he might have the satisfaction 
 of examining the family stud in town. He was desirous also of exchang- 
 ing communications with that most important personage in the eyes of 
 early youth, the head-coachman, with whom he was anxious to discuss the 
 merits and qualifications of various horses — a theme at all times delightful 
 to the scions of noble houses. With this intent he rose quietly from his 
 seat, and was about to cross the room ; but in passing his grandfather, the 
 old nobleman, roused from his reverie by the movement of his grandson, 
 grasped him by the arm, and regarded him with so fixed and mournful an 
 expression that it attracted the attention of his daughter-in-law. It must 
 be mentioned that Lord Grandborough was possessed with an extravagant 
 fondness for his grandson, whom he indulged and petted on all occasions. 
 It has been said maliciously by a recldess exposer of the human heart, 
 that the aged are led to regard their grandchildren with increased afiectioa 
 from the feeling that they are the natural allies of their own enemies — 
 their children ; but no such thought entered into the feeling which Lord 
 Grandborough had for his grandson. It was rather the pride of ancestry 
 which induced the old lord to entertain so extravagant a love for the boy 
 who was to perpetuate the family name and the family honours through 
 succeeding generations. For many years he had flattered himself with 
 the hope that there would be no rival claimant to distm-b the succession 
 of the son to his titles and estates ; but the conversation at the dinner- 
 table, relative to the picture purchased by Lord Manley, followed up by 
 
on, THE mCH AND THE POOE. 147 
 
 the apparition at his own door of one who, he saw in a instant, bore a 
 striking resemblance to the beautiful Italian whose features the fearful 
 circumstances of her fate had stamped indelibly on his memory, awakened 
 all his former fears ; and it was with the anguish of such bitter and 
 blasting thoughts, that he gazed on the countenance of his grandson whom 
 he loved so dearly. 
 
 " Augustus," he said, " how old are you now?" 
 
 "Fourteen," replied Augustus ; wondering at the nature of the question, 
 and the seriousness with which it was asked. 
 
 " Fourteen," repeated the old lord, pondering — and speaking to himself; 
 "yes — fourteen — and — one is fifteen; yes fifteen years and a half; — 
 fifteen years and a half ago." 
 
 " What is fifteen years and a half ago ?" asked his daughter-in-law, 
 sm-prised at the manner of Lord Grandborough. Lord Manley, too, 
 looked inquiringly. 
 
 "Did I say anything? Did I say anything about what happened 
 fifteen years and a half ago? Did I say anything?" he repeated, anxiously 
 and testily. 
 
 Lady Sarum had long since observed that her father-in-law had occa- 
 sional fits of abstraction, in which he gave expression to loose and uncon- 
 nected thoughts, as it appeared to her, and which she regarded rather as 
 the indications of a wanmg intellect than as revelations uttered uncon- 
 sciously by her father-in-law at times when overwhelming thoughts 
 oppressed him. Her heart attuned to tenderness by her grief at the de- 
 parture of her husband, she arose, sat down by the old lord ; kissed 
 his forehead, and asked him what it was that had disturbed him? 
 
 The expression of the thought that was uppermost in Lord Grand- 
 borough's mind rose to his lips, and he asked in a tone of strange 
 anxiety : — 
 
 " What has become of her ?" 
 
 " Become of whom ? my dear lord," said Lady Sarum ; " who ai-e you 
 thinking of ?" 
 
 " That woman — that girl — ^^vho was at the door when I came 
 in." 
 
 " Who do you mean ? Can you mean my little protegee upstairs ? — 
 Why should she disturb you?" Lady Sarum blushed as she said this, 
 conscious of the presence of Lord Manley ; — for, not unaware of the possi- 
 ble failings of old noblemen, it seemed to her that her respected father-in- 
 law might have been smitten with the charms of the little milliner, and it 
 was by no means consonant with her ladyship's opinions of decorum that 
 he should make his daughter-in-law the confidante of such predilections. 
 But any such surmises on her part were quicldy dispelled by the exclama- 
 tion of Lord Grandborough : 
 
 " That woman has been my curse and my misery for sixteen long years! 
 When will this terrible suspense end ?" 
 
 " Dear gi-andpapa," said Lady Sarum, calling him afiectionately by the 
 name with which she frequently addressed him, " my little giii cannot 
 have anything to do with the woman that you speak of — sixteen years ago! 
 Why she caimot be much more than sixteen herself ; you are in one of 
 your waking dreams, dear grandpapa. But I assure you, my little milliner 
 is one of the most beautiful and interesting girls you ever saw." 
 l2 
 
148 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE t 
 
 Lord Manley here became an attentive listener ; and the mention of a 
 pretty girl, and a milliner too, excited the curiosity of the Eton boy, who 
 from his classical reading had been early forced to the contemplation of 
 such matters, and he lingered for a moment at the threshold of the door 
 undetermined whether to turn his attention to an extempore study of 
 little milliners, or go to the horses ; but the idea of a remarkably beautiful 
 bay horse with a long tail presenting itself to his imagination, he decided 
 on the stable, and presently found himself in earnest discussion with one 
 of the grooms on the propriety of his appearing on a "lady's horse'* 
 which he doubted might be considered unmanly, though, as the groom 
 agreed with him, " her ladyship's horse" was master of any weight, and 
 (excepting the tail) was as sightly a horse as any in the stables. Tha 
 examination of equine tails and hoofs was interrupted by a lively discus- 
 sion which was going on between an old man who had entered the stable 
 and one of the under grooms, in whom the stranger it seemed had found 
 .an old acquaintance. 
 
 " I say," said the old man, "that the woman must have been dead 
 before she got to the bottom; the choke-damp must have kiUed hej*. 
 Aren't I been a miner all the years of my life, and oughtn't I to know? 
 Besides, didn't the choke almost kiU Lord Sarum, when I went down the 
 pit with him ; it was a near touch that was ! — a few more mouthfuls of 
 the foul air, and there would have been no Lord Sarum for you to call 
 master." 
 
 "What's that?" said Augustus; — "what's that the old fellow says 
 about going down a pit with my father, and the choke-damp nearly killing 
 him? What is it that you say, my good man," addressing the miner ; 
 *' what is it all about ?" 
 
 " Oh, it's an old story," replied the miner, " and it's not for me to brag 
 of it, and if I did save your father's life — it was all luck and accident ; 
 and any one else — that is, if he understood the ways of an old shaft-^ 
 would have done it the same as me." 
 
 " Well, but tell me all about it. How long ago was it?" 
 " Why," said the miner, " come next Christmas it must be sixteen 
 years ago." 
 
 " That was before I was born," said Augustus. 
 
 " Likely enough. You see there was a meeting of the labouring 
 people about ; and — but never mind that ; well, there was some woman 
 going across the moor, and she fell into the pit with her child ; and the 
 child was got out ; — it was young Ned Lacey that saved it — a brave 
 young lad that was ; — well — and your father would go down into the pit 
 to try to save the mother, spite of all I could say : and so I went down 
 with him ; and lucky enough it was, for the choke-damp took him — and 
 when we were drawn up it was thought he was dead." 
 "And the woman was killed?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; the poor woman was killed, sure enough." 
 « And the child ? What became of the child ?" 
 
 " Tlie veiy question Lord Sarum asked me awhile ago in the house : 
 and very anxious was he to know, kind-hearted nobleman as he is; I ' 
 dare say he would have provided for the child if he had known what 
 became of it." 
 
 " Was the child lost, then ?" 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 149 
 
 " Nobody knows, it seems, what became of the child. Bob, there, was 
 by when the child was got out of the pit. Did you ever get the gold 
 cross again. Bob, that you found by the side of the pit ?" Bob shook his 
 head. " Why don't you shut your mouth, man, and speak ; sure you 
 haven't had your mouth wide open for sixteen year, that way?" 
 
 " Our governor likes him to keep his mouth open," said one of the 
 grooms, who was the wag of the fraternity. 
 
 " Eh !" said the miner ; "and why so ?" 
 
 *' Because he catches all the flies, and prevents them from tormenting 
 the horses." A general laugh /fe warded this attempt at stable wit ; in the 
 midst of which a servant came to seek Augustus, with the information 
 that dinner was ready ; — a summons which was gladly complied with. 
 *' Mind, old fellow," said Augustus, " I must see you again, and have 
 some more talk about this story." 
 
 "Ay, ay," returned the miner; " I am going to be employed by Lord 
 Manley, so you will all hear enough of those times, I'll be bound ; but 
 there was always some mystery about that business that none of us could 
 understand." 
 
 "A mystery!" exclaimed Augustus, as he left the apartments of his 
 dearly-beloved horses; "a mystery! That's capital fun!" thought he to 
 himself, — " I'll have a talk with grandpapa about it. I wonder he never 
 told me of it before !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 IDLENESS THE PARENT OF MISCHIEF. — BROTHER AND SISTER. — FANNY S SONG. 
 
 MORE MYSTERY. 
 
 "Grandpapa!" said Augustus, after appeasing his first himger, — and 
 finding his appetite becoming capricious, so as to render a pause desirable, 
 which he was desirous of turning to account by saying something amusing 
 to his grandfather, — " did you ever hear the story of papa going down 
 into a pit and being nearly stifled with the foul air ? An old man has 
 been telling me all the story." 
 
 Now it is to be observed that the history of that afiair was never the 
 subject of conversation in the family, and by a tacit understanding instinc- 
 tively understood in the household, though the reason of the prohibition 
 was unknown, the story was never alluded to ; so that in progress of time 
 it had become either forgotten or but dimly remembered as an event 
 which had lost its interest. The young Augustus, therefore, was totally 
 ignorant of an occurrence which had taken place before he was born, as 
 well as of the loose sm*mises which were ciuTcnt at the time in respect to 
 the remarkable anxiety manifested by Lord Sarum in the fate of the 
 mother and child, and which it was conjectured had its origin in some 
 reason deeper than appeared on the sm-face. His grandson, therefore, 
 was the last person in the world from whom the Earl expected to hear the 
 slightest allusion to the subject : but whether it was that the repeated 
 shocks on his nerves had benumbed his sensibility; or that a sort of 
 
150 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB I 
 
 BuUen despair made him meet this new assault on his tenderest point from, 
 the human being he loved best and fondest with a seeming indifference ; 
 the Earl received the unexpected question of his grandson without any- 
 visible emotion. He laid down his knife and fork deliberately and 
 quietly; sighed heavily; and looked at his grandson with a deceitful 
 calmness for his further communication. Seeing the attention which his 
 grandfather was disposed to pay to him, Augustus thought that it was just 
 the thing to talk about ; so he at once dashed into the story : — 
 
 " Don't you know it, grandpapa ? oh, you must have heard of it ! — ^The 
 old man said there was a woman and a child who fell down a pit on the 
 moor, not far from the castle ; — ^you remember that part ? And the child 
 was saved, but the mother was killed ; and papa interested himself very 
 much indeed about it, and went down into the pit to try to save the 
 woman : and the old man who told me the story was the very man who 
 went down with him, and he said that Lord Manley knew him." 
 
 "Ah ! that must be my new friend, the miner," said Lord Manley. 
 
 " Yes : — and he told me that if they had not got out of the mine as 
 quick as they did, poor papa would have been suffocated. But what 
 became of the child nobody knows ; — that is very extraordinary ! — don't 
 you think so ? But the old fellow says there is a mystery about it. 
 There's something for you to find out, mamma !" 
 
 "And is that all?" said Lord Grandborough, growing ghastly pale, and 
 speaking with an unnatural calmness. 
 
 " Yes, that's all ; — no it isn't : I forgot. What do you think, mamma ? 
 Robert — ^lie is one of the under grooms — you have had him since I went 
 to Eton last time : well, Robert was there at the time, too ; and the old 
 man said that Robert found a gold cross, which they supposed belonged 
 to the mother of the child." 
 
 "A gold cross !" exclaimed Lady Sarum, becoming excessively agitated, 
 and a crowd of vague recollections and of undefined suspicions of by-gone 
 years rushing on her mind : " the poor girl up-stairs," she said, turning 
 to Lord Manley, " has a gold cross of curious workmanship, which she 
 cherishes as the only means of discovering her parents ; — what a singular 
 coincidence!" 
 
 Lord Manley hastily whispered to Lady Sarum, in his emotion : 
 
 " Lady Sarum, there is some extraordinary mystery here. I must tell 
 you ; I feel that my happiness is somehow in yom- hands : that pictm-e 
 of the beautiful Italian is the exact resemblance of the young girl who is 
 in your house." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Lady Sarum ; remembering her husband's emotion at 
 the description of the picture, and blushing deeply as the feelings of the 
 woman suggested fears to which she could not give expression. 
 
 " Indeed !" echoed Lord Grandborough, who had overheard the revela- 
 tion which Lord Manley, in a moment of uncontrollable emotion, had 
 communicated to his early and attached friend. Lady Sarum ; " then that 
 is the girl whom I met at the door as I came in !" 
 
 " Indeed !" said Lady Sarum and Lord Manley, both at once ; "do you 
 know her ?" 
 
 Lord Grandborough was silent, and seemed suddenly to be plunged in 
 profound meditation. Augustus, — who could make nothing of the various 
 emotions exhibited by the different parties at table at the mention of the 
 
OR, THE KICH AND THE POOJx. ISI 
 
 gold cross, but thinking that as no one else talked he might as well go on 
 with his story, — resumed the conversation : — 
 
 " Yes, mamma ; a gold cross ! — but it seems that was lost too. But I 
 shall have another talk with the old fellow, and perhaps I shall find out 
 some more of the ' mystery.' Do you know anything of the mystery, 
 grandpapa ?" But his grandfather made no answer ; he remained looking 
 at his grandson mth the same fixed, cahn, unnatural expression : but as 
 he continued to drink wine, — though he would eat nothing more, and did 
 not speak, — his daughter-in-law regarded it as only one of those fits of 
 abstraction to which the Earl Aas liable ; and the dinner passed off as 
 usual. At the close of it. Lord and Lady St. Austin came in, thinking as 
 they said that their daughter woidd be lonely after the departure of Lord 
 Sarum ; and Augustus feeling the family party getting dull, without 
 xjeremony retired to seek some amusement about the house. 
 
 In his wanderings through the rooms, and up stairs and down stairs,-— 
 after plaguing Mrs. Buckram, the consequential housekeeper, and romping 
 with the lady's-maid, whom he considered he had a right to pull about, as 
 a part of the personal establishment particularly belonging to himself, — 
 he penetrated into his mother's boudoir, in which the little milliner was 
 busily engaged at work. He paused for a moment within the threshold, 
 with that peculiar sheepish and irresolute air characteristically displayed 
 by young lads on theii* first introduction to a new female acquaintance. 
 Presently, however, he advanced, sidling along the room, studying or 
 pretending to study the pictures, but taking an oblique look at the same 
 time at the "milliner-gal." Fanny, who had risen on his entrance, 
 finding that the youth paid no attention to her, quietly sat down again, 
 and continued her work. This mute acquaintance, however, by no means 
 suited the inclination of Augustus, who wanted something to do or some- 
 body to talk to ; and the silence, which was broken only by the rustling 
 of the stitches of Fanny's needle, becoming insupportably irksome, he 
 summoned up boldness to commence a conversation with the pretty girl:— 
 
 " You seem fond of stitching ?" 
 
 Fanny shook her head ; but as there was nothing very formidable in a 
 boy of fourteen, she did not scruple to make a reply, wliich seemed 
 expected from her : — 
 
 " I am happy," she said, " to be allowed to do work for so kind a lady 
 as Lady Sariun." 
 
 " My mother," replied Augustus. 
 
 Fanny had a suspicion that she was speaking to a member of the 
 family ; but on learning that he was the son of her pati'oness, she looked 
 at him with some curiosity. The conversation languished ; Fanny did 
 not leave off stitching for a moment ; — ^it was dull work ; Augustus 
 looked about to find something to enliven it. There was a harp iji the 
 room ; he approached it ; — and merely for the sake of making some sort 
 of noise he set about performing a vigorous voluntary with aU his fingers 
 on the strings. 
 
 " You will spoil the harp," Fanny ventured to say. 
 
 " What's the use of it ? I do think this is the dullest house in London. 
 There is nobody to speak to, and nothing to do. Can you play ?" 
 
 " It is some time since I played," replied Fanny ; " but I was very fond 
 of it once." 
 
152 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 ** Oil ! then you can play ? Then you shall give us a tune. What can 
 you play?" 
 
 " I could not take the liberty to touch your mamma's harp," said 
 Panny : " besides, if I did, I coidd not play anything to amuse you." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense : my mother's harp is my harp. I'll go and ask her, 
 if you Hke ?" 
 
 "Oh! pray don't; indeed I cannot play anything worth hearing: 
 besides, I have this turban of your mamma's to finish. Now, don't take 
 hold of my hand, Sir, — ^really, this is improper." 
 
 " But I say you shall give me a tune : here is the harp, and play you 
 shall ; and if you don't come quietly, I'U pull you there." 
 
 Whether it was weakness, or the desire to please, or a secret longing 
 unknown to herself to touch an instrument on which she had been con- 
 sidered in better days to excel ; or thinking that the shortest way was to 
 indulge the desire of the son of her promised benefactress, who perhaps 
 she thought had a sort of right to insist on her compliance ; or whether 
 it was destiny which prompted her to consent, — Fanny was persuaded to 
 play one air to please the boy. L'appetit vient en mangeant, as the 
 French say : one air brought on another ; but Augustus growing more 
 exacting, like older boys, by compliance with his wishes, now asked her 
 if she could sing ? 
 
 " Oh ! no :— I must not do that ?" 
 
 « Why not ? If you can sing, why not sing as well as play ? I am sure 
 jou can sing, you have such a nice voice." 
 
 *' Really, I must finish yom- mamma's turban." 
 
 *'Not before I have had one song." 
 
 " Really, Sir, I could not take the liberty." 
 
 " Then you shan't work !" and so saying he seized the turban, and held 
 it aloft. 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't ; you will destroy all my work ; you will indeed, and 
 your mamma wants the tm'ban to wear to-night." 
 
 " One song ?" 
 
 "Well; if I sing one song will you give me the turban and go 
 away r" 
 
 *' You shall have the turban when you have sung the song." 
 
 *' I am afraid your mamma will be displeased with me for taking the 
 liberty to play and sing in her house." 
 
 " Not a bit ; — my mother likes singing, and so do I : so now begin." 
 
 Very reluctantly, and with some misgivings, but thinking there was no 
 real harm in humouring a boy who was the son of her protectress, Fanny 
 sang ; but it was fated that her notes should reach other ears, and hasten 
 the catastrophe of her mysterious life. 
 
 The door of the boudoir had been left open, and the sound of the music 
 reaching the party in ilie dining-room, the quick ear of Lady Sarum 
 arrested at hearing the notes of a harp at such an hour. 
 
 *' Did you bring any one with you ? " she asked of her mother. 
 
 *' No, my love," said Lady St. Austin ; " why do you ask .^ " 
 
 •* Surely the sound of that harp comes from my boudoir." 
 
 •' Is any one there ? " 
 
 ** Only the milliner-girl, who is at work at my turban. '^*' 
 
 •* Who can it be taking the liberty to touch your harp V* 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 15$ 
 
 " Can it be that girl ? No : — where is Augustus ? Hark, there is the 
 sound again!" 
 
 " Some one singing," said Lord Manley ; " upon my word, whoever it 
 is she has a most beautiful voice." 
 
 *' It is very extraordinary," said Lady Sarum to her mother ; " some- 
 thing oppresses me strangely ! — Let us go up-stairs." 
 
 " Should I be considered an intruder?" asked Lord Manley; " I con- 
 fess, that voice attracts me." 
 
 " You may come," said Lady Sarum ; " but you would not leave Lord 
 Grandborough." '' 
 
 " He need not," said Lord Grandborough, rising up with a dignity and 
 a firmness that he seldom displayed ; "the hour is come ! The finger of 
 God is here; my daughter," he said to Lady Sarum — "it is decreed; let 
 us go." 
 
 Lord and Lady St. Austin regarded the Earl with surprise and com- 
 miseration: Lady Sarum was powerfully afiected, and Lord Manley 
 witnessed the scene with wonder. Lord St. Austin put his hand to his 
 head ; and looking at Lord Grandborough and then at his daughter, made 
 a significant gesture, to intimate his fear that his friend's brain was dis- 
 ordered ; but to the astonishment of all, the Earl observed the motion, 
 and replied with gravity : 
 
 " No, my dear lord, it is not that ; would to God that it was, rather 
 than what it is ! But the mystery must be solved, and God has chosen 
 his own time ; foUow me." 
 
 They ascended the stairs. Lady Sarum and her mother preceding the 
 rest; and as they went forward the plaintive voice of the young girl 
 sounded so soft and melodious in their ears that, entranced, they stopped 
 to listen; while Lord Manley drunk in with all the greediness of excited 
 passion the delicious accents : — 
 
 FANNY'S SONG. 
 
 The stricken hind can seek its forest lair, 
 The bird finds shelter in its parent nest ; 
 
 The tender mother breathes the fervent pray'r, 
 And softly soothes the infant at her breast ; 
 
 But she who never knew a father's care ; 
 On whom a mother's smile has never shone : 
 
 Where shall the orphan — child of dark despair- 
 Find refuge in her grief ? — in Heaven alone ! 
 
 "It is Heaven's o-vvn work," said the sorrow-stricken and penitent 
 lord, as he went forward ; " it is the hand of Providence that has directed 
 the child to the house of its parent ; " but no one heard this. 
 
 The noise of the music prevented Augustus and Fanny from hearing 
 the approach of the unexpected audience ; and as the one sat on the 
 raised music-stool and the other stood by her, their profiles were presented 
 side by side. Lady St. Austin was the first to remark on it : 
 
 " Eleanor," she said to her daughter, " do you observe the wonderM 
 resemblance of the side-face of Augustus to that dark girl ? " 
 
 "I observed the family likeness before," replied her daughter in a 
 faint voice — ^for she felt sick as the truth of her suspicion became con- 
 
1S4 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 firmed ; it seemed to her as she scamied the outline of their countenances, 
 that she was gazing on brother and sister; — ^but still there was mystery! 
 
 The sound of her voice, however, was heard during a momentary pause 
 in the music ; and Augustus and Fanny, turning their faces towards the 
 door, Lady St. Austin with her husband beheld a countenance which, 
 flushed as it was with excitement, filled them with admiration at its 
 extraordinary beauty ! Lady Sarum looked alternately from one to the 
 other in her endeavour to trace the likeness of the front face which had 
 presented itself so remarkably in their profiles, and rejoiced to miss it: 
 Lord Manley gazed with eagerness on the brow which had first inspired 
 him with a real passion ; while Lord Grandborough, after looking stead- 
 fastly at the flashing eyes of the image of the betrayed Francesca, uttered 
 a loud cry of terror, and exclaiming — 
 
 " A miracle ! a miracle ! It is the dead risen from the grave ! O God! 
 have mercy on me ! " — ^he fell on the floor insensible. Lady Sarum had 
 him conveyed to his apartment ; and taking leave of her guests established 
 herself by his bedside to watch over him, lest some unguarded expression 
 in his dehrium might betray to unfit ears an important secret; and 
 resolved to question him on his recovery with respect to his mysterious 
 declaration. 
 
 But as it was necessary to send Fanny home, she summoned the house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Buckram, who had accompanied Lady Sarum in her 
 memorable visit to Rebecca, and confided Fanny to her care, with strict 
 injunctions to see her safe to her own door. Lord Manley ofiered to take 
 Augustus with him to look at the illuminations, which the boy was anxious 
 to see, as it was a change from the dulness of the house, and promised to 
 be productive, as he said, of some "fun." These matters being satisfac- 
 torily disposed of. Lady Sarum, with calm determination to arrive at the 
 truth of the mystery, resumed her place by the bedside of her father-in-law, 
 who remained in a sort of lethargy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE ILLUMINATIONS. — MRS. BUCKRAM's DISASTERS — PANNY's DANGER. — HER 
 RESCUE. — REBECCA. — REVELATIONS. 
 
 So far as age and appearance were concerned, it was impossible, certainly, 
 for Fanny to have been entrusted to a more suitable duenna than the 
 austere and formidable Mrs. Buckram, whose aspect alone was sufiicient 
 to inspire with awe the most audacious reprobate that ever peeped under 
 the bonnet of a pretty milHner. That respectable lady, whose person had 
 always evinced a kindly disposition to assimilate with itself the good 
 things of the earth, and who for many years had filled the important office 
 of housekeeper at Grandborough Castle, had become from habits of ease 
 and luxury so amazingly thick and square, that she resembled nothing 
 more nearly than her fat pug dog that had been petted and pampered on 
 a cushion before the fire tiU it had become a shapeless mass of wheezy 
 
OE, THE HIGH AND THE POOR. 155 
 
 obesity. As tlie night was mild, and the distance not great, she conde- 
 scended to endeavour to walk to tlie nearest coach-stand : but as the streets 
 began to be crowded with people anxious to see the illuminations on a gala 
 night, the pair made progress with difficulty ; and as the old lady worked 
 her way through the crowd, she might be compared to a Dutch barge 
 breasting the mass of people which impeded her progress like the surging 
 waves of the sea, with Fanny attached to her like a little skiff following 
 modestly in her wake. 
 
 On reaching the coach-stand, they found, as might have been expected 
 on such an occasion, no coach or^ab to be hired. In this difficulty, Fanny 
 offered to find her way home alone ; but to that proposition the old lady 
 would not listen, as Lady Sarum had given her the most precise and 
 positive directions not to lose sight of Fanny until she had deposited her 
 safely in her o^vn dwelling. But in endeavouring to pass do^Ti a by- 
 turning which seemed more free from the obstruction of the crowd, there 
 was a sudden rush of a mob of persons eager to catch a sight of some cele- 
 brated personage who was passing in the adjoining street in his carriage, 
 and Mrs. Buckram and Fanny, included in the vortex, became violently 
 separated ; and while the former from her bulk and solidity was enabled to 
 remain pretty nearly stationary till the torrent of people rolled by, the 
 lighter form of Fanny was whisked away like a straw on a current, and 
 carried far away from her protectress. It was some time before the house- 
 keeper could recovOT her breath, and fill herself out again after the com- 
 pression of the weight and crushing of the crowd — ^having been squeezed 
 together mofilentarily into the shape of a Norfolk biffin ; and when she was 
 enabled to walk on, she of course looked after Fanny, in all the places 
 where she was not to be found ; and it was in vain that she made inquiries 
 of various persons of different ages and conditions if they had seen a young 
 lady answering her description. 
 
 In the meantime, Fanny found herself forced, by the impetus of the tor- 
 rent, half-way down the street, and she found it impossible to extricate 
 herself from the mass of people by whom she was smTounded. As she was 
 not used to such scenes, she began to feel alarmed at being alone at night 
 amongst such a mass of people — though it must be confessed, to the 
 infinite credit of the benevolent feelings of the community, that many indi- 
 viduals of the male sex, both old and young, made her the most polite 
 offers of assistance, to see her home, or otherwise to afford her the advan- 
 tage of their protection. Three young gentlemen from St. Mary- Axe, in 
 Taglioni coats and a cigar in the mouth of each, which they considered to 
 be " the real thing," were so urgent in their solicitations— one of them 
 taking her round the waist, in order to protect her, as he said, from the 
 pressure of the crowd, — that Fanny thought she should faint with alarm ; 
 and her persecutor taking advantage of her weakness and distress, and 
 forcing her through the side of the crowd into a street less thronged than 
 the main one, was hurrying her along out of breath and too much terrified 
 to call out, when to her surprise and joy she beheld Lord Manley and 
 Augustus, who were making a short cut that way in order to get to the 
 street of the principal illuminations. They might have passed her in the 
 obscurity, but making an effort, she screamed loudly ; and Augustus call- 
 ing out, *' By Jove, there's the little milliner girl, and somebody making off 
 with her !" Lord Manley in an instant darted to her rescue, and "without 
 
156 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 ceremony knocking down her abductor with a blow of his fist which made 
 him see more lights than all the lamps of all the illuminations, and leaving 
 the prostrate assailant of damsels to get up as he could, he hurried Fanny 
 away to a place free from the crowd. 
 
 A few words sufficed to explain her forced separation from Mrs. Buck- 
 ram, and the insults which she had received from some of the mob. Lord 
 Manley had a strong inclination to suggest the propriety of endeavouring to 
 find the poor old lady, as her age and corpulence would make it dangerous 
 for her to be exposed to the tumultuous concourse of people on an illumi- 
 nation night — an arrangement which would have afibrded him the delight 
 of being in Fanny's company for some time, and which would have given 
 him the opportunity of introducing some questions which he was anxious 
 to have answered. But on second thoughts he considered that the public 
 parading of a handsome girl might possibly commit her in an unfavourable 
 way, and subject her to unpleasant surmises : he was influenced, too, by 
 other thoughts, the true nature of which he could not well define, but which 
 prompted him not to allow her to appear in a position that could in the 
 slightest degree derogate from the dignity and purity of one on whom he 
 felt that his affections were fixed in a way that was strangely irresistible. 
 Sacrificing his inclination, therefore, to what he considered to be his duty, 
 he at once accompanied Fanny towards her home, Augustus insisting on 
 gi\T[ng her his arm, and feeling exceedingly proud to be constituted the 
 protector and champion of a *' pretty gal." 
 
 In this way they proceeded in the direction of the little milliner's home ; 
 but on crossing the end of a principal thoroughfare in which the illumina- 
 tions were particularly brilliant, their attention was attracted by a noisy 
 altercation between two women, which seemed to afford extraordi- 
 nary satisfaction to the mob, who lent their best endeavours to get 
 up a fight. 
 
 " By George !" cried out Augustus, " if there isn't old Mrs. Buckram 
 fighting with a mad woman !" 
 
 It was indeed that precise old gentlewoman ; who, with her intellects 
 confused by the noise and the lights, and her apparel torn and disordered 
 from the impertinent pressure of the people, and making inquiries of every 
 one who would attend to her after her lost charge, had suddenly been 
 encountered by a strange-looking woman who confironted her in the 
 crowd. 
 
 " Hah !" exclaimed the woman, seizing the astonished house-keeper by 
 the arm, " are you come out of the house of mourning to rejoice among 
 the fools who are content to gape at the pictures and the lights in exchange 
 for their darkness and misery at home ! I know your fat face, though I 
 cannot recollect where I have seen it ; but it seems to be one of those that 
 belong to my persecutors !" 
 
 *' Get away, woman !" cried out the housekeeper ; " get away, woman ! 
 —you have been drinking, you have, you bad woman ; and you are tipsy : 
 ^eave go of me, I say !" 
 
 " I will not leave go of you," replied the woman — ^who was plainly 
 either crazy or inebriated ; "I say you are one of my persecutors. I 
 remember the hard lines of that cruel face well !" she said, holding up her 
 finger, and scanning the features of the terrified housekeeper, as if vainly 
 endeavouring to recall some remembrances to her mind j " but now I 
 bethink me, you have grown older." 
 
OR, THE EICH AND THE POOR. 157 
 
 " Older ! you wicked woman," exclaimed the housekeeper ; " go along 
 with you, — you are tipsy, you are, and mad besides. Is there nobody to 
 help me ?" she said, appealing to the crowd, " I am Lord Grandborough's 
 housekeeper ; — I will reward " 
 
 *'I was sui-e of it," cried out the mad woman: — "it was nature that 
 made my blood rise against you ! I remember ! you were among those who 
 hounded on the dogs of the law to worry to death my poor husband ; but 
 there "will be vengeance yet ! — there will be vengeance !" 
 
 " Thank the Lord," said the terrified old lady, as she caught sight of the 
 well-known faces of Lord Manley> and Augustus, and rejoiced at her now 
 certain rescue from the clutches of this she-bear, as she called the woman ; 
 " here is Lord Manley and Lord Sarum's son to protect me ; now, you 
 wicked woman, you shall be taken to the station-house, and sent to the 
 tread-mill." 
 
 But the sight of the son of Lord Sarum, instead of inspiring the alarm in 
 the mind of the crazy woman which Mrs. Buckram relied on, only turned 
 her attack in another direction. She followed the party down the side- 
 street and up a court into which they immediately turned in order to avoid 
 her annoyance ; but the court had no thoroughfare, and the woman con- 
 tinued her vociferations : — 
 
 "Stay!" she cried out; — "I have a word to say to the son of Lord 
 Sarum ; a word, perhaps, that he may not like to hear ; but he may thank 
 his father, and his father's father for the evil that is to come to him ;— 
 stay I say, and hear me !" 
 
 " My good woman," said Lord Manley, stopping — and particularly 
 vexed to be annoyed by a crazy old woman following them through the 
 streets ; — " you had better go home quietly : if you are in distress and 
 deserving of relief I will relieve you ; but if you persist in following us, 
 I must give you in charge to the police." 
 
 "Ah ! — that's always the way with the rich ! That's always their cry— 
 *if you are deserving of relief;' yes! if you are deserving! When a 
 poor -wretch is in the extremity of distress, the cant is to inquire if you 
 *are deserving of relief;' 'and while the inquiries are being made, the 
 poor wretch dies ! Why will you not feel that distress is always deserving 
 of relief — not for the distressed perhaps, for they may be undeserving — 
 but for the sake of yourselves, who ought to rejoice in the opportunity of 
 having a charitable action to do !" 
 
 Lord Manley could not help being much struck with the language of 
 the woman, which was so superior to her appearance : the calmness of her 
 tone dispelled the idea which he had at first entertained of her being 
 intoxicated with liquor ; — ^but her unsettled look ; the wild glances of her 
 eyes ; and her incoherent expressions, indicated that she was not in 
 possession of her senses. It was plainly a case not to be dealt with 
 harshly, but rather to be pitied ; he tried to soothe her with words of 
 kindness and commiseration : — 
 
 " I fear you are ill, my poor woman, you had better go home and try to 
 sleep. Where do you live ?" 
 
 "Sleep!" replied the woman, "I never sleep! They killed my 
 husband, and that Idlled my sleep ! and then they murdered all my little 
 children ; all — every one ! — Would that make me sleep ? And then they 
 thrust me in prison — could I sleep there ? And at last they caught m© 
 
1S9 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK ! 
 
 and put me in a mad-house, and tried to make me sleep ; but I would not 
 sleep ! No : I knew why they wanted me to forget ; but I kept awake— 
 and remembered : — I was always remembering ; and they shut me up 
 there for days, and nights, and years — ^yes, for years ! I knew it was for 
 years, because the snow came and went away ; and then the green leaves 
 came, and they went away ; and the snow and the leaves came again ; but 
 I never slept : I always looked at them, and they were afraid of me ! 
 But I have escaped from them now, and they shall not shut me up 
 again. — I met one man who was with me — when was it ? I forget the 
 time — ^but I remember everything else. And you are Lord Manley ? — one 
 of the cruel aristocrats who oppress the poor ! But there is something in 
 your face that looks different to the faces that I have been used to see." 
 
 " My good woman," repeated Lord Manley, very much emban-assed 
 horw to get rid of their tormentor without violence, "really you must 
 leave us, and go home ; or else " 
 
 "And Lady Sarum," struck in the housekeeper — anxious to fortify 
 Lord Manley in his determination to get rid of the mad woman by some 
 summary process; — "Lady Sarum particularly desired me to see this 
 young lady home immediately. Pray, Miss Francesca Sidney, how far is 
 it to your house ?" 
 
 " Francesca ! " said the mad woman, ruminating ; " that is a name I 
 have heard before! — Ah! I remember! Lord Sarum! — Francesca!" she 
 repeated, approaching Fanny and examining her countenance; "is it a 
 dream ! or am I really mad ? — Am I in London, or on the moor, 
 
 where ? No : — this girl is young, and that ? Francesca ! — is 
 
 your name Francesca ?" 
 
 " My name, my good woman," said Fanny, in a mild and commiserating 
 voice, (for it was plain that the poor creature who questioned her was 
 mad,) " is Francesca. What do you know of that name ?" 
 
 "Francesca!" repeated the woman, pressing her forehead with her 
 hands ; — " that was the name : but my head is confused strangely. And 
 yet that night ! — could any one forget that night ? And as I held the 
 little thing in my arms, I remember it soothed me — for it reminded me of 
 my own which I had lost ; and I thought that all my tears were dried up 
 —but they came then." 
 
 " But what do you know of the name of Francesca ?" asked Lord 
 Manley, whose imagination, excited by the events of the day, was pre- 
 pared to meet with information by means and in ways the most unexpected 
 and extraordinary. — ""Wliat do you mean by your exclamation at the 
 name of Francesca?" 
 
 " What do I mean ?" said the woman, her speech becoming suddenly 
 animated ; " was it not I who received the child in my arms when she was 
 saved from the pit ? Ay, — go and ask Lord Sarum : and did not the 
 little thing nestle in this bosom ? and was it not I who chafed its limbs, 
 and cherished its breath, and brought it back to life ? — No thanks to me, 
 perhaps, for that, if her life has been like so many others, a life of priva- 
 tion and unhappiness ! But it was I and the wife of Matthew the wood- 
 man who brought the child to life ! — But it was lost ; carried away — no 
 one knew where : some villany of Lord Sarum's or Lord Grraidborough's ; 
 ' — ^but there's a secret to come out yet. Ay ! they tried to get it out of 
 me, but they couldn't 1 I knew well what they wanted !— T::ey chained 
 
OB, THE RICH A2fD THE POOR. 159 
 
 me up ; and they chained me down ; and they flogged me — the wretches, 
 they did ; and they burned my brains with red-hot irons ! But I kept my 
 secret close — close — close ! — and I wouldn't sleep ; — because I knew if I 
 slept they would come and steal it out of my head ; so I kept my eyes 
 open — always wide open — so ! — and when I looked at them, I knew they 
 were afraid of me. — But I shall be revenged of them yet !" 
 
 " You had better go on," said Lord Manley to Mrs. Buckram, " and 
 take this young lady home ; I will see that this poor woman is taken care 
 of." There was something in the words of the woman, mad and wander- 
 ing as they were, that powerfully ^xcited his curiosity ; but he wished to 
 examine her in private and alone. " Come, Augustus, we will just make 
 our way down St. James's-street and Pall-mall, and then go home." 
 
 Augustus shook hands with his new acquaintance, and Fanny curtsied 
 her thanks to Lord Manley for his politeness. 
 
 ** Take care of your cross," said Augustus. 
 
 " What about her cross ?" asked Lord Manley, remembering Lady 
 Sarum's commimication at the dinner-table. 
 
 " They have made one snatch at it already," replied Augustus : " she 
 has been telling me about it ; she thought she would have lost it in the 
 crowd." 
 
 " A cross ! " exclaimed the^ mad woman ; " did you say a cross ? Am I 
 really mad, or do my ears hear and my senses understand aright? 
 Francesca ! — tliat was the name ; and there was a gold cross ; — I remem- 
 ber it well. Ay — and Lord Saruni remembers it too ! What is the 
 meaning of this ? Young woman — stay ; — I am not mad ! though they 
 will call me mad. What I have suffered is enough to make me mad 
 indeed ! but I am not mad ! — It is grief — many sorrows — husband and 
 children all lost ! — tliat makes me wander sometimes : but I remember it 
 all now, as if it was yesterday ; — was it not yesterday ? No ; that cannot 
 be, because since then they have kept me for years in a horrid place : — 
 but they could not make me forget " 
 
 "What is it," said Lord Manley, — checking the wanderings of the 
 woman's mind, and trying to bring her back to the point which had led 
 her to address Fanny in a •manner so strange and earnest — " that you 
 have to say about a cross and this young lady?" 
 
 " This young lady ?" said the mad woman — " nothing ! WTiat have I 
 to say about this young lady ? It was yeai'S ago, and when the child was 
 saved they found a gold cross which w-as supposed to belong to her 
 mother, who was destroyed ; — I remember it well." 
 
 " Should you know it again," said Fanny, in a voice of excessive agita- 
 tion, while Lord Manley listened with passionate interest. 
 
 " It is lost !" said the mad woman. 
 
 *' Was it like this ?" said Fanny, — drawing her long-cherished relic 
 from her bosom, and holding it up to the light of the lamp near which 
 they were standing. 
 
 The woman clutched it eagerly, and with a frantic gesture which 
 frightened its possessor ; — she looked at it for a moment, and then at 
 Fanny. 
 
 " How did you become possessed of this ?" she said. 
 
 "It is mine ; it was found roimd my neck when I was saved from the 
 sea ; — I believe it belonged to my mother. But if you know anything 
 
160 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 about it, good woman, tell me, — pray tell me ;" and the tears came into 
 Fanny's eyes with hysterical emotion. 
 
 "And do you know," asked the strange woman, "who was your 
 mother ?" 
 
 " No : I never knew my mother." 
 
 " Nor do you know who was your father?" 
 
 " I never knew my father nor my mother : but this was my mother's 
 cross I devoutly believe ; and I have never been parted from it. Oh !— 
 my good woman — dear good woman — tell me ; Lord Manlcy — make her 
 tell me. If you know anything of me or this cross, and if you have any 
 feeling of pity in you, you will tell me. — I will pray for it on my 
 knees!" 
 
 "Hah!" cried out the madwoman, exultingly; "is it come to this? 
 Does noble blood debase itself in the streets to the poor, ill-used, per- 
 secuted, hunted mad woman ! Now then my revenge begins ! — and my 
 husband and my children shall be avenged ! But — no ; this is the child 
 that I received into my arms ; she came to me from the bowels of the 
 earth — to me, her second mother. — No ; not on her should vengeance fall ! 
 Doubtless, she has suffered enough !" 
 
 " Oh tell me ! tell me !" implored Fanny ; " if you know anything of 
 me or of my parents, — tell me, as you have hope of heaven ! " 
 
 " Poor child," said the woman, — softened at the grief and humiliation 
 of the girl ; " poor child ! her tears almost disarm me of my determination 
 of revenge ! — But, no ; I will be firm ! It is my murdered husband and 
 my murdered children that cry for vengeance ; and now it is coming.— 
 Young girl, I will tell you this : — It was I who received you in my arms 
 when you were saved from the pit, on the moor, near Grandborough 
 Castle. That is the cross which was found, and which I know belonged 
 to your mother ; — ^but there are more secrets yet to tell ; and I wait for 
 my visions to inspire me : for I will tell you," she said, whispering low 
 and confidentially to Fanny, " every night at the full of the moon there is 
 something that comes and talks to me; and the spirit tells me what to do." 
 
 "But what and who are you?" cried Fanny, wildly, as the woman 
 turned to go away. 
 
 " Ask Lord Sarum who I am ! he knows me well ; — tell him all that I 
 have now told you: and tell him that you have seen the widow of the man 
 whom he and his father murdered." 
 
 " But where shall I see you again ? " - . 
 
 " At the White Woman's Pit, on the Moor ; wait till the full of the 
 moon, and then I will call the white woman to come to us out of the pit, 
 and we will dance round it together ; that will be a merry meeting ! — and 
 there I will tell you all. At the White Woman's Pit ! — You know me 
 now ; — I am Rebecca !" 
 
 " Oh ! the old hag !" exclaimed the housekeeper — " I remember how 
 she frightened my lady, years ago : what a shame it is that they don't 
 confine such people ! — I shall never recover the dreadful squeezing I have 
 had this night!" 
 
 Lord Manley and Augustus took a hasty leave of Fanny ; but before 
 they turned round to depart, Rebecca had disappeared. 
 
161 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 MORE TROUBLES FOR FANNY. — LORD MAKLEY TRIES TO REASON HIMSELF OUT 
 
 OF LOTE. 
 
 Mrs. Buckram, rejoiced to find herself free from the mad woman, and 
 mentally vowing never again to take charge of young ladies, on illumina- 
 tion nights especially — ^but revolving in her thoughts the strange and 
 mysterious words of Rebecca, whom she recognised as the woman whom 
 she had visited many years ago in a hovel near Grandborough Castle, — 
 lost no time in conveying Fanny to her own home ; and without accom- 
 panying her up-stairs, she waited only till the door was closed to make the 
 
 best of her way back to square, in a hii^ed cab, carefully closing all 
 
 the windows, and hiding her head as close as possible in the corner lest 
 the mad woman should catch sight of her, and insist on further acquaint- 
 ance. With the well-bred discretion of a confidential domestic, she 
 refrained from repeating the strange words of Rebecca respecting the 
 family name ; and as Lord Manley had given the same caution to Augus- 
 tus, the affair escaped being made the gossip of the household, and 
 remained a secret for the present with the parties immediately concerned. 
 
 In the mean time, Fanny, agitated and almost terrified with the myste- 
 rious words of the strange woman, hastened up-staii'S, when a scene met 
 her eyes which added another shock to the events of the day. 
 
 She beheld her adopted mother stretched on her bed in the agonies of 
 death ; the landlady of the house was attending her, and a physician, 
 hastily summoned, was standing by the bedside. 
 
 "This," said the landlady to the physician, as Fanny entered, "is the 
 poor lady's daughter." 
 
 The physician, an elderly man, took her kindly by the hand : — 
 
 " Have you any near relations whom you should like to call in ?" he 
 asked. " I understand that this poor lady has already received an attack 
 which must have prepared you for the event (poor Fanny burst into tears) 
 which, I fear, is rapidly approaching." 
 
 *' Can nothing be done ?" sobbed Fanny. 
 
 "' My dear young lady, all art is vain here ; let us congratulate our- 
 selves that your mother is dying without pain." 
 
 " Is she conscious ?" asked Fanny. 
 
 " I rather think not," replied the physician; "but it is likely that her 
 senses may rally, as they almost always do in that remarkable and myste- 
 rious pause which always precedes death." 
 
 " Has she said anything?" asked Fanny of the landlady. 
 
 " She never spoke. Miss, after she was first taken. It was lucky that 
 I was in her room at the time. I and the maid got her to bed, as you 
 see. Miss JuHa and her mother were here up to six o'clock, but a person 
 
 M 
 
162 FANNY, THE LITTLE milliner: 
 
 came for them ; and here is a note, Miss, which Miss Julia wrote to you.'* 
 Fanny took the note ; it was very short, and as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Fanny, 
 
 The most extraordinary thing has happened ! some old relation 
 of papa's has sent for us to Devonshire ; he is not expected to live, the 
 messenger says, and we are to go down instantly by the mail to-night. 
 Your mamma does not seem very well ; but the landlady promises to 
 attend to her, and I suppose you will be home presently. 
 
 In haste, yours affectionately, 
 
 Julia.'* 
 
 Fanny laid down the note without speaking. She was alone, then,-— 
 and another terrible task was before her ! She knelt down by the bed- 
 side of her adopted mother, and putting her face on her hands prayed 
 silently for strength. She then rose up : thanked the landlady for her 
 attention, and searching in a drawer extracted a purse from which she 
 took a sovereign ; the noiseless sound of the purse as she let it fall on the 
 table showed that it was the last one ; adding to this a shilling from her 
 pocket, she offered it to the physician. 
 
 He shook his head. " My dear young lady," he said, with some 
 emotion, for he guessed that such a sum vv^as of no slight importance to 
 the inhabitants of that humble room, "we do not take such fees from the 
 hands" — of the poor, he was about to say, but he checked himself as he 
 looked in Fanny's calm and dignified countenance, — " from the hands of 
 those who cannot easily spare it. I wish that any assistance of mine 
 could avail in this case ; but it will spare you a more painful shock to 
 prepare your mind for that which must presently take place ; — my poor 
 child," he added, — taking Fanny's hands, whose eyes were streaming with 
 tears; — "your mother is advanced in years, and this is an end which 
 precedes but a short time perhaps the natural life of man. Besides," he 
 continued, — ^looking round the room and giving involuntary expression 
 to the thought which its too evident indication of poverty excited, — "who 
 can tell how much sorrow your mother may have been spared by this 
 release from all the troubles of a life which is often so calamitous." 
 
 " That is true," said Fanny ; " but still the death of those we love is 
 very terrible." 
 
 " See," said the landlady, " the poor lady is moving her lips !" 
 
 The physician was presently by her side : the dying woman did not 
 move, and scarcely opened her eyes ; but she spoke : 
 
 " Fanny," she said, " I am dying ; — but do not grieve for me ; rejoice 
 rather that I am released. But stay ; a light breaks in upon me ! — the 
 dying, they say, see more clearly ! — you will find your parents — and you 
 will be happy : but there are clouds and darkness around you. When 
 you were saved from shipwreck on the coast of America — mind, the ship's 
 name was the Albion — do not forget that ; and the captain's name was 
 Hardfast ; — do not forget that ; — and the cross which was found round 
 your neck — do not part with it ; — ^let me see it again." Fanny placed it 
 before her eyes ; she looked at it and then at the physician, as if asking 
 him to witness her declaration; — "that is the cross!", she said. Her 
 eye-lids dropped ; they waited to hear more ; but she was silent. The 
 
OR, THE ETCH AND THE POOR. 163 
 
 physician felt her pulse ; she was dead ! Gently he led Fanny from the 
 room. " I will come again," he said, " to see you ; but I must leave you 
 now." So saying, he retired, leaving Fanny alone in the solitude of her 
 grief. She was about to enter the inner room ; but the kind-hearted 
 landlady stopped her : 
 
 " No," she said ; " you are too young for such an office as this ; leave 
 everj^thiug to me." 
 
 Kneeling down on the chair in which her beloved friend was accustomed 
 to repose, her mind benumbed with grief — for there is a point of suffering 
 in the mental as in the corporeaV constitution beyond which the mind, like 
 the body, becomes insensible to pain— she sought relief and solace in 
 prayer to that Being from whom alone true consolation can be found in 
 the hour of affliction. 
 
 Lord Manley had retired to his own house. He was profoundly agitated 
 by the events of the day. The mystery that hung round the young girl 
 seemed to deepen every hour ; it was in vain that he endeavoured by 
 force of thought to solve the enigma. Opening the door of the bureau in 
 which he had placed the picture which bore so astonishing a resemblance 
 to Fanny, he sat down to contemplate it ; as if by gazing on its features 
 he could gather knowledge of the mysterious past and the impenetrable 
 future. He revolved in his mind the extraordinaiy agitation of Lord 
 Sarum, and the overpowering emotion of Lord Grandborough on his 
 casual mention at the dinner- table of the subject of his picture being 
 apparently an Italian portrait. He remembered, too, on more than one 
 occasion that Lord Sarum had exhibited an unaccountable soreness at the 
 least approach to topics touching the abandonment or destitution of 
 children — which seemed to overwhelm him with the most painful recol- 
 lections. The accidental account of the young Augustus of the death of 
 some poor woman, in one of the neglected pits of the moor near Grand- 
 borough Castle, sti-uck him as a curious coincidence, occurring at such a 
 time ; all the incidents bearing on the position of Fanny had come on 
 them at once, and as it were in a heap, as if some predetermined results 
 were converging to some certain end. His mind then recurred to the 
 strange meeting with the mad woman who called herself Rebecca, and 
 who seemed or pretended to be well acquainted with the secrets of Fanny's 
 history. He dwelt on the circumstance of the woman, Rebecca, having a 
 previous acquaintance with the name of Francesca, and of her knowledge 
 of the existence of the cross, which it seemed evident was the same which 
 had been found at the edge of the pit when the woman supposed to be 
 Francesca's mother was lost ; so that the identity of Fanny up to a certain 
 point seemed to be proved ; she was the child saved from the pit. But 
 what reliance could be placed on the ravings of a mad woman ? Still, 
 mad though she might be, she was right about the cross ; — and there was 
 an expression of feeling in her remembrance of having received the child 
 in her arms after its rescue from death, which he felt was genuine — for 
 there is a language of the heart which all intuitively understand, and in 
 the interpretation of which we are never deceived : — but still the mystery 
 of Fanny remained unsolved. 
 
 From these thoughts he turned to his own position ; and he was fright- 
 ened to perceive how deep was his interest in the fate of the little "milli- 
 ner giii !'' He found himself entirely absorbed in one single idea — Fran- 
 M 2 
 
164 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 cesca ; — for it was by that name that he most loved to muse ou her. 
 Sleeping or waking she was ever present to his thoughts ; her welfare and 
 her destiny seemed entwined with his : he could not conceal from himself 
 that in all his plans for the futm*e the association of her image entered into 
 all his arrangements. There was another thought, too, which, when it 
 first flashed on his consciousness, thrilled through him like an electric 
 shock, and overmastered him with the excess of emotion which it excited; 
 he felt that Fanny felt for him a more than grateful feeling for the trifling 
 service which he had rendered to her and to her mother. He caught the 
 Expression of her eye as she looked at him timidly, and he could not be 
 mistaken ; he would not be mistaken ; the conviction of having inspired 
 the feeling which prompted that look was too intensely delicious to allow 
 him to think of doubting its reality. But what did that intimate ? Could 
 he dare to examine his own heart, and sound in it the depth of his passion 
 for the beautiful and interesting girl ? And what was to be the end of it ? 
 — Could he marry her ? — Marry whom ? — Who was she ? The pride of 
 ancestiy ; the pride of rank ; the pride of position ; the opinions of society ; 
 the habits of his mind and of his education were all against such an 
 unequal alliance ; placed in the scale, what was there on the side of the 
 humble girl to overbalance the weight of opinion, of custom, and of preju- 
 dice ? But when he threw the young pure heart of that innocent girl in 
 the opposite balance, — birth, rank, fortune, opinion, prejudice and custom 
 flew up and kicked the beam ! showing the lightness and the worthlessness 
 of all else when weighed against that single jewel — love ! 
 
 The young nobleman, noble-hearted as he was ; high in feeling and pure 
 in principle ; imbued with all that is chivalrous and honourable, and 
 extracting from the aristocratic pride of a long line of almost regal ancestry 
 all that is good to exalt and pmify the heart of man, and leaving the dross 
 for vulgar minds to revel in, struggled hard with his passion and endea- 
 voured to stifle it, as he hoped, in its early budding ; but he had a power- 
 ful antagonist to contend against in the speaking portrait which was 
 regarding him, and still more in the image which was engraven for ever on 
 his heart. He went to bed, — determined at once to turn his mind to great 
 political objects which might engage all his time and attention, and help 
 him to banish from his thoughts the image of one whom he felt he must 
 ever love, and with whom he feared he never could be united. Satisfied 
 with this determination, at once moral and heroic, he fell asleep ; dreamed 
 of Fanny all night ; beheld the pictured features of her the first thing on 
 his waking in the morning ; and then made up his mind that it was his 
 duty to use every endeavour to clear up the mystery in which her history 
 was involved. This, he flattered himself, he was resolving to do entirely 
 on principle, and solely for the sake of the poor giii, and not at all from 
 any personal considerations relating to himself; as, after the resolutions he 
 had come to on the point, he considered himself as acting merely as any 
 other disinterested person would do in such a case ; and as he felt that it 
 would be extremely disagreeable to him that any other person should 
 interfere in respect to the welfare of Miss Sidney, he thought it best, in 
 order to prevent that which would be doubtless annoying to the young 
 lady, to take the whole management and responsibility of the affair upon 
 himself. With this laudable resolution he proceeded at the earliest hour 
 which decency would permit to call on Lady Sarum, to consult with her on 
 the subject. 
 
165 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVX 
 
 LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 
 
 Lord Grandbohoitgh remained in a state of lethargy from whic"h it was 
 found impossible to rouse him, and it was in vain that Lady Sarum 
 endeavoured to ascertain the cause of his strange emotion or the meaning 
 of his mysterious exclamations in respect to the young milliner girl. The 
 family physician who attended him, assured her there was no danger so 
 far as his art could discover ; but he did not disguise from her his opinion 
 that there seemed to be some mental disease at work which, perhaps, 
 might terminate in a result of all others the most afflicting to humanity. 
 In the meantime, he recommended that his patient should be kept as 
 quiet as possible, and that no allusion should be made to any subject 
 which Lady Sarum might know, from experience, would lead to the 
 exacerbation or her father-in-law's feelings. 
 
 Lady Sarum, therefore, was obliged to seek in her own imperfect 
 knowledge the solution of the mystery which hung round the little 
 milliner in relation to her husband and to her father-in-law. With 
 respect to her husband, it seemed to her mind too clear that Fanny could 
 claim his parentage ; the striking resemblance of the young girl's profile 
 with that of her son Augustus ; the dark eyes and foreign cast of com- 
 plexion which seemed to point out her country on the maternal side ; the 
 emotion of her husband at the mention of the portrait of an Italian girl by 
 Lord Manley ; all went to corroborate her more than suspicion — her 
 conviction, that Fanny was the daughter of her husband. She felt that 
 thrill of jealous feeling which instinctively overcomes a woman at such a 
 thought ; and her mind rapidly wandered into painful conjectures about 
 the mother. Was she stiU alive ? — who was she ? — where was she ? — 
 did she still retain that exquisite beauty, which, judging from the 
 daughter, must have rendered her so fascinating in her youth ? With a 
 woman's curiosity she longed to see her ; with a wife's repugnance to an 
 intruder she shuddered at the thought of looking on her ! And her 
 husband ! what were his feelings towards this primary claimant on his 
 afiections ? Did there still remain in his heart any lingering remains of 
 his former attachment to the mother of his daughter ? — for that Fanny 
 was certainly his daughter she had reasoned herself firmly into the belief 
 of. She anxiously reviewed the whole of his conduct towards herself 
 since their marriage ; — it had been invariably attentive, kind, and tender ; 
 she could discover nothing to complain of — except this fault, which was 
 now revealed ; — but that occurred, as she calculated, long before he knew 
 her; at least before he renewed with her the acquaintance of their 
 childhood, and before his knowledge of her character and disposition had 
 led to his solicitation of her hand : she felt soothed as she considered 
 that he had preferred her. 
 
 Suddenly there came over her the remembrance of her husband's 
 
166 OE, THE EICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 extraordinary emotion at the altar, on the christening of their son ! — the 
 scene also which took place between her and the mad woman at the hut, 
 vividly recurred to her recollection ; she thought of the menacing words 
 of Rebecca, and of her prediction of the unhappiness which would afflict 
 her husband when he heard the communication of her mysterious 
 warnings : and then she pondered over Lord Sarum's extreme dejection of 
 mind since that awful day ; his frequent fits of despondency amounting 
 almost to despair, as if some hidden grief was consuming him ! — This last 
 consideration was like a ray of light to her mind in the darkness of her 
 conjectures ; she felt sure that she had found the clue to her husband's 
 secret sorrow, and to his long and painful sufferings ; sufferings which 
 could never end, because they were caused by his uncertainty as to the 
 fate of his child ! AU seemed now clear to her ; — ■ Fanny was her 
 husband's child ; she had been saved from a dreadful death, and then had 
 mysteriously disappeared, leaving it uncertain whether she was alive or 
 dead, or what had become of her. And this was the reason, she felt 
 satisfied, of her husband's journey to Italy ; it was with the object of dis- 
 covering the lost child ; of seeing, perhaps, the mother, if she was still 
 alive. Here a pang shot through her quivering frame so exquisitely 
 painful, that she placed her hand to her side as if she had been 
 materially struck by the plunging of a dagger in her heart ! She blushed, 
 and trembled, and wept hysterically ; and was tempted to give 
 orders for immediate preparations to be made for her following her 
 husband. 
 
 But her pride came quickly to her aid. Was it seemly to try to force 
 a revelation of her husband's secret ? — Was his confidence to be won by 
 intrusive importunity ? Even supposing her husband had left England 
 with the design of again seeing the mother of his unfortunate child ; and 
 admitting even that circumstances had conspired to cause a renewal, in 
 some small degree, of his former passion for her — although the feelings of 
 the wife led her to deplore that misery — yet the feelings of the high-bred 
 lady did not less strongly prompt her to the consciousness, that to attempt 
 to force affection was the worst way to produce it or to keep it ; and that 
 the love of a husband is not to be secured by insisting on it as a matter of 
 right, but is to be retained only by kindness, by forbearance, and 
 indulgence. In the wandering of her thoughts, however, and jumping to 
 conclusions from premises formed by herself — an error in which stronger 
 heads than women's are apt to fall — she began to consider whether it 
 would be proper for her to see Lord Sarum again after conduct so slighting 
 to her as his present journey taken for the purpose of renewing 
 acquaintance with a former mistress ? She thought of consulting with 
 her mother. Lady St. Austin, on the subject ; — and then she shrank from 
 exposing her own humiliation. 
 
 But on the whole, she was inclined to think it was due to herself not to 
 see Lord Sarum again, without an explanation ; as unless his conduct 
 could be justified, which she did not see how it could be, their further 
 intercourse could only lead to unhappiness ; so that separation, which she 
 feared she must fairly determine on, would be best ; and then she wept 
 bitterly at the thought of being separated from one whom slie had loved 
 60 long and so dearly ! Although, as his affections were xiow turned away 
 to an unworthy object, it was impossible for her ever to feel towards him 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOE. . Ifit 
 
 again the love wliicli she had hitherto cherished ! — that was impossible !^ 
 how could she, now that his feelings towards herself had so entirely 
 changed as to cause him to make a journey to Italy, on purpose to find 
 out a creature who had been the object of an improper passion so many 
 years ago ? — It was a dreadful affliction ! After the lapse of so many 
 years, too ! — which proved that his original attachment must have been 
 very strong, or it never could have survived years of absence — that was, if 
 there really had been any absence all the time. Was it possible that 
 Lord Sarum had been deceiving her during a long series of years ; and, 
 while professing attachment foil* her, that he had been clandestinely 
 bestowing his attentions on another ?^No : that could not be ! — Her 
 appreciation of Lord Sarum's character was too just to allow het to 
 indulge in that idea ; Lord Sarum could not do that. — No : it must be, 
 after all, that his only anxiety was to discover the fate of his child ; — and 
 that was natural ; — indeed, on reflection, she thought she should 
 esteem Lord Sarum less if he had shown less anxiety about the fate 
 of his daughter. 
 
 And how extraordinary it was, that this very daughter should come to 
 her, as it were for assistance, and place herself in her hands as in the 
 hands of a protectress ! — that the daughter of the mistress should appeal, 
 unknowingly, to the wife ! The words of Lord Grandborough recurred to 
 her at this thought ; " the finger of God is here ; it is decreed ; let us 
 go ;" — those were his very words. Was it then a Providence that had 
 conducted the daughter to the house of the father, and had placed her 
 under the care of that father's wife ? — and was it ordained, also, that the 
 father should quit the roof under which his child was sheltered, to search 
 in a foreign land for that very child whose breath even then was mingling 
 with the breath of her father. 
 
 "There is some mysterious purpose in this," said the wondering lady to 
 herself; " and it seems that my part is to protect this child, and to be the 
 means of restoring her to her father in a way that is to accomplish some 
 predestined end. I will accept the trust," she said aloud, in her 
 enthusiasm, " which God has given to me." 
 
 As Lady Sarum formed this benevolent resolution, she felt her heart 
 relieved of an mieasy load; her mind became lighter; and she breathed more 
 freely. Glowing with renewed love and increased pity for the sufferings 
 of her husband, she generously resolved to conceal from him for a time the 
 sacrifice she was making of her feelings to her duty ; and she determined, 
 before she made known to him the history of Fanny, to make his daughter 
 worthy of his acknowledgment, by giving her the accomplishments which 
 she knew would be pleasing to him. She was led to practise this reserve 
 by another consideration also ; as her good sense gradually prevailed, and 
 enabled her to consider the matter in its true light, she could not but be 
 aware, that however strong her own suspicions might be, still they were 
 only suspicions ; and that, possibly, it might turn out that those suspicions 
 were erroneous. It would be highly indelicate, therefore, she thought, 
 for her to thrust her protegee forward on her husband's notice as his 
 daughter ; it was for him, she considered, and not for her, to make the 
 discovery of the child's identity. If it should eventually prove that the 
 girl was her husband's daughter, she felt that in no way could she more 
 eurely secure his gratitude than by bestowing her care on his child. 
 
168 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 and by preventing her from suffering the difficulties and privations, and 
 from coming to the harm, perhaps, to which her present position exposed 
 her. 
 
 Finally, therefore, she resolved to see Fanny's adopted mother without 
 delay, and to make such arrangements as would place them at their ease, 
 in a pecuniary point of view, and which would also enable Fanny to 
 receive instruction in various accomplishments — ^w^iich, as she was not 
 more than seventeen years of age, she was still young enough to profit by. 
 With these kind and generous intentions, her ladyship visited Lord 
 Grrandborough the next morning with more composure ; and sat down 
 afterwards in her boudoir to sketch out a little scheme for the future pro- 
 ceedings of her protegee. She was thus engaged,when her maid announced 
 to her ladyship that Lord Manley had called, apologising for intruding on her 
 ladyship at so early an hour of the morning, on account of the particular 
 business, which, the man in waiting had informed her, his lordship wished 
 to communicate to her ladyship. 
 
 Lady Sarum smiled as she thought of Lord Mauley's enthusiasm 
 about the little milliner-girl ; — and not without some cuiiosity to know 
 the nature of the business which had led him to pay a visit at so early an 
 hour, her ladyship descended to the drawing-room to receive him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 LA.DY SARUM AND THE PORTIlA.IT, 
 
 Lady SAitrM could not avoid remarking that there was an embarrassment 
 in Lord Manley' s manner, strikingly at variance with the usual well-bred 
 ease of that accomplished young nobleman. Although she had known 
 him intimately since his childhood, and the difference of their ages 
 allowed her .to treat him with almost maternal familiarity ; an affection 
 M^hich — as his mother had died when he was of very tender years — ^he had 
 been accustomed to return with almost filial deference — on the present 
 occasion his manner was so constrained and his air was so serious, that 
 she hesitated to distm'b the silence which, after the first salutations, was 
 preserved between them. But as it was necessary to break the ice some- 
 how, her ladyship not knowing at the moment what else to say, made the 
 very English observation : — 
 
 *' It is a beautiful morning ! " 
 
 " Very beautiftd," replied Lord Manley— dwelling on the word, and 
 considerably gratified by the observation which seemed to chime in with 
 the current of his thoughts : "I was up very early this morning ; and I 
 assure you, although in London, I felt the force of the poet's expression of 
 ' rosy-fingered morn ;' — ^by-the-by, don't you think it is a great mistake 
 with the poets always to represent their female figures with blue eyes ? — 
 black are so much more expressive !" 
 
 Her ladyship guessed in a moment what had prompted her young 
 friend to desire that the " Goddess of Morn" should be represented in future 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 169 
 
 with black eyes instead of blue ; and although the suggestion was not 
 flattering to herself, inasmuch as her own eyes were of the colour which 
 angels are supposed by painters most to delight in, she forgave the little 
 mistake in favour of the lover-like remembrance that prompted the 
 observation. She smiled as the thought passed through her mind ; — but 
 in a moment after, recollecting the reflected relationship which Lord 
 Manley's black-eyed beauty bore to herself, and the singularly delicate 
 and awkward position of the young girl, parentally and socially, she 
 looked grave again. 
 
 " Pray," she said, " was it to tell me that you got up early this morning, 
 that you have paid me a visit at this imfashionable hour ?" 
 
 " How is Lord Grandborough ?" suddenly asked Lord Manley, as 
 if it was only that moment that he recollected the particular object of 
 his visit. 
 
 Lady Sarum's gravity grew more serious : she remembered that Lord 
 Manley had heard the extraordinary words uttered by Lord Grand- 
 borough the day before ; and she felt that the whole affair was of 
 too delicate a nature to be made the subject of conversation with any 
 other person than her mother. She replied, therefore, briefly, and 
 with some hesitation, that Lord Grandborough was easy ; and added, 
 that her father-in-law had fallen into a habit of late of wandering a good 
 deal in his talk. 
 
 There was a pause at this ; — ^the subject was evidently not pleasing to 
 Lady Sarum, and Lord Manley was embarrassed to prolong it with 
 propriety. To help the conversation, he asked where Augustus was. 
 
 " Lord Sarum was very earnest," her ladyship said, " that Augustus 
 should go back to Eton without delay; and the boy was dull at home; he 
 was to return that very day." 
 
 Lord Manley offered to see him safe at school ; an offer which was 
 immediately agreed to by his mother — and this little favour offered and 
 accepted, immediately set them at ease again. 
 
 " You expressed a wish," said Lord Manley, " to see the picture 
 which I bought at the auction the other day:" — (Lady Sarum became 
 immediately interested) — " I have been examining it with a good deal of 
 attention. You are aware that I am rather fond of pictures. ... ?" 
 
 " I have always thought so," said Lady Sarum, with a slight tremor in 
 her voice. 
 
 " I was looking at it for some time," he continued, colouring slightly as 
 he spoke, " when I first woke this morning, and, certainly, the hand is an 
 exquisite piece of painting ;"— (Oh, oh ! thought her ladyship, this 
 accounts for his wanting rosy-fingered Morn to have black eyes !) — " but 
 that is not what I was going to say ; I mean, that on examining it over 
 and over again very minutely, I discovered the date — I have no doubt 
 that it is the date — with the artist's initials ! but the frame bein'g too 
 small, they were not easy to find out — but it is quite plain that the date is 
 the date of the picture." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Lady Sarum, becoming more and more interested. 
 
 " The date," continued Lord Manley, "was eighteen hundred and : 
 
 just eighteen years and a-half ago ; so that the portrait cannot be the 
 portrait of her — of the young — of Fran — I mean of Miss Sidney." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Lady Sarum, striving to appear composed. 
 
170 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 " No : as I say, it cannot be her portrait ; but it must be — most likely 
 —the portrait of her mother." 
 
 Lady Sarum blushed deeply. 
 
 " As I was saying — of her mother. Now as you take so kind an 
 interest in Frances — in the young lady's welfare — it has occurred to me 
 that it might be the means of clearing up the mystery which is attached 
 to her ; and as we ma^ say, perhaps, that we have discovered the mother, 
 we may also discover the father " 
 
 Lady Sarum became violently agitated. 
 
 Lord Manley was at a loss to account for the mysterious agitation of 
 the whole family whenever his pictui'e was made the subject of con- 
 versation. Fortunately, as he thought, for the relief of her ladyship's 
 embarrassment, the footman in waiting opened the door, to aimounce 
 that a case about four feet high and three feet broad, which had been sent 
 by Lord Manley, had arrived. 
 
 *' It is the picture," said Lord Manley which you wished to see. Shall 
 they take it into the breakfast-room ? — it is rather too large to be brought 
 up here." 
 
 Lady Sarum nodded her assent. 
 
 " Tlie case opens with a door," said Lord Manley, " this is the key ; 
 will you honour my purchase so far as to come down stairs and 
 see it ?" 
 
 " Leave me," said Lady Sarum, " for a few minutes. Go down stairs 
 to the picture, and I will join you presently." 
 
 The young nobleman obeyed, not without an increase of wonder as to 
 the cause of the extraordinary emotion exhibited by her ladyship on this 
 occasion of the introduction of his picture. It would be difficult to 
 describe the mingled feelings of curiosity and dislike with which Lady 
 Sarum contemplated an inspection of the dreaded portrait. That it was 
 •the resemblance of the mother of Francesca that she was about to see, she 
 had no doubt ; and the thought of the portrait of a rival — a living rival, 
 perhaps — being in her own house, filled her with the most poignant 
 sensations. For a long time she struggled between her desire to see the 
 picture and her reluctance to look upon a countenance which instinctively 
 she hated ; but curiosity prevailed, and with as much composure as she 
 could assume, she descended to the breakfast-room. 
 
 Lord Manley had already caused the picture to be placed so as to 
 display it in the most advantageous light ; and the servants having 
 retired, he stood with Lady Sarum before it with the key in his hand. 
 He was about to apply it to the lock ; but Lady Sarum — whose agitation, 
 in spite of all her attempts to repress or disguise it, had now become 
 excessive — stayed his hand. 
 
 " Wait ! " she said, " a moment." 
 
 Lord Manley placed a chair. 
 
 Lady Sarum sat down ; and placing her two hands on the elbows, after 
 a pause of nearly a minute, she said, in a tone of stifled desperation, 
 
 " Open it ! " 
 
 It was opened. The perfection of the human form, a countenance 
 radiant with beauty, eyes brilliant as light, burst upon the excited gaze of 
 the trembling wife, — who, falling back in her chair, and clasping her hands 
 over her face, gave way to a passionate flood of teai's, in which it would 
 
OE, THE BICH AND THE POOR. 171 
 
 be hard to say whether there most predominated the feeling of jealousy 
 or of admiration. 
 
 Lord Manley stood amazed at the effect which his picture had produced, 
 and wliich he had flattered himself would have been an agreeable surprise 
 to his amiable friend, who, he doubted not, would have been as delighted 
 to see the resplendent charms of the portrait as he was himself! What 
 could produce a burst of tears instead of a burst of praise he was utterly at 
 a loss to imagine ! — In some confusion he shut the door of his treasure, 
 and was about to lock it up ; but Lady Sarum motioned to him to desist. 
 
 " Call on me again," she said', in a voice almost inarticulate, "in an 
 horn-." 
 
 Lord Manley retired, more perplexed to account for all these fits of 
 emotion than ever he had been in his life ; but more anxious than ever to 
 penetrate a mystery which grew thicker and thicker as he went on : and 
 as the scene which he had just witnessed naturally presented Francesca to 
 his thoughts, he meditated on her story with increased interest, and con- 
 sidered that the recent occurrence made it more than ever his duty to 
 investigate the matter thoroughly, and to take the young girl who was the 
 object of all this mystery into his especial care and protection. 
 
 In the meantime, Lady Sarum remained alone, in silent contemplation 
 of her rival. 
 
 As she gazed with fascinated eye at the entrancing features of the 
 beautiful Italian, she could not deny that if ever a woman had been formed 
 for man to idolize, that woman's image was now before her ! She felt ' 
 that she could almost forgive a man for forgetting his duty, and falling in 
 love with a creature of such surpassing loveliness ; — that is, any man but 
 her own husband. She turned to the glass, to compare her own features 
 with those of the portrait : it was with a hesitating movement that she 
 did so — as if she feai-ed to be assured of her own inferiority. But there 
 was no resemblance between them ; it was comparing the rich effulgence 
 of the rose with the dainty loveliness of tfie lily : both were beautiful of 
 their kind, but each different in character. On the one side, she beheld 
 the eyes of blackness brilliant in darkness ; the warm bro\^Ti tint of the 
 Italian complexion; the raven hair; the expressive eyebrows, marked 
 and determinate. On the other, she beheld the reflection of her own soft 
 Saxon features ; the fair and pellucid skin of alabaster whiteness ; the 
 mild blue eye, full and beaming ; the classic hair ; the delicately-arched 
 eyebrow ; and the air of voluptuous softness, which characterized her own 
 lovely features. 
 
 She looked again and again ; she admired more and more the brilliant 
 beauty of the Italian ; but she became more and more reconciled to the 
 loveliness which even in her maturity she was conscious she possessed 
 herself. Then she began to meditate on the change which the lapse of 
 years had caused in the features of the original of the portrait : it was with 
 complacency then she recalled to mind the general opinion that foreigners 
 with dark complexions grow old in their looks sooner than fair persons. 
 Calculating from the time when the picture before her had been painted, 
 she found that the age of the Italian, if she was still alive, was probably 
 about her own ; and again she indulged in conjectures on the deterioration 
 which must necessarily have taken place in the face of the original, — who 
 now, no longer young, must have lost much of the piquancy which youth 
 
172 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 lends to southern beauty ; and again she studied her OAvn features in the 
 glass, and was pleased to find that years had produced little change in 
 her — unless it was that her beauty in its maturity was more pleasing, 
 perhaps, than it was in the raAvness of her girlhood. She dwelt for some 
 time on the study of her features in the faithful mirror, never before 
 having had so earnest an occasion for measuring their merits with a 
 rival's ; but on turning hastily round to look at the picture again, the eyes 
 of the Italian seemed to flash on her with so triumphant an air, that, 
 abashed, she closed the door, and sat down with a feeling of painful self- 
 abasement. She almost felt that she stood face to face before a mocking 
 rival ; and it was some time before she could conquer the painful and 
 humiliating feelings which the ideal interview produced. At last she 
 locked the door, and returned to the drawing-room; where she had scarcely 
 seated herself, before Lord Manley was again announced. 
 
 "You have come back before your time," she said, smiling sadly; " I 
 said an hour." 
 
 " I feared that I should be behind my time, for it is two hours since 
 your ladyship dismissed me." 
 
 " Indeed ! — Have I been looking at that portrait two hours ?" exclaimed 
 Lady Sarum, unconsciously giving utterance in words to her own surprise 
 at her long abstraction. 
 
 " It was not about the portrait, that I was desirous of having the honour 
 of a conversation with you," said Lord Manley; "but about the 
 original." 
 
 " The original !" said Lady Sarum, starting with fear. 
 
 "I mean her who might be taken for the original," replied Lord 
 Manley; "the interesting young lady respecting whom you have so 
 kindly interposed to assist with your protection. I think it my duty to 
 lend my aid towards — ^towards — I mean in a way that may be bene- 
 ficial : not that I think the word charity ought to be applied in the present 
 case ; but under the circumstaitces — as I have been a contributor to that 
 admirable society, in which your ladyship has taken so kind a part, for 
 the relief and encouragement of milliners and dressmakers ; — although 
 Miss Sidney cannot be said, in my opinion, to come within that class : on 
 the contrary, I feel a decided conviction that it will turn out that Miss 
 Sidney is of a superior birth, which if it cannot be exactly ascertained — 
 still it is all the saioie when the mind is convinced of the truth : but for 
 my own part, I trust I am superior to the vulgar prejudice about rank 
 and birth, — except in particular cases. It is worth, dear Lady Sarum, 
 that makes the woman — I mean the man. You know, as Burns so well 
 expresses it, ' the rank is but the guinea stamp' — the woman — that is 
 ' the man's the gold for all that ;' in short, I think it my duty to pay 
 particular attention to Miss Sidney's case, from motives of public duty ; 
 and I have determined therefore to have a particular interview with her, 
 in order to take down all the particulars of her story, should she do me 
 the honour to entrust me with them, in order that I may see her claims, 
 or rights, if she has any, properly acknowledged ; and this, I assure you, 
 I do, dear Lady Sarum, entirely from a sense of public duty." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Lady Sarum. 
 
 " And you must allow that it would be highly unbecoming in me — as 
 I have, as you know, a larger fortune than I know what to do with — to 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 173 
 
 allow this opportunity to slip of bestowing part of it where it would do so 
 much good." 
 
 " Your intentions," said Lady Sarum, " are obviously benevolent in 
 the extreme !" 
 
 " Now don't say so in that mocking way. And it was precisely for this 
 purpose that I wanted to ask your advice, as I am aware that gifts 
 bestowed by young men on those of the opposite sex are apt to be mis- 
 construed." 
 
 " It is too often the case," said^Lady Sarum. 
 
 *' It is for that reason, therefore, that I thought it might possibljrb^ 
 agreeable to you to allow my — my — I don't like to call them donations — 
 what shall I call them ? — the assistance which I may render, to pass 
 through your hands, as if coming from yourself." 
 
 " You forget," said Lady Sarum, with much seriousness, " that as I 
 have made up my mind to extend my protection to this poor girl (Lord 
 Manley winced at this epithet of "poor girl"), I do not require any 
 extraneous assistance to do for her that which I may think advisable 
 under her circumstances. Happily, we also are as rich, or indeed 
 richer, than we care to be ; — you would not, therefore, wish to deprive 
 me of the pleasure of contributing to the comforts, and more than the 
 comforts, of this — this mysterious girl. In short," added her ladyship, 
 " as I have taken on myself — (and this her ladyship said with a decision 
 of tone which she intended to be imposing) — as I have taken on myself 
 the future provision for this little milliner-girl, it is easy for your lordship 
 to understand that any other interference than my own would not be 
 required." 
 
 " Oh ! of course — of com-se ; any other assistance than your own could 
 not possibly be required under the circumstances which your ladyship is 
 pleased to mention ; — that is, pecuniary assistance : but there are services 
 to be performed which yom- ladyship is aware can be rendered only by 
 male friends ; — inquiries to be made, matters to be investigated, and dis- 
 coveries to be followed out, which it would be unfair to allow you 
 to be involved in. Upon these points, therefore, I am happy to be able 
 to meet your ladyship's wishes, and to express the pleasure which 
 I shall take in personally interfering for the young lady's welfare : and 
 as we are now agreed, I can have no objection to be the medium of con- 
 veying your determination to yom* young protegee; because I feel 
 that, under the peculiar circumstances, great discretion will be neces- 
 sary ; and that a course of proceeding requiring particular caution and 
 prudence must be adopted, in order that the desirable result which we 
 both wish to see may be effected. So that perhaps the best thing I can 
 do is to wait on Miss Sidney, and learn from her those particulars which 
 will be essential for the proper conduct of her affairs." So saying,' Lord 
 Manley withdi*ew, to carry his very benevolent and disinterested intentions 
 into effect, leaving Lady Sarum a prey to many bitter and discordant 
 reflections. 
 
174 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 PANNY ALONE. 
 
 Lord Manley having come to the conclusion that nothing was more 
 reasonable and proper than that a young nobleman of two- and- twenty 
 should assume the position of mentor and protector to a young lady of 
 seventeen, returned home in a very satisfactory humour with himself, and 
 filled with the most kindly and benevolent intentions to all the world in 
 general, and to Miss Francesca Sidney in particular. He was the better 
 pleased with himself, as he considered that he had gained a triumph over 
 his passion by the force of reason and reflection, and that he could now 
 regard the young milliner girl in a purely abstracted point of view, as 
 one of the many thousands requiring the aid and countenance of the rich ; 
 and also as one naturally falling within the circle of his duties, as a 
 member of the wealthy aristocracy of the country, to guard from the 
 various accidents incidental to her condition. With this view of the 
 matter, he persuaded himself that it was a point of principle for him to 
 disregard the trouble attendant on the local investigations which, he 
 entirely agreed, were so proper and useful in cases of this description ; 
 and that it was right for him, personally, to make the necessary inquiries. 
 He resolved, therefore, to call on Mrs. Sidney at her own dwelling, where 
 he should have the opportunity of observing the actual condition of the 
 milliners and dress-makers in London ; and, as Mrs. Sidney was of an age 
 which would not allow of liis visit being misinterpreted, there could not 
 be the slightest impropriety, he assured himself, in his taking that very 
 proper step. But these excellent intentions were unseasonably disturbed 
 by letters which he found on his return home, containing information of 
 apprehended disturbances in a county in which he had considerable estates, 
 and which peremptorily called for his immediate presence. The com- 
 munications were of a nature so pressing, that it was impossible for him 
 to disguise from himself the necessity of his instantly repairing to the 
 scene of the anticipated outbreak. Not a little vexed to be obliged to 
 postpone his visit to Mrs. Sidney, he sat down to write a short note to 
 Lady Sarum, making known to that lady the necessity of his immediate 
 departure from town on an affair of the most urgent nature. He had 
 hardly finished the following note, when his travelling-carriage came 
 round to the door. The note ran thus : — 
 
 "Dear Lady Saefm, 
 
 "A very urgent matter suddenly calls me into shire. The truth 
 
 is, that I have received information of some disturbances of a serious 
 
 nature being threatened in the county of ; and as you know I have 
 
 some estates there, I cannot well refuse the urgent remoiistrances that are 
 made to me to lose no time in repairing to the spot, in order that I may 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 175 
 
 use such influence as I possess for their prevention. Pray don't mention 
 this to any one at present, except to those of whose discretion you are 
 assured ; for these things are always magnified, and often made worse by 
 exagg^ated reports of the evil. I am the more annoyed to be called 
 away at this moment, as it will prevent me from fulfilling your wishes in 
 respect to the inquiries which you were desirous that I should make 
 relative to the condition of Mrs. Sidney. As I am upon this subject, 
 perhaps you will pardon me for taking the liberty of suggesting that it 
 would no doubt be disagreeablp to that lady for any stranger to interfere 
 in her affairs, as his visits mignt be misconstrued to their disadvantage. 
 I am the more particular in mentioning this, as I may consider myself a 
 friend of the family ; and I am naturally desirous, as I have hegun this 
 matter, that its prosecution should be left to me exclusively; always 
 excepting, of course, your ladyship, whose plans in favour of this decayed 
 gentlewoman entirely accord with mine, By-the-by, while I think of it, 
 it might be as well if you would mention to Mrs. Sidney the reason of my 
 not calling on her according to the promise which she may suppose I 
 intended to make ; and it occurs to me that it would be doing a great 
 sersdce to that very deserving lady, to be very particular in impressing on 
 her the propriety of not permitting visits to be made by others than 
 ladies — or at least, persons of her own sex — ^lest they give rise to surmises 
 — I mean, to unfounded reports — which might prejudice her in the 
 minds of the society of which your ladyship is so zealous a member. 
 But this caution, I have no doubt, has already suggested itself to your 
 mind ; therefore I will not dwell on it, further than to say that, in my 
 opinion, her conduct in this respect is a point requiring the greatest 
 discretion and delicacy. I take up this question, as your ladyship is 
 aware, and as I endeavoured to explain when I had the honour of a con- 
 versation with you on the subject this morning, entirely on public grounds, 
 which makes me the more anxious to give it my personal attoiation, with- 
 out regard to the trouble which the proper investigation of these matters 
 necessarily involves. Feeling that the due welfare of this very deserving 
 gentlewoman is perfectly safe in your ladyship's hands, I shall leave town 
 quite at ease on the subject, though I cannot but feel very anxious on any 
 matter which interests your ladyship's benevolent heart and feelings. 
 "I have the honour to be, 
 
 " Dear Lady Sarum, 
 " Your most obedient servant and attached friend, 
 
 • "Manley." 
 
 His lordship ha\dng relieved his mind by this very characteristic epistle, 
 which caused his attached and quick-sighted friend to shake her head very 
 seriously on its perusal, stepped into his carriage, and made the beSt of his 
 way to the scene of the expected disturbances, where he was detained for 
 ten days, during which time ^he despatched three letters to Lady Sarum, 
 touching slightly on the great question which absorbed all others in the 
 pubHc attention: namely, the relative conditions of the Rich and the 
 Poor, and of the Employers and the Employed ; and dwelling wdth some 
 minuteness on that " very admirable society, of which her ladyship was so 
 distinguished a member," for the assistance and encouragement of milli- 
 ners and dress -makers, — -and which natui-ally led him to speak of the par- 
 
176 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 ticular case which, as his lordship was pleased to represent, had specially 
 attracted her ladyship's attention. 
 
 Lady Sarum, on her part, had considerable doubts as to the course 
 which she ought to pm'sue in a matter of so great delicacy as that of 
 Francesca. On the one hand, while the nobleness of her disposition 
 prompted her to perform a generous part, by taking under her care one 
 whom she had such strong reasons to suspect was so nearly related to her 
 husband ; on the other, certain sensations which she could not well define 
 induced a vague feeling of disinclination towards the child of a woman 
 who might be still living, and whom she could not but regard as having 
 occupied a place in her husband's affections most painful to contemplate. 
 Thus racked in her thoughts, and swayed to and fro, as the jealousy of the 
 wife and the generosity of the woman by turns predominated, she deter- 
 mined to confide the secret of her suspicions and fears to her mother, and 
 consult her as to the proper course for her to pursue under circumstances 
 in every way so embarrassing. But again she thought, on further reflec- 
 tion, that the secret was the secret of her husband, and as such that, it 
 was her duty to respect it ; besides, she did not know in what light Lady 
 St. Austin, who was extremely sensitive on all points touching her 
 daughter's due estimation, might view Lord Sarum's journey to Italy — 
 the country where the mother of the girl, if she was still living, was pro- 
 bably residing. Lady Sarum's sensitive nature shrunk from any eclat, or 
 public exposure of the case ; and her love for her husband was too sincere, 
 too deep, and had lasted too long as the habit of her mind and the great 
 principle of her life, to allow her to take any step which might unneces- 
 sarily hazard his repose of mind, and increase the hidden grief which she 
 felt had for many years embittered his existence. In this state of painful 
 indecision — ^both as to her intentions and to the mode of carrying them 
 into effect — she remained for many days ; but as she concluded that 
 Fanny was of course under the care of Mrs. Sidney during that time, she 
 was not pressed, by the consideration of the girl being in immediate want 
 or difficulty, to come to any precipitate or forced decision in the matter ; 
 and she was rather inclined to wait for a communication from Lord Sarum, 
 in the hope that some expression, or the general tone of his letter, might 
 help her in her determination. 
 
 Thus poor Fanny was left alone in her grief and her distress, without 
 having any human being to whom she could confide her sorrows, or on 
 whom she could rely for assistance or advice : for of Julia and her mother 
 she had heard nothing since their sudden departure for Devonshire. She 
 had no acquaintances. As is generally the case when a family falls from 
 the condition of easy circumstances to a state of poverty, their old 
 acquaintances fell ofi* as a matter of course, of themselves ; and with 
 respect to new ones, as Mrs. Sidney's means did not allow her to enter the 
 circles to which she had been accustomed, and as she could not accommo- 
 date her habits to the inferior tastes of persons without education, she and 
 her adopted daughter knew, and were known by, no one. 
 
 By selling nearly every article of furniture which Mrs. Sidney had 
 possessed, Fanny was enabled to pay the expenses of the funeral ; and in 
 this she was assisted by the kind-hearted landlady. She walked behind 
 the coffin of her dear second mother, as it was borne on the shoulders of 
 men to its humble grave, and no one noticed her : it was only a poor 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 1^ 
 
 person's funeral ! and it was natural that the daughter should weep for the 
 mother ! And while some said in the misery and hopelessness of their 
 ceaseless and ill-requited toil, that it was a happy thing for any one to be 
 released from a life of poverty and wi-etchedness, others doubted whether 
 it would not have been better for the mother and daughter both to have 
 been included in the same grave ! 
 
 Fanny returned to her lodgings, now denuded of the furniture which 
 had made the sorry garret look comfortable ; the well-known table, the 
 familiar chair — all were gone: the place looked chilly, and cold, and 
 desolate. She moved the little t^ble from the bed-room to the front one, 
 and placing her only chair beside it, sat down : but it was there her dear 
 mamma was accustomed to sit ! — the remembrance was too painful ! She 
 took back her table and chair to the bed-room : but it was there that her 
 beloved friend had breathed her last ! — she could not bear it. — It was a 
 lovely May day : she opened the front windows, and thought that she 
 should like to take a walk ! But where to go to ? — who to go to ? — there 
 TTvas no one ! It was then that she indeed felt alone in the world ! — And 
 Avhile she dwelt on Lord Manley's considerate kindness, and on Lady 
 Sarum's benevolent sympathy, as of a dream that was passed, she felt that 
 the energy of her mind was rapidly giving way under the pressure of the 
 black despair which assailed her in her dismal solitude. 
 
 She returned once more to her bed-room, and in the morbidness of grief 
 dwelt on every circumstance of the dying moments of her adopted mother. 
 She mused on the extraordinary clearness and strength with which she had 
 spoken just before her death ! She recalled her remarkable words — which 
 seemed to have been prompted by some mysterious agency, rather than to 
 have emanated from herself; — " You will find your parents !" 
 
 *' Is it," she thought, " that the dying do indeed see more clearly ? and 
 does knowledge which is hidden to us in our mortal state become revealed 
 to the flitting soul in the act of regaining its freedom from earthly tram- 
 mels ? — She said that I should find my parents ! Can there be such 
 happiness in store for me ? — Can it be that awful mad- woman, who met us 
 on the night of the illuminations, who is to be the means of discovering 
 them?" She mused again on this. She had not had time — and her 
 thoughts had been too much engrossed by her grief for her friend's death, 
 and in making the necessary arrangements for her funeral — to think much 
 on the mad woman's wild threatenings and promises. But now she dwelt 
 on every word that she had uttered ; and she endeavoured to draw light 
 and hope even from her incoherent ravings. 
 
 *' It was very strange !" she thought: — " Now I think of it, she knew 
 Lady Sarum's housekeeper ; and she knew me ! or seemed to know me. 
 She remembered my name ! — and she said that she had received me in her 
 arms when I was saved from the pit ! — What pit ? It must have been 
 that which she called the ' White Woman's Pit.' But she did not say 
 where it was : — but she said if I would meet her there she would tell me 
 all ! And she said there was a secret ! — She knew this cross again ! — and 
 when I knelt down, she cried out, ' Does noble blood debase itself in the 
 streets ?' — I remember that. But what did she mean by ' noble blood ?'— 
 could she mean my noble blood ? — Mine ! But she was mad ! — what is 
 the use of attending to the ravings of a mad woman ? Still she remem- 
 bered my name : — and she recognised the cross ! — ^There must be some- 
 
 N 
 
178 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 thing in that. And she tallied of taking vengeance on Lord Grand-i 
 borough and on Lord Sarum — I should be sorry if anything happened to 
 Lady Sarum ; — but she said that I had suffered enough ! — I wish I could 
 see her again ! And who is that Matthew whom she mentioned ? — She 
 called him Matthew the Woodman : — does he know anything about me ? 
 And his wife ! — How could I find him out ? What a strange fate mine 
 is ! — I wish Lord Manley was an old man : I would speak to him about all 
 this." And here Fanny fell into a deep musing, which lasted for more 
 than an hour, till the shades of evening drew in, when she was interrupted 
 by the landlady : — 
 
 "My dear young lady," said the landlady — ^when she had recovered 
 her breath, after the fatigue of ascending the long flight of stairs— 
 *' there's a man belov/, who wants to see you." 
 
 The idea of Lord Manley was so vividly present to Fanny's imagination, 
 that instantly concluding that it could be no other than he who wanted to 
 see her, she hastily answered, blushing exceedingly as she spoke. 
 
 " It's quite impossible ; it is, indeed. Pray tell his lordship, that it 
 v/ould not be proper for me to see him. — I cannot, indeed !" 
 
 " His lordship ! — ^^Vhat are you talking about, my poor girl? The man 
 doesn't look much like a lord ; though lords do go about now-a-days, so 
 that you can't distinguish them from cabmen with their great rough 
 coats ! — I don't think he's a lord, my dear ; and if he is, he's an old 
 one ; — ^he is dressed in a countryman's working jacket, and he is quite an 
 old man ; so there can be no harm in yom* seeing him, if he wants to see 
 you : and he says he has a letter for you." 
 
 "A letter ! — a letter for me? There can be no harm in seeing him. — 
 May I see him in your room, down stairs ?" 
 
 " To be sure you may ; perhaps he has some good news for you. — I am 
 sure she wants it bad enough, poor dear girl," ejaculated the good-natured 
 landlady to herself, as she preceded Fanny down the stairs. 
 
 " Is your name Francesca, miss ?" said an old man with white hair, and 
 a hard, wrinlded face — " because I'm to be sure to give the letter to your- 
 self, and none other." 
 
 " It is," said Fanny, "that is my name ; but I am always called Fanny.'* 
 
 " Fanny ! that wont do. — Let's try another way. Did you see any one 
 in particular on the illimiination-night, a bit ago ?" 
 
 " I remember a strange scene with a tall, dark woman, who called her- 
 self Rebecca." 
 
 " That's right ! But I have been an old miner in my time, and I've 
 
 learned to be cautious, you see, miss. — Here's the letter ! Stop — I was to 
 
 . say, very particular, that no one was to see it but yourself. And so I 
 
 brought it, for old acquaintance sake — for I knew her, poor thing, when 
 
 ghe was better off." 
 
 Fanny took the letter, and read it to herself. 
 
 " Those that are highest will be lowest, and those that are lowest shall 
 be highest. Life is sweet — to some — and rank is sweet — and wealth is 
 sweet — but revenge is sweeter still! Secrets must be told in secret 
 places. If you have courage, meet me at the place I told you of — at the 
 ftdl of the next moon. But you must come alone ! — Only we three may 
 meet together at the White Woman's Pit. She will come when I call 
 her ; and then you shall know all. • " Rebecca." 
 
179 
 
 CHAPTER XL, 
 
 THE EXQUISITE. 
 
 It is not to be supposed tliat the sudden absence of Miss Julia Makepeace 
 had passed without the notice of Mr. Snob, who was excessively surprised 
 to leam, on making cautious inquiries, that she had left town in a manner 
 calculated to raise a suspicion in his mind that there was some reason for 
 her disappearance as disagreeable as it was mysterious. Pier inexplicable 
 familiarity with Lord Manley, on the occasion of her attendance at the 
 police-office, was fresh in his mind, and with the instinct of jealousy, he 
 instantly bent his steps to Lord Manley' s house, determined to tax him 
 with being privy to her departure, when to his still greater surprise, he 
 learnt that his lordship had in the most sudden manner left town for the 
 country ; and although he questioned the servants in the most adroit 
 manner, as to the object of his lordship's journey, and the probable length 
 of his absence, he was unable to obtain the slightest information on those 
 points. Nor did his household seem to know to what part of the United 
 Kingdom their master was journeying ; and the only clue which ^Ir. Snob 
 could obtain to Lord Manley' s probable course, was that his own horses 
 had taken him a stage on the north road. 
 
 Coupling this precipitate departure from London at the height of the 
 fashionable season with Julia's sudden flight, Snob could not but regard 
 this simultaneous disappearance of the parties as a most suspicious coinci- 
 dence, to say the least of it ; and it was not long before his jealousy, 
 operating with its usual eifect of fermentation, brought him to the irre- 
 sistible conclusion that Lord Manley had run off with Julia — an act of 
 immorality the more atrocious, as he regarded the prize as in a manner 
 peculiarly belonging to himself. Filled with indignation at the abominable 
 treachery of his friend, and determined to call him to account for such an 
 outrageous act of villany, the moment he could discover the place of their 
 retreat, the exasperated Mr. Snob nourished his resentment till a fitting 
 opportimity should present itself of expressing his opinion on the subject 
 to the author of the affront. It was unfortunate that the first occasion of 
 his meeting with Lord Manley was under circumstances calculated to add 
 fresh fuel to the fire of his jealous indignation. 
 
 It was a little more than a week after his discovery of the absconding 
 of Julia and Lord ]\Ianley, that the Honourable Maximilian Alexander 
 Theodosius Snob reclined in his dressing-room on a luxm-ious couch, in as 
 picturesque an attitude as an invalid could assume, waiting for the arrival 
 of the physician, for whom his mother in excessive anxiety had imme- 
 diately sent on the first alarm of her son's indisposition. In truth, the 
 Exquisite was in a state of disappointment and chagrin quite sufficient to 
 N 2 
 
180 FA.NNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 ferment his blood in an appreciable degree, and to change the colour of 
 his countenance to a deeper yellow than was its natural hue, and the 
 reflection of which in the glass that morning had filled him with so much 
 affright, that he willingly acquiesced in his mother's earnest entreaties to 
 take medical advice on the subject. All his researches after Julia had 
 been entirely unsuccessful, nor could he ascertain from any of his usual 
 acquaintances where Lord Manley had buried himself. He at first con- 
 jectured that the parties had gone abroad ; and he had consumed a week 
 in endeavours to trace them, through the steam-packets, having made a 
 trip across the water to Dover, in the hope of learning some news of the 
 fugitives. All this unusual excitement and exertion, so contrary to his 
 usual habits, had quite knocked him up ; and he had not yet recovered 
 from the rolling of the steam-boat which had brought him from Calais to 
 Dover, as he lay expecting the arrival of the physician. In vain his valet 
 shook over the couch judicious sprinklings of esprit de millefleurs, and the 
 most " veritable" eau-de-cologne ; the smell of the steam-boat had entered 
 into his soul, and not all the odours of all the perfumers of Paris could 
 wash it out again. 
 
 " Jasmin," he called out to his valet, in a feeble voice, " my salts !" 
 
 *' Vill Monsieur try dis ' vinaigre de quatre voleurs .^' " 
 
 "Anything ! Jismin ; I feel very iU." 
 
 " De nerfs of Monsieur are tres delicats. It vas dat boulversement 
 abominable of dat maudit paquebot vat make de stomach of Monsiem' 
 turn round and round ; mais cela fera du bien a Monsieur dans la suite. 
 Plait-il?" 
 
 " Jarsmin, je suis faim, et je veux etre mange !" 
 
 " Comment ! Monsieur se croit femme ! Ah ! mon Dieu ! quelle idee 
 extraordinaire !" 
 
 " Je veux etre mangee ! je vous dis." 
 
 " Mais, Monsieur, composez vous ; on n'est pas anthropophage dans ce 
 pays-ci ; on mange des choses assez extraordinaires, c'est vrai, mais on 
 n'est pas assez sauvage pour manger ses semblables ! quoiqu'ils mangent 
 des plom-bodings et ce plat etrange qu'on nomme — comment ? pate de 
 hachis? ah! oui; mince-pies, melange incomprehensible de beef, and 
 pig, and sugar, and fat, and comfiture vat you call sweetmeats ! Ah ! il 
 y a vingt ans que j' admire ce ragout Anglais sans jamais avoir eu le 
 courage d'en gouter!" 
 
 " You talk me to death! Jeesmeene, you forget my poor nerves ! Can't 
 you understand me ? I want something to eat ! " 
 
 " Quelque chose a manger ? Ah ! c'est une autre afiaire ! Vous voulez 
 dire que vous avez faim, non pas que vous etes femme ! Bon ! c'est une 
 crise favorable ; on ne meurt pas quand on mange ! And vat vould 
 Monsieur tink to eat him ? a leetel tasse of chocolat ? Tenez ; voila 
 Monsieur le Medecin ; he will tell vat is bettere for Monsiem- for him 
 estomac." 
 
 " Sorry to see you laid up," said Dr. Caustic, advancing with prompt 
 and noiseless step to the couch of the delicate invalid; "how are you 
 to-day?" 
 
 " Jismene ! How am I to-day?" 
 
 " Monsieur se croit bien malade ; mais I tink dat Monsieur se porte 
 assez bien ; except dat he is vera weak and melancolique : he have vat 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 181 
 
 Mademoiselle la femme de chambre de Madame sa mere call de grubs of 
 demulli!" 
 
 " Can you ascribe any cause for these symptoms?" inquired the doctor, 
 feeling his patient's very excellent pulse, and guessing at once what was 
 the matter with him. 
 
 " Jismin ! What is the matter with me ? " 
 
 " I tink dat de estomac of Monsieur did have one vera great twist in 
 de paqueboat ; he call * Steward ! steward ! ' vera moche ; and den 
 Monsieur fatigated himself beaucoup wid voyaging all de nighte in de 
 diligence — dat is, in de coach of ''de male when Monsieur come to town 
 last nighte ; and he drink some boisson Anglais — call him portere — out of 
 de coach window, and dat I tink make him estomac more vorser, and 
 cause de petit changement de visage ; make it tout jaune comme un coin — 
 dat is all yaUow couleur — comme vous voyez, like vat you call one hay- 
 stack!" 
 
 " How is your head?" asked the doctor ; " any fulness ?" 
 
 " Jeesmin ! How is my head ?" 
 
 " De fulness ? Point du tout ! De head of Monsieur is quite vide ; 
 how you call it ? empty of every ting ; no pain — no noting I" 
 
 " No headache ?" asked the doctor ; "no pain in it ?" 
 
 " Jusmine ! Have I any headache ?" 
 
 " Ah ! mal-de-tete ? no ; oh ! non ! Monsieur's head has noting in it 
 at all." 
 
 " And pray," pursued the doctor, " how are your ?" 
 
 " Jismeen ! How are my ? Oh ! how very faint I am !" 
 
 *' Charmant !" said Jasmine, gathering more from the manner than the 
 words of the doctor, the import of his question. 
 
 But the conclusion of his sentence was interrupted by a knock at the 
 door ; and Lady Hookem, unable any longer to control her anxiety for her 
 darling and only son, entered the room, to assist at the consultation. 
 
 " How is my poor boy?" asked her ladyship, in a tone of excessive 
 tenderness; " I fear his extreme sensibility is too much for him! — his 
 nerves are like mine. Doctor; so exquisitely delicate! What do you 
 advise ? — What is the matter with him ?" 
 
 " Upon my word," said the doctor, "it is difficult to say; he doesn't 
 seem to know himself what is the matter with him." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" 
 
 " And his man, who left the room when your ladyship entered, does 
 not seem to know more about it than your son." 
 
 " Gracious ! Doctor ; what then is the matter with my dear boy ?" 
 
 "Truly," replied the doctor, " we have no name in our medical voca- 
 bulary for the disease with which your ladyship's son is afflicted." 
 
 " Heavens ! Doctor ; what dreadful disease has my poor boy got ?-— 
 May he eat ? — may he drink ?" 
 
 " I think," said the doctor, " he might eat a beefsteak.'* 
 
 "Eat a beefsteak!" 
 
 " And drink— a pot of porter." 
 
 "Drink a pot of porter! — Eat beefsteaks and drink porter! — why, 
 Doctor, my dear boy never did such a thing in his life ! Even when a 
 child the very mention of beefsteaks and porter would almost make him 
 faint away 1" 
 
182 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 " I think, too," added the doctor, " that if he were to get on a high- 
 trotting horse, and take a brisk ride of twenty miles or so — that is, before 
 he took the beefsteaks and porter — it would do him a world of good." 
 
 " Doctor ! Doctor ! this is always your way ! You are too violent — 
 you are indeed. My son has a very peculiar constitution, like my own- 
 very delicate and sensitive. — But as to riding, if you think that would do 
 him good, here is Lady Katharine Cutaway in the drawing-room wanting 
 a cavalier." — (Lady Katharine was a dashing young widow of very in- 
 dependent character, and with fifteen thousand a year at her own disposal, 
 with whom and with which Lady Hookem was particularly anxious her 
 son should form an intimate acquaintance.) — " Come, Maximilian, rouse 
 yourself, my dear boy, and take a ride with the pretty widow." 
 
 The Honourable Maximilian had already begun to think that he had 
 not been exhibiting himself in a very favourable light to the honest and 
 straightforward Doctor Caustic ; v/ithout saying a word, therefore, he 
 rose from the sofa, — a signal for his mother to retire, — ^which she did, 
 accompanied by the doctor; not a little rejoiced at her son's sudden 
 amendment, which she attributed to her own judicious suggestion relative 
 to the rich and buxom widow. In the meantime the Exquisite, with the 
 assistance of Jasmine, in an incredibly short space of time equipped 
 himself for the excursion ; his mother, with hereditary adroitness, having 
 contrived to engage the widow in an animated description of a horse which 
 she had purchased the day before at an immense price, and which from 
 its singular beauty, being covered all over with beautiful spots like a 
 leopard, and from the excessive length of its tail was, as she declared, 
 quite a love ! She was not aware that the animal in question had recently 
 formed part of the stud at Astley's amphitheatre, and was celebrated in 
 theatrical annals for his admirable performance in the enlivening drama of 
 the " Hunted Tailor." The high price, however, which Lady Katharine 
 offered for the beautiful creature, which she had seen taking its exercise 
 in Regent-street, was such as to cause no hesitation in the late proprietor 
 of the animal at once to transfer him to her ladyship ; not thinking it 
 necessary, however, to accompany the description of his pedigree with 
 any enumeration of his brilliant performances in the ring at Astley's. 
 
 Now Lady Katharine thought that it would have a very fine effect if 
 she were to be accompanied that morning by some cavalier of her acquaint- 
 ance, who would gratify her by showing off the capabilities of her favourite : 
 — little did she think, and little did the luckless Exquisite surmise what 
 those capabilities were ! However, as such was her ladyship's pleasure-— 
 and her ladyship was rich and at her own disposal, as well as her fortune, 
 -—Maximilian was too happy to please her by so trifling an act of com- 
 plaisance : and the lady, charmed with his prompt assent, immediately 
 despatched one of her grooms for the distinguished steed ; and as the 
 stable in which the noble animal was domiciled was only in the next 
 street, he was quickly at the door, duly caparisoned as became a horse of 
 his quality and merit. The groom, who was a good-natured fellow, 
 wished to inform Mr. Snob that the horse had an odd propensity to stand , 
 on his hind legs ; but as the Honourable Maximilian piqued himself on 
 his skill in horsemanship, and especially on a graceful attitude, which he 
 was aware was particularly admired by ladies, he paid no attention to the 
 groom's caution ; and mounted in the character of a favomite knight, he 
 
OE, THE KICH AND THE POOE. 183 
 
 caracoled by the side of the widow, unthinking of the fate that ^vas to 
 befal him ! 
 
 " I must make a call here," said the widow, as they reached one end 
 of Pall-mall ; " but I don't want to bore you to go with me. Ride 
 slowly towards the park, and before you get half-way down Piccadilly, I 
 shall overtake you." 
 
 Her knight l30wed and obeyed ; and turning his horse's head up St. 
 James's-street, he rode leisurely along. It struck him that one or two 
 men with bow-inclined legs and .very long waistcoats, and of a peculiar 
 stable-like air, eyed the horse, ana him too, rather curiously ; and being 
 alone, and no longer under the immediate influence of the widow for 
 whose sake he had consented to mount an animal of such singularity of 
 appearance, the queer glances of various persons made him feel a little 
 out of sorts ; but as it was for the widow's sake, he heroically braved the 
 looks and remarks which were directed to the animal, and rode valiantly 
 on : — but the worst was to come ! 
 
 Some mountebanks had thought fit to select St. James's-street that day 
 for the exhibition of their wonderful performances in tumbling and 
 standing on their heads and one another's shoulders, in a way both 
 marvellous and entertaining. They were dressed in flesh-coloured habits, 
 fitting close to the body, so as to aiford them the utmost freedom of limb 
 in their gymnastic performances ; as many spangles as could be conveni- 
 ently stuck on them added a splendour to their pergonal appearance, wliicli 
 was in accordance with their characters and vocations. 
 
 The horse no sooner caught sight of those familiar appliances than he 
 pricked up his ears : he found himself among old acquaintances ; and like 
 the war-horse, who, when he hears the sound of the trumpet, paws the 
 ground and dilates his nostrils, so did Astley's horse snort and whisk his 
 tail at the coming entertainment ! In the meantime the crowd gathered 
 round, thick and dense; and Maximilian found himself hemmed in 
 amongst a quantity of rough and dirty faces, animated with excitement 
 for the promised exhibition. With the desire to emerge from the sur- 
 rounding mob, Maximilian applied his spur gently to his horse's side ; 
 but at that moment a kettle-di'um and a horn, which formed the orchestra 
 of the peripatetic company, striking up a well-known air, the horse sup- 
 posing that the touch of the spur was a hint to him to act his own part in 
 the play, immediately elevated himself on his hind legs, and striking out 
 ^vith his fore feet as he had been taught to do in cadence with the music, 
 began to dance to the best of his ability — with the wondering Maximilian 
 on his back. 
 
 Far from sharing in the satisfaction of the crowd at this specimen of 
 the animal's talents, the provoked Exquisite made a more vigorous appli- 
 cation of the spur, which the horse received as an intimation that his 
 performance had not met with the approbation of the rider. He sprung 
 up therefore on his hind legs, with his fore feet pawing the aii- with 
 increased animation, and the crowd shouted their applause ; which 
 reminded him of the noises which he was wont to hear at Astley's, and 
 which always accompanied his much admired performances. And now 
 the mob, delighted with this novel addition to the gymnastics of the 
 jugglers, and, judging from the remarkable appearance of the animal and 
 his rider that they formed an integral pai't of the entertainment, grew 
 
184 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 vociferous in their admiration, and " a ring ! a ring !" was shouted on all 
 sides, to allow scope for the due exercise of their activity. 
 
 It happened that the part of the street in which the Exquisite found him- 
 self hemmed in, had been strewed with bark-dust from a tanner's yard, to 
 prevent the noise of the pavement from disturbing an aristocratic invalid. 
 This substance bore so near a resemblance to the sawdust on which the 
 horse had been accustomed to show off histrionically, that he now thought 
 himself quite at home ; and the retirement of the mob on all sides, forming 
 a circle similar to that at Astley's Theatre, and the Exquisite continuing 
 to use his spur with frantic energy to urge the horse to break through the 
 crowd, the well-instructed animal, excited by the prick of the spur, con- 
 ceived the very reasonable idea that he had mistaken his business, and 
 that the continued admonitions of the performer on his back were to 
 direct him to take his course round the circle, which he immediately 
 proceeded to do, to the utter amazement of poor Snob. At this moment, 
 also, the Exquisite perceived to his infinite horror that a considerable body 
 of the members of a certain aristocratic club close by the scene of action 
 were admiring his evolutions with intense interest, and adding the appro- 
 bation of their loud laughter to the mob's uproarious applause. In a state 
 of desperation, the alarmed and exasperated Exquisite stuck his spurs 
 viciously into the flanks of his steed ; but the horse, taking it as a decided 
 hint to mend his pace, instead of diverging from his accustomed circle, 
 only tore round and round faster and faster, not without internally wonder- 
 ing that his rider did not, as usual at Astley's, stand on his back on one 
 leg, and go through the customary evolutions on such occasions. 
 
 It was not long, however, before the unusual whirl of the circular 
 motion produced a giddiness in the head of the Exquisite, which made it 
 difficult for him to keep on the horse's back ; he held fast, therefore, by 
 the pummel of the saddle, and embraced the horse as tightly as possible 
 with his legs and spurs, but all in vain. The holding on by the pummel, 
 unfortunately for Snob, brought to the horse's recollection the corres- 
 ponding scene in the "Hunted Tailor" — the piece in which he had 
 attained the summit of his equine celebrity ! Without delay, therefore, 
 he proceeded to act up to the character, and commenced kicking and 
 plunging with a vigour which had often called down the rapturous 
 applause of the spectators at Astley's Theatre. But this last manoeuvre 
 quickly unseated the dismayed Exquisite ; unaccustomed as he was to 
 such rough-riding, and amidst the rapturous plaudits of an admiring 
 multitude, he was violently dislocated from the horse's back. Regaining 
 his legs with all the remaining agility which he could muster, the dis- 
 comfited Exquisite darted through the ranks of the crowd, who made way 
 for him with shouts and cheers ! 
 
 And now the sagacious quadruped, confirmed in his idea, by his rider's 
 precipitate flight, that it was the drama of the " Hunted Tailor" that was 
 being enacted, followed Snob closely, while the mob screamed their 
 delight, and Snob ran for his life, the horse stimulating his exertions by an 
 occasional snatch at him behind, as he had been taught by his instructors 
 at the theatre. In vain Snob knocked him on the nose ; the well-trained 
 animal true to his breeding stuck to him closely ; and the farce might 
 perhaps have ended tragically for Snob if, fortunately, taking advantage of 
 the open door of the club-house, he had not rushed in, out of breath, his 
 
^'^k7M^:> 
 
OK, THE KICH AND THE POOR. 185 
 
 hat off, his coat-tails torn by the bites of the horse, and his whole person 
 presenting the appearance of fright in its most perfect state of personifi- 
 cation. 
 
 As he did this, to his surprise and horror he beheld the lost Julia ! — 
 the witness of his present disgrace ! — who seeing her former persecutor 
 rushing towards her with open arms, with the horse after him, fled 
 tlirough into the club-house, and catching sight of a face in the dining- 
 room that she knew, threw herself into Lord Mauley's arms, who had 
 just arrived from the country, fojp protection from the double assailment of 
 man and horse ! The horse — aloeit that it was a new experiment in his 
 quadrupedal exploits to ascend stone steps and to enter real houses — 
 followed the tailor to the last, stimulated by the unceasing applause of 
 the multitude ; and it was only by jumping over the dining-room table, 
 with an agility which would have done credit to the clown of the theatre, 
 that the persecuted Exquisite at last found refuge from his tormentor. 
 As there was a basket of cut bread at the edge of the table, the horse, 
 considering his part of the performance at an end by the disappearance of 
 the tailor, proceeded quietly to munch it as his due reward ; and when 
 Snob ventured to raise his eyes from his hiding-place, to his dismay and 
 mortification, he saw on one side the terrible horse looking at him, as he 
 thought, ferociously, while on the other he beheld Julia lying in Lord 
 Mauley's arms, with her eyes closed, and in a state of tranquil confidence ; 
 which seemed to indicate not only that the gentleman was well pleased 
 and famihar with the office, but, to Maximilian's jealous imagination, that 
 the lady was by no means unaccustomed to the locality, and that she 
 ever could have arrived at that perfect state of ease in her position 
 ■without reneated rehearsals ! 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 JULIA AND THE EXQUISITE, 
 
 If the frequenters of the house were surprised at the sudden apparition of 
 a new member, who had entered the club on all-fours, without the for- 
 mahty of a ballot, they were not less amused when they had leisure to 
 observe the expression of Snob's countenance, as he regarded Julia in the 
 arms of Lord Maiiley. The grimace that he made was so rueful, and so 
 comical withal, that a general roar of laughter, which even aristocratical 
 politeness could not at that moment suppress, burst from the group around; 
 Avhich, while it exasperated still more the ire of the jealous and indignant 
 Snob, rather confused Lord Manley, who could not but be aware of the 
 questionable nature of his position towards a young lady, who indisputably 
 was exceedingly pretty, and who had appeared to single out his paiticular 
 arms as old acquaintances, to faint in. And Julia, coming to herself, was 
 not a little astonished at the delicacy of her position, as well as at the 
 extraordinary appearance of the Honourable Mr. Snob's \dsage above the 
 table, and the inquiring looks of the laughing bystanders. Disengaging 
 
186 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER. 
 
 herself immediately from Lord Manley's support, who seemed most 
 ungallantly satisfied to be relieved of the burthen, she stood blushing in 
 confusion at the strangeness of the place, the presence of so many men, 
 and the embarrassing novelty of her situation. 
 
 One of the members here addressing the rest, with an expression of the 
 most considerate politeness, suggested the propriety of the company with- 
 drawing ; as it was evident, he ventured to observe, that the business of 
 the lady with Lord Manley was of a private nature : and this resolution 
 having been put and carried with mock gravity, the superfluous part of the 
 company retired, all but Snob, — who not being able to make up his 
 mind on the instant, in what terms to express to his treacherous 
 friend his sense of the baseness of his conduct, remained in a state of 
 iiTesolution. 
 
 " Ring the bell when you've done," said one of the members ; giving an 
 impudent look at Julia. 
 
 Lord Manley reddened. 
 
 " Shall you want the horse any more ?" asked another of Snob. 
 
 Snob looked daggers. 
 
 " Because if you do not, perhaps he had better retire, too." 
 
 The horse was accordingly backed out, leaving the three together. 
 
 Each regarded the other for some time in silence : Julia was too utterly 
 abashed to utter a word ; Lord Manley was at a loss for the moment what 
 to say, and waited for the lady to explain ; and Maximilian was too much 
 choked with passion to utter a word. The lady was the first to recover 
 sufficient self-possession to speak : — 
 
 " I am quite ashamed " she began. 
 
 " And so you ought to be !" exclaimed Maximilian, in a paroxysm of 
 rage — excited to fiu:y by the cool efirontery, as he thought, of Lord Man- 
 ley, and the audacious confidence of Julia ; " and as for you," addressing 
 Lord Manley, " you are a treacherous scoundrel !" 
 
 Lord Manley received his Mend Maximilian's extraordinary compliment 
 with that amazement with which he was naturally struck at so unexpected 
 an accusation ; and looking at Snob — his disordered dress, his torn coat- 
 tails, and his strange demeanour, he conjectured that certainly his friend 
 had lost the few wits he ever had ; but before he could frame any reply, 
 Julia continued : 
 
 " I am ashamed to have taken such a liberty with yom' lordship, but I 
 
 was terrified at that gentleman" she was going to say, but some feeling 
 
 restraining her, she said — " that horse ; but really I did not know what I 
 was doing 1 " 
 
 " The lady," interrupted Snob with a forced laugh, " if she did not seem 
 to know what she was doing" — (looking at Lord Manley with a sneer)— 
 " seemed to know where she was going." 
 
 "Oh I heavens," cried Julia, clasping her hands; "I arrived with 
 mamma from Devonshire only this morning " 
 
 " From Devonshn-e — and with your mamma !" said Snob ; pronouncing 
 " Devonshire" snceringly, and laying a particular emphasis on the word 
 *' mamma," as he looked at Lord Manley with fmy ! 
 
 " Indeed ! I did," repeated Julia — alarmed, she did not Imow why, at 
 the manner of the Honourable Maximilian ; and perceiying, with the 
 instinctive readiness of her sex, that there was something wrong 
 
OB, THE BICII AND THE POOE. 187 
 
 between the gentlemen ; — *' I came from Devonshire this morning 
 with mamma, and the first thing we did was to call at Miss Sidney's 
 house " 
 
 Lord Manley immediately became much interested 
 
 " And we were so dreadfully shocked !" continued Julia ; " the first thing 
 that the landlady said when we asked for Fanny was, that poor Mrs. Sidney 
 was dead !" — ^here poor Julia burst into tears 
 
 " Mrs. Sidney dead !" said Maximilian, much surprised. 
 
 "Fanny's protectress dead !" said Lord Manley, much shocked ; " and how 
 is Fanny ?" '' 
 
 Julia sobbed, and could hardly speak ; — " Mrs. Sidney died more than a 
 week ago — and Fanny ! " 
 
 " What of Fanny ?" said Lord Manley, eagerly. 
 
 " Poor Fanny !" — said Julia, continuing to cry and sob 
 
 *' Poor Fanny ! — What has happened to her ?" said Lord Manley, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Fanny is gone " 
 
 « Gone !— where ? " 
 
 ** Fanny is gone ! " 
 
 *' Where ? — where ? — where is she gone ?" 
 
 " Gone away ! and no one knows what is become of her !'* 
 
 Lord Manley seized his hat ; — *' Maximilian, my dear fellow," he said, 
 ** I am sure you wiU take care of Miss Makepeace " — at the same time 
 handing over the young lady to the bewildered Exquisite. " Miss Make- 
 peace, my friend Mr. Snob will see you home: excuse my seeming 
 impoliteness, but I have particular business in the Lords — on a committee 
 — I am obliged to attend a Levee — ^they are expecting me at home ; — in 
 short, pray make no ceremony; you must excuse me for the present 
 —I have a particular engagement; I think it is at a public meet- 
 ing." 
 
 So saying, without waiting to hear the further excuses of Julia, or the 
 requests of Maximilian for an explanation, Lord Manley made a rapid 
 exit from the house ; and jumping into the first cab that he saw, desired 
 to be driven as fast as possible to the house to which he had transported 
 Fanny on that memorable morning when he fii'st recognised her likeness 
 to the portrait of the beautiful Italian. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 CHANGE OF FOufuNT;: LORD MANLEY HEARS NEWS OF FANNY: HIS 
 ALARM : HE CONSIDERS IT HIS DUTY TO CONTINUE HIS SEARCH. 
 
 The blushing Julia was so embarrassed, and the Honourable Maximilian 
 was so astonished, the one at the excessive coolness of his noble friend in 
 handing over the young lady to his protection without apology or 
 explanation, and the other at the suddenness with which she was trans- 
 ferred — which, although it was effected with the aristocratic suavity 
 
188 PANNY, THE lilTTLE MILLINER I 
 
 distinguishing all the actions of that accomplished young nobleman, was 
 not the less unflattering to the lady — that the two remained for some 
 minutes in silence ; the pretty Julia with her eyes cast down in modest 
 confusion, and the perplexed Exquisite with that peculiar expression of 
 countenance which is gallically and graphically described as " un mouton 
 qjii r^ve." 
 
 In the mean time, the members of the club becoming- impatient, one of 
 the servants was directed to intimate to the occupants of the dining-room, 
 in the most delicate manner he could assume, that, as the said parties 
 were not members of the club, their further stay was contrary to the rules 
 of the establishment; a message which the functionary immediately con- 
 veyed without the slightest hesitation, and in the same tone and manner 
 with which he was accustomed to announce that dinner was on table. 
 Thus brought to bay, the gallantry of the Exquisite, fortunately as it 
 afterwards proved for himself, prevailed ; and, offering his arm to Julia, 
 who in her extremity was obliged to accept it, the pair marched with much 
 gravity through a double row of members and servants who lined the 
 passage, Julia, to her infinite mortification, as she passed one of the mag- 
 nificent mirrors, observing that her bonnet was bent awry and her curls 
 trailing in lank disorder ; and the Exquisite with one coat-tail and 
 a hat which he had snatched from a table in the dining-room, and 
 which was much too small for him, perched on the top of his head, 
 endeavouring to swagger and look big as he made his highly dramatic 
 exit. 
 
 Nor was it destined that he should escape without a further mortifica- 
 tion ; for the rightful owner of the little hat, perceiving that a petty lar- 
 ceny had been committed of that indispensable article of dress, peremp- 
 torily claimed the restoration of his property. After a little delay, during 
 which Julia almost expired with vexation, the Honourable Mr. Snob's 
 beaver was discovered in a very dilapidated condition imder the hall-table, 
 when, after an impromptu attempt by one of the servants to restore it to 
 something like shape, it was formally presented to him, and the parties 
 arm-in-arm descended the steps into the street. 
 
 It was then that the extraordinary personal appearance of our hero 
 became glaringly obvious to Julia as well as to himself, and not less so to 
 the people in the street, who were not slow in expressing their opinions by 
 looks and words as to the ludicrous spectacle of such apparent masquerad- 
 ing. Julia requested Maximilian therefore immediately to call a cab, in 
 which she was glad to hide herself from the observation of the spectators. 
 Maximilian would have entered after her, but that familiarity she firmly 
 opposed ; and although the Exquisite thought that it was by no means 
 necessary to stand on much ceremony with an impudent minx, as he 
 regarded her, who was so ready to throw herself into anybody's arms, he 
 was obliged to submit, the more especially as the bystanders seemed ready 
 to take part with the lady in the contest. 
 
 *' Where shall he drive ?" asked Maximilian in a rage. 
 
 « To the Clarendon Hotel." 
 
 « To the Clarendon Hotel !" 
 
 *' Yes : weliave left our former residence. Circumstances have occurred 
 — ^very extraordinary circumstances a relation whom we did not know 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 189 
 
 of all the property so that we are now putting up for a few 
 
 days at the Clarendon, till " 
 
 Julia's further communication was stopped by the appearance of a foot- 
 man with a decidedly provincial air, and with a livery of the most gorgeous 
 character, the same being composed of a bright-green coat with a red 
 waistcoat, forming a brilliant contrast to the nether portion of his 
 habiliments, whidi were of a flaming yellow colour, surmounting a pair of 
 antediluvian top-boots ; giving, altogether, the idea of a gigantic poll- 
 parrot. This splendid individual, extricating his head, which was profusely 
 powdered, from a hat with ^n enormous cockade in it, expressed his 
 satisfaction in a broad country dialect at meeting with his mistress safe 
 and sound in the wicked streets of Lunnon. 
 
 " I was a-looking at they conjurors," he said, *'when I missed ye all in 
 a jiffey like, an' I ha' been a-seeking ye up and down the street ever 
 since." 
 
 Julia nodded her head with a condescending air to her knight of the 
 shoulder-knot, and, calling him by the name of " Roger," desired him to 
 take his place by the side of the cabman on the box, and thus escorted 
 she drove off, leaving the Honourable Maximilian in a state of particular 
 amazement. 
 
 " The deuce !" he exclaimed, " what is the meaning of all this ? Claren- 
 don ! All the property ! By George, I always thought she was very 
 pretty ! But first I must go home and adonise. I wonder what has be- 
 come of my other coat-tail ! However, it's well it's no worse ! Once 
 when that brute of a horse was snapping at me — confound the wretches 
 
 that taught him ! — I thought he had nearly Well — let's be thankful 
 
 that he confined his bites to the coat-tail !" 
 
 With this moral reflection, the Honourable Maximilian called a cab, 
 and proceeded to the family mansion, his inclination for Julia having 
 received a powerful impetus from the words which she had let drop 
 about " all the property :" for although the share of brains which 
 nature had allotted to the Exquisite was by no means such as to 
 fill his head to an inconvenient extent, he had wit enough to be 
 aware that, as gilding sets off the finest picture, so nothing adds more 
 pleasingly to the personal charms of a woman than a respectable quantity 
 of money. 
 
 While this little scene was transacting, Lord Manley endeavoured, as 
 well as the rattling and gingling of the vehicle would permit, to arrange 
 his ideas, and to frame some reasonable pretext for the excessive anxiety 
 of a young nobleman respecting the place of abode of a pretty milliner- 
 girl ; but before he could make up his mind what reason, moral, charita- 
 ble, or philosophical, to assign for an inquiry which he felt could not be 
 otherwise than very suspicious, the cab stopped at the end of the street, 
 and the driver, reaching his head round to his fare within, asked, *' What 
 number ?" 
 
 Lord Manley got out, and, discharging the cab, walked do\^Ti the street 
 and knocked at the door of the house at which Fanny had lodged with 
 Mrs. Sidney. 
 
 " Who may you please to want ?" asked the landlady, with 
 an excessive smile at the prospect of a new lodger for her vacant 
 first-floor in the very gentlemanlike young man who stood before her. 
 
190 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 Simple as this question was, it happened to be the very one which was 
 most embarrassing to Lord Manley to answer ; for, although what he 
 wanted was very clear to himself, and he was not usually at a loss to find 
 words to express his meaning, he was puzzled on the present occasion 
 to convey his inquiry in terms that would neither lead to miscon- 
 struction as to his own motives,' nor compromise the reputation of 
 the young lady. While he was considering his reply, the landlady, 
 repeating her question >vith a slight variation, relieved him from his 
 difficulty : — 
 
 " What may you please to want ? The house is small, but it's 
 respectable ; and, although I say it myself, the first-floor is as nice 
 a two rooms as any in the whole street. Perhaps you would like to 
 see it ?" 
 
 Catching at this suggestion, Lord Manley followed the landlady 
 up stairs. 
 
 " Very comfortable little room," he observed, wishing to propitiate the 
 lady of the house by that introductory expression of approbation. 
 
 " Little !" said the landlady, looking round with an air of satisfied 
 pride and opening the door of the inner room containing the bed as wide 
 as possible in order to give an air of greater space to the apartment ; " it's 
 the largest in the street: but it's so full of furniture that it takes 
 off from the size. You may go into many a house without finding 
 such conveniences as we have here ; but comfort's my maxim ; that's 
 what I study, sir ; — to make my lodgers comfortable. And here 
 they are, these two beautiful rooms, for a pound a- week. It's too low, I 
 know ; I could get five-and-twenty shillings for 'em any day, if I would 
 take in persons without good references. But I am veiy particular, sir ; 
 and always was. None but respectable characters come to my house; 
 people that live quiet and genteel ; moral people, sir, that pay their rent 
 regular; that's my maxim." 
 
 Lord Manley thought that he might turn the landlady's loquacity to 
 account. He sat down. The landlady, as she had a right to do 
 in her own house, sat down too ; and in a most obliging way, intended to 
 make a favourable impression on her prospective lodger, talked 
 on: — 
 
 " Yes, sir ; none but respectable persons are ever allowed to be in my 
 house. Persons may be poor, sir, but still they may be respectable. 
 That's my maxim. It's not money, sir, as I often say to Mr. Squeezum 
 when he calls for the taxes — and one can't help being behindhand sometimes 
 — it'c not money th'it makes people respectable, but how they conduct 
 themselves : that's the point, sir. When a lodger behaves in a quiet, 
 genteel manner, and doesn't give trouble, and pays his rent regular, 
 though he may be poor, he is respectable. There was poor Mrs. Sidney 
 .... Were you going to say anything, sir ? — There was poor Mi's. 
 Sidney — a nice lady, that died about — not quite a fortnight ago — she was 
 poor certainly, but she always paid her rent regular, and she was a most 
 respectable woman — a lady, sir, who had seen better days. She died here, 
 sir, poor thing ! She had the upper rooms of the house ; she and her 
 daughter, poor girl ! It's a sad story ! You have dropped your glove, sir. 
 Poor Fanny ! one of the nicest girls, sir, you ever saw ; although it isn't 
 proper perhaps for me to be talking of nice girls to young gentlemen. 
 
OK, THE RICH A^'D THE POOK. 191 
 
 She was in a terrible taking about her poor mother, and she moped herself 
 to death all alone ; and what has become of her Heaven only knows ! 
 Allow me to pick up your hat, sir. — Yes, she left me quite suddenly ! 
 Seduced away I suppose by some of those .... Shall I open the window, 
 sir ? The room is close from its being shut up. Where all the quantity 
 of blacks comes from Heaven only knows! I hope you find yourself 
 better, sir ? This poor girl, as I was saying, left quite suddenly ; and a 
 particular well-looking girl too she was — the more the villain as has led 
 her astray ! It's shocking to think of what the fate of poor girls is in 
 this wicked town ! Well, sir, iij'this lodging don't suit you, there's no more 
 to be said ; but you needn't take my old bonnet away with you ! Sorry 
 to see you taken so poorly, "sir ! The weather certainly is very muggy for 
 the time of year." 
 
 " This young lady, you say," interrupted the visitor, " went away sud- 
 denly ; have you no clue to the place of her retreat ?" 
 
 *' Clue ? Oh ! I understand. No ; there's no clue or anything else to 
 know where the girl has been taken to. Poor thing ! Besides, I haven't 
 time to attend to other people's affairs. It was the morning after that 
 old man saw her that she went away." 
 
 " There was an old man, was there r" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; an old man called on her — let me sec — when was it ? it 
 was on the Tuesday ; and he brought her a letter. Ah! there's no end 
 to the mischief of those letters to young girls ! This is what comes of 
 reading and writing ! When I was a girl. ..." 
 
 " He brought a letter you say." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; the old man did. I heard him say, as I was outside the 
 door, just after he got in — not that I am a listener, sir, to pry into my 
 lodgers' secrets — I would scorn such an action ! — but I heard him saj'' his 
 name was ' John Lode.' " 
 
 *' John Lode ! Are you sure it was John Lode ? Was he an old man 
 of very remarkable countenance, almost bald — rather a determined-looking 
 man ?" 
 
 " Why, as to his being determined, all that I can say is he was very 
 determined to see the young lady ; — and his face ! it looked like a piece 
 of a jack-towel before it is ironed to take out the wrinkles." 
 
 " My good lady," said Lord Manley, going away in great haste, " these 
 are the nicest lodgings I ever saw in my life !" 
 
 " You won't take them then ?" 
 
 " Not at present ; just now I am engaged ; and I am very much 
 pressed for time — I have the honour to wish you good morning, with 
 many thanks for your obliging information — ^that is, your pleasing con- 
 versation." 
 
 *' Shall I see you again then ?" exclaimed the landlady, raising her voice 
 as Lord Manley rapidly made his exit. 
 
 " Very likely — oh, certainly — but just now I am really in a hurry."—— 
 So saying, he set off at a quick pace up the street. 
 
 " Well, to be sure !" said the landlady ; " he wasn't in such a terrible 
 hurry all the while I was a-talking to him about that young milliner-girl I 
 But now ! There must be something in it ? Perhaps he is the very one, 
 come to see what is said about her ? Oh ! the villain !" 
 
 WTiile the worthy landlady indulged in such surmises as to the object 
 
"92 TANNT, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 of the strange gentleman's visit, Lord Manley lost no time in reaching his 
 own house, where he immediately sent for the Miner. — Fortunately for 
 the relief of his impatience, the old man was at hand, and presently made 
 his appearance in the dining-room, where the case containing the picture 
 of the Italian, which had been taken back from Lady Sarum's, had been 
 temporarily placed. As the folding doors of the case were open the 
 portrait was visible to the Miner, who, on beholding it, uttered an ejacula- 
 tion of surprise and admiration : — 
 
 " Well, did ever man see the like o' that ! Why, I declare if the eyes 
 are not as like as one Davy is like another !" 
 
 "You know the lady who resembles that picture?" asked Lord 
 Manley. 
 
 " I can't say I know her much ; but if 1 didn't see her last Tuesday, 
 and give her a letter too, I have no eyes of my own — that's all I can say." 
 
 "You gave her a letter, did you?" said Lord Manley, in the most 
 careless and unconcerned way that he could assume, certain jealous 
 feelings being, in spite of himself, aroused by the idea of a letter having 
 been the immediate cause of Fanny's elopement ; — " some gentleman I 
 suppose gave you a letter to take to Miss Sidney ?" 
 
 " No gentleman at all, nor lady neither. It was that rampaging old 
 gal Becky, that was always as crazy——" 
 
 *' Becky ! who is Becky ?" 
 
 " Ah ! your lordship doesn't know Becky. We always called her 
 Becky. That's Rebecca. 
 
 " A tall, dark, wild-looking woman ?" 
 
 " She's tall enough is Becky ; and dark too ; and as wild-looking as 
 any one would wish to see ; but I have seen her look wilder than that ;— 
 it's a good many years ago now." 
 
 " But she is mad, is she not ?" 
 
 *' As mad as a March hare !" 
 
 " And the letter — was the letter written by this Rebecca ?" 
 
 " So she said ; and she asked me to give it to — Francesca — ^yes, that's 
 the name ; and she told me where she lived, and that I was to ask for a 
 Miss Sidney." 
 
 " And what was in the letter ?" 
 
 " That's more than I can tell ; but I guess it was something about 
 Becky's mad freaks ; for the young lady asked me where the White 
 Woman's Pit was, and how she could get to it. It's some wild prank 
 that Becky has got in her head, depend on't. I hope the poor young lady 
 •won't come to any harm. Becky's a dangerous woman when her blood's 
 up and the mad fit's on her !" 
 
 Lord Manley mused for a few minutes. He called to mind the strange 
 language of this same woman on the night of the illuminations. Whether 
 she was mad or not, there was meaning in her words ; and he remembered 
 that she promised Fanny that, if she would meet her at the White 
 AVoman's pit, she would " tell her all !" Was it possible that this young 
 girl had been tempted by that mysterious promise to undertake a journey 
 into the north alone and unprotected ! and to expose herself to the 
 caprices of a mad woman — at a place so dangerous too — where life might 
 so easily be lost by inadvertency or by the fitful passions of a maniac ! — 
 He shuddered at the scene which his alarmed fancy pictured of so fearful 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 193 
 
 a meeting ! Giving way to the powerful impulse of the moment, he rang 
 the bell, and ordered his travelUng-carriage to be immediately prepared 
 for a journey ; and, thinking that the Miner would probably be useful to 
 him in his project, he intimated his desire that he shoidd accompany him. 
 — But before his departure he thought it right to call on Lady Sarum, 
 whom he had not seen since his return to town. He repaired to 
 her ladyship's house accordingly, desiring that the carriage should 
 take him up there. To his extreme surprise he found the house in 
 that slight degree of bustle which, even in aristocratic establishments, 
 necessarily takes place on the ^moval of the family; and on inquiry 
 he was informed that Lady Sarum was on the point of leaving London, 
 with her father and mother, Lord and Lady St. Austin, for Grandborough 
 Castle. 
 
 After the first salutations, he was about to express to Lady Sarum his 
 alarm at the disappearance of Francesca, and his surmise as to her inten- 
 tions, when he was forestalled by her ladyship's communication of Fran- 
 cesca's unaccountable departure from her lodging. 
 
 *' She had directed every possible inquiry to be made," her ladyship 
 said, " but in vain. However, she had commissioned a trusty person to 
 continue the investigation as to the cause of the ' poor girl's ' absence, 
 and to communicate to her immediately any intelligence as to the place of 
 her concealment." 
 
 *' The removal of her family from London," her ladyship added, "was 
 occasioned by thb uoutmued illness of Lord Grandborough, and by the 
 expression of his earnest desire to remove to the castle in the North. 
 With respect to Francesca, had she been aware of the death of Mrs. Sid- 
 ney, she should not have hesitated to take charge of the oi-phan girl ; but 
 she had supposed that she was residing under sufficient protection, and 
 was not in want of any immediate assistance ; and indeed, for reasons 
 which she did not consider herself at liberty to disclose to Lord Manley, 
 there were considerable difficulties in the way of her extending the open 
 protection to the girl which she was, from many considerations, disposed 
 to do ; in short, that the case was a very embarrassing one for her, but 
 she trusted that the letters which she expected from Lord Sarum might 
 assist her in coming to a decision. However," her ladyship repeated, 
 " had she been aware of the death of Mrs. Sidney, she should not have 
 hesitated under such circumstances to make some arrangements for poor 
 Fanny's future welfare ; and she expressed her sincere sorrow to hear of 
 the disappearance of the girl, as it might be feared that in her destitute 
 and unprotected state some misfortune might befall her which would lead 
 to consequences the most painful and disastrous." 
 
 Lord Manley then made known to his friend all that he had learnt from 
 the landlady of Fanny's lodging and from the Miner ; and he commimi- 
 cated to her the mysterious words of Rebecca on the night of the" illumi- 
 nations. This communication made a powerful impression on Lady Sarum. 
 He expressed in anxious terms his alarm for Fanny's safety, and acquainted 
 lier ladyship with his intention to set off immediately for the North in 
 order to protect Miss Sidney, if it should not be too late, from the danger 
 to which she was exposed. 
 
 With this mutual explanation the friends parted; Lady Sarum to 
 o 
 
m 
 
 FANNY, THE UTILE MILLINEE ! 
 
 ruminate on tlie new food for her sorrow and apprehension, and Lord 
 Manley to make all haste in his departure, as he was determined to spare 
 no exertion which love and fear could prompt to overtake the wanderer 
 on her perilous way. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 panny's pilgrimage : hopes confirmed : dreams and omens. 
 
 In the mean time the object of the anxieties and the fears of Lady Sarum 
 and of Lord Manley continued her venturesome journey to the North of 
 England, where the mysterious spot was situate at which the madwoman 
 had promised to reveal the secret of her birth and of her parents. As in 
 these modern times there are neither dragons nor enchantments to 
 be encountered on the queen's highway, Fanny met with no other 
 inconveniences than those which are unavoidable when a young and 
 beautiful girl ventures to travel alone by the mail-coach. In due 
 time she arrived at the White Bull, the hostelry of the well- 
 known village of Sandy Flats, to which the Miner had directed 
 her as the nearest house of entertainment to the moor, which 
 stretched for some distance in the neighbourhood of Grandborough 
 Castle. 
 
 The worthy landlady was considerably advanced in years since her 
 first introduction to the reader. Two important events had occurred 
 since that time, namely, the loss of a first husband and the acqui- 
 sition of a second ; the latter calamity being, as Mrs. Whiley, now 
 Mrs. Blarney O'Flagon, sometimes deplored, " by a long measure 
 the greater evil of the two." But the man, as she observed, " had 
 such a tongue ! and he was so knowing in horseflesh, that she didn't 
 know how it was, she found herself Mrs. O'Flagon all in a hurry 
 like, before she well knew whether she stood on her head or her 
 heels !" With respect to that insinuating individual, neither years 
 nor accidents seemed to produce any other change in him than to 
 increase his extraordinary capacity for drinking ale at all times, and 
 brandy when he could get it ; the latter liquor being his preferable drink, 
 as being more consonant with the rank and pretensions of a gentleman 
 *' who had had the honour of serving the king in one of his Majesty's troops 
 of horse." 
 
 It was at this inn that Fanny alighted with the intention of remaining 
 till the following evening, when the moon would be at full, the time 
 prescribed by Rebecca for meeting her at the Pit. To her request for a 
 bedroom to which she might retire, the landlady, seeing that she was alone 
 and with an exceedingly small quantity of luggage, returned the very 
 natural question : 
 
 " Certainly, miss. And pray, miss, where may you be going ? Is any 
 one to meet you here, miss ?" 
 
 "No," replied Fanny, in her mild clear voice; "lam alone; but I 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOH. 195 
 
 wisli to remain here — a day or two perhaps — till I have paid a visit in the 
 neighbourhood.'* 
 
 " And you are quite alone ?" responded the landlady, much 
 astonished to see a young lady of Fanny's striking appearance 
 unattended, and unexpecting any friend, male or female, to meet 
 her. 
 
 " I am quite alone," repeated Fanny, in a tone which was intended to 
 preclude further questioning that point. 
 
 " Very odd !" said the landlady^ as she entered her little back parlour, 
 and adch-essing her observation to her husband, who was engaged with a 
 quiet glass of ale at the back window : — " Here's a young lady come down 
 quite alone, who wants to stop here a day or two ; and she says she is 
 going to pay a visit in the neighboiirhood ; who can it be to ? There are 
 not many houses to go to when you get out of the village, and it can't be in 
 the village that she is going to pay her visit, or she would go to the house 
 at once, and wouldn't talk of stopping here a day or two. What can be 
 the meaning of it ?" 
 
 " WTiat sort of a gal is she ?" asked the present husband and late trooper, 
 as he took a luxurious suck at his ale in a tall glass expressly formed for 
 prolonging the delectation of the gullet in imbibing the generous 
 Hquor. 
 
 " A great deal too handsome to be scurrying over the country 
 without any one to take care of her. It's not proper for young girls to go 
 about by themselves this way. Her parents ought to be ashamed 
 of themselves." 
 
 " Handsome, is she ?" said the trooper-landlord ! " and no one to take 
 care of her ! Perhaps she's a governess ; and that's not as good as a 
 lady's-maid any day, and she doesn't get as good pay neither. But as 
 she's alone it's my duty to wait on her of com'se. I'll just finish this 
 
 glass of ale " 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. O'Flagon, you'll do no such thing ! You're a great deal 
 too fond of waiting on every goodlooking gal that comes to the house ; and 
 
 I tell you what, Mr. Blarney, if you don't Bless me ! who is that 
 
 coming up to the door ? I declare if it isn't our old Bob ! with his mouth 
 open, of course ; he never did shut it, and never will ; but I suppose the 
 Sarums find him useful among the horses. I wonder what brings him 
 down here ?" 
 
 The cause of his coming was presently explained by Bob himself, who 
 informed the landlady that Lord Grandborough's family were coming down 
 to the castle, and that he had come so far out of his way in order to pay 
 his respects to his old mistress. 
 
 " And to have a taste of the old ale, Bob, eh ? Well, boy, 
 you shan't be disappointed. I dare say you will find Blarney 
 ready to join you. I never knew him behindhand that way at any 
 time." 
 
 Mr. O'Flagon was pleased to receive Lord Sarum's gi*oom with much 
 urbanity, bearing towards him those feelings of good-fellowship which a 
 community of taste and skill in horses usually engenders ; and the two sat ' 
 down together to discuss with their ale the news of the town and the gossip 
 of the county. 
 
 In the mean time the evening drew in, and, the heart of the good- 
 o2 
 
196 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 natured landlady being touched with the lonesomeness of the young 
 lady in her solitary chamber, she invited her to take her tea in a private 
 room adjoining the parlour where her husband and her ci-devant 
 ostler's-helper were sitting over their ale ; so that she could effect 
 the double purpose of showing kindly attention to the stranger and 
 of keeping her eye on the affiirs of the house, and especially on her 
 husband. 
 
 As Fanny was desirous of obtaining information of the neighbourhood, 
 and of the precise spot which it was her object to visit on the ensuing 
 night, she readily assented to this proposition, and in a few minutes 
 Mrs. O'Flagon and her guest were seated at tea in the little green 
 room, not exposed to the observation of the men, but within hearing 
 of their conversation. Fanny had no desire to listen to their mutual 
 relations of the exploits of horses on various occasions, but her attention 
 became suddenly attracted by a vehement exclamation of Mr. 
 O'Flagon : — 
 
 " Captain Makepeace's horse ! I tell you what, Bob ; Captain Makepeace 
 was as gentlemanlike a soldier as ever put foot in stirrup ; but his Arabian, 
 as he called him, was no more to be compared with old Square-nose — he 
 is dead and gone now, rest his honest soul — than small beer is like this ale! 
 Bless you ! he was all very well for a spurt ; but for downright honest 
 work give me old Square-nose ; if there's another like him, which 
 there is not, and never will be. That horse could do everything 
 but speak ; and he would drink ale like a Christian ! Ah ! he's gone 
 now," sorrowfully apostroph'-sed the ancient trooper, shaking his 
 head from side to side, and endeavouring to stifle his grief by a 
 more potent draught of ale, " and M-hen shall we see the like of him 
 again ? Poor Square-nose ! that was an unlucky night for you at 
 any rate !" 
 
 " He got foundered, didn't he, taking that stone- wall with the ditch on 
 the tother side of it ?" 
 
 " Dead shoulder-foundered ! — he never got over it. You see, the 
 ground was covered with snow, and that made the ditch on the other 
 side look as if it was level — though the moon was shining brightly too — 
 but I was dizzy with the cold, and so I and poor old Square-nose came 
 down together. Ah ! it vfas a bad job that night for more than him, poor 
 fellow ! It's many years ago now, but I remember it as if it was 
 yesterday; that is, parts of it — for my fall confused my head a good 
 deal " 
 
 " Your head was confused with something more than your fall, my 
 dear," exclaimed the landlady, not being able to refrain from the very 
 palpable hit that was open to her in respect to the ancient propensity of 
 her husband for the ale and brandy of the White Bull ; — " you don't 
 remember perhaps " 
 
 " Bless your sweet heart, my darling !" returned her spouse; " you should 
 never hear what was never intended for you. But I dare say you remember 
 that night, though it is a long while ago. The v/hole country was up in 
 riots you know." 
 
 " I remember it well ; and how near poor Lord Sarum was losing 
 his life from the violence of those wicked conspirators at the Bam. 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 197 
 
 It was a fearful night, that night ! we shall never forget it in these 
 parts !" 
 
 " I was there," said Bob, " at the time that Lord Sarum went down 
 into the Pit after the woman that was dashed to pieces." 
 
 " Did you ever hear tell," asked the landlady, " at Lord Sarum's, where 
 you have been living, if any tidings were ever heard of the child that was 
 lost ?" 
 
 " Oh ! you mean the child that Matthew the woodman saved from 
 the Pit?.... No, I never heard anything about it: it seems all 
 forgotten now. But I met Jol\a the Miner — you remember John the 
 Miner ?" 
 
 " What, he that went down the Pit with Lord Sarum?" 
 
 *' That's the man ! I met him ; and he said he had met one ot 
 those that were concerned that night whom he never thought to see 
 again." 
 
 " And who was that ?" 
 
 " Don't you remember," pursued Bob, " the woman that was married 
 to Black Will's brother ? They say she had been a pretty girl in 
 her time. Sure you must remember Rebecca, that was crazy at 
 times " 
 
 " Yes, I remember ; but what of her ?" 
 
 " Well, the Miner said he met her in the streets of London, and she was 
 madder than ever, and talked frantic against Lord Grandborough and 
 Lord Sarum." 
 
 " Ah ! the old grudge. It was Lord Grandborough, they say, who had 
 her husband transported for poaching." 
 
 "Well, the Miner said she was rampaging about the streets like 
 mad, and she talked quite furious against all the family, and blew him up, 
 and all of us besides, and me particularly, for letting the gold cross 
 go out of my hands. You don't remember, mistress, because you were 
 not there, that I found a gold cross at the edge of the Pit after all 
 the people were gone, and that young chap, Edward Lacey, came up 
 and somehow took it away from me. I was young at the time then, or I 
 should not have been such a fool as to give it up. It was a valuable cross 
 too ; very curiously worked and carved ; — gold I'm sure. It was a green 
 trick of me to be done out of it so nicely, for I might as well have had it 
 as another." 
 
 Fanny had remained silent during this conversation. All her faculties 
 were entranced in the absorbing interest of the revelations which were 
 thus so suddenly and so strangely made ; but at the mention of the 
 cross which she had so long cherished, with the religious hope that 
 it would be the means of leading to the discovery of her parents, 
 ghe could restrain herself no longer, and, almost breathless with hope, 
 and with a palpitation of the heart which hardly allowed "her to 
 give utterance to her words, she started from her seat, and, to the 
 extreme astonishment of the landlady, she approached the man who had 
 claimed the first discovery of her relic, and, holding it up before him, 
 said — 
 
 *' Is this the cross that you found on that fatal night ?" 
 
 The amazed Bob, albeit that for a long series of years he had been 
 accustomed to open his mouth on all occasions, at the sight of this 
 
m 
 
 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 apparition opened it wider than ever, and it was some time before 
 he could sufficiently collect his senses to reply. He stared at the 
 cross, and he gazed at the vision of the beautiful being before him, 
 and, as he afterwards declared in a confidential communication 
 to the landlady, her eyes appeared to him like two suns so wonderfully 
 bright and piercing that he was positively blinded by their 
 light ! It was with fear and trembling that he ventured to take 
 the cross in his hand, and, after a short examination, recognising 
 the treasure which in former years had made so vivid an impression 
 on his senses, he tried to articulate ; but the eyes being still upon him, 
 searching into his very soul, and the excited countenance of the girl 
 appalling him, he could not speak, but signified his recognition of it by a 
 nod of his head, assisting that evolution by a professional grasp of his 
 forelock, which caused him to make a deeper reverence at once to the cross 
 and to the lady. 
 
 "Is this the cross r" repeated Fanny, anxious to obtain still more 
 certitude of its identity. " I conjure you, my good man, to speak ; I have 
 a powerful reason to be informed if this really is the cross that was found 
 at the brink of the White Woman's Pit. Speak, man, and tell me !" 
 
 " It is," at last jerked out Bob, driven to desperation by the earnest 
 energy of the speaker ; " and it was Ned Lacey and Matthew the wood- 
 man who got it away from me : — but that's all I know about it." 
 
 " And what became of this Ned Lacey ?" asked Fanny. 
 
 " Nobody knows," interposed the landlady. " You see, miss, Lord 
 Sarum, who had an excellent heart, took care of the child for a while — at 
 least, so it was said; but very suddenly Lacey disappeared from the 
 country ; — there was a reason for it, people say," she added, looking at 
 her husband, who in deference to the young lady had doffed the trooper's 
 cap which he had insisted on wearing, notwithstanding its incongruity with 
 the character of a landlord of an inn ; — " the affair of the Barn, you know. 
 Blarney ; — 'but no need to speak ill of people that are not here to defend 
 themselves. However, the truth is, that young Lacey fled the country — • 
 it's now — how long is it ? — sixteen years ago come Christmas — and he has 
 never been heard of since. Some say he went to America." 
 
 " Did he leave the country alone ? " asked Fanny, a sudden light break- 
 ing in on her as she connected the circumstances and the dates rapidly in 
 her mind. 
 
 " His mother left the country with him, I know," said the landlady, 
 *' because it was the talk at the time. But, bless me ! how very odd it ia, 
 miss, that you should possess this very cross, that was lost and found so 
 strangely ; and now it's found again. And let me see — sixteen years ago, 
 and you can't be more than a year or so older, I take it ; no oflfence, miss, 
 I hope — but that story made a great noise in the country at the time.— 
 Sure ! can you be the child that Ned Lacey saved from the Pit on that 
 terrible night? Did you know Ned Lacey, miss ?" 
 
 Fanny pondered for a while at this question. She remembered that the 
 captain of the vessel which was wrecked on the coast of America had 
 communicated to Mrs. Sidney that the young man who, with his mother, 
 had the charge of her on board, had been used to assert in his expressions 
 of fondness towards her that he had saved her life ! All the circumstances 
 tallied. It seemed certain that she was the child saved from a dreadful 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOR. f|§ 
 
 death on that fatal night ; that the Edward Lacey of whom they spoke 
 was her preserver ; and that the cross which she wore was the same which 
 was found by the side of the Pit, and dropped, as was conjectured, by the 
 woman who was supposed to be her mother ! But the strange woman 
 who was acquainted with her story had told her that the woman who was 
 lost was not her mother ! Giving utterance to the thought that was 
 uppermost in her mind, she hastily asked the landlady : — 
 
 *' Did you know a wild, fierce-looking woman called Rebecca ?" 
 
 " Know her !" replied the landlady ; " all the country knew her. She 
 was a good and a happy wom«tn once; but troubles and misfortunes 
 turned her brain. She lost her husband and her children, and she used 
 to wander about the country a poor mad woman ! but she has not been 
 seen in these parts for many years." 
 
 " It was crazy Becky," said Bob, " who took the child out of Ned 
 Lacey's arms when he was drawn up from the Pit, and she carried the 
 little thing to Ned Lacey's mother — to the cottage — hard by Matthew's — 
 I saw it myself. Do you think I don't know Becky ? I know her face 
 as well as I know any horse's in the stable — not that I would think of 
 comparing any one of master's horses to that awful woman ! it is enough 
 to fi'ighten a horse to see her." 
 
 " Then," thought Fanny, " that woman, let her be mad or not, has 
 spoken truth ! And the sight of me seemed to touch her, and to call forth 
 better feelings than those which madness often prompts ! And she 
 promised that, if I had courage to meet her at the White Woman's Pit at 
 the full of the moon, she would tell me who were my parents ! I will 
 meet her there, mad though she is ! Why should she hurt me ? I never 
 harmed her. She said she held me in her arms, and called herself my 
 second mother ! No : a woman will never harm the child for whom she 
 has cherished such feelings of motherly tenderness. Come what may, I 
 will meet her there !" 
 
 With this mental resolve, after making such inquiries about the distance 
 and the locality of the White Woman's Pit as would enable her to find 
 the spot at night, the wearied wanderer retired to rest. Her excited 
 fancy continuing its exercise in her troubled sleep, aU sorts of misty 
 pictures of times past and times to come presented themselves to her half- 
 suspended faculties. She dreamed that she stood at the bottom of a dark 
 abyss, and made frantic and vain efibrts to extricate herself from its 
 horrible solitude. Anon she found herself on the top of a high mountain, 
 looking down its precipitous depths, into which some supernatural power 
 seemed fatally to propel her. Presently she found herself alone on a 
 dreary plain ; no house, no tree, no shrub was near ; all was one con- 
 tinuous and wide waste, barren and desolate. She was faint and weary ; 
 her breath became oppressed ; her steps were faltering ; she was ready to 
 sink with faintness and fatigue ; when suddenly in the far distance she 
 beheld the shadows of a manly brow, noble but sorrowful, and the 
 mysterious outlines of a woman praying by the side of a marble tomb, 
 with her hands clasped and her head thrown back as if imploring mercy 
 or aid from Heaven. Her heart told her that her eyes looked on the 
 resemblances of her father and her mother. But, as she gazed, clouds 
 gathered, and darkness came over them. They vanished ; and in their 
 stead appeared a white and brilliant star, which seemed set there to guide 
 
200 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE ; 
 
 her on her way. As she felt the bright effulgence of the light warming 
 her to fresh hope and exertion, she awoke, and beheld the morning sun 
 shining brightly in at her rustic window. Accepting the omen, she 
 kneeled down by the side of her bed, and prayed to that Being from whom 
 alone she could hope for aid to assist her weakness and to guide her steps 
 in her sacred endeavour to discover her unknown but long-loved parents. 
 Then, with her energies restored by sleep, and her spirit refreshed by 
 prayer, she prepared her thoughts and gathered up her corn-age for the 
 fearful task of the coming night. 
 
 In the mean time events were preparing in another quarter of vital 
 importance to her future fate. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 AN EXILE S RETURN : DISCOURSE OF THE LABOURERS : MODERN VERSION OP AN 
 
 OLD STORY. 
 
 It was a bright May morning when the full-time of spring gives promise 
 of the approaching summer. The shrubs and flowers hastened to put. 
 forth their blossoms to the enlivening rays of the cheerful sun, and all 
 nature seemed gay and glad, rejoicing in the genial season. At such a 
 time it was impossible for the coldest heart not to feel warmed into 
 admiration of the beautiful works of nature: the majestic trees, the 
 odoriferous shrubs, the many-tinted floM^ers, the mild green of the velvet 
 sward, on which the eye loves to repose; all so wondrous fair, and 
 inspiring love and gratitude for Him who made the earth so beautiful for 
 man to dwell on ! 
 
 It was with such thoughts that a traveller went on his gladsome way by 
 
 the road on the opposite side of the moor from the little village of Sandy 
 
 Flats, and in the direction of Grandborough Castle. He M^as mounted on 
 
 a strong and handsome horse, having a valise strapped to the pommel of 
 
 1 his saddle, betokening the vigorous habits of the rider, and his preference 
 
 ■ for that independent mode of conveyance which a stout steed and a small 
 
 i saddle-bag enable the traveller to enjoy. 
 
 The traveller was tall and thin, with a military air ; and as he sat on 
 his horse with the ease and the perfect confidence of command, it was 
 easy to guess that his finished equitation was incident to his profession. 
 His features, reflective and care-worn — denoting that his occupations had 
 been such as to call forth in painful stretch the energies of the mind as 
 w^ell as the activity of the body — were sunburnt, as if from constant 
 exposm-e to the scorching climes of the East; but on the whole his 
 countenance was decidedly handsome, although an occasional expression 
 of sternness led the observer to conclude that he was one who was not to 
 be offended with impunity. With respect to his age, it might be about 
 six-and-thirty ; he looked older in his more serious moods, but when his 
 face was brightened up with smiles he perhaps looked younger. As the 
 birds, welcoming the morning, cheered his heart with their songs, the 
 traveller smiled and looked around him as if trying to remember some. 
 
*■ l)l^AJOT.Li:lV^ illH 
 
 L'iie VVroiigs of Labour 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 201. 
 
 long-forgotten scenery ; and then he would quicken his horse^s pace to a 
 brisker walk, while his countenance assumed by turns the expression of 
 cheerfulness or melancholy, as his animal spirits were invigorated by the 
 freshness of the morning or as his thoughts became saddened by some 
 sorrowful remembrance. In this way he proceeded leisurely till he 
 reached the little house of entertainment on the right, before you turn off 
 from the high road to the moor, the margin of which it touched. Her& 
 he drew up to refresh his horse and to secure for him the provender which 
 it was not likely that he should find at the place of his destination. 
 Having first seen his horse well c4red for in the stable, he entered the 
 place of entertainment. 
 
 The rustic inn contained only one apartment for visitors, which was 
 nearly full of labourers at their mid-day meal. They made a slight move- 
 ment, at first, on the entrance of a gentleman among them ; but presently 
 they resumed their usual apathetic and sullen demeanour, seeming to take 
 no heed of the presence of a stranger gentle or simple. 
 
 The new-comer surveyed them with interest, examining the features of 
 each individually, and with a rigidness of scrutiny which at last gave 
 umbrage to a rough-looking wrinkle-faced labourer who was listlessly 
 cutting a piece of coarse bread with a clasp-knife, to which was added, as 
 a condiment, a very small piece of cheese of the colour and consistence of 
 bees' -wax, or rather of that peculiar conformation which in another 
 county has gained for it the appellation of Sufiblk Bang, and which the 
 natives of those parts further designate as a material " too big to swallow 
 and too hard to bite." 
 
 " Some folks," said he, as he sharpened the huge blade of his knife on 
 the rind of his cheese, " have very curious eyes ; there beant much to see 
 ne'ther." 
 
 To the meaning which this speech conveyed the rest of the labourers 
 responded by a grunt, signifying their acquiescence in the hint and the 
 sarcasm of their fellow. 
 
 The traveller relinquished his scrutiny ; and, with the view of opening 
 some amicable conversation with the rustics, he observed : — 
 
 " This beautiful morning, my friends, must make all your hearts feel 
 glad. The sun shines on the rich and on the poor alike ; that's some 
 comfort in this world of ours." 
 
 The labourers, suspending their chewing, turned their eyes on the 
 stranger with a simultaneous stare. That any one should talk to them of 
 their hearts being glad, was to them altogether as unaccountable as the 
 thing was inconceivable ! and as to the sun shining — whether the sun 
 shone or not, what was it to them ? The sun might shine, but the sun- 
 shine of the heart was a thing they never felt. Did the shining of the 
 Sim make their labour less, or their enjoyment more ? If it ripened more 
 plentifully the fruits of the earth, it was not for them that the fruits of the 
 earth were ripened. It was for them to toil and sow and exhaust their 
 animal energies in constant labour, but it was for others to reap and to 
 revel in its produce. What were they? Labourers. What are labourers? 
 Human machines for the production of wealth ; to be used like other 
 machines, animate or inanimate, at the minimum of cost ; to be worked 
 while they last, and to be flung aside like rusty iron and useless logs when 
 they are fit to work no longer. Their hearts feel glad! Glad for what? 
 
202 FANJTY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 That they produced more wealth for the rich ? What was it to them that 
 the rich got richer while the poor got poorer ? Did they share in the 
 prosperity of the nation which they had heard the squires talk of ? What 
 were all the arts and improvements of civilization to them ? They could 
 not reason, but they felt that as civilization increased, their condition got 
 worse. The wonderful inventions of machinery, which they beheld but 
 could not prize, what was it to them ? Did it cause them to labour less ? 
 They hated it because they felt, that, instead of being made the means of 
 lightening their labour, it was used in competition against their labour, 
 pitting wood and iron against muscle and bone ; and that it was held out 
 to them in the way of defiance when they complained of the insufficiency 
 of their wages. — They would have welcomed it as an auxiliary ; they 
 abhorred it as a rival. — As to the education of which their superiors made 
 a parade — ^what was the use of it to them ? To teach them new wants ; 
 to make their present miseries more miserable, their galling burthens 
 more intolerable ! "What time had they for the improvement of their 
 minds ? It was more than they could do to attend to the wants of their 
 bodies. And, after the exhausting toil of the day, what strength had they 
 left for the exercise of their intellectual faculties ? Where was the time ? 
 What they imperatively required after the labours of the day was rest ; 
 rest for the overwrought limbs and the overtasked strength. What they 
 wanted was sufficient food, sufficient raiment, and fitting shelter from the 
 elements : and, above all, leisure. Without the leisure to pursue their 
 mental culture, and to enjoy the results of it, what was the use to them of 
 what is called " education" ? It is of more importance fi)r a man to have 
 bread to eat than to know how to spell it ! To talk of geography, and 
 astronomy, and of scientific recreations, and books, and music, to a popu- 
 lation in want of the primary articles of subsistence, is a mockery which 
 the labourers feel to be a mockery, although they do not always express it. 
 Not that they despise the benefits of education ; but, when they cry out 
 for food, to ofier them "education" is to give them a stone when they ask 
 for bread. The only efiect of what has been called " education" hitherto 
 has been to enable a great many more of the discontented population to 
 read cheap newspapers than could read them before; to teach them the 
 power of combination; to excite them to array their numbers against 
 intelligence ; and to look for the improvement of their own condition in 
 the pulling down of the rich to their own destitution and degradation. 
 Sad and fatal delusion ! which may one day lead to a more violent and 
 terrible revolution than has ever devastated empires, and which would be 
 indeed a terrible lesson of retributive justice on the hardheartedness and 
 selfishness of the age ! 
 
 It was amongst such a discontented group that the traveller found him- 
 self. He knew well that excessive toil, insufficient food, the precarious- 
 ness of subsistence, and the lack of the sympathy of the rich, had soured 
 their natures and brutified their very souls. But it seemed that he was 
 not unaware of the way of gaining the hearts of the hard rustics, for 
 hearts they had, though good feeling was almost smothered and deadened 
 within them from the long-continued and excessive debasement of poverty. 
 Calling the landlord, he ordered a " gallon of beer." 
 
 These magic words operated like a charm on the visages of the rustics. 
 Each man flourished his knife, and, postponing the finishing of their crusts- 
 
OE, THE RICH AKD THE POOR. i^ 
 
 ttbey looked out with glee for the promised cheer. The demand of their 
 entertainer for something substantial in the way of eatables increased tha. 
 general complacency ; and when the stranger drew his chaii* to the table, 
 and invited them by his example to partake of the good things before 
 them, there was a murmur of satisfaction, and grim smiles greeted the 
 presence of the stranger gentleman ; for dearly do the sons of labour love 
 to see those whom the accidents of fortune have made their superiors 
 place themselves among them and acknowledge the general kindj-ed of 
 mankind by the interchange of kindliness in a state of even teraporaiy 
 equality. It was not long, th^efore, before the traveller had so far 
 advanced in their good opinions as to lead them into confidential conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " What we want," said an elderly man, taking an excessive puU at the 
 jug of ale, which obliged him to make a little pause to recover breath for 
 his oration — " what we want is this : if so be a man is willing to work, 
 the rich folks ought to find it for him. For what can he do ? he can't 
 make work for himself. The rich have got all the land and all the money, 
 and the poor man has nothing but his hands for his property. And then. 
 I say, if the poor man can't get work, the rich folks oughtn't to shut him 
 up in a workus like a gaol, as if he was to be punished for being poor ;— 
 that's what I say." 
 
 " The gentlefolks don't understand us, sir," said a fine young man, with 
 a countenance saddened with the early anxieties for that great object of 
 the constant thought of the poor from childhood — their daily food : "they 
 don't understand us, sir ; they don't indeed ! They fancy that we poor 
 people like to go to the workhouse, and that's why, I suppose, they have 
 made it so bad for us. Bless your heart, sir ! there's not a labouring man 
 in the county, nor woman, nor child, that would take to the workliouse if 
 they could keep out of it. Not because the workhouse has been made a 
 gaol of — it's not that ; but because it's a sort of disgrace with us to go 
 there. Poor people, sir, have their pride as well as rich gentlemen ; and 
 their pride is to earn their bread by their labour, and to owe no man a 
 farthing, and not to eat the bread of charity. It's bitter bread, sir, is that 
 to us, let it be ever so kindly given ; but when we have to seek for it 
 besides in a way that is made as degrading to us as possible, and are 
 treated more like felons in a prison than free men, why, sir, that is what 
 galls us ! It's a pity, sir, that the rich gentlemen can't understand us 
 better. Live and let live ; that's all we want." 
 
 " That's the mischief," added another rustic : " George Stcadman has 
 just hit it right. What we feel most, sir, is that it is made a crime to be 
 poor. And how can we help being poor ? we were born poor, and we live 
 poor, and we must die poor ; for our wages is only just enough to keep 
 body and soul together. And then, if we fall sick, or can't get work, the 
 great folks treat us like criminals, as if it was a sin to want work and food, 
 and as if we could help it I It's a shame I say !" 
 
 " It's a shame, and a burning shame !" repeated the young man who^ 
 had spoken before ; "and mind my words, sir; — you are a gentleman, 
 and it seems a kind gentleman too, for you don't disdain to sit down with 
 us and own us for fellow-creatures ; — mark my words, sir : if there is aa 
 outbreak in this country like that French llevolution which I have read of 
 
204 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB : 
 
 in the newspapers, when the working people got their rights, it will be on 
 account of these workhouses and the cruel poor-laws, which grind us down 
 to the earth, and treat us worse than the animals that graze in the fields." 
 
 *' Worse than the hounds in the squire's park," said another. 
 
 " Yes, worse than dogs ; but it won't be borne much longer, I can 
 tell 'em." 
 
 *' Eh, John !" said the elderly man, with a knowing look at the speaker, 
 and glancing his eyes in caution at the stranger — " the gentleman don't 
 want to hear that talk ; time enough when it comes." 
 
 *' I remember," said the stranger, wishing to lead the labourers into 
 conversation about the events of former times, " there were riots here- 
 abouts — it must be a good many years ago now; something relating 
 to Is there a family of the name of Grandborough in these parts ?" 
 
 "Aye, aye," said the young man; "that's the Earl of Grandborough: 
 the family mansion is the castle about five miles from here ; and there's 
 his son, Lord Sarum ; they're the lords and rulers in their neighbourhood. 
 There was a grand riot years ago ; I was only a child then, but I've heard 
 father and mother speak of it." 
 
 " It was the time of the great snow-storm," said the elderly labourer. 
 I wasn't here at the time, because I'm only new in the county, but I've 
 heard tell of it ; the people talk of the White Woman to this day." 
 
 " And pray," asked the stranger, " who is the White Woman .^" 
 
 " You're a stranger to these parts, I suppose, and so you don't know 
 the story," replied the old man. " You see how the moor stretches out 
 yonder? Well, about two miles from here there's an old Pit." 
 
 " Ah !" said the stranger, apparently thrown off his guard by the 
 interest he took in the rustic's narration ; " that's the White Woman's 
 Pit, near the hut of Matthew the woodman." 
 
 The labourers stared at the stranger at this display of local knowledge, 
 and looked at one another inquiringly, and at the stranger, with vague 
 feelings of suspicion ; but, quickly recovering his presence of mind, he 
 encouraged the story-teller to proceed by adding, promptly: — 
 
 " You said that this place called the White Woman's Pit was close to 
 the hut of Matthew the woodman " 
 
 " Did I ?" said the labourer. " Well, I thought it was odd that you 
 should have the name so pat and know the place so well. As I was say- 
 ing, the Pit is haunted by a woman — that is, by her spirit, I suppose-— 
 that the father of the present earl wronged in some way out of her land, 
 and — I don't know the rights of that story, but people do say that Lord 
 Sarum — that's the son of the earl — met her at the Pit that night, and she 
 dragged him down, and it was Matthew the woodman that saved his 
 life, with a young man — a daring young chap, they say, called Ned 
 Lacey. ..." 
 
 " He was a daring young chap, was he ?" said the stranger. 
 
 " As ever you set your eyes on. Well, this Ned Lacey found a great 
 treasure at the bottom of the Pit. ..." 
 
 " No, no," interposed the elderly rustic, " that wasn't it at all. Ned 
 Lacey found no treasure. You see, sir, young Ned was a fine young 
 fellow, and he was heart and soul in the labourers' cause ; and so you see 
 •—it's best not to talk of these things, sir, more than we can help ; but the 
 
OE, THE KICH AND THE POOR. 205 
 
 long and the short of it is, that poor Ned was obliged to fly the country, 
 for the warrants were out against him, and if the beaks had grabbed him, 
 why, he stood a good chance of being lagged." 
 
 "That was for the afiair of the Barn, I suppose?" said the stranger, 
 again thrown off his guard. 
 
 " You know it then ?" said the labourer eagerly. 
 
 " I remember reading of it in the newspapers," replied the stranger, 
 *' And this Matthew the woodman — is he still alive ?" 
 
 " Yes, he's alive ; but he's a very old man now ; and he's very badly 
 off too, poor Matthew ! You see, 'sir, he is very violent in his talk against 
 the rich " 
 
 " Mat turned radical !" exclaimed the stranger in astonishment. 
 
 " You see, sir," said the young man who had already spoken, " it's the 
 poor-laws that have turned Mat. He was always against us — that is, 
 against our meetings ; and he would always try to put down any talk of 
 violence or riots, or that. But now he's quite the other way ; and it's the 
 poor-laws that have done it. So much the better ; it is those poor-laws 
 that will bind us together all the stronger. There's the rich on one side, 
 and the poor on the other ; and if the poor make the rich uneasy some 
 day, let them thank the poor-laws for it." 
 
 " Is Matthew still living at his old cottage ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " Yes ; he's there still. You'll be sure to find him there," said the old 
 man of the party; " but, if it's no offence to say so, master, I'm thinking 
 you know more of these parts and of old Mat than you choose to say. 
 However, it's none of our business ; and we hope that what we have said 
 before you will be taken in good part, and not taken advantage of to harm 
 any one of us ; for we thought you were with us in your thoughts about 
 things, or we never should have spoken so freely." 
 
 " And so I am with you, my friends," exclaimed the stranger with 
 animation; "heart and soul with you; but I have seen much of the 
 world, and I have learnt that nothing is to be done for your cause by 
 violence." 
 
 "How are we to get our rights then?" asked the young labourer, 
 emboldened by the stranger's familiarity and declarations. 
 
 The traveller paused for a few moments, as if he was either searching 
 for the means, or deliberating on the prudence of communicating it to his 
 auditors. At last he said, speaking slowly and deliberately : — 
 
 " My friends, you are not yet sufficiently informed, I fear, to under- 
 stand rightly the full meaning of my words ; but as I have denounced 
 violence, I am bound perhaps to point out another way of gaining your 
 end " 
 
 " Our end," interrupted the young labourer, emphatically, " is a fair 
 day's wages for a fair day's work." 
 
 " And that you will never attain," said the stranger, " except by 
 
 * ASSOCIATION.' " 
 
 So saying, he took leave of his new acquaintances, and, having assisted 
 personally in the saddling of his horse, and provided himself abundantly 
 with the best refreshments that the inn afforded, he mounted, and rode off 
 over the moor in the direction of the woodman's cottage. 
 
206 
 
 CHAPTER XLT. 
 
 a "visit to old friends : the surprise : explanations ! recipe for changing 
 a loyal peasantry into discontented beyoluhonists : the white 
 woman's pit. 
 
 The traveller checked his horse frequently, that he might examine more 
 leism-ely, as it seemed, some familiar object ; and at a short distance from 
 the woodman's hut he made a longer pause, gazing earnestly at the dilapi- 
 dated walls of a rustic cottage which was now uninhabited and falling 
 rapidly into ruins. From the varied emotions which might be traced 
 on the countenance of the stranger, it might be guessed that the sight 
 of this ruined cottage called forth many chequered remembrances of joy 
 and sorrow. 
 
 " It is only sixteen years ago," he said, musingly, to himself: " the old 
 moor looks as if I had left it only yesterday ; but the works of man's hand 
 are already in decay. But there is old Matthew's hut looking the same as 
 ever, except that the roof is a little out of order. I wonder if he will 
 remember me." So saying, he turned his horse's head towards the well- 
 known spot, and with a stick which he carried in his hand tapped at the 
 old door. 
 
 After a brief delay the upper half was slowly opened by an aged female 
 whom the traveller had no difficulty in recognising as the Margaret of 
 former days. Seeing a gentleman on horseback who was a stranger, she 
 made the usual inquiry in the North : — 
 
 " What's your will, sir ?" 
 
 " Pray," asked the stranger, " does one Matthew the woodman reside 
 in this cottage ?" 
 
 " Matthew," said the dame, tm-ning her face inwards, "here's a gentle- 
 man asking for you." 
 
 " Asking for me ?" said Matthew, coming forward and leaning on the 
 closed half of the door, while his wife retired behind ; " what can any 
 gentleman want with me ? I've no business with any gentleman. Is it 
 justice's business? Well — well — a gaol is as good as a workhouse 
 nowadays !" 
 
 " My good friend," said the traveller, who had overheard Matthew's 
 objurgation of gentlemen and justices, "I have nothing to do with 
 justices. I am a traveller, and I want to make some inquiries about the 
 land and the people and the neighbourhood; and if you can let me sit 
 down in your cottage for a short time, I should be glad to have a little 
 chat with you." 
 
 " A stranger is always welcome," replied the old man, opening the 
 door ; " but if you are looking for refreshment, you will find us badly off 
 that way." 
 
 " I am already provided with that," said the horseman, dismounting and 
 disencumbering himself of the provisions which he had procured at the 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOB. aSV 
 
 inn. Margaret received them from him and placed them on tiie table 
 against the wall ; and the traveller, having loosened his horse's girths and 
 secured him by the bridle to the front of the hut and in view from the 
 window, entered the cottage. 
 
 No one spoke for some time ; the aged couple keeping silence from 
 respect to the gentleman, and the stranger being occupied in examining 
 with extreme attention every article in the room, and then turning his 
 eyes on Matthew, whose features he scrutinised with the most searching 
 curiosity. The stranger's pertinacity at last roused the suspicion of the 
 dame. ^ 
 
 " You look on my old man," she said, " as if you wanted to know him 
 again. You have nothing against him, have you ?" 
 
 " Nothing against him certainly," replied the stranger. " I have been 
 abroad for many years, and I was thinking of the changes which a few 
 years make. And pray," he continued, *' how do you contrive to live in 
 this desolate place ?" 
 
 " I lived here very well once," said the woodman ; " that is, as well as 
 any poor man can live, when I had strength to work ; but now that I am 
 old and can work no longer, nor my dame neither, we live as all poor 
 people live in this country when they are too old to work ; that is," he 
 added bitterly, " we starve !" 
 
 " But there is no necessity that any one should starve in this country," 
 said the stranger ; " there is a refuge for the aged and infirm in the 
 workhouses which the good Queen Elizabeth established for the poor; 
 why don't you take advantage of that asylum provided for old age and 
 infirmity ?" 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Margaret, " if the gentleman has been a traveller in 
 foreign parts, he doesn't know, perhaps, how the workhouses have been 
 changed by the rich folks that make the laws. No poor man ever wished 
 to go into them before, so long as he could get wages to keep him out ; 
 but now they have made prisons of them, and poor people are treated like 
 slaves and criminals, and punished for being poor. Well, if the poor 
 people will bear it, it serves them right ; that's all I can say." 
 
 " I have been in a distant country for many years," said the stranger; 
 " and I do not imderstand what you mean by the changes that you 
 speak of" 
 
 "You would soon undei'stand them if you were a poor man," said the 
 woodman, with much bitterness. " But that's the way with the gentle- 
 folks ; they never can understand us poor people, or suppose that we have 
 feelings and hearts and souls like themselves. But what do you think of 
 this? Look at my dame there. She is just as old as me; that's more 
 than the scripture age of thi'eescore and ten ; put six to that. Look at 
 her, I say. It's sixty-six years ago since she began to work ; and it was 
 the same with me. And for all those years we have worked side by side, 
 and hard enough too. Whatever happened, we shared it together : if it 
 was good, she made it the sweeter because she shared it with me; if it 
 was bad, she made the load the lighter and the easier to be borne because 
 she helped me to bear it. And so we helped one another as man and wife 
 should do, and as God said it should be. As the scripture says, she was 
 bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, and I was the same to her. And 
 for fifty-six years, or hard by, we have lived and worked together. And 
 
208 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 what do you think ? Now that we are old and can work no longer, and I 
 applied to the workhouse to take us in to shelter us, what did they say ? 
 Yes, they would take us in, but I and my dame mustn't be together! 
 That was clean against the rules of the house ! These are the new rules, 
 you see, that the rich have made against the poor. They couldn't let me 
 and my old dame be together ; they must separate man and wife ! Man 
 and wife, after they have lived with each other for six-and-fifty years, 
 arn't to be allowed to be together ! Why, what is life to me now, and 
 what is life to Margaret, if we cannot go down to the grave, as we have 
 lived, side by side, and helping each other ? And it's not long that either 
 of us can have to live any way. It's not the starving that they have in 
 the workhouse, nor the confinement, though that's hard enough to bear 
 they tell me ; but it's the parting a man from his wife that angers me. 
 And why do they do it ? Because we are poor and can't help ourselves. 
 I never was against; the rich before, but always the contrary ; and I 
 always tried to still the labourers, as you know, Margaret, when they were 
 after violence ; but this beats all ! What do the rich suppose we poor 
 people will do ? Bear it ? No ; I can tell them they won't bear it ; and 
 if I was young instead of the old man and helpless as I am, I would be 
 the one to lead them on. I only wish that Ned Lacey was amongst us 
 now. He was the one to do it !" 
 
 " It's true," said Margaret, " what Matthew says ; he was always one 
 of the quietest men in the whole neighbourhood, and always for peace and 
 for letting the rich alone ; and often he got great ill-will from the people 
 about because he never would join them in their breakings out. I 
 remember — it's about sixteen years ago now — when the labourers were 
 going to burn down Grandborough Castle, and to kill Lord Sarum ; — 
 Matthew was against it then, and would have nothing to do with their 
 meetings and goings on ; and some of the most violent said he was a spy, 
 and they would have murdered him if it hadn't been for the others who 
 answered for him ; for, although he would not join them, he would not 
 betray them ; and this is what we get for it ! Ah, sir ! the rich have no 
 gratitude and no feeling for the poor. While we live we may work and 
 work, and when we can't work we may rot and die — and no one cares for 
 us." 
 
 *' What was it that you were saying about Lord Grandborough and 
 Lord Sarum?" interposed the stranger, as if desirous of changing the 
 conversation. " Did the labourers kill the young lord ?" 
 
 " No, sir," answered Matthew; "they didn't do so bad as that, but they 
 were near upon it. They were going to throw him down a deep pit." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Margaret, "there's a story about that Pit! it is 
 fatal to that family." 
 
 " Well," resumed Matthew, " I was telling the gentleman that they 
 were going to throw the young lord down the Pit ; when, as Providence 
 would have it, they spied me and a lad that used to take up a good deal 
 with me and my dame — one Edward Lacey ; he used to live with his 
 mother in the old cottage yonder ; you must have passed it as you came 
 this way. A woman with a child in her arms fell dowr? into the Pit : it 
 was at the time of the great snow-storm ; and young N-jd saAV 'em, and 
 lie and I went out, and Ned went down and saved the child, but the 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 209 
 
 woman was killed ; she wasn't the mother of the child, however, as it 
 turned out afterwards." 
 
 " It Avas a lovely little thing," said Margaret. " I remember it 
 weU " 
 
 " It was indeed," said the stranger. 
 
 Margaret stared ; Matthew went on : — 
 
 " And so you see, the lad Ned was down in the Pit "vvitli a rope under 
 his arms, and I was at the other end hardly able to hold on any longer, 
 when the mob came up to throw Lord Sarum into it; and seeing me there 
 trying to haul up the lad, which ^ couldn't do, it changed their minds you 
 see, so that they coming up saved Edward and the child, and me too 
 perhaps, for I was near being pulled in by the weight ; and our being 
 there made the mob think more of preserving lives than of taking them, 
 and that saved Lord Sarum's life ; so it was all for the best ; only the 
 woman was killed ; but I dare say there was a reason for that if the truth 
 could be known." 
 
 " It was a fearful night," exclaimed the stranger, " and I shall never 
 forget it." 
 
 "Eh, sir!" said Margaret, with renewed surprise, examining the 
 stranger with increased attention. 
 
 " So you see, sir," continued the woodman, " Lord Sarum's life was 
 saved in spite of the prophecy." 
 
 *' The prophecy ! what was that?" 
 
 " It's the old prophecy," said Margaret. " It is said that the Pit will 
 be fatal to the Grandborough family for three generations." 
 
 •* Yes," said the stranger, "I remember the story of the "VVTiite Woman's 
 Pit. Do the people still suppose that it is haunted?" 
 
 " You know the name of the Pit," exclaimed the dame, rising up, and 
 approaching the stranger in much agitation ; " and you know that it is 
 haunted. Who are you, sir ? You are not a stranger to these parts 
 I'm sure." 
 
 *' I remember all that you narrate too well," said the stranger, mourn- 
 fully : — " the haunted Pit, the mad Rebecca, the charge of the soldiers, 
 and the poor child whom I saved, and who was drowned with many more 
 «n the coast of America." 
 
 " You do ?" cried Margaret suddenly, roused to intense emotion. " It 
 is. Mat — it is ; I had a suspicion when he spoke before. It is — it's Ned 
 come back a gentleman. Oh, gracious ! oh goodness ! who would have 
 thought it ? and we not to know him all the time ! The Lord be good to 
 us ! What things do happen in this world !" And the old dame, over- 
 come with surprise and joy, and the recollections of old times, sat down 
 again in her chair and burst into tears. 
 
 " This gentleman Ned Lacey!" exclaimed Matthew, whose eyes, dimmed 
 with age, could no longer distinguish the nicer lineaments of the* counte- 
 nance, and doubting the reality of news too good to be true. " If this 
 gentleman is Ned Lacey— stay — don't hurry me — I am old, and I can't 
 think quick as I used to do : — Yes ; if this gentleman is Ned Lacey, ho 
 will remember what was found by the edge of the Pit that same night." 
 
 " It was a curious gold cross," replied the traveller ; " and more than 
 that, it was found by the lad at the White Bull— Mrs. Whiley"s lad ; and 
 on it was engraved the name of Francesca." 
 
210 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 After the mutual and hearty congratulations which this discovery of 
 their old friend, whom they had known from his childhood, gave rise to, 
 Margaret, with womanly sympathy, inquired about the child: — 
 
 *' And what became of the poor child ? — drowned, did you say ?" 
 
 *' The vessel in which I and my mother embarked was wrecked off the 
 coast of America. I tied the cross round the child's neck, and tried to 
 «ave it in my arms. But it was washed away from me ; and I lost my 
 senses for a time. I never saw her nor my mother more. When I 
 recovered I found myself on the surface of the water near a hencoop, 
 which I seized hold of. I could see nothing of the remains of the vessel, 
 nor of the rest of the crew or passengers. The night was pitchy dark, and 
 the sea was very high. I was floated on the hencoop away all night from 
 the land, and was at last quite exhausted, and expecting every moment to 
 be washed from my support, when a boat, which I did not see till it was 
 close to me, picked me up almost senseless. The boat belonged to a ship 
 bound from New York to the East Indies. Of course they could not stop 
 on their voyage for me ; so I was forced to accompany them to Bombay, 
 where I remained. I had all the money — little enough — which we had 
 been able to take with us, and the gold chain which Lord Sarum put round 
 the poor little child's neck. That was all I had. At Bombay I heard that 
 the native princes were in want of officers to introduce European tactics 
 into their armies. Fortunately I was well acquainted with the English 
 drill ; for you know, Mat, I was always fond of soldiering. Well — 1 made 
 my way into the interior of the country, engaged in service with a native 
 prince, and was soon promoted, as I was found useful, to a high commar.d , 
 This is not the time to tell you all my adventures in the East ; be satished 
 for the present to know that I have acquired in the land of roupees and 
 jewels sufficient to live at home comfortably, and to make others comfort- 
 able too. And now, Margaret, that I have told my story, spread the cloth 
 on the old table and set out what I brought with me for supper. We will 
 talk of old times, and hope that new ones will not be worse. And I spy a 
 cord in that corner ; it Avill do for me to tether out my horse with, India 
 fashion. The feed is not very prime about here I know, but lie was well 
 fed at the inn, and he can contrive to get a bite from the spring grass." 
 
 " There's some bran in that bucket," said Margaret, " if your horse 
 would eat it ; we had it for ourselves, but there's enough here for days, so 
 we can well spare that." 
 
 " Excellent !" said the traveller ; " I will make a mash for him, and with 
 the grass for dessert he will fare like a commissary's coach-horse — ^that is, 
 have the best that can be got. No harm, I suppose, in throwing these 
 sticks on the fire. The Indians, you know, are a chilly race. That's right, 
 Margaret, shut the shutter and light the candle. The evening is cold, as it 
 always is in this country in May. It's a fine evening though ; I see the 
 moon is getting up." 
 
 " Yes," said Matthew ; " it is full moon to-night." 
 
 *' Do you remember, Mat, what a glorious moon there was shining over 
 the moor on that frosty night when all that trouble happened?" 
 
 "Ah !" replied the woodman ; "we must hope that the moon will never 
 shine on the like of that again. From that time to this the people will 
 never go near the Pit at night." 
 
OB, THE BICH AND THE POOB. 211 
 
 The happy reunion of these old friends, however, was destined to be dis- 
 turbed by an event which added another tale of horror to the legends of 
 of the Haunted Pit. 
 
 CHAPITER XLVI. 
 
 THE ABSCONDER. 
 
 "Past ten o'clocli!" exclaimed the landlady of the White Bull:—" it's 
 very odd the young lady is not come back ! Blarney, do you know my 
 mind misgives me about that girl. — She has been sitting in her room aU 
 day, moping, in a very extraordinary manner. I went to the door once, 
 just to see if she wanted anything ; and I could hear her sobbing fit to 
 break your heart ! And when I looked through the keyhole I could see 
 her on her knees, as if she was praying. Now it's very right to say your 
 prayers when you go to bed ; but in the middle of the day, when one is 
 busy, it's not expected. It looks as if she was meditating something 
 desperate ! Gracious Heaven ! Suppose she was to tm-n out to be a mad 
 lunatic after all ! How's the moon ? Blarney, do leave off yoiu* ale and 
 your pipe for once, and attend to me. Did you ever know any one that 
 committed suicide ?" 
 
 " Bless you ! we have no time to commit suicide, as you call it, in the 
 service. We may grumble a bit now and then, when the work's hard and 
 the ration's scanty, and especially when there's no fighting ; but as to 
 committing suicide !^ — bless you! — we commit a good many things, but 
 not that. There was Sam Doalful of our troop ; he was my leading file 
 when I first took the king's shilling — God bless him ! — and a precious rum 
 file he was ! that's Sam, not the king ; bless his Majesty's royal heart— 
 I'll drink his health. Sam used to say he would commit suicide when 
 anything crossed him ; but bless you ! he never had the leisure. At one 
 time he was obliged to go to muster; at another he had his traps to clean; 
 or his horse was to be watered ; or he had to get ready for inspection ; or 
 we expected to come up with the enemy next morning — and then of course 
 he put it off ; or something or other was always happening ; so that poor 
 Sam Glum, as we used to call him, never could find time to do the job. 
 Besides, Sam was a brave fellow at bottom, and it's only cowards who kill 
 
 emselves." 
 
 *' It's very dreadful !" observed Mrs. O'Flagon pathetically. 
 
 * I don't see anything dreadful in being killed," continued the trooper ; 
 ** i 's the doing it yourself that I don't like. Why, bless you, any chap 
 ca do that! But what a precious nincompoop a fellow must be that 
 ca 't bear a hardship without directly deserting, as it were, from the 
 service ! It's like quitting one's colours in the midst of a battle ! That 
 was the way ^dth Sam ; only he was always talking of it and never did it. 
 When any little trifle happened to him — such as losing his sweetheart on 
 a march — there he was swearing he'd hang liimself— till he found a new 
 p2 
 
212 :eanj*y, the btxttle million bs.: 
 
 (me. ; and ih&i lie wasn't content, for if one of us gave her a buss in a 
 friendly way, and she didn't squeak out, then Sam would swear she was 
 false, and he would go and drown himself ! and if he had not relieved his 
 mind by giving one of his sweethearts a good strapping with his horse's 
 bridle, I do think it would have gone hard with him at the time — he wa» 
 60 very fond of her !" 
 
 " That was an odd way of showing his love." 
 
 " It was Sam's way. Different people have different ways of shovring 
 their love ; now I, my darhng. ..." 
 
 " Be quiet, Blarney : I'm thinking of the poor young lady. Do you 
 know, I'm quite uneasy. And now I think of it, she did roll her eyes 
 about in a very suspicious manner !" 
 
 " Lord love ye, my darling," replied the jovial trooper, " there's 
 nothing in that ! You should have seen how the gals used to roll their 
 eyes about at us boys when we were out at parade ! Ah ! those were the 
 times ! And then, when we chucked a joke at them, to see how they 
 would ^^Tiggle their pretty faces about under their kiss-me-quick bonnets, 
 and look up and down and every way, like a skittish young horse that 
 hasn't been broke in and don't know how to keep his head still. But if 
 you feel uneasy, my darling, why don't you take a glass of that brandy in 
 the bottles with their jolly red noses, that look as if they wanted one to 
 drink 'em ? I think I should like a drop myself!" 
 
 " Ah ! Blarney ! Blarney ! you think more of eyery gal that you see 
 than you do of me ! You long for your soldiering roistering days to come 
 back again I do believe : bad luck to me was the day When I became 
 Mrs. O'Flagon ! — My poor dear first husband ! rest his kind soul ! — I 
 wasn't content with him, and so he was taken from me. Ah ! ' Go farther 
 and fare worse !' that's a true saying." 
 
 " And am not I your dear second husband, my darling, that loves you 
 as much as ever ti-ooper loved his horse ? And ain't I a-loving you now, 
 my charmer ? And isn't the greatest delight that I have in life to look at 
 your beautifid face so plump and red, and take a quiet glass of brandy- 
 and- water with you — as husband and wife should do — sociably and 
 lovingly together?" 
 
 " Ah ! Blarney, that's the tongue that you have been used to 
 wheedle the women with ; but you shan't wheedle me. Get up, 
 if you want to be of use, and see what is become of the poor 
 young lady : we shall be getting into trouble ; and we shall 
 have a coroner's inquest about her, or something ; — though to be 
 siu^e that would be for the good of the house one way — ^not that 
 I wish to make a profit of the poor girl's death. When she 
 went out — it must be two hours since — she set off up the London 
 road." 
 
 "My darling," said the trooper, rising with alacrity, and clapping 
 on his head his trooper's cap, which he cherished as the symbol 
 of his much-loved occupation in former times, as he finished his 
 glass of ale at one vigorous toss — " if the little deserter is to 
 be found in partibus — no, that's not it — in rerum natui-a, as our 
 parson used to say — that is, my dear, if she's in the land of 
 the living — I'll bring her in to quai'ters — if she'll come — because 
 we can't make her, as she never enlisted ; that would be against 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 2^ 
 
 all the rules of war. — But I'll try my tongue on her, my darling, 
 and say that your own sweet self is dying from uneasiness ; and 
 I ." 
 
 " Stay, Blai'ney," said his wife, a sudden thought assailing her ; " I 
 think Jim had better go ; he knows the country better." 
 
 " Not a bit, my darling ; I know every hedge and ditch in the 
 country ; and depend on it, if she has pitched her tent within ten miles 
 round, I'll light on her, and know why she hasn't answered the roll- 
 call. It's just the sort of expedition that I like ; it's liice going out 
 a-foraging." / 
 
 " Then, Mr. O'Flagon, I can tell you that you shall not go 
 out a-foraging, as you call it, without my leave. You'll break 
 my heart, Blarney, you will — with your foraging and your wicked- 
 ness !"' 
 
 " Bless your heart, my darling ! what is it you would have ? First you 
 blow me up for not going, and now you put me down because I want to 
 go ! and — thunder and wounds, woman ! — what the devil is it you would 
 have ?" 
 
 " What would I have, Blarney, dear? why, you ! Do you suppose I 
 like you to go out at night to catch cold and make your old wounds open ? 
 Not I ! Do you think I don't care for you ? There, sit down like a good 
 
 dear man as you are, and Was it the brandy, did you say ? I'll get it, 
 
 dear, in a minute. There ! there's stuff that the king might be proud to 
 have a suck at. But be moderate, Blarney, pray do ; remember, brandy 
 costs money." 
 
 *' My darling, you know you may do with your good-natured, 
 fond husband just what you please, you do, you handsome wench. 
 Ah ! once I had a heart, but now you have got it in your bosom, 
 you have, you jade you ! Oh ! you know I'm so fond of you, you 
 can do anything with me ! Where's the man that ever loved you as I 
 have loved you ? as the song says ; and, my darling, where' s the 
 corkscrew ?" 
 
 *' Ah, Blarney ! you're thinking more of the brandy than of me, I fancy. 
 But there — that's enough for any man." 
 
 *' It's beautiful-looking stuff — like yourself, my darling ! Another 
 lump of sugar ; that's it ; don't put any more water to it. Its the 
 water always that intoxicates, and not the brandy. The pm-e liquor 
 never hm't any man ; it's the mixing it that does the mischief. Take a 
 sip yourself, my dear; there — that wiU do you good. Are you going 
 away ? Well, if you must attend to business you must ; but you needn't 
 take the bottle with you. Put it more within reach, my darhng; 
 that's just the place. Now I shall make myself comfortable for the 
 Bight." 
 
 Leaving her husband in this satisfactory state, the prudent 'landlady 
 proceeded to despatch Jim the ostler on one of the posthorses up the Lou- 
 don road to endeavoui* to gain tidings of the young lady who had left the 
 inn in so unusual a manner. 
 
 " If you can't find her anywhere else," she said to her messenger, "look 
 OF her at the White Woman's Pit, hard by the cottage of Matthew the 
 Woodman ; perhaps you may find her there." 
 
 *' No chance of that," replied her minister, shaking his head 
 
214 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 significantly ; " no one ever goes nigh the White Woman's Pit in 
 the daytime if he can help it, let alone at night. She won't be 
 there, missus ; but if she's anywhere by the up-road I shall be 
 sure to see her, for there's a good moon to-night any way : I think it's the 
 full." 
 
 So saying, the landlady's master of the horse departed on his errand, 
 with the sincere desire to execute his mistress's wishes, but with the very 
 decided determination not to trust himself near the haunted spot at which 
 the mysterious White Woman was popularly supposed to hold her midnight 
 orgies. 
 
 He proceeded leisurely on the road, keeping a wary look-out on 
 either side, and listening attentively from time to time to catch 
 any sound of complaint or distress. But for some time neither 
 sight nor sound met his eye or ear. He had jogged on for six 
 or seven miles on his way, when he heard at a distance the sound 
 of an approaching vehicle. As this was not the time when any 
 down-coach was expected, he was aware that it must be some private 
 carriage, and his well -practised ears enabled him to distinguish that 
 it was flying over the road at a tremendous rate of speed. Drawing 
 up to the side of the way to allow the carriage to pass, he was 
 surprised to see its pace relaxed as it approached him. When it 
 arrived opposite it suddenly stopped, and a voice from the inside called 
 out — 
 
 " Who are you, my man ?" 
 
 " The ostler at the White BuU." 
 
 " Ah ! this is lucky. Come nearer — to the window — -here. Has 
 anything remarkable happened in the neighbourhood within this day or 
 two ?' 
 
 " Nothing whatsumever ; except that wide-mouthed Bob who used to 
 live with us came to see missus yesterday, and he said that Lord Grand- 
 borough was coming down to the castle." 
 
 " I know — nothing else ?" 
 
 " Folks say there's a new workus to be built, and all the poor people are 
 to be shut up close — and as to their grub " 
 
 " Never mind that — I don't care for that." 
 
 " Ay, but the poor people do. And they say that Black Will has been 
 seen again in these parts." 
 
 "Who is Black Will?" 
 
 *' Everybody knows Black Will — that is, did know him. It's he that 
 was transported for that aifair in the Barn some sixteen years ago — and 
 for other things besides if all things be true ; he was the brother to the 
 husband of that crazy old gal, Rebecca " 
 
 " Hah ! Rebecca ! what do you loiow of Rebecca ? Is she down here ? 
 Have you seen her ?" 
 
 " Not I. I know nothing about her ; she hasn't been seen in these parts 
 for many a day." 
 
 " Do you know a place called the White Woman's Pit on the moor near 
 Sandy Flats ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know the White Woman's Pit well enough, but I 
 have no mind to go there— though missus did want me to look there 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 215 
 
 after the young lady ; as if she would go there — at this time of night 
 too !" 
 
 " What young lady ?" 
 
 " It's a young lady that came down yesterday, and has been behaving- 
 very improper and mysterious ; and she left us quite promiscuous 
 about eight o'clock to-night, and she's absconded nobody knows where, 
 and without paying her bill, which is quite irregular and what missus 
 isn't used to by no means ; and so this poor boss must suffer for it, and 
 I'm to go a-seeking after her at the White Woman's Pit! (Catch me 
 there !)" 
 
 " Is not to-night the full of the moon?" asked the traveller. 
 
 " Yes, my lord," said the servant in the rumble behind. " I know 
 particularly, because at the last stage they said we should have a fine night 
 down, as it was the full of the moon." 
 
 " I don't know what it may be in Lunnun," said the ostler very defe- 
 rentially, to whom the reply of the servant had revealed the rank of the 
 occupant of the carriage ; " but it's the full down here, because I heard 
 missus say so." 
 
 '' Can you take me by the shortest and best way to the place called the 
 White Woman's Pit }'' asked the nobleman. 
 
 The ostler hesitated. 
 
 *' If you do it well, you shall have five guineas.'* 
 
 Nothing would have induced the old ostler to visit that awful place 
 alone ; but he considered that he should be accompanied by the travelling 
 carriage and its party ; besides it was the place to which his mistress had 
 particularly desired him to go, so that he should have the satisfaction of 
 obeying her commands; in addition to which reasons there were five 
 reasons in the shape of guineas, which, joined with the others, efiectuaUy 
 removed all scruples of superstitious fear. Expressing an immediate 
 assent therefore to the lord's proposal, which he couched in terms expres- 
 sive of his extreme delight and eagerness to do anything which his lord- 
 ship might be pleased to direct, the ostler placed himself at the head ot 
 the party ; and, setting ofi" at a rapid pace in obedience to the lord's 
 directions, he quickly put the postillions and their cattle on their mettle to 
 keep up with the clattering pace with which he galloped in the direction 
 of the cross-road leading to the Moor. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 A NIGHT OF TERRORS. 
 
 There is a courage that exists from the ignorance of danger ; such is the 
 courage of a child : there is a courage that arises from the extremity of 
 despair ; such is the courage of the mother when in defence of her child 
 she faces the lion in his fmy : there is a courage which is based on 
 religious faith ; such is the courage of the martyr. But the courage 
 which supported Francesca in her perilous enterprise was difierent from 
 all these. It was the strong, ardent, absorbing hope of the fulfilment of 
 
216 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 the whole wish of her existence — tlie discovery of her parents- — that 
 inspired her with fortitude to wrestle with the terrors of that fearful 
 night ! 
 
 At first the freshness of the evening, and the invigorating coolness of the 
 air after her confinement in her chamber dui'ing the day, inspired her with a 
 buoyancy of spirit which she regarded as a favourable omen of the success 
 of her adventure. She had been so long secluded from the sun and air in 
 her close and miserable apartment in London, that the mere sight of the 
 fields and trees, and the unobstructed view of the sky which here and there 
 disclosed a star, filled her with pleasurable sensations. She felt like a bird 
 escaped from her cage, or a prisoner released from his dungeon ; and for a 
 while she gave herself up to the delicious thoughts which her hopes and 
 the romance of her solitude inspired. 
 
 But these illusions of the freshened animal spirits were quickly dispelled. 
 When she quitted the highway, and entered the cross-road which led to 
 the Moor, a sense of loneliness assailed her. The road was rutty and 
 uneven, showing that it was seldom used : there was no footpath — its 
 absence being evidence of the paucity of such travellers who passed that 
 way. To her left was a dreary waste, affording but scanty pasture for a 
 few sheep and cattle which had been driven to their respective folds and 
 enclosures on the approach of night ; to her right at a little distance was a 
 wood of low stunted ti*ees, stretching as far as the eye could penetrate, 
 and presenting the appearance of convenient ambush for the midnight 
 marauder. The pale light of the moon shed a dim lustre over the land- 
 scape ; but there was no sight of living thing ; neither man, nor animal, 
 nor bird, nor insect. All was calm and still ; and nature seemed buried in 
 deep repose. 
 
 Francesca stopped on her way. She looked before her and behind her ; 
 she scanned the wide waste on one side, but there was nothing to be seen, 
 and she could heai' no sound ; she strove to penetrate with searching eyes 
 into the deep recesses of the suspicious wood ; but she could see nothing ; 
 she could hear nothing. — She felt that she was alone ! alone there ; alone 
 in the world : amidst the millions of human beings who inhabited the 
 earth, she was alone ! She raised her eyes to the heavens, to the moon 
 walking in brightness, and to the stars spangling the sky with their spark- 
 ling effulgence, and she thought of the worlds beyond our own till her 
 thoughts wandered and became confused with overwhelming thoughts of 
 the vastness of space : she felt humbled — depressed — lost — in the immen- 
 sity of the creation ! 
 
 And then her thoughts ascended with awe and wonder to the Great 
 Being who by the power of his will had called into existence all the 
 glorious objects which she beheld, and the countless myriads of creatures 
 with which her fancy peopled them ; and as she thought, her heart misgave 
 her ! How could she dare to believe that the hopes — or the fears — or the 
 prayers of a creature such as she was — an atom in the boundless universe 
 —could attract the notice of the Great Supreme whose type is Infinity ? 
 
 Infinity ! But with infinite power and infinite majesty was there not 
 also infinite goodness — benevolence vast and wide enough to comprehend 
 mthin the amplitude of divine love the meanest of God's creatures ? Was 
 not she also the object of His affection and His care ? and could she doubt 
 of Heaven's protection, or despair of divine assistance in her lonely 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 217 
 
 pilgrimage ? — She could not ! She felt that she walked under God's eye, 
 and that in the midst of perils she should be safe so long as she walked in 
 purity of heart, and wa.s prompted by good intention. Filled with such 
 consolatory thoughts, she knelt down on the earth and prayed for the 
 divine help in her arduous undertaking. Refreshed in spirit, and fortified 
 by religious faith and reliance in the justice and goodness of God, she 
 arose, and with invigorated step pursued her way. It was not long before 
 her faith in Heavenly protection was put to the test. 
 
 The road was narrow but straight, so that the wayfarer could see for a 
 considerable distance before her, ajthough all objects were but indistinctly 
 to be traced by moonlight. Franoesca, who could not avoid casting many 
 an anxious look aromid, had not proceeded far before she beheld an 
 object in the distance which suddenly attracted her attention. At fir&t 
 she thought it was the stump of a tree ; but a stump of a tree on a trodden 
 road was an unusual occurrence ; and she paused to examine it. It was 
 then that she became aware that the object was in motion ; and presently 
 she was sensible that it was advancing towards her. As she was shaded 
 by a dwarf oak, her own person was imobserved, while the figure of the 
 night wanderer was plainly visible in the light of the moon. 
 
 As the object came nearer she perceived that it was a man with a long 
 stick or a gun under his arm. In a moment all her courage fled, and she 
 remained fixed by the trank of the tree in an attitude of trembling appre- 
 hension. All the fears of the woman came over her ; the night ; the 
 solitude ; the loneliness and dreariness of the place ; — she was assailed 
 with indefinable terrors. As she looked she saw the man cross from the 
 opposite side of the road to her own. It was then that her fear became 
 most violent. While there was yet time she determined to fly farther into 
 the wood. She retreated cautiously ; taking advantage of the shadiest 
 trees, and turning her eyes occasionally to the path of the man, whose 
 steps, to her still further alarm, seemed to be bent in the same direction as 
 her own. She advanced deeper into the wood and with a quicker pace, 
 when to her great relief she came on the ruins of a rude hut, in which she 
 determined to conceal herself till the cause of her alarm had passed by. 
 
 She entered the hut; it had neither door nor window; but it was 
 divided inside into two parts by a partition of Uvigs and plaster. She was 
 congratulating herself at having discovered this apparently secure asylum 
 when she heard the tread of footsteps ; and looking out of the aperture 
 which foftned the window, to her horror she beheld the man, whose form 
 was dimly visible in the shadow of the trees, advancing direct to the place. 
 She hastily retreated to the furthennost corner of the inner room, which 
 was involved in darkness, and she had hardly settled herself in her crouch- 
 ing posture when the man entered the hut. 
 
 Francesca held her breath. The man had a gun in his hand ; that she 
 distinctly saw. What was his object ? Why did he come there ? Had 
 he seen her ? What could she do ? Scream out ? who would hear her ? 
 Fly ? that was impossible : to escape from the hut she must pass him ! 
 She feared he would hear the beating of her heart, and drag her out of her 
 hiding-place ! That the man could be abroad for no good purpose, her 
 fears made her feel certain ; for why was he armed with a gun, and why 
 did he come to that hut ? What was his business there ? If he was an 
 honest labouring man he would be at home. None but thieves prowled 
 
218 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 about in that guise at such an hour of the night ! Her brain whirled, 
 and her eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets from the agony of 
 her fear, when presently she heard the man speak. There was more 
 than one then ? how was that ? she had seen only one — was there 
 another in the hut when she entered, and who had observed her ? Then 
 she was lost ! Her teeth chattered with terror. 
 
 No : the man was talking to himself ; there was only one ; but one 
 perhaps was more dangerous for her than two ? A second person might 
 be a protector. Now that she was assured there was only one she 
 regretted the absence of the other whom her fears had conjured up. The 
 man was talking to himself: — what did he say ? She might gather from 
 his discourse perhaps something to reassure her, or to guide her in her 
 dealings with him should he discover her ; but her heart beat so, she 
 feared every moment that he would hear its throbbings. He spoke again:-— 
 she listened : — 
 
 " And here's the old hut still standing," said the man ; " at least, 
 what's left of it. I never thought to see it again. Fourteen years at 
 Botany Bay working in the coal-mines was not the sort of work to prolong 
 a man's life. But I've got through it ; and here I am again ! — here I am 
 again ! Well, I never thought it ! " 
 
 There was a pause ! the man's revelation of his condition was not 
 calculated to inspire confidence in the trembling Francesca. That he had 
 been convicted of some crime and transported was certain. Not a very 
 attractive person for a young girl to meet in a lonely hut in the middle of 
 a thick wood, apart from human habitation and help ! Presently the man 
 resumed his soliloquy : — 
 
 "Yes, I've killed something among these trees in my time, and it 
 shall go hard if I don't kill more. It's better, though, to wring a neck 
 quietly than to let the crack of one's piece be heard. What does it 
 matter, so long as you kill and pocket the money, whether it's by a 
 wrung neck or a shattered head. Though, after all, there's a pleasure in 
 killing with this tidy tool," slapping the butt of his gun, " for kilHng's 
 sake. But it should be right through the head — that settles at once, and 
 makes a clean job of it ; a volley in the breast is murder ! " 
 
 There was another pause. Francesca resigned herself to her fate ! 
 Death seemed inevitable ! Here was a convict returned from transporta- 
 tion full of bloodthirsty thoughts, and, from long practice in his murderous 
 career, taking a pleasure in killing for killing's sake ! She closed her 
 eyes to shut out from view the violent and imminent death which her 
 fancy pictured to be impending over her — too glad if she could escape 
 from violence still more horrible than death itself ! 
 
 After awhile the man spoke again : — 
 
 "They thought they had done for Black Will when they got him 
 safely lodged at the bottom of a coal-mine in Botany-Bay ! Perhaps they 
 thought I wasn't black enough, and so they thought they would make me 
 blacker ! " Here he laughed a low laugh at his own joke, which to 
 Francesca's ears sounded fiendish. " But here I am again — and, if ever I 
 longed for anything in my life, it is to have a shot at something just 
 now ! " — Here Francesca heard a clicking of the lock of the man"s gun, 
 which filled her with fresh fears. " But there's nothing to shoot ! not 
 even a young'un to bring down. I should like to light a fire on the old 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 219 
 
 hearth. Nothing inside here, I suppose," he said, rising up, and entering 
 the inner room, the walls of which he felt round with his gun. " They 
 have taken away everything. Well! Ill pick up a few sticks out- 
 side and make myself comfortable for once. There can be no harm in 
 that, any way." 
 
 Saying this, he left the hut, and, going into the front, he stooped 
 down to collect the few dry bits of boughs that were scattered about. 
 Francesca thought this was a good opportunity to escape, and she rose 
 from her form where she had lain crouched like a timid hare, and 
 approached the door ; but the m^n was directly in front of the hut and 
 barred her escape. The rustling of her dress, however, caught his quick 
 ear, and he hastily pointed his gun in the direction of the door where 
 Francesca stood. Standing within the hut, she could see him in the 
 moonlight, herself unseen. She stood motionless and holding her breath. 
 She heard the man give a low laugh and mutter something to himself ; 
 and presently he re-entered the hut, bearing an armful of dry sticks. 
 The noise which they made disguised the sound of Francesca' s retreat to 
 her corner, into which she shrank as before. 
 
 Soon there was a flickering blaze in the outer room, which illuminated 
 the entrance of the inner one, where Fanny lay concealed. Every moment 
 she expected that the man would enter it with a lighted piece of wood 
 and survey its contents. But it seemed that he was loth to leave his 
 fire; and presently the smell of tobacco, which pervaded the place, 
 made her sensible that he had lighted his pipe, and was set in, she hoped, 
 for smoking. 
 
 " Now," said the man, " if one only had a nice gal and a bottle of rum, 
 the place would be bearable ; — however, a pipes no bad companion for 
 want of a better. I should feel happier though if I had killed sometLing ; 
 just committed a little bit of murder on the inhabitants of these parts. 
 But all in good time. — Can't have all we wish. — And I am very tired.— 
 I should Hke to have a sleep. — Botany.... — Governor. .. .Beaks. .. • 
 grabbed. . . .single barrel. . . .good shot. . . .not fair. . . .murder — murder 
 — murder. ..." 
 
 Francesca heard him stretch himself out on the floor ; then he breathed 
 bard — harder : he snored ; he slept : she might escape ! Her heart beat 
 quick ! She arose as softly as possible ; crept on tiptoe to the entrance of 
 the inner room ; listened ; waited ; listened again ; his measured 
 breathings assured her that he was sound asleep. — She ventured to pro- 
 trude her head and look out. There was but little fire left, which cast a 
 faint red glow over the room. He was certainly asleep ; but as he lay, 
 his body was between her and the outer door. What should she do ? 
 Try to pass over him without waking him ? That was a perilous step ! 
 Wait till he awoke and went away ? That was not less perilous ! His 
 sleep was sound ; his face was nearly fronting her ; and he held" his gun, 
 even in his sleep, grasped and ready for service. Dare she attempt it ? 
 It was desperate, but it was imperative. It was her only chance of 
 escape from him. She determined to try it. 
 
 Taking ofi" her shoes, which she held in her hand, that her tread might 
 be lighter, and gathering her clothes round her so as to prevent the 
 slightest noise from the rustling of her dress, she issued forth from her 
 hiding-place. Putting her foot on the ground so lightly that it would 
 
S^ FJiWNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEB : 
 
 scarcely have left its print on sand, she stepped rapidly over his 
 feet and gained the door ; but in her haste she threw down a few sticks 
 which the man had collected for the fire and placed by the entrance. The 
 noise of their falling awoke him. Instantly gaining his feet, he looked 
 round the hut for his enemy, and, exclaiming " A spy I a spy ! " he 
 discharged his fowling-piece at the object which he saw retreating. Fran- 
 eesca heard the shot rattle against the other side of the tree which she had 
 just turned ; but, hardly conscious of the danger she had escaped, she fled 
 with the swiftness of a startled fawn, and was soon buried in the thickest 
 part of the forest. 
 
 Exhausted with her rapid flight, and overcome with fear, Francesca 
 sank down panting at the foot of a tree. Her late encounter had made 
 her fully sensible of the rashness of her midnight expedition, and she 
 would have given worlds to be safe in her little chamber at the inn. 
 How to find her way out of the wood was now the question. Which way 
 should she turn ? And whichever way she might go, was there not danger 
 in her path ? Bowing down her head in her hands, she gave way to an 
 hysterical burst of tears. 
 
 She wept long and bitterly; they were the tears of repentance as well 
 a« of sadness. She felt she had done wrong. She had committed a great 
 imprudence. It was more than rash to venture on such a hazai'd, young 
 as she was, alone, and in the dangerous hours of the night ! She had, she 
 feared, relied too much on herself: she had been guilty of an excess 
 of pride and self-confidence. And now, she was indeed in the condition 
 of an outcast ! Lost in a gloomy forest, where it seemed she should be 
 obliged to pass the night. She was afraid to stir for fear of being dis- 
 covered by the man who she thought was pursuing her. But to remain 
 there all night ! exposed to the cold and all the hoiTors of such a situation ! 
 What could she do ? She raised her hands to Heaven in supplication. 
 The moon, broad and full, was shining down through the thick leaves of 
 the trees, and Francesca gazed on it as on a friend. Suddenly the thought 
 occurred to her, that when she had knelt down in the road the moon was oa 
 her left hand, and that the road stretched straight before her. This 
 thought reanimated her. She had now a guide out of the wood. First 
 putting on her shoes, which she held in her hand, softly and cautiously, 
 as the wild dear leaves its lair, she stole from her retreat, and made hei* 
 way through the trees. It was not long before she came on the road ; and 
 then, with present safety, her courage partially returned ; and with her 
 reawakened courage, her daring purpose. 
 
 " It was as safe," she hastily argued, " to go forward to the Moor as to 
 go back; and at the Pit she should meet Rebecca, who would be a 
 protection to her, and who could serve as a guide to some place of safety." 
 Besides she remembered that the Pit was near a cottage belonging to one 
 called Matthew the Woodman, and there at least she should find shelter. 
 She judged also that the spot could not be far oif, as she had now nearly 
 reached the end of the forest ; and by the light of the moon she could 
 perceive the open Moor, like a vast sea, losing itself in the distance. 
 With this resolve, therefore, she hastened on ; and leaving the road 
 towards her right hand, she pursued her way in a slanting direction towards 
 her left, according to the information which she had gained of the positicMi 
 €>f the Pit ; and in a short time she had reason to believe,, from the marks 
 
OK, THE KICH AlfD THE POOTt. 221 
 
 and signs which she was able to distinguish around her, that she was close 
 to the appointed spot. 
 
 The moon now became overshadowed with clouds, and Francesea, 
 fearing that she might come upon the Pit before she was aware, and be 
 precipitated into its depths, proceeded more cautiously and slowly ; and 
 the pause in her excited course gave time to her to reflect. She stopped 
 and looked around her. She could see nothing moving. Behind her she 
 could trace the dim outline of the wood that she had quitted ; on one side 
 was the wide surface of the dreary Moor, unbroken except by a stunted 
 tree here and there, and some few^ bushes which scarcely rose above the 
 surface. Before her, to the left, she fancied she could make out in the 
 distance what appeared to her to be a cottage nearly hidden by a few trees 
 which intercepted the view. She judged that she was now near the Pit, 
 and she looked out anxiously for Rebecca ; but she could see no one. 
 She advanced farther ; and then, uncertain as to her course, stood still. 
 
 All was silence around. The moon, covered with clouds, no longer 
 afforded its cheering light : the night was cold, and the dreary Moor 
 looked more desolate and waste in the obscurity. Francesea felt anxious 
 and nervous. She knew that she must be close to the Pit, but she feared 
 to advance farther, lest a false step should lead to danger. \^Tiere 
 was Rebecca ? Had she deceived her ? Or was it only the wanderings 
 of madness that had prompted the mysterious language and the 
 tempting promises of the strange woman? Her revelations were the 
 revelations of reason, but her words were the ravings of insanity ! What 
 did she mean by saying in her letter that the " White Woman" 
 would meet them there ? Was there to be a third person ? Who 
 was the White Woman ? Was she a real personage, or some phantom of 
 the brain conjured up in the wandering fancy of the mad woman ? 
 No : — it must be some tradition connected with the Pit. She remembered 
 that Rebecca had said that she would call to the White Woman 
 to come out of the Pit. That was it ; the Pit was haunted ; and 
 tile White Woman was the spirit supposed to dwell there. — Strange 
 superstition ! but such superstitions had existed in all ages ! Could there 
 be any truth in it ? Was it that the spirits of the departed were sometimes 
 permitted to revisit the earth for some mysterious purpose ? But why 
 should they be malignant ? The White Woman was supposed to be 
 a malignant spirit, or why should her haunts be dreaded ? What 
 could have given rise to the popular belief in the present story ? There 
 must be some foundation for it. But her reason and her sense told 
 her that it could be only an idle tale ! And yet, while she reasoned, 
 that lurking superstition which aifects all minds — the bravest and 
 the strongest as well as the cowardly and the weakest — began gi*adually 
 to steal over her, and to paralyse her faculties with its benumbing 
 blight. The night ; the solitude ; the bodily exhaustion, and the 
 nervous excitement; all tended to darken, to weaken, and to confuse 
 her thoughts. Her head at last grew dizzy; and her eyes, wearied 
 with straining, seemed to see strange sights ; and it was at the 
 moment when her overtasked mind and wearied frame had most 
 fitted her to receive supernatural impressions, that suddenly a form arose 
 as it were out of the earth, and, standing before her, pronounced the 
 word — 
 
222 FAKNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 *' Francesca !" 
 
 Francesca screamed, and, shutting her eyes, sank on her knees with 
 terror ! 
 
 " Francesca !" 
 
 Francesca opened her eyes ; and, the rising wind sweeping the clouds 
 from the sky, the light of the full moon revealed to her the gaunt form and 
 wild features of Rebecca ! 
 
 " Frar\cesca !" repeated the mad woman ; " why have you delayed so 
 long ? The White Woman is weary of waiting for you. I have kept my 
 ear to the edge of the Pit to listen to her, and I have heard her wailing 
 below !" 
 
 " Is this the White Woman's Pit?" asked Francesca, her flesh creeping 
 on her bones at the sinistrous words of the mad woman. 
 
 " It is here," replied Rebecca, pointing with her finger. " This is the 
 place where the White Woman dwells ; it is here that she pronounced her 
 curse on her persecutor ; and her spirit haunts the spot till her curse is 
 fulfilled ! — But come ! She is calling us ; we must not vex her ! We 
 two," she continued, taking hold of Francesca's hand — " we two will go to 
 her together !" 
 
 " What is it," said Francesca, " that you would have me do ? You 
 promised, if I met you at this spot, that you would tell me who were my 
 parents." 
 
 " And I will tell you ; but not here. We must be alone — quite alone ! 
 No one but the White Woman must hear us ; for she knows all ! Spirits 
 see things we cannot see ! And I hear her cries in the hollow pit below ; 
 and she is angry that we do not come !" 
 
 "My good woman," said Francesca, growing more terrified, and 
 perceiving that Rebecca was the sport of insanity, " what do you mean ? 
 What is the Pit and the White Woman to us ? Tell me what you have to 
 tell me here." 
 
 " I cannot ; I must not ; the White Woman would be angry, and she 
 is my sister and my spirit, and I will not have her angered ! She is 
 white ; and her clothes are white ; and her hair is white ; and her eyes 
 are white ; all white ! because white is the colour of the dead ! And 
 the White Woman is dead, and this is her spirit ! and she is waiting for 
 you ; and even now I hear her chiding because you will not come !" 
 
 " But, Rebecca," said Francesca, seeing that the woman was quite mad, 
 and hoping that she could reason her out of her delusion ; " how are 
 we to get to the bottom of the Pit ? had you not better go and get a 
 ladder?" 
 
 " A ladder ! a ladder to go down the Pit ! Child, no ladder that man 
 ever made could reach the bottom of this Pit ! Is it by a ladder that the 
 White Woman comes out of it ? No : — she rises up like a shade and floats 
 in the air ! I can fly in the air too ; and I will hold your hand, and so we 
 will sink down, down, down, like two clouds ; and then we shall know the 
 secrets of the cave, and the White Woman will greet us as her sisters. — 
 Come ! Francesca ! come !" 
 
 " Stay," said Francesca, her blood freezing with horror at the terrible 
 death that seemed to be her doom, and finding herself completely in the 
 power of the maniac, who held her hand clutched tightly, and was about 
 
^■'^'^>^^m , 
 
 The fate of Rehecca 
 
OR, THE KICH AND THE POOR. 223 
 
 to drag her to the edge of the Pit ; " stay ; I have a word to say to you — 
 Rebecca." 
 
 *' Speak quick then, for I hear the "White Woman calling, and her eyes 
 will glare at us if we do not go to her." 
 
 " Stay ! Rebecca ! You remember that you carried mo in your arms when 
 I was a little child. ..." 
 
 " Who told you that ?" 
 
 "You told me so yourself; you said that, when I was saved from 
 the Pit by Edward Lacey, it was you who received me in your arms, and 
 who brought me back to life by your care — you did, Rebecca — think— 
 remember !" 
 
 " Remember ! I remember too well ! I wish I could forget ! Strange 
 "\isions have come to me ! Once I dreamed — no — it was not a dream ! I 
 remember I held the child in my arms — and it reminded me of my own 
 child that I had lost ! One — two — three — four — all lost ! Hah ! They 
 are at the bottom of the Pit ! We shall find them there. Make haste, I 
 say, and come !" And with these words, and holding the young girl in 
 her powerful grasp, with maniac strength she pulled her to the edge of the 
 precipice. 
 
 " Hah ! hah !" she cried ; " now we are coming ! Jump, Francesca, 
 jump !" 
 
 " Rebecca ! Rebecca ! a moment ! stay ! I want to tell you something — 
 about your children — about your husband " 
 
 " My husband !" exclaimed Rebecca ; " do you dare to speak to me of 
 my nusba:::* • 'xjVI, do you know what they did to my husband ? lliey 
 Idlled him, and they burned him ! Burned him and killed him ! And do 
 you know who did it ? Hah ! that's another secret ! Your father, and 
 your father's father ; they did it ! They sent him away in a convict-ship 
 — yes, they made my husband a convict ! a convict, girl ! And I am the 
 con\'ict's wife that the rich and the proud revile and spurn at !" 
 
 " Rebecca — Rebecca !" piteously exclaimed Francesca, as the mad 
 woman shook her in her fury ; " it was not I that did it. Do not kill me 
 for it !" 
 
 " Why did they kill my husband and my children ? It was you and 
 yours who did it. Their blood runs in your veins, and why should you 
 be spared the penalty ? Hah ! it is so ! it is ! One — Two — Three ! On 
 three generations the curse of the White Woman was to fall ! One has 
 suffered ! — two have suffered ! — three must suffer ! — and you are the third. 
 The White Woman has delivered you into my hands for sacrifice ! Come !" 
 said the mad woman, throwing her bony and nervous arms round the 
 fainting girl, who was utterly bereft by teiTor of all power of resistance ; 
 *' come ! we will jump down the Pit together, and then the curse will 
 be fulfilled, and all the secrets will be revealed !" Saying this, the 
 maniac lifted up Francesca as if she was a child, and, with the wild scream 
 of insanity, was on the point of casting herself and her victim into 
 the deep abyss of the Haunted Pit, when a shout was heard behind them, 
 and, as Rebecca disappeared down the fearful chasm, Francesca felt her- 
 self torn from the clutches of the mad woman, and in the arms of Lord 
 Manley ! 
 
 Excess of terror struggling with excess of joy, and overcoming all her 
 faculties, she fainted : and in that condition was borne by her preserver to 
 the woodman's cottage. 
 
22 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 NEW PJEUBNDS. 
 
 The heart-rending shrieks at the Pit's mouth had not been unheard or 
 unattended to by the inmates of the cottage. Edward Lacey had pro- 
 longed his stay far into the night ; and the aged couple felt no weariness 
 in talking of by-gone times, and in listening to Edward's stories of his 
 various adventures. But the last cries of Francesca had startled them in 
 the midst of their conversation and their mirth, and Edward, starting up, 
 instantly rushed out of the cottage, and reached the scene of peril at the 
 moment that Lord Manley had received in his arms the fainting form of 
 the almost lost Francesca. Matthew and Margaret followed as fast as 
 their aged limbs could carry them, and the whole party in silence had 
 returned together. Edward, or, as he must now be called. Colonel Lacey, 
 was not slow in offering his aid to Francesca's preserver in transporting 
 his charge to the cottage ; but Lord Manley, after a hasty glance at the 
 soldierly-looking stranger, declined his assistance in brief terms- &«d, 
 having deposited his precious burthen in the inner room^ hvi leh *>t>» ^c the 
 motherly care of old Margaret, by whose assistance she was quickly 
 restored to a state of consciousness. 
 
 Lord Manley, in the mean time, had despatched his servant on Colonel 
 Lacey' s horse, which was promptly proffered for the service, for his own 
 travelling carriage, which he had left at the edge of the Moor. As soon, 
 therefore, as Francesca had in some degree recovered her strength and 
 spirits, the carriage had arrived at the cottage, and Lord Manley went out 
 for a short time to make inquiries respecting the best way of reaching the 
 Jhigh road, and personally to inspect the state of the Moor in that direc- 
 tion. Colonel Lacey, from a disinclination to put himself forward, remained 
 behind. It was then that Margaret, whose tongue was the only member 
 of her body which did not partake of the general infirmity of old age, 
 released fiom the restraint which her awe of a lord had imposed on her, 
 gave way to her curiosity : — 
 
 " Goodness gracious !" said the dame, giving vent to her long pent-up 
 breath in her habitual exclamation ; " well ! this is extraordinary ! This 
 is the second time. Mat, that you have helped, as I may say, to save a 
 fellow-creature from that dreadful Pit ! And that awful woman, Rebecca, 
 who hasn't been seen for I don't know how many years, to jump down it 
 in that horrid way ! Well — she was always mad, but I never thought she 
 was so mad as that ! How was it, miss, that she wanted to pull you in r 
 Had you angered her in any way?" 
 
 " I did very wrong," said Francesca; " and I was very rash and very 
 foolish. That poor woman enticed me to meet her there, by a promise to 
 tell me something that it very much concerned me to know. By some 
 means she was in possession of a secret respecting me. . . .and— in truth I 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOE. 225 
 
 liave done wrong — I see it now — I ought not to have trusted myself to 
 such a person, insane as she was." 
 
 "A secret!" exclaimed Margaret ; "goodness gracious! She knew a 
 secret, did she ? Goodness, what a pity she did not tell it to you before 
 she jumped down into the Pit ! Goodness gracious ! I wonder what the 
 secret was!" 
 
 " I think," said Francesca, looking at Matthew attentively, " this must 
 be the woodman's cottage which I have heard speak of?" 
 
 " To be sure it is, miss ; and that is Matthew the Woodman ; my 
 husband, miss ; and I am Margaret, his wife ; and that. ..." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Francesca, interrupting the loquacity of the aged 
 dame, " you will allow me to ask you a few questions about a sad event 
 that occm-red many years ago r " 
 
 " As many as you please, miss," replied the ready Margeret, who, old 
 as she was, was burning with curiosity to know who the " miss" was who 
 had been introduced so suddenly and so strangely to her acquaintance. 
 
 " Did not an event occur, many years ago, similar to this?" asked 
 Francesca, turning away her eyes from Colonel Lacey, who was regarding 
 her with so earnest and inquiring a gaze, that she blushed and felt confused. 
 
 " About a woman and a child that was lost ?" said Margaret eagerly. 
 
 "Yes; that was the story," said Francesca, in a voice that slightly 
 faltered. 
 
 "Bless you! I can tell you all about it. Nobody can tell you more 
 about it than I can, for it was my good man there who saved the child— 
 and that. ..." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " It was indeed ; wasn't it. Mat ? and it was I, although I say it 
 myself, who saved the child's life after it was got out all benumbed with 
 the cold, with its dear little nose quite blue, and its two little hands like 
 two little bits of ice, they were so cold ! Well, I chafed it, and rubbed it, 
 and rubbed it, and at last it came to ; and it was the most beautifullest 
 little dear that eyes ever beheld ! such eyes ! like little stars ! It's lost 
 now — drowned, poor thing ! But that's not the story that you want to 
 hear. Well, you must know that the son of a great lord, whose castle is 
 not many miles from here — Lord Sarum it was — took a wonderful fancy 
 to the child ; and people thought — and indeed some said .... but that's all 
 Tery mysterious ; and nobody ever knew anything about it ; but the child, 
 as I was saying, was put under the care of Mrs. Lacey — poor Mrs. Lacey! 
 she's dead and gone too ! Well — where was I ? Oh ! When poor Ned 
 Lacey was obliged to leave the country — never mind why — Colonel, I'm 
 not going to tell secrets. ..." 
 
 Francesca looked up at Colonel Lacey; but there was in his coun- 
 tenance an expression so strange — so agitated — so mingled with grief, and 
 hope, and joy— that she hastily turned again to the dame, who xjontinued 
 without stopping, and with a volubility that was positively astonishing :— • 
 
 " he took the child with him ; that is, he and his mother. And 
 
 often and often have I and my good man wondered and wondered what 
 had become of them ! Don't speak. Colonel ; I'll teU it all to the young 
 lady myself : — Well, we used to wonder what had become of them, but it 
 was of no use, because our wondering didn't make us know more about 
 it ; but, oh, goodness ! it's sad to tell ! The earth is full of soitows, as 
 a 
 
226 PANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 the bible says, and the sea too ; for poor Ned Lacey's mother ! — ah ! 
 Colonel ! I see it saddens you — ^but time cures grief ; — well, the ship in 
 which Ned Lacey and his mother went, and the child that I told you of, 
 was wrecked on the coast of — America, wasn't it, Colonel? — yes, 
 America; and poor Mrs. Lacey was drowned — Colonel, don't take on 
 so ! — and the poor little child was drowned too !" 
 
 " No," said Francesca, " the child was not drowned ; it was saved !" 
 
 " Bless me, miss ! how did you know that ?" 
 
 "The child's name was " 
 
 " The child's name ? Bless me ! to think that I have forgotten the 
 child's name ! It was a foreign name like : the child's name was . . 
 was. ." 
 
 " Francesca," said Colonel Lacey. 
 
 *' One word more," said Francesca. " Was there not a curious cross 
 found at the edge of the Pit on that same night?" 
 
 "There was," said the Colonel; "and that cross was tied round the 
 neck of the child with these hands when the vessel was wrecked." 
 
 " You ! you!" exclaimed Francesca, rising up, and regarding the dark 
 but handsome featm-es of the stranger in excessive agitation : " then you 
 would know it again ! Is this the cross ?" 
 
 *' That is the cross," said the Colonel, his voice broken with emotion, 
 and devouring the features of Francesca wdth eager eyes ; " and on it is 
 engraved the name of ' Francesca.' " 
 
 " Who then are you?" she said, as she looked at his face, which was 
 working convulsively, while her own breast heaved with an emotion which 
 she could not subdue : — " Who," she repeated, as she clasped her hands 
 imploringly, " oh ! who are you ?" 
 
 " Lord love ye, miss ! that's Ned Lacey, that saved the child from the 
 Pit!" 
 
 Francesca was seized with a delirium of joy thus to meet with one who 
 had preserved her from a dreadful death, the bitter foretaste of which she 
 had but recently suffered ; and, forgetful of all the restraints of conven- 
 tional decorum — following only the dictates of her own heart — she bent 
 down her head in reverence, and clasped his hand in hers — the hand of 
 her earliest friend, her preserver ! while Edward, with a flood of tears 
 which did no shame to the manly fortitude that had shown itself in a 
 hundred fights, pressed her in his arms and imprinted on her brow a kiss 
 of respectful and fond affection. 
 
 At this moment Lord Manley re-entered the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 A SURPRISE, 
 
 .If the instinctive penetration of woman had not already made Francesca 
 conscious of the sentiments of Lord Manley towards her, the look which 
 the young nobleman cast on her and on Colonel Lacey, at the dubious 
 natiire of their too affectionate greeting, would have revealed his secret. 
 
OK, THE HIGH AND THE POOK. 2S1f 
 
 There was a pause : — ^Matthew and Margaret were absorbed in wonder, 
 and stood with dilated eyes gazing on the scene. The old man was 
 affected to tears, which ran down his furrowed cheeks ; and the dame, 
 working away vigorously with her apron to clear her eyes from the 
 copious moistui-e which prevented her from seeing distinctly, cried and 
 laughed by turns ; at the same time she " found her breath so catched," 
 as she expressed it, that she was unable, notwithstanding her usual facility 
 on most occasions, to give vent to her surprise in words. Colonel Lacey, 
 in doubt as to the relation in which Lord Manley stood with respect to 
 Francesca, was embarrassed, and, unable on the sudden to make up his 
 mind what position to assume : Francesca also, from her secret conscious- 
 ness of Lord Manley*s love for her, was confused and shamed — fearful that 
 her action might be misinterpreted : while Lord Manley, inexpressibly 
 pained at a sight which seemed to blast in a moment all the hopes which 
 he had so romantically cherished, grew red and pale alternately. It 
 instantly struck him that the object of Francesca's journey was to meet 
 the man whom he saw in such familiar understanding with her ; and that 
 the secret of her sudden flight from London and of her adventurous daring 
 was now explained. Never had he been so fully sensible of the depth of 
 his passion for the humble girl as now when it seemed that all hope of 
 calling her his own was at an end ! Stung with his disappointment, he 
 might perhaps have let fall, in his sudden pain, some word expressive of 
 the sharp agony which he was suffering, had not Margaret, fortunately for 
 the preservation of his pride, recovered her breath. Her tongue began its 
 evolutions immediately : — 
 
 " Gracious goodness ! To think of this ! Here's Ned Lacey come back 
 a colonel and a nabob, and the child that was lost is found again ! and all 
 in a day ! Mercy on me ! I think I shall die with joy, I shall indeed ! 
 Mat, look at her I Did you ever see any lady half so handsome ? And 
 the very same eyes too ! I declare I was saying to myself, I've seen those 
 eyes before, but where my poor old head couldn't remember ! How could 
 it ? for who would ever think that this beautiful lady was the poor little 
 child that nobody would own — how many years ago ? How long ago is it, 
 Mat ? It was just before the judges came down with- their awful wigs, 
 although there were no 'sises, on purpose to try those poor people : — -let 
 me see : ten, eleven, twelve — why it is, must be, nearly sixteen years ago: 
 dearey me ! how quick time goes ! why, we must be getting quite old 
 folks now, Mat. And you are really the child that Ned — I beg his pardon 
 — that Colonel Lacey saved from the Pit ! Then you have been twice 
 saved! Well, that is wonderful indeed! that is something to talk of! 
 And, if I might make so bold as to ask, how did you find your father and 
 mother?" 
 
 " In the presence of you, my kind friends," said Francesca, " and of 
 my two preservers" (Lord Manley did not like to be coupled in a bracket 
 with the other preserver after this fashion), " to whom," continued Fran- 
 cesca, *' I can never be sufficiently grateful — I can have no reserve." 
 
 She then related, briefly, how she was saved from the wreck, and her 
 subsequent history, to which Colonel Lacey listened with deep interest, 
 politely but keenly scrutinised, as he was aware, by Lord Manley. 
 
 " Sir," said Lord Manley^ with aristocratic but freezing politeness, and 
 q2 
 
228 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 a slight tone of bitterness, which emanated from that instantaneous dislike 
 which he had taken to Colonel Lacey when he saw him saluting Francesca, 
 " it seems that you are an old friend of this young lady, and are well 
 acquainted with all her affairs ?" 
 
 " My lord," replied Colonel Lacey, with equal coldness of manner, and 
 drawing himself up, " I had the delight, as you have heard, of saving the 
 life of this child — I should rather say, this young lady — many years ago. 
 Since then, I have been abroad — mostly in India — and it is only to-day 
 that I have retm-ned to this spot, where I passed many years of my life ; 
 and since that fatal time, when I supposed that this young lady — then a 
 child — was swallowed up in the raging sea on the American coast, I have 
 never seen her ; nor indeed was I aware of her happy escape from the 
 general wreck until this hour, when chance has so strangely brought us 
 together again — I trust for her advantage. And I am delighted to find 
 that the child whom I regarded, and still regard, if it may be allowed to 
 me, as a little sister, has gained a powerful friend in yourself, who have 
 doubtless the will and the means to defend her against all aggression." 
 
 " My dear sir," said Lord Manley, immensely relieved by this candid 
 and straightforward explanation of the soldier, and seizing the Colonel's 
 hand, which he shook warmly, " I am delighted to make your acquaint- 
 ance. Accident allowed me some time since to have the gratification of 
 rendering a trifling service to the guardian — the adopted mother — of Miss 
 Sidney ; and since then — since then — in short — a very dear friend of mine 
 — Lady Sarum — she has known me from childhood," turning to Fran- 
 cesca ; " Lady Sarum requested me to make inquiries respecting Miss 
 Sidney, as I was exceedingly anxious — that is. Lady Sarum w^as exceed- 
 ingly anxious to extend her protection to Fran . . to Miss Sidney ; and . . 
 and . . I was about to propose that ISIiss Sidney — under the care of 
 Margaret — should make use of my carriage, which is at the door, to convey 
 her to Grandborough Castle, where her ladyship will arrive in a few hours. 
 I may take it upon myself to say that it is her ladyship's particular and 
 express wish that Miss Sidney — that is, in the event of my finding her, 
 which happily I have done — should proceed immediately to the castle ; 
 and perhaps the best thing to be done now is for us to persuade Miss 
 Sidney — who I see looks very pale, and who must be exhausted with all 
 the events of this night — to allow herself to be conveyed to that which I 
 may call her home without delay." 
 
 Colonel Lacey allowed a slight smile to escape him as the young noble- 
 man indulged in this rapid and characteristic harangue ; but his smile 
 cftdckly passed away, and he looked gi-ave and serious. 
 
 " If it were not for your lordship's high and honourable character," he 
 said, " and for the well-known benevolence and virtues of Lady Sarum, I 
 should think it my duty to constitute myself again, and on the spot, the 
 guardian of this young lady. But in such hands I know that she is safe 
 from all harm. And let him beware," he added, compressing his lips, 
 " who would dare to insult her by word or deed. Francesca," he added, 
 *' I am rich, and that is what the world looks to most ; and I have a 
 name ; — and remember that you are still my sister, and that I am your 
 brother and protector. Do you accept me as such ?" 
 
 " I do," said Francesca in a faint voice, but with the energy of grateful 
 feeling, and extending her hand to him, but with her eyes directed to Lord 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOE. 229 
 
 Manley ; "and all the affection of a sister, and the gratitude of the child 
 whom you preserved, shall be yours till my last breath." 
 
 " Enough," said Lacey; "it is a compact renewed between us. Depend 
 on it that my part shall be strictly performed." 
 
 "You will come up to the castle?" said Lord Manley; "I may make 
 the invitation in Lady Sarum's name." But whether it was that the 
 invitation lacked the warmth of the young nobleman's previous cordiality 
 — and in truth Lord Manley did not quite relish this making of compacts 
 between the soldier and Francesca — or that the Colonel had some secret 
 reason for his refusal, he declined, as he expressed it, " for the present," 
 to take advantage of Lord Mauler's politeness. " I must think of it," he 
 said to himself; "my last invitation to the castle was by a justice's 
 warrant for attending illegal meetings. To be sure there is a difference 
 between Ned and Colonel Lacey ; and money smooths all difficulties ; but 
 still it is a point that requires a little consideration." 
 
 All things being now in readiness, and old Margaret having equipped 
 herself in a red cloak and a bonnet of most extraordinaiy dimensions, 
 Lord Manley mounted the box, in order, as he said, to have a better view 
 of the road, but really to save Francesca's delicacy, who, with Margaret 
 only as her companion, occupied the inside. 
 
 Colonel Lacey, having made arrangements for the proper care of his old 
 friend Matthew in his solitary cottage until the return of Margaret, rode 
 back to the village inn, where he passed the night. The remarkable 
 events of that day, and the extraordinary beauty of Francesca, had struck 
 him powerfully, and he for a long time pondered over all the circum- 
 stances before he could find rest for his thoughts in sleep. 
 
 Francesca, meanwhile, was conveyed for a second time, but in a more 
 imposing manner than before, to the almost regal mansion of her ances- 
 tors. The sight of the travelling carriage and four produced a bustle in 
 the castle, where the arrival of Lady Sarum was hourly expected, and, as 
 the important Mrs. Buckram declared in after years to Lady St. Austin's 
 housekeeper, her exclamation seemed like " an omen and a prophecy ;" 
 *'for," as that important personage narrated, " naturally supposing that it 
 was Lady Sarum who had arrived, she called out in a loud voice to the 
 assembled domestics in the hall — 
 
 " ' Make haste and put yourselves in order ; your misteess is 
 comeT" 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 niANCESCA AT THE CASTLE. 
 
 Great was the surprise of that consequential old lady when, the door 
 having been opened, a poor woman in an old red cloak and a bonnet 
 which effectually obstructed the view of all that was behind her, was 
 kindly assisted from the carriage by Lord Manley, at the same time that 
 she recognised that nobleman as he performed the condescending office. 
 
250 TANNY, THE JLITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 Mrs. Buckram stood aghast at such a flagrant breach of aristocratic 
 etiquette ! but, restrained by her respect for Lord Manley, who she knew 
 was a most intimate friend of the family, she contrived to conceal the 
 indignation which was fermenting within her, and which was outwardly 
 manifested only by the screwing up of her nose, and by convulsive jerkings 
 of her head. But when old Margaret had been safely placed on the 
 broad marble steps leading to the hall-door, and Lord Manley had gently 
 assisted Francesca to alight, the amazement of the housekeeper could no 
 longer be controlled, and she burst out into an exclamation of surprise and 
 anger : — 
 
 " What ! the Little Milliner again !" 
 
 " Mrs. Buckram," said Lord Manley, while Francesca shrunk timidly 
 back, " it is the particular desire of Lady Sarum that every attention be 
 bestowed on this young lady. With this injunction, therefore, which you 
 will be pleased to consider as the injunction of her ladyship, I commit her 
 to your care till to-morrow." 
 
 It was fortunate perhaps for Francesca that Mrs. Buckram's excessive 
 curiosity to learn the meaning of her sudden appearance under such pro- 
 tection so far mastered all other emotions for the time as to lead her to pay 
 eager attention to her, although her services were not, in truth, very 
 graciously rendered. Francesca briefly related to the old lady her meeting 
 with Rebecca at the Pit, and her rescue from the mad woman's frantic 
 project by Lord Manley. 
 
 " And what is become of the wicked woman ?" asked the housekeeper 
 in a little alarm ; " is she coming here too ?" 
 
 "The poor creature will trouble no one any more," replied Francesca; 
 ** she fell or jumped into the Pit, down which she would have di-agged 
 me ; and must have met with almost instant death." 
 
 "Are you sure she jumped down into the Pit?" inquired the house- 
 keeper anxiously. 
 
 " There can be no doubt of it," said Francesca. 
 
 " Thank God for that !" said the housekeeper. " I was always sure that 
 wicked woman would come to some bad end, and it serves her right for 
 her wickedness and for her treatment of me that awful night of the illumi- 
 nations, when my best bonnet was crushed and my shawl torn to pieces. 
 Well, she's safe at the bottom of the Pit — and that's some comfort. She 
 won't worry me again !" 
 
 It was perhaps the peculiar satisfaction afibrded by the news of this 
 event, which she considered as a matter personal to herself, that caused 
 the old lady to relax from her accustomed austerity, and to treat Francesca 
 with a kindness and consideration that she was unaccustomed to bestow 
 on persons in humble circumstances. She unlocked her heart and her 
 private cupboard at the same time, and was profuse in her display of 
 all sorts of refreshments for the wearied traveller; and when she saw 
 her comfortably to bed, she promised to come to her the first thing in 
 the morning, when Miss Sidney, as she said, " could relate to her all her 
 adventures." 
 
 Francesca slept ; but in her troubled slumbers strange visions arose ; and 
 her dreams were fantastically swayed by the exciting occurrences of the 
 day, and coloured by her hopes and fears. 
 
 She seemed again in her dreams to pass through the events of her whole 
 
OR, THE HTCH AND THE POOR. 231 
 
 life — ^her rescue in infancy from a dreadful death ; her escape from ship- 
 wreck ; her happy days of childhood ; her sufferings in poverty; her night 
 of agony by the bedside of the dead milliner-girl ; her adopted mother's 
 death ; her perilous position in the wood ; her meeting with Rebecca at 
 the Pit ; her preserv^ation ! and, throughout all her adventures and her 
 soiTows, so strange is the wandering of fancy when reason sleeps, the 
 countenance of one person was ever present — and that person was Lord 
 Manley ! But the flights of her imagination did not rest at the point of 
 her arrival at the castle ; she seemed to be borne ouM'ards towards futurity. 
 She thought that she was suddenly transported to a distant country, where 
 a strange people dwelt ; and norie spoke, but all looked at her, and some 
 pointed, and others regarded her with a mingled expression of joy and 
 commiseration. Presently she found herself among high mountains, and 
 was lost in their deep solitudes, where she wandered long and wearily ; 
 when suddenly she beheld a majestic cathedral on their extremest summit, 
 and at the porch was the figure of a female clothed in black, and with a 
 head-dress and veil of flowing white, but her featm-es were imdistinguish- 
 able ! The holy woman beckoned to her, she thought, to ascend the 
 mountain, and it seemed to her that she smiled, but her countenance was 
 enveloped in a mist ! And then there appeared a long procession of bril- 
 liant equipages, of horsemen and footmen in splendid habiliments, and all 
 with white favours in their breasts ; and the last carriage that came seemed 
 to her to contain the persons of Lord Manley and of herself ! nor did it 
 strike her in her dream as anything incongruous that she should so behold 
 herself, and possess a sort of double identity ! And then the bells rang 
 out a merry peal, and with the noise Francesca awoke ! But for a moment 
 she was still under the powerful impression of her dream. Presently she 
 became aware that it was the great hall-bell that was ringing in the 
 castle, and from the broad light and brilliant appearance of the sun- 
 shine she guessed that she had slept until an unusually late hour of the 
 morning. 
 
 A knock at the door and the sound of a female voice now demanded her 
 attention, and the door opening disclosed the fat and square face of Mrs. 
 Buckram, who in a most condescending manner, which it was plain she 
 desired to appear extremely amiable, and which was due to some judicious 
 hints infused into her by Lord Manley, inquired " how Miss Sidney had 
 passed the night." 
 
 " Bless me !" said the housekeeper, ofiiciously examining Francesca's 
 dress ; " why, you can never put on this dress again ; it is torn all to bits; 
 positively all to shreds, and mourning is always so flimsy ! Sorry for your 
 loss, miss ; it's a sad thing to lose a friend in this friendless world ! But 
 you are not without a friend, miss," she said, nodding her head and smiling 
 with all her might and with peculiar significance. 
 
 " Lady Sarum," said Francesca, " is a most benevolent lady " 
 
 " Ah ! it's not of Lady Sarum that I was talking ; — ^but never mind ; 
 those that live will see what they will live to sec !" 
 
 With this sage observation Mrs. Buckram retired, and left Francesca 
 to make her toilet at the magnificent dressing-table which had been placed 
 in that apartment for guests whom the lady of the mansion especially 
 delighted to honour ; and in which, in the huiTy and confusion of the 
 
232 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 night before, Francesca had been unthinkingly placed by the bewildered 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Francesca during the whole of the day wondered that Lord Manley did 
 not appear ; but that generous and considerate nobleman well knew that, 
 if he paid particular attention to Miss Sidney, his motives might be 
 remarked and misconstrued by the numerous household of the castle; and 
 he felt also that his introduction of Francesca to his friend's house, although 
 in the spirit of Lady Sarum's kind expressions towards Miss Sidney, was 
 not borne out by the strict letter of her ladyship's permission. From this 
 consideration, he felt that it was necessary for him to be doubly circum- 
 spect in his conduct and bearing towards her, as well for her own sake as 
 from the respect due to the pleasure of Lady Sarum in the matter. To 
 avoid temptation, therefore, he determined to leave the castle at an early 
 hour, and to employ his time in paying a visit to Colonel Lacey, and in 
 endeavouring to leam from him and from old Matthew some further par- 
 ticulars relating to Francesca. 
 
 Mrs. Buckram was excessively inquisitive as to the whole history of 
 Francesca from beginning to end, which she made her repeat more than 
 once in its minutest details, which set the old lady a-meditating profoundly. 
 The narration of her story, however, passed away the time, and made 
 Francesca feel less the awkwardness of her situation than she otherwise 
 would have done ; though at times she could not help feeling some misgiv- 
 ings as to the sort of reception which she should receive from the mistress 
 of the mansion. In this way the day gradually wore on, and in the after- 
 noon the arrival of Lord Grandborough's courier announced the near 
 approach of the family, and Francesca's heart began to palpitate. Her 
 ladyship's first inquiry, could Francesca have heard it, would have dispelled 
 her fears : — 
 
 "Miss Sidney," said her ladyship to Mrs. Bucki'am, "is here, is she 
 not ?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady. I did not know how to act, my lady; but my Lord 
 Manley was so positive in saying that it was your ladyship's instructions — 
 otherwise " 
 
 "It is quite right," said Lady Sarum. " I met Lord Manley at the 
 Moorside inn, and he has explained everything to me." 
 
 "Who is Miss Sidney?" asked Lord Grandborough. 
 
 " You shall know in good time," replied his daughter-in-law. " Request 
 Miss Sidney," she added to the housekeeper, " to let me see her in my 
 dressing-room." 
 
 Lady Sarum was much excited when Francesca entered: she was 
 walking up and down the apartment ; it was the same in which she had 
 suffered so much pain from that remarkable conversation with her husband 
 consequent on Rebecca's communication to her many years ago. The 
 circumstance recurred to her memory, and a crowd of thoughts, rushing 
 through her brain, for a few minutes saddened and confused her. The 
 hasty communication of Lord Manley had been sufficient to show that 
 Francesca was, without question, and could positively be proved to be, the 
 child whg was saved from the White Woman's Pit on that memorable 
 night to which she traced the sorrowful abstraction of her husband for so 
 many years. Neither could she divest herself of a certain feeling of 
 resiliency from one whose existence interfered with the entirety of her 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 233 
 
 own rights as the wife of Lord Sarum, and whose parent on the female 
 side might even yet become to her a cause of deeper mortification and of 
 greater suffering/ And this child, either by some extraordinary involve- 
 ment of circumstances, or by some mysterious fate which could not be 
 controlled, seemed to pursue her in her domestic retirement, and to be 
 forced on her, Avilling or unwilling to receive her ! — It was under the 
 jealous dominion of such thoughts that she now again found the girl in her 
 presence. 
 
 She motioned to " Miss Sidney" to sit down. 
 
 Francesca obeyed in silence. / 
 
 After a few more turns, during which, it seemed. Lady Sarum was 
 considering how to address her guest, she stopped before her. Francesca 
 sto^d up, but Lady Sarum again motioned to her to sit down. 
 
 " The interest which a nobleman has been pleased to take in your 
 welfare," her ladyship began — Fanny blushed deeply, but she did not 
 shrink from the gaze of Lady Sarum as her ladyship fixed her eyes on 
 her ; there was an expression of modest pride on the features of the 
 young girl which struck Lady Sarum forcibly : she changed her 
 exordium : — 
 
 " The extraordinary circumstances which have caused you to become 
 an inmate of this castle. ..." 
 
 Francesca rose from her chair : — 
 
 " Madam," she said, " it was not I who sought to become an inmate of 
 this mansion ; it was others" (here Francesca coloured deeply) " who 
 conveyed to me what was represented as the express desire of your lady- 
 ship ; for myself, I am well aware that my humble condition is unsuited 
 to the high sphere in which your ladyship moves, and that I have no 
 other claim on your ladyship's benevolent consideration than my misfor- 
 tunes, and the mystery which shrouds the birth of one so friendless and 
 desolate as I am." 
 
 At this allusion to " the mystery which shrouded her birth," a peculiar 
 expression came over the usually placid features of Lady Sai-um, and her 
 whole frame was seized with a slight shuddering. She abruptly turned 
 from Francesca, and, advancing to the window, which commanded a view 
 of the magnificent gardens attached to the castle, remained for a few 
 minutes in an attitude of earnest contemplation. At last, without turning 
 her head, and more as if speaking aloud to herself than asking a direct 
 question, she said : — 
 
 "What could have induced the girl to undertake her hazardous 
 journey ?" 
 
 " It was hope, madam — the earnest desire to discover my parents ; and 
 the promise of that wretched woman led me to believe that she possessed 
 the knowledge of that secret. ..." 
 
 "And did she tell you ?" said the peeress, hastily turning 'round, while 
 her countenance, crimsoned and confused with shame and jealousy, 
 exhibited the most intense curiosity. 
 
 " No, madam. The poor woman's intellects were not in a condition to 
 allow her to speak on any subject connectedly ; but. ..." 
 
 " But what ?" 
 
 " She made use of an expression which, overwhelmed as I was witlb 
 lear, seemed to have allusion to my father. ..." 
 
234 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 " Well >" 
 
 "There seems to be some tradition relating to that fatal Pit, with 
 which I am imperfectly acquainted. But, after all, it was only the 
 ravings of a mad woman. Still it is certain that she had some knowledge 
 of matters that related to me — but it is all so confused. ..." 
 
 " What did she say ?" 
 
 Francesca paused at this question. — ^The anxious countenance, the 
 searching look, and the hurried and unsteady voice with which it was 
 asked by Lady Sai-um, filled her with extreme sm'prise, for she could not 
 account for the extraordinary interest which the peeress took in an inquiry 
 respecting one so humble as herself, and which seemed to be prompted by 
 some hidden and powerful motive. She rapidly recalled to her mind the 
 remarkable words of the mad woman ; but their meaning was as uftin- 
 telligible as the whole scene was confused and frightful to her recollection. 
 She remembered distinctly, however, the strange assertion of Rebecca in 
 respect to some wrong committed on her, as she said, by Francesca's 
 father. As she was revolving these thoughts in her mind. Lady Sarum, in 
 a low and earnest tone, repeated her question : — 
 
 *' What did she say ?" 
 
 *' She said," replied Francesca, " that my father and my father's father 
 had \wonged her ; and it was that thought that prompted her in her mad- 
 ness to take revenge on me." 
 
 " And who were those did she say who had done her the wrong you 
 speak of?" 
 
 " She did not tell me ; — but one thing is certain ; and that perhaps may 
 assist me in my search ; it is certain that I am the child who was saved 
 from the Pit by Colonel Lacey about sixteen years ago ; and it seems that 
 I am indebted to Lord Sarum for the interest he took in my welfare at 
 that time." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 "And, in being indebted to him, I feel that I am indebted to your 
 ladyship, who are so nearly and dearly related to him; and I confess 
 that, when I heard these things, I flattered myself that I might obtain 
 your ladyship's countenance in pursuing an investigation which is the 
 aim and object of my life." 
 
 " Repeat to me," said Lady Sarum, with a view to obviate the necessity 
 of her giving an immediate reply to the request contained in Francesca's 
 expression of gratitude for her husband's early care of her in her infancy; 
 "repeat to me all that has happened to you since you left London." 
 
 Francesca obeyed. With the most sincere artlessness, and with touch- 
 ing pathos, she related the secret thoughts and aspirations which tempted 
 her to undertake her journey ; the agony of her fear dm'ing her adventure 
 in the wood ; the extremity of her peril while she was hanging in the 
 grasp of the mad woman over the dreadful abyss of the Pit ; and her 
 rescue by Lord Manley : here she became slightiy confused in her narra- 
 tion, and she rapidly passed to her meeting with Colonel Lacey in the 
 woodman's cottage. As she proceeded in her tale, the kind heart of the 
 compassionate peeress became gradually softened ; she forgot that she was 
 listening to the story of the daughter of one who might still become a rival in 
 the afiections of her husband ; she saw before her only the afflicted and 
 desolate girl, exposed in her tender youth to so many sorrxjws, to so many 
 
OK, THE mCH AND THE POOE. 235 
 
 privations, to so many perils ; and when Francesca, growing energetic 
 'n her tale, appealed to the noble-hearted lady as the daughter of a noble 
 ]iousc — as one of the matrons of England — as one of those whom God 
 had set in high places to extend their protection to the lowly and unfortu- 
 nate — to assist her in her forlorn condition. Lady Sarum could no longer 
 resist the pathetic appeal to her duty and her feelings ; — and, raising up 
 the weeping Francesca, who was kneeling at her feet, she tenderly em- 
 braced her, as she said, with her eyes suffused with tears : — 
 
 " My poor child, your lot has indeed been a sad one ! — But I will protect 
 you : — yes, come what may, I wilL protect you : and, by the blessing of 
 God, your sufferings are now perhaps at an end. — But yet ; — there are 
 reasons Stay : sit down here — I will return to you presently." 
 
 Scarcely had Lady Sarum made her promise of protection, before she 
 was seized with a feeling of the extreme delicacy and embarrassment of 
 the presence of the girl as an inmate of the castle ; neither was the con- 
 sideration of the position in which she should appear less perplexing. But 
 as it was necessary to decide this point without delay, she determined to 
 take advantage of the presence of her mother and consult her on the 
 subject. Wound up as Lady Sarum's feelings were by her exciting inter- 
 view with Francesca, she felt the courage to take a step which at any 
 other time she would have shrunk from — that of confessing to her mother 
 all her suspicions in respect to the relationship of Francesca to her husband. 
 She found Lady St. Austin not quite unprepared to receive her communi- 
 cation ; though doubtful and undetermined as to the propriety of Francesca 
 remaining at the castle. 
 
 In this state of indecision she prevailed on her daughter to allow her to 
 call her father to her council, who expressed the same doubt as her mother 
 as to the prudence of domesticating the girl in the family. Lord St. Austin 
 observed that, as this Colonel Lacey had returned from India, as it seemed, 
 with a krge fortune and with a certain sort of rank, though in a foreign 
 service, it was possible that he might turn his thoughts to a marriage with 
 Miss Sidney ; as the difference in the ages of the parties was not sufficient 
 to act as a bar to the union. Lady Sarum hinted that Lord Manley had 
 been much struck with the beauty of Francesca, but any serious intentions 
 on his part were laughed at as too ridiculous. Lady St. Austin suggested 
 that, if tliere was any chance of this Colonel Lacey being tempted to maiTy 
 the girl, it might be a furtherance of that desirable consummation if the 
 girl were to be taken up by her daughter and the countenance of the 
 family afforded to her in effecting a desirable match. But still, as she 
 said, there was no positive certainty that the girl was the daughter of Lord 
 Sarum ; and Lord St. Austin ridiculed the idea of turning a very usual 
 occurrence with young men before marriage into the grave affair that they 
 were making of it, and advised that, if the girl really was the fruit of some 
 passing liaison of Lord Sarum before he had contracted his alliance ^vith 
 their family, the only thing to be done was to arrange the affair quietly, 
 and get the girl decently married and so have done with her. 
 
 Lady Sarum observed that she had for some time past had a strong sus- 
 picion that Lord Grandborough knew more of the matter than any one 
 else ; upon which Lord St. Austin said that nothing was more likely ; but, 
 such being the case, it was proper that her father-in-law should be made 
 acquainted with the state of the case— especir.lJy as it was in his house 
 
236 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 tbat they were discussing tlie question — and that his opinion and advice 
 should be taken on the occasion. The propriety of this step was concurred 
 in at once, and Lord St. Austin proceeded immediately to speak to the 
 Earl in the library. 
 
 Lord Grandborough received his friend's communication at first with 
 extreme agitation ; but as Lord St. Austin narrated the prominent parts 
 of Francesca's history, he became more calm, and was exceedingly par- 
 ticular in making himself acquainted with the precise nature of the case. 
 He at once and decidedly gave his opinion that the young lady had better 
 be placed under the care of some fit person at a distance from the castle,, 
 and the farther off the better ; but on Lord St. Austin representing that, 
 from the description he had heard of the girl, and judging from the energy 
 which she had already displayed in her endeavours to discover her parents, 
 it was not likely that she would consent to leave a spot where she had 
 already learned important particulars respecting herself; that, as yet, she 
 had no suspicion, apparently, of who her father was — ^not that it mattered 
 a rush in his opinion, but that his daughter was sensitive about it, and that 
 it was better to confine her story to themselves, and keep her quiet ; the 
 Earl immediately changed his opinion, and recommended that the girl 
 should be kept as much as possible from external communications. With 
 respect to the position which Miss Sidney should assume in the family, the 
 Earl, after some deliberation, expressed his opinion that it would be better, 
 on the whole, that she should be treated as a companion or protegee of 
 Lady Sarum's, which would have the effect of keeping her distinct from 
 the household, and enable them to keep her more under their own eyes ; 
 and he added, rather suddenly, that, as he had changed his mind as to his 
 intention of making a lengthened stay at the castle, he thought it would be 
 conducive to his health to make a tour through Germany with as little 
 delay as possible. 
 
 Lord St. Austin having reported the opinion of Lord Grandborough to 
 his wife and daughter, who were anxiously awaiting the result of the 
 conference, it was resolved that a message should be immediately de- 
 spatched to Colonel Lacey with the view of maldng him a friend in the 
 matter, and with reference also to Miss Sidney, inviting him to dine at the 
 castle that day ; and Lord Manley being announced at the close of the 
 conference, he immediately volunteered to bring the Colonel back with him, 
 while a note was despatched by one of the servants of the castle, bearing a 
 card of formal invitation from Lord Grandborough. 
 
 This matter being so faj* satisfactorily arranged, the next point with thfe 
 ladies was to make known the arrangement to Miss Sidney, who received 
 the communication without any particular emotion. As Francesca's 
 garments had been sadly deranged by her flight in the wood and her 
 struggles with Rebecca, Lady Sarum's tiring-woman was commissioned to 
 make such arrangements in respect to Miss Sidney's dress as time and 
 circumstances allowed. Francesca being in mourning, this was an affair of 
 some little difficulty ; but by an energetic rummaging of the wardrobe, au- 
 antique dress of black velvet was discovered which had belonged to the 
 widow of the late Lord Grandborough, who had been a sparkling brunette' 
 in her time of considerable pretensions to personal beauty. 
 
 As Lady Sarum, leading Francesca by the hand, passed through the 
 picture-gallery to the dining-room, Francesca's eyes .were naturally^ 
 
OB, THE ElCir AND THE POOB. 237 
 
 attracted by the portraits of the ancestors of the noble family who had now 
 taken her under their protection. She involuntarily stopped before one, 
 which was the portrait of the lady whose habit she then wore, and whose 
 likeness had been taken, it appeared, either in that very dress or in one 
 precisely similar to it. The lady's head in the picture was slightly turned, 
 so as to display to advantage her handsome profile ; and as Lady Sarum 
 glanced from Francesca to the picture, she was struck by the family like- 
 ness so forcibly, that she was troubled, and for a moment paused ; but, 
 quickly recovering herself, she passed on to the dining-room, and the 
 repast was finished without any particular occurrence, excepting the 
 remark of the butler to Lord Grandborough's valet outside, that the " new 
 young lady seemed born to her place, which was more than he could say 
 of many." 
 
 A calm now appeared to succeed to the tumults of the previous night, 
 and Francesca almost indulged in the hope that, at last, she had reached 
 a haven where she should find, at least, a temporary rest. But her present 
 tranquillity was unexpectedly disturbed by a new event, which put to 
 their utmost trial the prudence and the susceptibility of her head and 
 heart. 
 
 CHAPTER LL 
 
 A DECLARATION. 
 
 If the secret thoughts that agitated the personages who were assembled 
 at the sumptuous repast in that baronial hall could have been known to 
 the respectful servitors who ministered to their minutest wants, their ex- 
 4alted stations would have been far from exciting the envy of the humblest 
 of their observers. 
 
 Lord Grandborough, who had requested Lord St. Austin to do the 
 honom's of the host, sat opposite to Francesca, so that he could not raise 
 his eyes without beholding the object whom he most dreaded to see. Thus 
 he remained in the most painful state of fear lest some unexpected accident 
 which he could neither guard against nor foresee should reveal the terrible 
 secret ; at the same time that he mai'velled at the strange course of 
 events which had, a second time, brought him in close communion with 
 one whom, it seemed, the finger of Providence had directed to her rightful 
 home. 
 
 Lady Sarum sat uneasily at the head of the table, her mind confused 
 and perplexed by the presence of the mysterious girl who, she had reason 
 to suspect, stood in the closest relation to her husband ; and whose position 
 in the family, delicate and undefined as it was, seemed to threaten a con- 
 tinuance of embarrassments and difficulties. Lord St. Austin, as well as 
 his wife, was out of humour with everything; he did not like the trouble 
 of regulating his attentions and his phrases to the new guest who was in a 
 false position in the family ; besides, he was troubled with some vague 
 fiusoicions, which as yet, however, had neither form nor substance, in 
 
238 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLIi'JER : 
 
 respect to Lord Grandborough's knowledge of Miss Sidney, and of his old 
 ii-iend's former interference in the affair. Lady St. Austin, too, was 
 worried with the idea that there was more in the history of the young 
 stranger than met the eye ; not that she had any suspicion of the truth ; 
 but the agitation of Lord Grandborough on former occasions, the journey 
 of Lord Sarum to Italy, and the distinguished appearance and ease of man- 
 ner of Francesca, puzzled her ; she was impatient for the dinner to conclude, 
 in order that she might retire with her daughter and hold converse with 
 her on all these circumstances. 
 
 Nor was Colonel Lacey less disturbed in his mind by the sudden events 
 which had placed him in his novel position in respect to his former foster- 
 sister, and by the embarrassing awkwardness of his situation in respect to 
 the family of Grandborough. He, too, could not help being struck with 
 the remarkable beauty and the distinguished air of Francesca, who instead 
 of presenting the appearance of one suddenly and unfitly elevated from a 
 mean and humble state to a superior sphere, seemed only to have resumed 
 her natural station. Unconsciously he threw into his manner towards 
 her a deference and a desire to please which, he was aware, was incongru- 
 ous with his adopted character of guardian, and which was not unmarked 
 by others. 
 
 As to Francesca, she was not without her own inward troubles. She 
 could not but be aware that Lord Manley not only admired her, but that 
 he was inspired with a warmer feeling, which seemed ever on the point 
 of betraying itself, but which, she was conscious, he assiduously checked. 
 Nor could she disguise from herself — a fact which filled her at times with 
 the most lively alarm — that her own feelings towards that accomplished 
 young nobleman were such as she feared to acknowledge and did not dare 
 too closely to investigated She felt that the humbleness of her condition, 
 and the obscurity of her parentage, formed an efiectual bar to an union 
 with a nobleman so far her superior in birth, fortune, and pretensions ; 
 and she could not smother a feeling of bitter regret that the accidents of 
 Fortune forbade her to indulge in her pleasing predilection for one who 
 had so many qualifications superior to those of birth or fortune to recom- 
 mend him to her preference. It was gladly, therefore, that she turned to 
 Colonel Lacey, who sat by her side, and regarded him with an affection 
 which she considered as legitimately and gratefully his due, and replied to 
 his conversation with looks of trust and confidence which spoke more than 
 words the feelings which prompted their exhibition. 
 
 On his part, Colonel Lacey treated her with a tender solicitude which 
 partook partly of parental or fraternal regard, and partly of a feeling which 
 he could not himself exactly define, but which Lord Manley, who sat 
 opposite, with the instinctive penetration of a lover, defined for him with 
 a feeling of jealousy which he could scarcely disguise. In ti*uth, that 
 enthusiastic young nobleman was by no means at his ease in respect to 
 Colonel Lacey' s attention to Francesca. He had the highest respect for 
 those sacred principles of generosity and disinterested affection which 
 doubtless might, possibly, alone actuate her self-adopted guardian. But 
 still, to see such attentions paid by a handsome soldier of five-and-thirty, 
 although the affection that prompted them might be quite platonic, was, 
 to say the least of it, excessively disagreeable. Besides, accustomed as he 
 was to see marriages take place where the difference of age was not less 
 
OE, THE EICH AND THE POOR. 239 
 
 decided than in the present case, and inclined as he was, from the habits 
 of thought engendered by his aristocratic, position, to regard such unions 
 rather favourably than otherwise, he saw no obstacle on that score to pre- 
 vent an union taking place between the present parties of a nature different 
 from that of brother and sister. 
 
 With such feelings, therefore, sharpened as they were by the obvious 
 desirability of the match, which somehow he fancied was in course of being 
 promoted by Lady St. Austin and by Lady Sarum, he viewed the pro- 
 pinquity of Francesca with the Colonel, and the apparent cordial under- 
 standing between them, with that restlessness, and with those twitchings 
 of the heart, which will be readily sympathised with by those who have 
 been exposed to similar trials. 
 
 It is to be observed, also, that Francesca's bearing on the present occa- 
 sion enhanced her charms in a wonderful degree : she shone like a diamond 
 in a chaste and skilful setting; brilliant in itself, but rendered more 
 dazzling by the striking relief which acts and circumstances added to its 
 native brightness. The rather stately manner which seemed inconsistent 
 mth the humble condition of a milliner-girl now became her as fitting and 
 appropriate. As he gazed on her, resplendent in her youthful beauty, 
 charming with an air of ease and grace slightly blended with a certain 
 shrinking and bashfulness which rather improved than lessened her attrac- 
 tions, it seemed to him that the noble brow which adorned her would well 
 become a coronet, and that her form and features bore the impress of one 
 of Nature's own nobihty ! 
 
 It was with such feelings that he found his way after dinner to the 
 library. Lady Sarum and her mother had retired to the dressing-room of 
 the former to enter into some serious talk ; — Colonel Lacey had taken 
 leave early, for he found himself disturbed with confused emotions, and 
 he was desirous of communing in secret with his own thoughts. The 
 soldier was in the habit of coming to prompt decisions ; and he felt the 
 necessity of tracing out, resolutely and at once, the fitting line of conduct 
 to be pursued towards a beautiful girl thus suddenly presenting herself to 
 him, and who had grown up as it were in a night from the forlorn and 
 helpless child whom he had saved, to the stature and bearing of a youthful 
 womanhood, which it was impossible to look on without admiration ! 
 Neither was he easy in respect to Lord Manley's feelings or pretensions 
 towards Francesca ; and he determined to watch that nobleman narrowly, 
 and, if necessary, to bring him to a speedy declaration in respect to his 
 intentions. — Lord Grandborough had shut himself up in his private study, 
 leaving Lord St. Austin to the enjoyment of his usual after-dinner nap in 
 the dining-room. When Lord Manley entered the library, therefore, he 
 found Francesca alone. 
 
 Francesca was engaged in examining a picture of Lord Sarum which 
 was suspended at the further end of the room, so earnestly that she was 
 not aware of his entrance ; and as she stood with one arm resting on the 
 back of an antiquely-carved library chair, with her head a little thrown 
 back, he thought he had never in his life beheld a form and face so 
 enchantingly lovely. He approached; — and at the sound of his step, 
 scarcely to be heard on the soft carpet, Francesca turned her head, and as 
 she saw him she blushed deeply. He came nearer to her, but suddenly 
 stopped ; — then glancing round the room, and seeming to make up his 
 
240 rANis'Y, THE XITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 mind to a sudden resolve, he approached her again. There was a fixed 
 determination in his eye which struck Francesca forcibly ; she divined 
 intuitively that some explanation was coming. — A slight mist came over 
 her eyes ; she felt for a moment — but only for a moment — a little faint ; 
 and she sat down. Before she had entirely recovered her composure, Lord 
 Manley spoke, and in the solitude of the vast apartment his voice startled 
 her! — it was thick and inarticulate, though usually so melodious and 
 clear : — a voice that betrayed, unmistakingly, the passionate trouble of 
 the agitated feelings within. 
 
 "Miss Sidney " 
 
 Francesca made no answer, but looked as if she would give worlds to 
 be alone in her own room. 
 
 " Miss Sidney," he continued, " I hardly know whether I may take the 
 liberty to make any observation on yom- private affairs ; but — I cannot 
 avoid being powerfully affected by the extraordinary circumstances of your 
 eventful life." 
 
 " My lord," said Francesca, in a low and trembling voice, and with her 
 eyes cast down, " it is to you that I owe that life." 
 
 "And to Colonel Lacey also," quickly remarked Lord Manley; — "to 
 Colonel Lacey also ; he it was who had the happiness to preserve you in 
 your infancy." 
 
 " It is true, my lord. Colonel Lacey was my first and earliest friend." 
 
 " To whom," said Lord Manley, " your" (he paused at the word) — 
 *' your. . . .gratitude. . . .is first and chiefly due." 
 
 " My gratitude and love, my lord; and to you also. . . .is due. .my. . 
 most earnest. . . .gratitude." 
 
 There was a pause. — 
 
 " You said that your gratitude was due to Colonel Lacey, and your love 
 also." 
 
 " I did, my lord ; how can I ever attempt to repay the obligation which 
 I owe to him, except by boundless gratitude and love ?" 
 
 "But to me," said Lord Manley, "you said was due .... only grati- 
 tude!".... 
 
 "My lord!" 
 
 "You have gratitude and love for Colonel Lacey — for me gratitude 
 alone !" 
 
 "My lord!" 
 
 " Is there, then, no love left for others ?" 
 
 " My lord!" said Francesca, starting up, her face and neck crimsoning 
 with blushes — " my lord, would you oppress me with the amount of my 
 obligation to you ! Do I not feel," she said, clasping her hands, "how 
 deep is my debt to you who saved me from so dreadfid a death ? Would 
 to God that I could show the gratitude which my heart feels ; but that 
 must be for ever impossible !" 
 
 "Miss Sidney," returned Lord Manley, in a low, deep voice, "you 
 could show it, if you would. ..." 
 
 Francesca sank down again in her chair. 
 
 " God forbid," said Lord Manley, with deep earnestness, "that I should 
 seek from your gratitude the return which I would desire to find from a 
 different feeling. , , ." 
 
 Francesca placed her hands before her eyes; but the tears gushed 
 
OE, THE BICH AND THE POOS. 241 
 
 through her fingers, and her bosom heaved with an emotion, as it seemed, 
 too violent to be borne. 
 
 " But," pursued Lord Manley, " the life which it has pleased God to 
 permit me the infinite happiness of preserving — in short — in truth — Miss 
 Sidney — you cannot mistake my meaning. . . .if you would allow me to 
 hope that I might devote my own life to your future happiness. ..." 
 
 ^'My lord! my lord! stop — I implore you. ..." 
 
 " I cannot stop, Francesca— I will not stop. It is impossible for you 
 not to have perceived — to have felt — my admiration — my love — for yoa." 
 
 *' It is impossible." . 
 
 "Impossible! Francesca! what is impossible? Am I not my own 
 master ? have I not rank and fortune to offer you ?...." 
 
 " It is for those very reasons," said Francesca, recovering herself, and 
 speaking more firmly; " for those very reasons that what you point at — 
 for it would be a false modesty on my part to pretend not to understand 
 you — it is impossible." 
 
 "Miss Sidney," said Lord Manley, thunderstruck at the reply of an 
 humble and parentless girl to the generous offer of his hand and heart, and 
 his thoughts reverting to the inconvenient Colonel Lacey, who somehow, 
 his jealousy suspected, was in the way on this occasion; "if previous 
 engagements on your part. ..." 
 
 " Oh, my lord ! it is not that !" 
 
 " Or if a disinclination towards myself ** 
 
 " Oh, no!" said Francesca, sobbing afresh, and thrown off her guard — 
 "it is not that!" 
 
 " It is not that ?" exclaimed Lord Manley. " Then, Francesca, I 
 entreat you — I implore you — to tell me — if it were not for some obstacles 
 with which I am at present unacquainted — might I venture to hope that 
 it is not on account of any personal disinclination to myself that you have 
 filled me with so much sorrow — I might almost add," said the young 
 nobleman, in a tone of the deepest emotion — " of despair !" 
 
 " Lord Manley," said Francesca, still faltering and trembling — " you 
 are abusing your claims on my gratitude to force me to reply to such a 
 question. But I owe it to myself to say that I never knew any one from 
 whom I should have desired to hear that which you have told me ; and I 
 never. . . .but it is impossible, my lord; I should not be worthy of the — 
 of the — good opinion which you express of me, if I should allow you to 
 contract an alliance so unequal. Believe me, my lord, it would afterwards 
 cause you, perhaps, the bitterest regret ; for you are a peer of the realm 
 — high in birth, in fortune, and in name ! And what am I ? an orphan, 
 without fortune, without even a home, but this home of charity — without 
 even a name more than that" — taking her cross from her bosom — " which 
 this has given to me !" 
 
 " Beauty and worth," exclaimed Lord Manley, with enthusiasm, "level 
 all distinctions ! and if I am content," he added, " why, Francesca, 
 should you make objections so unusual ?" 
 
 " I object, my lord," said Francesca, her cheeks reddening and her eyes 
 kindling with the generous sentiments that inspired her resolution, " for 
 your own salve. If, my lord" — and here she hesitated and spoke with 
 trembling accents, " I was insensible to your great and generous quali- 
 ties ; — if I — esteemed — you less, I might have the less scruple in allowing 
 s 
 
242 PANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 you to sacrifice yourself — ^that is, your rank and your position in society 
 —forme " 
 
 " You do not quite refuse me then," said Lord Manley. 
 
 " That is not the word," replied Francesca, " to express the determina- 
 tion to which my duty and my gratitude prompt me : it is because I am 
 penetrated, deeply penetrated, with a sense of your noble generosity, that 
 my own pride — and why should I be ashamed to own it after what you 
 have said ? — my own feelings — towards you — ^forbid me to allow you to 
 suppose that my determination can ever be shaken!" 
 t5 "Francesca!" 
 
 " It must not be ! It cannot be ! You, my lord, have to fulfil the high 
 duties in the world to which God has called you. As for me ! I am 
 nothing ! All that I ask you now is to leave me — leave the poor nameless 
 orphan to her obscurity and her sorrows ! God forbid that I should make 
 you the sharer of them !...." 
 
 " Francesca !" 
 
 *' No, my lord, my sorrows must be for me alone ! But this is a new 
 affliction ! Oh ! would that I had perished in that frightful pit rather 
 than give a moment's pain to one whom — No ! even that dreadful death 
 could not be so horrible as the agony of this struggle that I suffer now !" 
 Here poor Francesca, torn by conflicting emotions, burst into a passionate 
 flood of tears. 
 
 Lord Manley gazed at her with admiration. " Wonderful girl !" he 
 exclaimed, falling on his knee and seizing her hand, which she in vain 
 endeavoured to withdraw from him ; " great as was my love and admira- 
 tion for you, I was not prepared for disinterestedness so exalted as this ! 
 Now hear me while I swear. ..." 
 
 *' Swearing going forward!" cried out Lady St. Austin, as Francesca. 
 hastily left the room ; " why, what is the meaning of all this ? Acting 
 plays, my lord ?" 
 
 " No acting," said Lord Manley, rising up, and a little confused at 
 being surprised in so energetic a position, " but earnest, downright 
 earnest " 
 
 "My dear Lord Manley," said Lady Sarum; "is it possible that you 
 have been making a declaration to that girl ?" 
 
 " It is so," said Lord Manley, " and something more." 
 
 *' More ! How more ?" 
 
 *' I have made her an offer of my hand." 
 
 " Made her an offer !" exclaimed the astonished peeresses both at 
 once : — " This is astonishing indeed !" 
 
 " There is something more astonishing still," said Lord Manley bitterly, 
 and with considerable excitement. 
 
 " More astonishing still ! We are all amazement. What is it?" 
 
 *' She has refused me, Lady Sarum." 
 
 " The little milliner refused Earl Manley ! Impossible ! What ! has 
 Lord Mauley's pride stooped so low, and to be refused after all ! How can 
 that be?" 
 
 " Because, my dear Lady Sarum, the pride oi this wonderful girl is 
 greater still." 
 
 " X. mystery ! Come you have told us so much you must tell us more." 
 
 ^' Perhaps," said Lord Manley, " if you had not surprised me and my 
 
on, THE RICH AND THE POOn. 243 
 
 secret too, when you caught me on my knees, my pride would have led me 
 to conceal my failure. But rather than the breath of suspicion should fall 
 on that matchless girl, I will confess the mortification of the refusal that I 
 liave met with. But even her refusal makes me love and admire her more 
 than ever !" 
 
 " My dear lord," said Lady Sarum, with a mournful smile; " consider 
 that we are women and that we are dying of curiosity." 
 
 *' Listen then," said Lord Manley, " and I will tell you all." 
 
 CHAPTER LIL 
 
 CONFESSIONS. 
 
 As Lord Manley had, passed the greater part of his life under the care and 
 at the house of Lord St. Austin, his guardian, he had been accustomed to 
 regard the two ladies who had discovered him on his knees before Fran- 
 cesca as his dearest friends ; and as his secret was now known to them, he 
 had no reason for reserve in confessing his passion for the orphan girl, and 
 the result of his declaration. 
 
 "But this really exceeds all belief!" said Lady St. Austin when Lord 
 Matiley had concluded his explanation, at the end of which Lady Sarum 
 abruptly left the room : — " that a young girl without a home and without 
 prospects should refuse an offer from one of the first and richest peers in 
 the kingdom ! There must be something more at the bottom of this than 
 we are aware of! Perhaps it is only to secure him the better," she said 
 aloud to herself: — "these milliner-gii-ls, I have heard say, are the most 
 artful husseys in nature !" 
 
 " You do her wrong," said Lord Manley ; " I feel convinced that her 
 refusal proceeds entirely from a principle of generosity and the most noble 
 disinterestedness !" 
 
 Lady St. Austin shook her head : — " I doubt it. — ^Well, at any rate, you 
 are well rid of the matter, Manley. But it woidd not soimd well — would 
 it ? — for the world to know that the Earl Manley had been refused by a 
 little milliner ! There — confess the truth : you have played the fool a bit 
 — a little wickedly perhaps — but there's an end of it now. Only — take 
 
 my advice, and don't make the offer again Well, my dear Eleanor," 
 
 she said to Lady Sarum, who re-entered the room, " what news do you 
 bring ? Does the young lady relent, and show any inclination to take 
 pity on this unhappy swain?" 
 
 " She is a most extraordinary girl !" said Lady Sp,rum. " She has been 
 to me to ask my permission to withdraw from the castle. ..." 
 
 " And where would she go to ?" eagerly asked Lord Manley. 
 
 "That point she did not seem to have taken into sufficient con- 
 sideration. But as she is aAvare that my lord here is domiciled with 
 us for some time to come, she may perhaps be desirous of avoiding 
 him " 
 
 " Not she," said Lady St. Austin ; " it is some art, depend upon it.'* 
 
 " Dear mother," said Lady Sarum, " indeed I think you are mistaken. 
 b2 
 
244 FA.NNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 — ^There certainly is something about this girl that has a strange influence 
 
 over one; perhaps it is " (Here she looked at her mother, who 
 
 became suddenly grave and reflective.) " But, dear Lord Manley," she 
 continued, reddening and in some confusion, "there are reasons — at least I 
 think so — why you should entirely give up all thoughts of this girl. ..." 
 
 "What reasons," asked Lord Manley^ much surprised, "more than 
 those which I already know ?" 
 
 "There are particular circumstances," replied Lady Sarum, "which 
 would render it exceedingly wrong for me and my mother to forward in 
 any manner an engagement on your part with one — who .... In short, it 
 is a secret which I am not at liberty to mention — but, in truth, it entirely 
 precludes the possibility, I may say, of your entering into a matrimonial 
 alliance with this Miss Sidney. Now, witb that Colonel Lacey it would 
 be another thing; but with you — situated as we are towards you especially 
 — ^in short, perhaps the best thing is to allow the girl to retire, and so get 
 rid of the difncidty. Perhaps Colonel Lacey would take her at once with 
 a little encouragement } What do you think, mother ?" 
 
 " Really, my love, it is an awkward question — ^but that seems the best 
 plan." 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear friends," said Lord Manley, " you really 
 treat me with very little ceremony. It seems that you think I am 
 not in earnest in my avowal to you. — I had hoped that you knew me 
 better." 
 
 " But is it possible, then, that you are reaUy in earnest in ofiering to 
 marry this girl," said Lady St. Austin, "without knowing who she is, or 
 where she comes from, or who she belongs to ? My dear Manley, this is 
 a folly that Lord St. Austin, if he still possessed the rights of a guardian 
 over you, would never consent to ! You were always more than a little 
 inclined to the romantic ; but this out-romances all romance ! Upon my 
 word, I begin to think that the girl is in the right, and that she has the 
 most sense of the two. Such an ill-assorted match could not fail to turn 
 out as unhappy as it would be ridiculous !" 
 
 " My dear friends," said Lord Manley, in a tone so earnest and decided 
 that it carried the assurance of his determination, " among the unusual 
 circumstances of this most unusual case, the present conversation may, 
 perhaps, be deemed not the least one. But allow me, in thanking you 
 both for the kind interest which you now take, and which you both have 
 for so many years taken, in my welfare — allow me, I say, to assure you 
 that I shoidd deem myself dishonourable, after the declaration which I 
 have made to Miss Sidney, if I should shrink back from the ofier to which, 
 notwithstanding Miss Sidney's present refusal, I consider myself pledged. 
 And I will add, although it is not usual to make these confessions to thii-d 
 parties — but you, who have been the depositaries of all my secrets from 
 infancy, may also know this — that my afiections, being once fixed, are 
 unalterable; and more than this, I feel that the happiness of my life 
 depends on the success of this pursuit. If I were inclined to be super- 
 stitious, I might say that the most extraordinary accidents have conspired 
 to bring me and Miss Sidney together ; and this last incident of her most 
 unexpected refusal has only served to bring me to a better knowledge 
 of her worth, and to rivet more firmly my love and esteem for her 
 character." 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. Stf5 
 
 ** But there is a mystery about her ; there is indeed," said Lady Sarum, 
 * which if you knew I think could not fail to make you alter your deter- 
 mination in this matter. Surely, among all the strange things that happen 
 in this world, your falling in love with this girl is one of the most extra- 
 ordinary ! At any rate, any attentions on your part cannot be pursued 
 with our approbation." 
 
 "That is a sentence of banishment from the castle?" said Lord 
 i\Ianley. 
 
 ''That is not necessary," said Lady St. Austin. "The girl can be 
 sent away; and she herself wfshcs it. She might be put under that 
 Colonel Lacey's care, in sbme way, as he is of the mind to provide for 
 her." 
 
 " By no means," said Lord Manley, eagerly. " I will not be the means 
 of Miss Sidney being deprived of your immediate protection. I will 
 myself retire ; and I will take the opportunity to make the journey to 
 Italy which I intended. Indeed, I promised Lord Sarum that I would 
 join him ; and there, perhaps, I may discover something relating to the 
 mysterious pictm-e which bears so remarkable a likeness to Miss Sidney. 
 By your looks," he said to Lady Sarum, " I should guess that you had 
 some knowledge of that picture r" 
 
 " It is only suspicion," replied Lady Sarum, with an air of great sad- 
 ness and confusion. 
 
 " May I take the liberty to ask its nature ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you," replied Lady Sarum, still more confused. " But I 
 can say only that it is a secret of strange and fearful import to her — and 
 to me — and to you." 
 
 " Indeed ! What ! is there more mystery about this dear girl .^ And 
 you cannot tell me ?" 
 
 " No : in one word — I cannot." 
 
 " But I shall find it out in Italy, with Lord Sarum, depend on it." 
 
 *' You may do so," said Lady Sarum, bursting into tears, "and then yo\- 
 wlU find you own happiness wrecked, and — God keep me ! — mine too, I 
 fear !" 
 
 The emotion of Lady Sarum, which surprised Lord Manley not less than 
 the information of the new mystery which seemed to involve the destinies 
 of Francesca with her own, put an end to the conversation, and soon after 
 the parties retired for the night ; Lord Manley expressing his intention of 
 leaving the castle next morning, and determined in his own mind, before 
 his departure, to have another interview with Francesca. Chance favoured 
 his design. 
 
 If Lord Manley's sleep was troubled, Francesca's was not less so on that 
 agitating night. Generous as she was in her love, and fixed as she was 
 in her resolve with the sterDuess of disinterested purpose becoming an 
 ancient Spartan maiden, she was still a woman ; and to give up for ever 
 that which forms the end and object of woman's existence — the first object 
 on whom her young and fi-esh affections had learnt to dwell ! — the only 
 one, as she felt, on whom she could ever bestow her love ! — and with that, 
 to abandon rank, station, consideration in society, and all that forms the 
 ease and luxury of life, was indeed an agonising trial! She almost 
 repented of her decision; and allowed herself to indulge in faint surmisings 
 of whether he who had so generously offered her his hand would renew 
 
246 FANNY, THE LITTLE SIILLINER .' 
 
 his suit or, taking her at her word, would desist Irom further solicitatioa 
 where refusal had been, as he might perhaps feel, so humiliatingly given ? 
 And then she accused herself of hastiness and harshness ; — she recalled 
 every word that he had spoken, and endeavoured to remember her own 
 replies. She dwelt fondly on his fervid declaration of his affection for her; 
 and as she thought, she was overcome by the sense of his generous love, 
 and wished that she had not expressed her resolution so strongly. Again 
 she recurred to her own humble state and to his high degree ; and she 
 sighed as she was compelled to acknowledge the unfitness of the marriage 
 of one so exalted with one so lowly ! And would she not be accused of 
 having entrapped the young peer into an engagement so unsuitable to his 
 rank and fortune ? Her veins swelled with the rush of blood to her 
 temples, as she shuddered with indignant pride at the thought of such a 
 suspicion! No! she would bury herself in obscurity; she could die, as 
 indeed she felt she must, under the weight of the new affliction which 
 overwhelmed her ; but she would neither expose him to the ridicule, nor 
 herself to the killing mortification, of such an accusation ! His happiness 
 would be ever dear to her ; but as to her own, that she felt was gone for 
 ever ! It was in the frame of mind which such sentiments produced that 
 in the early morning she left her sleepless chamber, and descended into 
 the garden. 
 
 The morning air was fresh and invigorating, and she felt the genial 
 influence of the mild coolness of a bright May morning, which, while it 
 re-strung her nerves, soothed her spirits, and disposed her mind to cheer- 
 fulness. She admired the magnificent walks, the stately trees, the verdant 
 turf, the opening flowers, the melody of the birds ; — all nature seemed 
 gladsome and full of love ! — She wandered on through the wild shrubbery, 
 till she reached a summer-house at the extremity, built in romantic style, 
 and overlooking a broad sheet of water which formed a lake stretching 
 into the distance, and losing itself behind a cluster of fairy islands. The 
 xioor of the summer-house was open ; she entered — but not unseen. 
 
 Lord Manley had risen early also. Whether from that mysterious sym- 
 pathy which it is said prompts two hearts in unison to the same resolves, 
 or that it was chance alone — if such a thing as chance there is — that 
 directed his steps, he bent his way to the garden, and in the same direc- 
 tion as Francesca. 
 
 As he drew near to the lake, musing on the event of the night before, 
 he caught sight of a fluttering dress entering the summer-house. His 
 heart gave a bound at the vision. Though the time was early, and it was 
 unusual for the inmates of the castle to be abroad at such an hour, he felt 
 •sm^e that it could be no other than Francesca. He hastened his steps ; 
 but at the threshold he paused for a moment to consider in what terms 
 he should address her. 
 
 There was a little round table by the window overlooking the water, at 
 which Francesca was sitting, her cheek resting on her hand. Her eyes 
 were fixed on the broad expanse of the lake. She was in deep thought ; 
 and she had the abstracted air of one who supposed herself alone and 
 imobserved. 
 
 Lord Manley gazed on her with tender admiration. She was always 
 beautiful ; and in this moment of her abandonment to absorbing thought, 
 
OB, THE mCH AND THE POOR. 247 
 
 grace sat on her as an adorning mantle. Her lips moved; she mm*mured; 
 she spoke : — 
 
 "No: — never! — never! — He loves me! — He loves the poor orphan 
 girl ! — that is enough — enough — for me ! That shall be my consolation!— 
 Yes — that — shall be my consolation — my consolation — in poverty — in 
 sorrow — and — in the grave !" 
 
 These words, slowly and faintly uttered, were as drops of manna in the 
 desert to the heart of Lord Manley. Her love for him was now manifest 
 and certain ! All doubt was removed, and his course was plain and clear. 
 As to her objections to the humbleness of her condition, the obscurity of 
 her birth, and the inequality of the alliance, that was nothing in. the 
 balance ! He had become possessed unawares of the real secret of her 
 heart ! Her heart was his ; and, that obtained, all minor difficulties 
 vanished. He would have been glad to hear the welcome words again 
 and again ; but as it was evident that she thought herself alone, it was 
 contrary to his high feelings to become the unsuspected confidant even of 
 xm avowal so welcome. In a low voice he pronomiced her name. 
 
 Francesca started ; for already had she learnt to distinguish the tone of 
 that voice, even in its lowest accents, from all others. She rose, and stood 
 up, for a brief space confused and agitated ; but presently recovering her 
 composure of mind, and summoning up all her energies to bear her rightly 
 through this second interview, she waited for Lord Manley to address her. 
 
 " It was my intention," said Lord Manley, " to ask your permission to 
 say a few vrords to you before my departure. ..." 
 
 " Are you going, then ?" said Francesca, hastily; — she was about to say 
 more, but she checked herself. 
 
 " Miss Sidney," said Lord Manley, " after the explicit declaration 
 which I made to you last night. ..." 
 
 " My lord," interrupted Francesca, " that is a subject which I under- 
 stood you would spare me from entering on again — and so soon. ..." 
 
 " Forgive me. Miss Sidney; but it must be now or never. Lady Sarum 
 has communicated to me your wish to withdraw from the castle; but as it 
 would be a cruelty in me to allow of your losing Lady Sarum' s valuable 
 protection, I have determined to go abroad." 
 
 " My lord, I owe you more thanks, then, for this most kind considera- 
 tion." 
 
 " I am going to Italy, where, perhaps, I may have the opportunity of 
 gaining information respecting your parents, which, perhaps," he said, 
 seriously, "may entitle me still further to your consideration." 
 
 Francesca was silent. 
 
 " I have not mentioned it to you before," he continued ; " but by an 
 accident I became possessed, before I knew you, of a picture which bears 
 so strong a resemblance to you that it might be taken for a portrait of 
 yourself. It is evidently the portrait of an Italian lady." 
 
 Francesca became intensely interested. 
 
 " As this picture, though very like you, is certainly not a portrait of 
 yourself, I have been led to conjecture that it must be a portrait of some 
 one nearly connected with you ; perhaps," he added, " of your mother !'* 
 
 Francesca clasped her hands, and regarded Lord Manley with a wild 
 earnestness which afiected him powerfidly. He replied to the request 
 which her looks expressed. 
 
248 FANNY, IHE LITTLE MILLINEE : 
 
 " I will, if you please, send it to you ; although, perhaps, in doing this 
 I am doing more than could be required of me, as in parting with it I 
 shall lose that which I have long cherished in my absence from you as my 
 dearest treasure." 
 
 Francesca began to be more agitated. 
 
 " And now," said Lord Manley, " I will bid you farewell. I am sure 
 that you will sometimes think of me ; for it is for your sake that I 
 undertake the journey ; and if I should be successful in my search, and 
 that artificial disparity which you speak of should be removed, perhaps 
 you will allow me then to hope that the renewal of my suit may not be 
 displeasing ; and if I should be so fortunate as to be able to place you in 
 the arms of your parents. " 
 
 Francesca's eyes streamed so with tears that she saw but dimly, and 
 was not aware that Lord Manley had attempted to take her hand till she 
 found it clasped in his. 
 
 " If I should place you," he repeated, " in the arms of your parents, 
 you will then permit me to claim you as my own, as the reward of my 
 success " 
 
 " It is too much," faintly articulated Francesca, " to hope for ; it is too 
 much " 
 
 " But if it should be so," pursued Lord Manley, " may I consider that 
 I have your promise r" 
 
 Francesca could hardly speak. The new picture which the enthusiastic 
 words of Lord Manley had conjured up overpowered her ; — the suddenness 
 of his departure ; his generous solicitude for the fulfilment of the long- 
 cherished hope of her existence ; the warmth and sincerity of his love ; 
 her own feelings of gratitude — of love for him ! — It was too much ! The 
 sternness of her resolution failed her : — the feelings of the woman resumed 
 their empire ; she could no longer resist the disinterested devotedness of 
 his affection. Stretching out her right hand, which was free, her form 
 slowly, and as if by some invincible attraction, inclined .towards him, as 
 she murmm-ed out. . . . 
 
 " If I w^ere mistress of these domains, and of the name and title which 
 they confer on their possessor, you would not have to complain of my 
 reluctance to make such a promise ;" and saying this, she would have 
 sunk on the gromid, had he not received her in his arms and supported her 
 to a seat ; nor could he refrain from imprinting on her lips a kiss of 
 ardent and pure affection. 
 
 " We will leave this summer-house, if you please, my lord," said 
 Francesca, burning with blushes. 
 
 " You will take my arm ?" said Lord Manley. 
 
 Timidly leaning on his arm, they passed slowly on by the vaiious 
 gardeners who met them on their way home, and who, if they were sur- 
 prised at seeing them at so early and unusual an hom% were not less lost 
 in admiration at the surpassing loveliness of Francesca, who, one of them 
 declared, energetically sticking his spade in the ground to give emphasis 
 to his opinion, was " the tidiest flower of all the beds in the garden, for 
 she was lilies and roses all in one." 
 
 Lady Sarum was surprised at breakfast to observe the excessive cheer- 
 fulness — indeed, the hilariousness, as she expressed it — of Lord Manley, 
 notwithstandinp- that his departure, things considered, might have been 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 249 
 
 expected to produce a contrary effect. Nor was she less struck with a 
 certain air of satisfaction visible on the countenance of Francesca ; but 
 as she was unacquainted with the fact of the pacifying meeting in the 
 summer-house, her ladyship was obliged to devour her conjectures in 
 silence. 
 
 At an early hour, which was more in accordance with Indian habits 
 than with etiquette, Colonel Lacey called; to whom Lord Manley 
 immediately communicated his intention of taking a journey to Italy, and 
 its object. Nor did he disguise from him, though without entering into 
 details, the offer which he had ma^e to his ward — as he particularly called 
 her to the Colonel. Colonel Lacey, although he received the intimation of 
 Lord Mauley's proposals with that sort of regret which every man feels 
 when a woman whom he loves is irrevocably lost to himself by her union 
 with another, expressed his most hearty approval of both schemes ; and 
 immediately offered to accompany Lord Manley in his search. Lord 
 Manley accepted this frank offer the more willingly as it removed 
 from the propinquity of his mistress the person of a handsome soldier 
 whom he had a particular distaste to see treating Francesca with the 
 affectionate familiarity of a guardian — rather too young, as he thought, 
 for the office. 
 
 AU matters, therefore, being thus, for the present, satisfactorily 
 arranged, the two friends departed. Lord Manley having first prevailed on 
 Francesca to give him a lock of her hair for the purpose, as he alleged, of 
 facilitating his inquii-ies ; but, as that little affair was managed rather in a 
 hurry, Lady Sarum could not fail to remark at dinner l£at the classic 
 head of her protegee presented a lopsided appearance, which Francesca 
 had in vain attempted to rectify ; but as, in reply to her ladyship's 
 inquiries as to the cause of the deficiency, Francesca could only reply by a 
 burning blush, which suffused neck, temples, face, and even the part of 
 her arms which the space between her long gloves and her dress left 
 visible, her protectress was pleased not to insist on a more elucidatory 
 explanation, but left to time and events the unravelment of the web of 
 perplexities which she found herself involved in. 
 
 In this way passed many weeks; and tranquillity prevailed at the 
 castle, broken only by some querulous expressions on the part of Lord 
 Grandborough that he wished the family to make a tour through Germany. 
 Lady Sarum began almost to hope that the troubles which she had dimly 
 pictured to herself were but the idle visions of distempered fear, and that 
 all would end well at last. The catastrophe was nearer at hand, 
 however, than that good and benevolent lady had any thought of. 
 A letter from her husband suddenly broke up the deceitful calmness 
 which had stolen over her, and was the herald of events of most terrible 
 import. 
 
250 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 LETTER PROM LORD SARUM : THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 The letter ran thus : — 
 
 " Dearest Eleanor — I have been ill, but I am now mucli better. 
 Reports, however, may reach you that I am worse than I am — I therefore 
 write to you this short letter. You need not be alarmed ; there is no 
 immediate danger. I have very good attendance. The fever is gone, 
 and I am quite easy. I am worried about Augustus ; — ^but, perhaps, it is 
 better not. Whether it is best to live or die no one can tell. I think of 
 him continually. It is a sad fate. There are a thousand chances to one 
 in his favour — but still — The physician is just come in. He says I am 
 not to write more. This fever kills me ; for I want to be moving. It is 
 a painful search ; and whether I succeed or fail, destruction lies on either 
 Iiand. The doctor says — I am not to write more. But you need not be 
 alarmed. Your ajffectionate and unhappy A." 
 
 Lady Sarum was stiU lost in painful wonder at the tenour of her 
 husband's letter, which plainly betrayed that he was more seriously ill 
 than his wandering communication confessed, when Mrs. Buckram slowly 
 entered. It was evident that the housekeeper was fraught with some 
 intelligence of an unusual nature ; and she held in her hand an open 
 letter, of that peculiar flimsy and slight appearance which indicated, at a 
 glance, its foreign character. 
 
 The grim old lady was struck with the fixed and sorrowful expression of 
 her lady's coimtenance ; and, so far as her nature would allow, she 
 sympathised with the grief which she doubted not had been caused by 
 Lord Sarum' s letter ; for of all things on earth, her fat pug-dog excepted, 
 she most doted on the Lord who was to succeed the Earl of Grandborough 
 in the family honours, and whom she had alternately caressed and had 
 been tormented by, in infancy and in boyhood. Not even the young 
 Augustus was able to rival this, her first plague, in her affections. It was 
 with an air of considerable concern, therefore, that she proceeded to 
 unfold her errand : — 
 
 " Your ladyship, I hope, will excuse me ; but I have held my lord in 
 my arms when he was a child ; and many is the brandy- cherry or little 
 glass of liqueur that I have given him when he has been made out of 
 spirits — but now ! " and here the dispenser of contraband delicacies put 
 an enormous squab of a handkerchief to her eyes, to sop up some fat tears 
 which surmounted the ridges of her puffy cheeks. 
 
 Her mistress, surprised at this unusual exhibition of feeling, and 
 prepared, from her own letter, to hear still more painful tidings, turned 
 deadly pale ; but with the fearful calmness of despair she asked, pointing 
 to the open letter which Mrs. Buckram held in her hand — 
 
 " Is it all over, then ?— that letter ?" 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOK. 251 
 
 *' Your ladyship has heard, of com-se, from my lord himself," said Mrs. 
 Bucki'am. " This is only a letter Mr. Tighe has written to my Lord 
 Grandborough's old valet .; only a few lines ; but of course my lord's letter 
 to your ladyship will have told you all." 
 
 " All ! " said Lady Sarum. 
 
 " Perhaps there is no reason to be so much alarmed," continued the 
 housekeeper ; " but it's certain, as no doubt your ladyship knows from 
 your own letter, that my lord is alarmingly iU. . . ." 
 
 " Give me the letter," said Lady Sarum. 
 
 The letter was seemingly writterf in great haste. It stated that Lord 
 Sarum had been incessantly engaged in journeying through various parts 
 oi Italy , that his lordship had been mostly very low in spirits, but that 
 sometimes he had been most extraordinarily excited ; and that, owing to 
 his constant restlessness, and his fatiguing exertions, a fever had been 
 brought on. Mr. Tighe further communicated that his master had been 
 very wild in his head, and had been raving after some one whom, of 
 course, " as he was his lordship's confidential man," Mr. Tighe wrote, he 
 could not consider himself at liberty to name, but that that person seemed 
 to be at the bottom of his master's illness. He added, that his lordship 
 was attended by two Italian doctors, who disagreed as to the nature of his 
 complaint, and by a young English surgeon, whose opinion differed 
 entirely from the other medical gentlemen; but that the latter had 
 recommended him, the writer, as he was in his lordship's particular con- 
 fidence, to write home immediately to apprise his lordship's family of his 
 dangerous state, which was the more alarming, the young surgeon said, 
 as, in his opinion, it was owing to some mental irritation which it was 
 beyond the power of medicine to reach. Mr. Tighe added, that he sent 
 off the present letter to Mr. Markham, as Lord Grandborough's con- 
 fidential gentleman, in order that he might communicate the contents to 
 his lord. In a postscript he added, that Lord Sarum had written a letter 
 to my lady, which, no doubt, explained matters fully ; but that his master 
 had been seized with another fit of delirium, about which the two Italian 
 doctors were disputing in an adjoining room, while the young surgeon, 
 who had been inquiring if he had any good cigars, was in attendance 
 at his master's bedside. The letter was dated " Milan," and marked 
 *' private," and was signed, with an excessive flourish, " John Tighe." 
 
 " Let me know," said Lady Sarum, " if Lord Grandborough can sec me 
 immediately." 
 
 " My lord is in his private study," replied the housekeeper, " closeted 
 with Mr. Markham, about signing some deeds, I believe, for the page told 
 me that he saw parchments on the table. Mr. Markham is very close," 
 added the housekeeper, "as he always is ; and how it is that my lord 
 has had such a fancy for him and made him so rich, is more than I can 
 account for ! We should not have known about this letter if he had not 
 dropped it, and your ladyship's woman had not picked it up, and read it, 
 thinking, as she said, that it was addressed to herself ; and she did not 
 find out her mistake till she had read it twice over, and then she brought 
 it to me, as was proper — to ask my advice." 
 
 Lady Sarum, who had been meditating deeply and rapidly on the con- 
 tents of both letters during this slight harangue of the housekeeper, 
 immediately rose, and ^vcut to her father-in- law's apartment. 
 
252 TANN-Y, THE LITTLE MILLINEH ! 
 
 It struck lier that some altercation was taking place between the earl 
 and his ancient valet, for the voice of Lord Grandborough was raised, and 
 the valet was speaking, she thought, in a loud and imperative tone, and 
 one by no means in accordance with his subservient position. Some 
 parchments were hastily crumpled up on her appearance, and put avray in 
 a drawer of the bureau, which the valet locked, putting the key, in a 
 quiet way, in his pocket. 
 
 "Are you at leisure, my dear lord ?" asked his daughter-in-law. 
 
 " Not exactly ; not just at this moment ; — that is — I am always at 
 leisure to you, you know, my dear Lady Eleanor." 
 
 Lady Sarum looked at the valet as if waiting for his departure. 
 
 " You may go, Markham," said the earl, in a tone half deprecating, 
 half directing. 
 
 Lady Sarum had been long aware of the influence which his valet 
 exercised over her father-in-law; but she had attributed it principally 
 to the earl's age and infirmities, and to the necessity of receiving 
 assiduous attentions from one who was acquainted with his habits and 
 infirmities ; but the present exhibition of Lord Grandborough' s submissive 
 manner struck her forcibly, and the remembrance occurred to her after- 
 wards ; but at the moment she was too much absorbed with her own 
 thoughts and fears to pay it further attention. 
 
 She began at once, but cautiously, on the subject of his son's illness, 
 which she found that the earl had already been apprised of. She then 
 stated her intention of immediately setting off to join her husband in 
 Italy. This step the earl strenuously opposed ; but finding her deter- 
 mined, he suddenly acquiesced, and signified his intention of accom- 
 panying her. 
 
 Lady Sarum was glad of this offer, as it removed a difficulty which was 
 in her mind in respect of the due care of her father-in-law in her absence ; 
 and she immediately despatched a mounted messenger to communicate to 
 her mother her intention of setting out the next morning for town, on her 
 way to Dover. To her great joy, a reply was brought back from Lady St. 
 Austin, communicating her own desire and Lord St. Austin's also, to 
 accompany their daughter in her forced journey. The next question was, 
 what was to be done with Francesca? Colonel Lacey having already 
 taken his departure for Italy with Lord Manley, the convenience of his 
 protection for Miss Sidney was not available. Not being able to hit on 
 any appropriate family with whom to place her at the moment, without 
 making explanations, which were awkward, she determined to take Fran- 
 cesca with her, as the safest course to pursue under the circumstances ; 
 which would keep " the girl" under her own eye, and away from incon- 
 Tenient inquiries. 
 
 Having arrived in London, as all difficulties vanish before the magic 
 power of money, the same evening all the travelling conveniences of tiie 
 pai-ty were quickly in order, and the carriages duly packed for the conti- 
 nent; and making no more halt on the way than absolute necessity 
 required, the party passed through Paris to Strasburg, and thence by the 
 usual route to IMilan. On their arrival there they ascertained that Lord 
 Sarum had recovered sufficiently to resume his travels, and from such 
 information as they could collect, Lady Sarum concluded that she should 
 find her husband at Florence. Thither, therefore, they proceeded with 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOE. 253 
 
 less gloom over the party, as the alarm in respect to Lord Sarum's health 
 was Imppily removed ; and it was with feelings of extreme delight that 
 Prancesca found herself on classic ground, while Lady Sarum was occa- 
 sionally beguiled by her enthusiasm to forget at times her melancholy fore- 
 bodings. In this way, and with some semblance of gaiety, they journeyed 
 on to the spot which Lady Sarum fondly hoped would be the term of her 
 anxiety and uncertainties. 
 
 " At last," she exclaimed, as they entered the gates of Florence, "we 
 arc coming to the end of our journey." 
 
 The end indeed was coming! but/ an end how little expected by any 
 of those who were presently to be assembled at the last scene of this event- 
 history. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV 
 
 THE PHYSIOGNOMIST. 
 
 The first persons who met the eye of Lady Sarum at the hotel where she 
 alighted, were Lord Manley and Colonel Lacey. They had just arrived 
 from Pisa, where they had left Lord Sarum, who had expressed his 
 intention of following them to Florence in a few days. 
 
 Lady Sarum immediately despatched a courier to her husband to an- 
 nounce her arrival at Florence ; informing him that his father had been 
 attacked with his old complaint, which rendered him mifit for travelling 
 further ; and as she did not tliink it right to leave him, as she had sent his 
 valet Markham on some mission with which she was unacquainted, she 
 entreated Lord Sarum to join her without delay. She made no mention of 
 Francesca ; — as she had not time to enter into full particulars respecting 
 her domiciliation in the family, she thought it best to leave that expla- 
 nation to a personal interview. 
 
 With her mind a little more at ease at being assured of the safety of her 
 husband and of his partial restoration to health, and with the certainty also, 
 as she trusted, of seeing him at Florence in a very few days, she devoted 
 her whole attention to Lord Grandborough, whose case exhibited symptoms 
 which excited serious alarm. Fortunately, Lord Manley had already 
 made acquaintance with a Dr. Saluti, an Italian physician of much 
 celebrity at Florence, and remarkable for his skill in mental diseases. 
 The doctor promptly replied to the request for his attendance, and after 
 two days' careful examination of the English lord's case, he asked to see 
 some one of the family to whom he might express" his opinion. As 
 Lord St. Austin was not at hand, Lord Manley, as an attached friend 
 to the family, took on himself the office of receiving the doctor's com- 
 munication. 
 
 The doctor began by inquiring, with much delicacy, if any domestic 
 calamity or public event had occurred lately to disturb the mind of the 
 Lord Grandborough ; and on Lord Manley's reply that he was not aware 
 of any such occurrence, the doctor requested Lord Manley to cany his 
 
254 FANNT, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 mind back for some years, and to endeavour to recollect if any sudden 
 shock had happened to make a lasting and painful impression on the mind 
 of his patient, as, in his opinion, the doctor said, the malady with which 
 Lord Grandborough was afflicted was of long standing ; and to judge from 
 the replies of his patient, or from the manner of them rather than their 
 substance, there was a morbid dread in the mind of the lord of some over- 
 hanging disaster, of which, the doctor said, it was clear to him the noble 
 patient was in continual fear. 
 
 Lord Manley said that he would make known the doctor's opinion tO' 
 Lord Sarum who was presently expected from Pisa, and expressed his 
 hope that there was no immediate danger. The doctor shook his head at 
 this, and replied that in such cases it was impossible to say when a fatal 
 termination might take place ; but the brain of the old lord was in a state 
 of incipient inflammation, which might suddenly increase to an extent that 
 would defy all medical skill ; but he would call again, he said, the next 
 day, and then he should be able to form a more positive opinion. He 
 added that the family must not be sui^rised to see the patient suddenly 
 get up and go about as usual, for such was the nature of the complaint ; 
 but such sudden changes, he was sorry to say, were by no means indicative 
 of a favom-able termination : on the contrary, that they were only a form 
 of the disease. But it seemed to him, he repeated, that the English lord's 
 malady had existed for many years, and, indeed, that it was a case which 
 suggested to his mind certain ideas which he did not think himself at the 
 moment warranted to express. He had observed, he said, more than one 
 case in the criminal prisons analogous with the present, where the mind 
 of the patient was tortured by remorse, and by the unceasing recollection 
 of some unconfessed and unabsolved crime ; but as this view of the case 
 C(5uld not apply to the English lord, it was necessary for him, he said, to 
 seek for some other cause to account for the cerebral disturbance which 
 manifested itself in a form so determined. 
 
 As they conversed thus in low tones, they passed to the reception room 
 ■where they expected to find Lady Sarum. But she had retired with 
 Lady St. Austin to her chamber, and no one was in the room but Fran- 
 cesca. A slight flush, which suffused her countenance as Lord Manley 
 entered, made the experienced physician suspect that there was more than 
 one case of mental excitement in the family, and as he observed a corres- 
 ponding symptom in the countenance of Lord Manley, he had no difficulty 
 in divining the truth. But as he approached with the respect due to a lady 
 of the rank which he presumed Francesca to hold, he stopped abruptly^ 
 and regarded her with an expression of extreme interest. 
 
 As Francesca was much confused, and trembled rather at the earnest- 
 ness of the physician's eye, he availed himself of the privilege of his age 
 and his profession, and taking her hand playfully, felt her pulse. 
 
 " I hope," said Francesca, smiling, " that you do not see any reason to 
 number me among your patients ?" 
 
 " The same voice ! " exclaimed the physician; "this is really extraor- 
 dinary !" 
 
 Francesca looked surprised. 
 
 " It is remarkable," said the physician, taking leave of Francesca, and 
 speaking to Lord Manley, as they descended the stairs, " to observe 
 the infinite varieties of the human countenance, although their regular 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR, 255 
 
 types are few. For instance, you will always find a tall thin body sur- 
 mounted by a small head, while the body of a dwarf is invariably accom- 
 panied by one that is large and disproportionate. But Lavater has 
 already classified the various characteristic expressions of the difierent 
 orders of the human physiognomy, and it is a subject that is too large to 
 be discussed as we are walking down stairs. It is a study, however, that 
 is exceedingly useful in all conditions of life, and is peculiarly important 
 to those of my profession. I have long held the opinion, that the 
 expression of a face is a book in which those skilled in the language may 
 easily read the predominant character of its possessor, and often the secret 
 thoughts. But, perhaps, it is as well that the vulgar should not have too 
 intimate a knowledge of this dangerous intelligence. That young lady, 
 now, whom I had the honour to see for a few moments," said the doctor, 
 stopping on the stairs, " has a most remarkable expression of countenance. 
 — Might I presume to ask if she is related to the lord whom I have just 
 now visited?" 
 
 " Not in the slightest degree," replied Lord Manley ; " but what is 
 the expression of the countenance, doctor, to which you allude ?" 
 
 "It is an expression of extreme sadness ; of a sort of sadness which 
 ought not to afflict the young. But what I was most struck with, wai 
 the illustration which she presented of my own theory of the limited 
 number of types of the human face and form." 
 
 " What was it," asked Lord Manley, " that struck you as remarkable ?'' 
 
 " It was her extraordinary resemblance to a sick lady whom I am 
 attending at some little distance from the town ; — it was her eyes ; — yes, it 
 was the expression of the eyes that principally caused that resemblance. — 
 The same eyes ; large, black, and full. All my countrywomen have 
 black eyes ; but their expression is very difierent. And the general style 
 of the countenance — allowing for changes — was the same ; — that is, the 
 front view of it, not the profile I remarked. — Yes, this likeness is 
 certainly very extraordinary, and is a beautiful illustration of the theory 
 of the limited number of the types of the human face. My lord, if you 
 are fond of the science of physiognomy, that young lady's countenance is 
 a study ; yes, it is a study ; and I advise you to peruse it as you would a 
 book — a book, my lord — a volume printed by nature for the philosopher's 
 observation." 
 
 Lord Manley did not think it necessary to communicate to the 
 enthusiastic philosopher of physiognomies, that, without having had the 
 benefit of the learned doctor's advice, he had akeady, from his own pure 
 love of such philosophy, perused the book that the doctor spoke of, over 
 and over again, until he had got it pretty well by heart. But the words 
 of the physician caused in him a powerful cm-iosity, and he inquired the 
 name and residence of the sick lady to whom the doctor avenged the young 
 lady bore so striking a resemblance. But here the doctor became silent 
 and reserved ; — he said that the lady, he believed, had some reason for 
 living retired, and that it was contrary to professional etiquette to mention 
 the name of a patient ; he had spoken, he said, only in a general way, and 
 abstractedly, in respect to physiognomical science ; and turning the 
 conversation with professional facility, to the common topics of the day, 
 he was about to bid Lord Manley adieu. 
 
 Biit the communication of the physician was too interesting to be lost 
 
256 FAFNY, THE IITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 sight of; and Lord Manley, after some little reflection, determined to 
 make him a confidant, and to acquaint him with all that he knew of 
 Francesca's history, and to inform him of his own endeavours to clear up 
 the mystery of her parents. Thus entreated, the physician could not refuse 
 to satisfy Lord Mauley's reasonable inquiries, agreeing that the circum- 
 stance of the remarkable likeness was a sufficient reason for his departing 
 from the usual strictness of professional reserve on such occasions, 
 although, he said, he had never heard the sick lady drop a word to lead 
 him to conclude that there was any one related to her family in the 
 position of Miss Sidney. But the matter, he admitted, was deserving of 
 inquiry. 
 
 Lord Manley immediately returned to Francesca, and communicated to 
 her the information of the physician ; and it was agreed between them, 
 that Francesca should request Lady Sarum to allow her to proceed to the 
 spot which was described as the dwelling-place of the unknown, to whom 
 she bore, according to the account of the physician, so surprising a 
 resemblance. Lady Sarum heard Francesca's recital with a tremor 
 which she could not disguise ; and desiring Francesca to leave her alone 
 for a few minutes that she might consider what was best to be done, she 
 abandoned herself to the agitating thoughts which such an announcement 
 was calculated to produce in the bosom of a wife to whom the existence of 
 a mistress and a rival had suddenly become revealed ! 
 
 At first, the thought of the propinquity of that mistress — so eagerly 
 sought for, and, as she feared, so fondly cherished by her husband, almost 
 took away her breath ! She felt that agony of jealousy which shoots 
 through the heart with a pang so sharp and cutting ! which words 
 cannot describe — and which almost deprives its victim of all feeling from 
 the overwhelming intensity of its pain. For some time the suffering lady 
 sat as if transfixed — ^lier hands grasping the elbows of the antique chair — 
 and with her eyes gazing on vacancy ! Had not an hysterical flood of 
 tears come to her relief, she would have been suffocated with that choking 
 of the throat which is the concomitant of deep emotion. She wept long 
 and passionately ; but when the violence of her agitation had subsided, 
 and reason resumed its empire, she began to question the positive nature 
 of the fact, which was rather surmised than established, in respect of the 
 mother of Francesca. Her thoughts, at one time suggested by her wishes, 
 and at another by her fears, alternately dwelt on the truth and falsehood 
 of her suspicion. And now she thought that it must be true, for her fears 
 prompted her that to find it false was too great a good for her to expect ; 
 and then she determined that her suspicion must be false, for to find it 
 true was a calamity too frightful for her to bear ! Thus swayed from side 
 to side, as the loving trust of the woman assured her in her confidence, or the 
 burning jealousy of the wife convulsed her with dread, she remained for a 
 considerable time in a state of the most painful indecision. At last the 
 desire to aid the orphan girl in her search after her parents prevailed, and 
 she determined to accompany Francesca to this mysterious unknown, and 
 to see with her own eyes, and be guided by her own understanding : to 
 this resolve, perhaps, the pride of the peeress and the curiosity of the 
 woman lent, in some degree, their influence. Giving immediate orders 
 for horses to be put to her light travelling carriage, and making known 
 her intention to Francesca, she invited Lord Manley to accompany 
 
OR, THE RICH AND POOR. 25V 
 
 her, and thus attended, and with the vivid remembrance of the picture, 
 the mention of which had excited so much emotion in Lord Sarum, 
 she passed through the gates of Florence, and in a short time found 
 herself near the spot where tiie Italian lady had fixed her dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 lORD SARUM AND COLONEL LACET. 
 
 If Lady Sarum had been aware that her husband was so near the place 
 which she was leaving, she would, doubtless, have postponed her visit. 
 In less than half an hour after his wife had passed through the opposite 
 gates, he entered the city, and immediately proceeded to the hotel at 
 which Lady Sai*um had informed him, by her courier, that she had taken 
 up her abode, 
 
 His first visit was to his father, whom he found sitting up in a chair in 
 his private room, conversing with Lord St. Austin. He found Lord 
 Grandborough in a very fretful and feverish state, and exceedingly 
 anxious for the aiTival of his valet, Markham. Lord St. Austin was 
 endeavouring to soothe his old friend; but Lord Grandborovigh's mind 
 was too unsettled to be able to fix itself on any definite object — excepting 
 the earnest expectation of his confidential servant's retmTi. 
 
 As the presence of his son seemed rather to irritate than to pacify the 
 impatience of the old lord, and as Lord St. Austin hinted that it would be 
 best to leave his father alone for the present. Lord Sarum made his 
 way to the reception-room, where he found Lady St. Austin in company 
 with a stranger, whom she introduced to him under the name and title of 
 " Colonel Lacey," 
 
 Colonel Lacey, although he was not fdrgetful of the events of the 
 memorable night when he first saw the young lord in the hut of Matthew 
 the woodman, went through the introduction with the ease and self- 
 possession of an accomplished soldier ; but not so Lord Sarum : the name 
 of " Lacey" in a moment awoke most pov/erful recollections. In truth, 
 this unfortunate nobleman had become sadly changed since his departure 
 from England. His wearying journeys, his unceasing anxiety, and his 
 recent illness, had committed sad ravages on a countenance prematurely 
 saddened by the corrosion of a constant grief. He had been totally unable 
 to discover the slightest trace of the mother of Francesca ; either she was 
 dead, or the secret of her retreat was so well kept, that it baffled all his 
 researches, and it was in vain that he was lavish in the expenditure of 
 money to effect his object, and even interested the govemraent in his 
 pursuit; the secret of the death or existence of the original of the picture, 
 over which he had shed such bitter tears in Lord Mauley's house, in 
 London, was impenetrable. But it was destined that accident, or that 
 which seemed accident, should bring to light what art and industry had 
 failed to accomplish. 
 
258 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 The name of "Lacey," Lord Sarum remembered too well, was that 
 which was borne by the young man, who sixteen years ago had rescued 
 the infant Francesca from the White Woman's Pit, and who had suddenly 
 disappeared with his mother and the child. The stranger who stood 
 before him, however, bore no resemblance to the person or condition of the 
 young labourer, whose noble spirit and disinterested generosity he had at 
 the time so much admired. But the mention of the name caused him to 
 regard the stranger with a longer and more earnest gaze than politeness 
 Tsrarranted. 
 
 The colonel, who had lost all remembrance of Lord Sarum's person, but 
 who could never forget the generous devotion of the young nobleman in 
 his attempt to rescue the woman from the pit, returned Lord Sarum's 
 earnest look with a good-natured smile. 
 
 " I perceive," he said, " that your lordship does not recollect me ; nor, 
 indeed, can I be surprised, considering the lapse of years, and the change 
 of circumstances." 
 
 Lord Sarum regarded him with increased surprise. Colonel Lacey 
 spoke as if they had met before ; but when, and where ? and what had 
 Colonel Lacey to do with the humble Lacey of former years ? But seeing 
 that some reply was expected from him, he spoke : 
 
 *' Many years ago, I had occasion to have some intercourse vrith a young 
 man of the same name as yourself ; but he was in a very humble condition; 
 in short, he was a labourer — or little above it — in the country where I was 
 bom but *' 
 
 " The young labourer to whom your lordship refers," replied the 
 colonel, with a little pardonable pride, and drawing himself up, " and the 
 humble individual who has the honour to address you, are the same : — 
 I am the Edward Lacey whom yom: lordship met at the woodman's 
 cottage " 
 
 *' And he who saved the child ?" 
 
 *' The same, my lord." 
 
 " My God ! " exclaimed Lord Sarum, " I thank you for this ! — I 
 have sought you," he said to Lacey, "over the four quarters of the 
 globe — but that is nothing : — tell me — and at once — what became of that 
 child?" 
 
 *' My lord, she was miraculously saved from shipwreck off the coast of 
 ^orth America. I thought she had perished ; but on my return from 
 India, the first visit which I paid was to the scenes of my childhood, and 
 it was at the cottage of Matthew the woodman, that I found her again, a 
 second time saved from that awful pit by Earl Manley " 
 
 " By Lord Manley ! " 
 
 *' She was taken to the castle. ..." 
 
 *' To Grandborough Castle ! " 
 
 *' To your family castle, my lord, where she received the protection of 
 Lady Sarum " 
 
 " Of my wife !" 
 
 " Even so, my lord ; the kind heart of her ladyship could not resist the 
 appeal of the orphan deserted by her parents, and she hcs adopted her 
 into her family " 
 
 *' And where is she now ?'* 
 
 *' She is here, my lord." 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 259 
 
 " Here ! in this house ! Let me see her immediately. I have impor- 
 tant reasons for wishing to see her immediately. Dear Lady St. Austin, 
 have the kindness to let me see this child immediately. Desire her to be 
 called — or stay, I will go to her myself — where is she ?" 
 
 "My lord," said Lady St. Austin, with some severity in her manner; 
 for the excessive anxiety of Lord Sarum to see the " girl" confirmed her 
 suspicions as to. the reality of her relationship to him ; " you cannot see 
 her at present, at any rate, as she has accompanied my daughter, your 
 lordship's wife, to see some sick person whom they have heard of: — they 
 depai-ted more than an hour ag^." 
 
 The manner, as much as the words, of Lady St. Austin recalled Lord 
 Sarum to himself; for fixed as his thoughts had been for some time past 
 on the discovery of the mother of the child, living or dead, he had allowed 
 his feelings to get the better of the self-control which he usually preserved. 
 But as he expressed a vehement desire to see Lady Sarum without delay. 
 Lady St Austin consented to accompany him to the spot where the sick 
 person resided, which she did the more readily, as she was desirous of 
 being present at a scene which so nearly affected her daughter and herself 
 in a most tender point. She judged also, that her presence at an interview 
 which might be painful and could not fail to be embarrassing to her 
 daughter, might be useful. "Without waiting longer, therefore, than to 
 procure horses for his carriage, the two set out to join Lady Sarum on her 
 visit of charity, having first taken a com-teous and friendly leave of Colonel 
 Lacey, whom they left at the hotel. 
 
 The Colonel having reflected for a few minutes, instantly decided on 
 the course which it was proper for him to pursue, in a case where the 
 interests of his adopted ward were concerned ; and without waiting to 
 order a carriage, he immediately stepped out, and hiring a conveyance on 
 the spot, directed the vetturino to drive, with aU the speed of which his 
 horse was capable, to the point where he expected to find Lady Sarum 
 and Francesca. On his way out he encountered a man whom he- at 
 once recognised as an Englishman, covered with dust, and just alighted 
 from a post-horse, who hastily rushed into the hotel, asking eagerly, as 
 the Colonel fancied he heard, for Lord Grandborough. — This man was 
 Markham, who hurriedly made his way to Lord Grandborough' s chamber. 
 
 As he entered, he exclaimed in an agitated tone, and not seeing Lord St. 
 Austin, who was standing in a recess of the window : — 
 
 " All is lost ! By some means Lady Sarum has discovered the place of 
 her retreat, and she is now on her way to the cottage of the mountain !" 
 
 Lord Grandborough pointed to Lord St. Austin, who came forward as 
 Markham pronounced these words, and said : — 
 
 " What is lost ? and what is the meaning, my dear lord, of your man's 
 excessive agitation ? Has any accident happened to your son or to my 
 daughter? Speak," he said, to Markham, who 'exhibited considerable 
 alarm while Lord St. Austin spoke ; " what is the matter ?" 
 
 But Markham, instead of replying, looked at Lord Grandborough, who 
 seemed to be overwhelmed and stunned by an invisible blow. But some 
 of his ancient spirit rallying, and drawing courage and strength from the 
 very desperation of the circumstances, the aged earl slowly rose from his 
 chair, and, to the astonishment of his friend, said in a firm voice : — 
 
 S2 
 
S60 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEX ! 
 
 " Marlvham ; attend to me. — There may be time to prevent this meeting 
 yet. Order a carriage to be got ready instantly. I will go." 
 
 *' My dear Grandborough," said Lord St. Austin, " whatever the secret 
 of all this is I do not know, and will not, at present at any rate, take the 
 liberty to inquire ; but really you must not attempt to go out without the 
 permission of your physician." 
 
 " It must be !" replied Lord Grandborough, still standing, and sup- 
 porting himself on the back of the chair. 
 
 " But really, this is folly or madness ; as Dr. Saluti gave most positive 
 directions that you were to be kept quiet, and on no account to be exposed 
 to any excitement." 
 
 " It must be !" repeated Lord Grandborough. 
 
 *' The carriage is ready," said Markham, coming in. 
 
 *' Well," said his friend, "if you will go, I will go with you; take my 
 arm." 
 
 "Markham," said Lord Grandborough, "you will go with us." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 " What is the meaning of all tliis?" said the physician, who was passing 
 the hotel in the course of his avocation, as Lord Grandborough with Lord 
 St. Austin, seated in an open carnage, were on the point of starting. 
 <* Why you are the most self-willed and obstinate of all obstinate English- 
 men ! My lord, this exposure of yourself to the excitement of travelling 
 mjSLj have the most serious consequences. But stay ; let me feel your 
 pulse. — Very remarkable," muttered the physician to himself ; "is this a 
 crisis, or what ? Are you going far ?" 
 
 " It must be !" repeated Lord Grandborough. 
 
 The physician looked for an explanation to Loi*d St. Austin. Lord St. 
 Austin stated his utter ignorance of the place or the occasion, and referred 
 to the valet. The valet stated where they were going. 
 
 *' It must be !" repeated Lord Grandborough. 
 
 The physician regarded his countenance attentively. 
 
 " I see," he said, " that you have room for four ; as you are going to a 
 part of the environs, where a patient of mine resides, perhaps you vrili 
 allow me to accompany you ?" 
 
 " It would confer an obligation if you would accompany us," said Ijord 
 St. Austin. 
 
 " It must be !" repeated Lord Grandborough. 
 
 The physician beckoned to his servant, who took from his master's 
 carriage, a small leather case, which the physician quietly slipped into his 
 capacious pocket. He then gave some directions to his servant, in a low 
 tone, who nodded intelligently, and said — 
 
 « It shall be done." 
 
 The physician took his place opposite to Lord Grandborough, who made 
 a signal to the driver, and the carriage immediately set off at a rapid pace 
 to the valley where the secluded dwelling known by the name of the 
 *' Cottage of the Mountain," hid its humble roof. 
 
261 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 THE ORIGINAL OF THE PICTURE. 
 
 It was evening, at the close of the month of July. A soft and refreshing 
 coohiess had succeeded the heat of the day. The repose of nature was. so 
 inviting, in the absence of the scorching rays of an Italian sun, that an 
 invalid who inhabited a seckided cottage in the environs which adorn the 
 magnificent city of Florence, was tempted to leave her room, and sit 
 in the open air on a rustic bench which stood near the door of her 
 dwelling. 
 
 The age of the invalid w'as about five and thirty. Her countenance, 
 which still bore the appearance of surpassing but faded beauty, was singu- 
 larly striking ; her large dark eyes, and jet black hair, formed a remarkaWe 
 contrast with the marble paleness of her skin. Pier form was wasted to a 
 shadow ; she was in the last stage of wealiness, and her voice was hollow 
 and feeble. 
 
 " How calm it is !" she said to a female attendant who was standiu^g 
 by her side ; " what a stillness in the air ! All nature seems to be at 
 rest!" 
 
 " Ah, signora," replied her attendant, " the greatest pleasure in life, 
 after all, is to be at rest and to do nothing. But those English ! they ax^ 
 never at rest. Would you believe it, signora, when I went to Father 
 Loretti's to-day, who should I see gallopping about but a young English 
 lord — they told me he was — who does nothing but roam in and out of all 
 the villages near, seeking for what nobody knows what ! For my part, I 
 think it is some sweetheart that he has lost, and is looking for ; these 
 English heretics, as Father Loretti says, are always after some mischief, 
 and no pretty girl is safe with them for a moment ! But he is only two or 
 three and twenty, the housekeeper told me ; very fair, and with blue eyes. 
 How odd it is that these English people always have blue eyes and light 
 hair ! But there is something very pretty about it, don't you think so, 
 signora ? Holy mother ! Well ; talk of a certam person, and he is sure 
 to appear, as the saying is. I declare if the blue-eyed Englishman is not 
 coming up the path straight to our cottage. What can he want here ? 
 Not me ; I'm sure I never spoke to him ! Well, to be sure, how free and 
 easy these English lords are ! Shall I tell him to go away, signora ?" 
 
 The countenance of the invalid underwent a remarkable change during 
 this speech of the loquacious Tereza. Some recollections of former times 
 seemed to oppress her with overwhelming sadness. She could not be 
 more pale ; but there was that in the exprt^ssion of her mouth and eyes 
 which told of the violence of the sudden agitation within. Tereza regai'ded 
 this exhibition of emotion with alarm ; and thinking it was the appearance 
 of the stranger that had disturbed her mistress, she advanced to prevent 
 his coming. 
 
 " Whom do you want, signore, and what is your business with us ? 
 
26i' FANNY, THE UTILE MILLINER : 
 
 My mistress is an invalid, and cannot see strangers, and especially 
 foreigners." 
 
 The stranger stopped, and looked towards the bench where the invalid 
 was sitting : — 
 
 " Your mistress beckons us," he said. 
 
 Tereza turned, and to her surprise perceived by the motion of her 
 mistress's hand that she was desirous that the stranger should approach. 
 
 " You will talk to her very carefully signore," said Tereza, " and don't 
 speak loud, if you please ; for my poor mistress, as you see, is very ill 
 and very weak : indeed," she added in a whisper, " Father Loretti fears 
 much for her, and we expect him here this evening. I wonder he has 
 not come before now." 
 
 The stranger drew near, and at a sign from the invalid, seated himself 
 near her at the bench ; but suddenly starting up, he regarded her with so 
 fixed and earnest a look, that the sick lady was disturbed, and Tereza was 
 almost frightened. The invalid, on her part, looked at the stranger with 
 an inquiring gaze, as if desirous of recalling his features to her memory ; 
 but presently she cast down her eyes in disappointment, and shaking her 
 head, breathed a heavy sigh. 
 
 There was a pause for some time ; the stranger seemed undetermined 
 how to open the conversation, and the invalid waited for him to explain 
 the object of his visit, while Tereza regarded with wonder this specimen 
 of the extraordinary habits of the English people. 
 
 " You are an Englishman ?" said the invalid, faintly. 
 
 " I am, signora :" the voice of the Englishman trembled very much, as 
 he added, " and I am desirous, if you would allow me the permission, of 
 saying a few words to you in private." 
 
 The invalid looked on him for nearly a minute anxiously and earnestly ; 
 at last she said, with an apparent effort to gather up her strength to 
 receive some communication which excited both hopes and fears : — 
 
 " Do you know me, signore ?" 
 
 " No, signora ; it is only accidentally, in the course of some inquiries 
 which I am making, that I have come to this lonely and secluded cottage. 
 But the sight of you brings to my remembrance " 
 
 " Signore ! What do you mean?" 
 
 " I will explain to you the object of my enquiries," replied the English- 
 man ; " but, as they concern matters of great delicacy, it would be well 
 perhaps," glancing at Tereza, " if we were alone." 
 
 " Leave us, Tereza." 
 
 Tereza retired. 
 
 " You may speak, sir, now," said the invalid in English, which she 
 spoke well, but with a foreign accent, " without restraint." 
 
 The stranger turned towards the Italian lady with a quick movement, 
 and searohed her countenance with scrutinizing eyes. Her knowledge of 
 his own language filled him with an eager hope which made his heart 
 beat rapidly, but, controlling his feelings, and taking into consideration 
 the very feeble state of the invalid, he endeavoured to speak with coolness 
 and calmness : — 
 
 " If I might venture to ask the name of the lady whom I have the 
 honour to address," he said, " it might possibly facilitate the object which 
 1 have in view ?" 
 
OK, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 263 
 
 " My name," replied the lady, a slight colour suffusing her countenance, 
 *' cannot be an object of interest to a stranger." Then, after a pause, she 
 added, " I am known as Juliana Meroni." 
 
 The Englishman seemed much disappointed at this announcement of 
 the lady's name. He meditated for a few moments, and then resumed 
 the conversation : — 
 
 " It is right, signora, that I should state the object of my visit to Italy. 
 I am desirous of tracing the relations of a young lady who is ignorant of 
 the name of her parents ; and whose adventures have been of a most 
 extraordinary character." v 
 
 " And why do you suppose," said the lady, " that I have any knowledge 
 of the parents of this young lady ; is she of English birth ?" 
 
 " That is a mystery ; she does not know the land of her birth ; but 
 particular circumstances have led me to think that her parents are 
 not English ; — but that in fact is the mystery which it is my endeavom* to 
 <}lear up." 
 
 " I do not see," said the lady, " how I can help you in your search." 
 
 " You may, perhaps," replied the Englishman. " I have reason to 
 "believe that she has relations in this country ; and although my present 
 visit is only accidental, it so happens that there is a remarkable likeness 
 between this young lady and yourself." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " If you will excuse my mentioning the circumstance, it struck me the 
 moment I saw vou, that your eyes, signora, are the counterpart of Miss 
 Sidney's." 
 
 " Miss Sidney ?" 
 
 " It is the name of the young lady in whose welfare I am interested." 
 
 "You are interested in this young lady's welfare?" said the invalid 
 with a mom-nful smile. 
 
 " I am, signora," replied the Englishman, reddening ; " and it is this 
 resemblance that suggests the idea, that, by possibility, some relationship 
 may exist between you ?" 
 
 " I am sorry to say anything to disappoint you, but the young lady to 
 whom you allude cannot be any relation of mine. I have neither brother 
 nor sister. I was an only child, and my parents are long since dead. I 
 know of no relation on my father's or my mother's side with whom your 
 orphan can be connected. What is her age ?" 
 
 " She does not precisely know ; but as well as I can make out from 
 certain circumstances, she must be eighteen ; not quite so much, perhaps. 
 A most singular occurrence took place when she was a child. It happened 
 in the north of England ; — ^you have been in England perhaps ? you speak 
 English so well that I fancy you must have passed some time in that 
 country ?" 
 
 " I have been in England," replied the lady, speaking slowly and with 
 some reluctance ; " but it was not there that I learned to speak your 
 language. — But this singular occurrence ? what is it ? and who are you, 
 sir, permit me to ask, who interest yourself so much in this young lady's 
 affairs ?" 
 
 *' I beg pardon, signora ; I ought to have given my name before." 
 
 Drawing from an English case a card on which was engraved his name 
 and title, he presented it to the Italian lady, ~ i 
 
264 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEKI 
 
 " Earl Manley. — You are an English earl, I seer'* 
 
 Lord Manley bowed. 
 
 *' And you are very much interested abovit this mysterious young lady ? 
 is she very handsome ?" 
 
 " She is a most beautiful girl," replied Lord Manley ; " and, as I said 
 before, her eyes resemble yours so remarkably that sometimes they seem 
 to be the same." 
 
 " Indeed ! — And you have reason to believe that she is a native of this 
 country ?" 
 
 " Such is my strong suspicion." 
 
 " And her age, you say, is about eighteen?" 
 
 " That is her age as nearly as can be ascertained.'' 
 
 " About eighteen years of age," repeated the Italian lady to herself, as 
 if these words, or the space of time which they comprised, recalled to her 
 mind some recollections deeply interesting. For some time she remained 
 in a musing attitude, and a few tears which liUed her eyes showed that 
 she felt a grief which, though subdued, could not be forgotten. Placing 
 her thin, white hands before her face, she seemed absorbed for a short 
 space in mental prayer ; then, uttering in a low voice, " God's will be 
 done," she recovered her calmness, and resumed the conversation. 
 
 " And this orphan girl, in whom you interest yourself, my lord ; has it 
 pleased God to grant her kind protectors ?" 
 
 *' She is now safe, I trust, from all difficulties and from all harm," 
 replied the Englishman ; " but for some lengthened time she suffered 
 much." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " said the Italian lady. 
 
 " Her adventures," said the Englishtfia-n, " are of a most romantic 
 character : — she has been preserved three times from imminent death ;— 
 and twice under circumstances of extraordinary peril." 
 
 *' It may be," said the lady, " that it has pleased God to purify her by 
 trials, and to preserve her for some important and predestined end." 
 
 " It is impossible," replied the Englishman, " to reflect on her history 
 without being possessed with that opinion." 
 
 " My lord," said the Italian lady, " I have been very ill, and I am very 
 weak ; but you have inspired me with a curiosity to hear the story of this 
 orphan girl." 
 
 " You may hear it from her own lips, signora ; she is in a carriage with 
 her protectress close by ; and she is desirous of seeing you." 
 
 " Let her come then," said the lady ; " but if I may be permitted to 
 ask that favour, I should like to see her alone. — My nerves are weak and 
 easily excited — and the sight of your orphan may recall thoughts, and 
 give rise to emotions which I should wish not to be observed." 
 
 " It shall be so, signora : she shall come to you alone." 
 
 It would be difficult to convey in words the crowd of sensations which 
 oppressed Lord Manley, as he departed from the presence of the ItaHan 
 lady. A vague presentiment of mingled good and ill filled him with 
 strange and confused emotions. The general likeness of the Italian lady 
 to Franccsca, allowing for the changes of disease and the difference of age, 
 was striking, and what was not less remarkable, the tones of her voice 
 resembled in a singular manner the sweet melody of sound which rendered 
 Francesca's most trifling expressions so peculiarly inte3?esting. As he 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE x*OOR. 265 
 
 approached the carriage where Francesca was waiting with Lady Sarum, 
 with indescribable anxiety for his return, it was easy to guess from the 
 serious and almost solemn aspect of his countenance, that he was impressed 
 with the conviction that some great revelation was at hand. But as to 
 how it was to be brought about, or what would be its nature or extent he 
 was lost in doubt ; and it was this vague feeling of uncertainty — this 
 struggle of hopes and fears — that filled him with a sort of superstitious 
 dread of the events which a dim consciousness of the future suggested to 
 him were coming. 
 
 "The Italian lady," he said t^ Francesca, " wishes to hear your story. 
 I thought it best that she should receive it from yourself; but it is her 
 wish to see you alone." 
 
 Lady Sarum looked anxiously at Lord Manley ; but she could learn 
 nothing satisfactory from his countenance ; she turned red and pale by 
 turns, and trembled visibly. 
 
 Francesca rose promptly from her seat ; but here her strength failed 
 her, and Lord Manley was obliged almost to lift her from the carriage. 
 She did not speak ; and she could hardly walk ; and in a state of nervous 
 excitement, which scarcely allowed her to see or hear what was going on 
 around her, she was supported by Lord Manley to the front of the 
 cottage, and placed on the bench near the invalid. — Lord JSIanley then 
 retired. 
 
 CHAPTER LYIL 
 
 MOTHBK AXD DAUGHTER. 
 
 When Francesca sat down on the bench by the Italian lady, the invalid 
 made a motion to her to come closer to her side, and gazing earnestly in 
 the young girl's face, she held out her hand, which Francesca clasped 
 timidly ; and thus, hand in hand, the two sat together for a brief space, 
 'either speaking ; but each revolving thoughts, strange and undefined. 
 
 Presently the lady spoke, and the tones of her sweet voice, feeble as it 
 was, thrilled through Francesca, and filled her with an unspeakable awe ; 
 for it seemed to her that she had heard that voice before — either in her 
 dreams, or at some remote period — so long ago that nothing remained in 
 her memory of the time or circumstances. That voice seemed to strike a 
 chord which had long remained untouched, but which now, awakened 
 from its passiveness, seemed to rouse up dim visions and remembrances. 
 
 "My poor child!" said the invalid, "they tell me you are an orphan, 
 and that your life is devoted to the discovery of yom- parents. The 
 English lord who has interested me about you, says, that, yours is a strange 
 history, and that you have endured much suffering. Would to God that 
 I could aid you in your search ! but I fear that is totally beyond my 
 power. Still, I can sympathize with you — and that is something to the 
 afflicted ! Have you no clue to your parents' name or condition ?" 
 
266 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 " None," replied Francesca ; " my birth is wrapped up in tlie mos^ 
 profound mystery ; but my history is strange and sad. ' 
 
 " Poor child ! so young, and already to have a history sad as well as 
 strange ! But, my child, we must place our trust in God, and devoutly 
 believe that his divine wisdom shapes our fortunes and purposes for the 
 best and fittest ends ! And here comes a holy man who can better speak 
 to you words of consolation than J can. Father Loretti," she said, to a 
 venerable priest, who now appeared, having entered the garden by a 
 private wicket to the right, " here is a poor orphan, an English girl, who 
 claims your benediction. She is seeking for some clue to the discovery 
 of her parents, whom she has never seen." 
 
 " I have never seen them," said Francesca, " and yet sometimes I 
 think ; — and even now — ^but the recollection is so dim — no — it must be a 
 dream !" 
 
 The priest, who was engaged in surveying Francesca with much 
 interest, was past the ordinary age of men. So much of his hair as was 
 visible, was of silvery whiteness, and his countenance displayed a holy 
 calmness and a touching benevolence, which irresistibly invited to con- 
 fidence and affection. He leant upon a staff as he stood for some time 
 regarding the invalid lady and the English girl alternately with fixed 
 attention, and, as he looked, an observer might have seen that his brow 
 was for a moment troubled, as if with some sudden thought; but it 
 quickly passed away. But he still kept his eyes fixed on the English 
 girl, wondering, it seemed, at some discovery which occurred to him. 
 
 " My daughter," he said to the Italian lady, " I thought you were 
 without living kindred ; how is it that you never mentioned this lady to 
 me, who, from the strong resemblance which she bears to you, I judge is 
 some near relation ?" 
 
 " It is truth, my father," replied the lady ; " I am indeed alone in the 
 world, save God and you ; I have not the happiness to have any one near 
 and dear to me whose affection might solace me in my long affliction ! 
 This English lady is a stranger to me ; but already she has inspired me 
 with sympathy for her sorrows, for she is an orphan who never knew her 
 parents." 
 
 "That is a sad lot, my child," said the priest; "but the ways of God 
 are inscrutable. And by what name are you known, my child?" 
 
 " I am known by the name of Fanny — but " 
 
 "And how did you acquire that name?" asked the priest; "was it 
 bestowed on you by accident ? or, has it any relation to the supposed 
 name of your parents ?" 
 
 " It is an English name," she replied ; " but in English it corresponds 
 with an Italian name." 
 
 " And what is that Italian name with which your English one cor- 
 responds ?" pursued the priest. 
 
 " Francesca." 
 
 The priest and the Italian lady started simultaneously; the former 
 advancing a step towards the English girl, and the latter raising herself 
 from her half-recumbent posture on the bench, and leaning towards the 
 stranger with an eager look of curiosity and anxiety. 
 
 " Francesca !" repeated the priest, after a pause ; " that is an Italian 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 267 
 
 name of baptism, and you, my child, say that your English name is 
 derived from oms : explain to me." 
 
 " It was supposed," said Fanny, " that Francesca was the name borne 
 by my mother ; for when I was saved from the pit " 
 
 "The pit!" exclaimed the Italian lady, strongly excited; — "father! 
 the pit ! — she says the pit !" 
 
 " Be calm, my daughter ; — speak on, child." 
 
 " The name— the name !" cried out the Italian lady ; " what was the 
 name of the pit ?" 
 
 " It is called the White Woman'/fe Pit." 
 
 " Near Grandborough Castle ?" said the Italian, gasping for breath. 
 
 Before Fanny, astonished to hear these words from the Italian lady, 
 could reply, Thereza appeared, announcing that an Englishman, who had 
 arrived in great haste, prayed to be instantly admitted ; " Here is the 
 little ticket," she said, " that the English people carry about with them 
 in their visits." 
 
 The priest took the card, and read in a foreign accent, "Colonel 
 Lacey." 
 
 " It is the name of my deliverer," said Fanny. 
 
 " Pray him to come here instantly," said the invalid. 
 
 Colonel Lacey appeared. 
 
 " Tell this lady," said Fanny, " how you saved me from the pit." 
 
 " It is now more than sixteen years ago," said Lacey, " when a poor 
 woman, carrying a child, was precipitated down a deep pit, on Sandy- 
 Flats Moor, a few miles from Grandborough Castle. The woman was 
 killed ; the child was preserved. That child now sits there beside you." 
 
 The agitation of the Italian lady increased every moment to a degree 
 of intenseness which her thin and fragile form seemed too feeble to bear, 
 and her large eyes shone in their deep sockets with a preternatural lustre ! 
 She essayed to speak, but her emotions were too suffocating to enable her 
 to give utterance to words ; she cast an imploring look at the priest, whose 
 agitation was scarcely less than her own. 
 
 " Speak, signore," said the priest ; " tell me how this girl came to be 
 called Fanny or Francesca?" 
 
 " By the edge of the pit," replied Lacey, " a cross was found, which 
 was presumed to belong to the mother of the child ; but the woman who 
 carried her in her arms, and who perished in the pit, we know, was not 
 her mother. On the cross, which was of gold, and of foreign workman- 
 ship, was engraved the name of Francesca ; and that is the name which 
 this young lady bears." 
 
 The poor invalid stretched out her arms to Fanny; but she could 
 neither speak nor move ; while Fanny seemed to be paralysed, and over- 
 whelmed Avith a bewildering flood of thoughts, which for a few moments 
 prevented the exercise of her reason. Suddenly she thrust her hand in 
 her bosom, and drew forth the cross which had been the object of her long 
 veneration, and which she had preserved and cherished in the hope that 
 it might one day lead to the discovery of her parents. She held it towards 
 the Italian lady, to whom her heart had warmed with a strange and 
 imaccountable instinct of affection ; but the invalid, with her eyes fixed 
 on Fanny, with a wild expression of immeasurable joy and love, which it 
 would be vain for language to attempt to describe, remained motionless and 
 
268 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER! 
 
 breathless ; and, except that her lips moved with a nervous treinulousness 
 that betrayed the working of the tremendous conflict of hope and fear 
 which was raging within her breast, it might be supposed that her flitting 
 spirit had already departed, and that her rigid and seemingly unconscious 
 form had been sculptured from impassible stone. But the priest no sooner 
 had the cross placed in his hands, than immediately recognising it, he 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " It is the same ! — It is the same ! The mercy and the justice of God 
 are sure ! This is the cross ; and this," he said, " this — my poor, long- 
 sufiering, and heart-broken daughter, is your child! The event — the 
 time — the place — the circumstances — the age — the likeness— the witness 
 — all concur to produce evidence which is irresistible ! Embrace her, my 
 daughter — my child, embrace your mother !" 
 
 But the Italian, instead of yielding to the outward bm'st of natural 
 affection which such a discovery so wonderful might seem calculated to 
 excite, still remained in her fixed and motionless position, as if paralysed 
 by the suddenness or the excess of her emotion ! The priest and Lacey 
 regarded her with alarm, fearing that too much joy had struck fatally on 
 her fragile frame, and had destroyed her reason. But Fanny, to whose 
 heart nature as well as the solemn words of the venerable priest, carried 
 conviction, exclaiming, with a loud cry, " My mother!" thi'ew herself into 
 the Italian's arms. 
 
 That cry ! — the voice of her child ! while it unlocked the flood-gates 
 of her straining eyes, unbound the fetters which collapsed the limbs of 
 the overwhelmed and enraptured mother! Throwing up her arms to 
 Heaven in gi-atitude, she clasped her long-lost child to her bosom and 
 found relief for her overbursting heart in a wild and joyful bm^st of tears ! 
 
 The scream of joy uttered by the fond mother, faint and exhausted as 
 she was, did not pass unheard by Lady Sarum and Lord Manley. Alarmed 
 at its piercing thrill, they hastily descended from the crrriage, and enter- 
 ing the garden of the cottage, which was surroimded with shrubbery 
 screening it from the observation of casual passers-by, they beheld Fran- 
 cesca in the arms of the Italian lady ; the priest, weeping tears of pious 
 gratitude ; and Colonel Lacey, visibly affected, gazing at the scene with 
 affectionate interest. 
 
 At a glance. Lady Sainim understood it all 1 Here was her rival ! — ■ 
 Her living rival ! The object of her husband's search through Italy ! 
 The cause, perhaps, of his long affliction, and, it might be, of his estrange- 
 ment from herself! She could not see her rival's face, but she felt sick 
 at heart ! A faintness came over her, and she would have sunk to the 
 ground had not Lord Manley promptly seized a garden-seat on which she 
 dropped, supporting herself by his arm. At her approach, however, with 
 Lord Manley, Francesca had raised up her head : — 
 
 " My mother," she said, " here is a lady to whom I am bound by the 
 deepest ties of gratitude for the benevolent protection which she extended 
 to the friendless orphan." 
 
 At these words the Italian, who had remained with her eyes closed, and 
 wrapped in ecstatic prayer, removed her head from the neck of her child, 
 and turned towards the English lady to whom Francesca had called her 
 attention. 
 
269 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 THE SECRET REVEALED. 
 
 ** T PRAY you, Lady," she said, " tovdraw near ; for whether it is that my 
 eyes are dim with tears, or that excessive joy benumbs my senses, I know 
 not : but something oppresses me, so that I do not see clearly." 
 
 *' It is the darkness of the evening which is drawing to a close," said 
 the priest, " and the air is become sultry, and clouds are rising above the 
 mountains ; it seems that a storm is near." 
 
 "I pray you," repeated the Italian lady, to Lady Sarum, "to draw near, 
 that you may receive the thanks of a grateful mother, for the kindness and 
 protection which you have afforded to her child." 
 
 Lady Sarum hesitated for a moment; but the priest taking her by 
 the hand, she yielded herself to his guidance, and he placed her on her 
 garden-seat, which Lord Manley removed for that purpose, opposite the 
 bench where the invalid was sitting with her hand clasped in that of her 
 daughter. 
 
 *' I thank you, with all my heart and soul," continued the Italian, " for 
 your kindness to my child, whom for more than sixteen years, I, her 
 hapless mother, mourned as dead ! But now the discovery of this child 
 unseals my lips ; the silence which I have so long preserved is no longer 
 a duty to be fulfilled, in deference to the ease and happiness of others. 
 My own — my living child demands my testimony — before that wealiness 
 which I feel increasing, shall for ever deprive me of the power of speech 
 — to proclaim to the world the secret of her birth and parentage." 
 
 "You will do well, my daughter," said the priest; "your first duty is 
 to your child; and it imports much that you should lose no time in 
 declaring before these witnesses, who fortunately are present, the truth 
 which concerns your child." 
 
 " Listen, then," said the invalid, whose voice, though feeble, was clear 
 and most melodious; "and I pray you do not interrupt me — for my 
 thoughts seem likely to be confused, and I would wish to tell my story 
 before thought and memory alike should fail me." 
 
 " Speak, my daughter," said the priest ; " these worthy and noble per- 
 sonages will attest your words, and we will not interrupt you by speech 
 or motion." 
 
 " It is now nearly nineteen years ago," pursued ihe Italian lady, " that 
 I was wooed by an English lord, of singular elegance, and accompHshmenta. 
 I w^as then living with my mother, a wadow, at Milan." 
 
 " His name," said Lady Sarum, much agitated. 
 
 " Do not interrupt hei% good lady," said the priest. 
 
 " Presently" — said the Italian. — " We were married." 
 
 " Married !" exclaimed Lady Sarum. 
 
 " We were married." 
 
 "The proofs — the proofs?" again exclaimed the peeress. 
 
270 FANKY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 "The proofs are in the casket — ^but of that presently. — We were 
 married ; and the birth of a daughter seemed to cement our union. But, 
 for some reason, my husband " 
 
 " Your husband !" 
 
 " My husband was disinclined to own his marriage to his father. 
 
 — Some time after, my husband left me to proceed to England, for the 
 purpose, as he said, of reconciling his father to the match. I did not hear 
 from him, as I expected, and as he promised, for many months ; when, 
 one day, among the English books which I had procured to read, there 
 was sent to me an English newspaper, in which, to my amazement, I read, 
 that my husband was about to be married to a young lady, the daughter 
 of an English peer. The information contained in this paper was so posi- 
 tive and precise, that, unwilling as I was to believe in baseness so horrible, 
 I could not help being convinced of the truth." 
 
 Lady Sarum exhibited considerable emotion at this part of the narrative; 
 but she said nothing. 
 
 The Italian lady continued : — 
 
 " Stung to the quick, at this incredible desertion of myself and of my 
 child, and thinking not less of my daughter's interests than of my own 
 ties, I determined to proceed to England, and prevent, if possible, the 
 double wrong that was about to be committed — on me his wife, and on the 
 lady whom his second marriage would deceive. I ought to have told you 
 that, in the interval, my poor mother died, and that the priest who had 
 imited us, had departed from the city on a distant mission — so that I was 
 left alone without a relation, or a competent friend to advise me. But 
 trusting to the dictates of my own heart, which, I thought, inspired me, 
 with my child in my arms, 1 found my way to Leghorn, and there embark- 
 ing in a ship, I was carried to the English river the Thames, and up to 
 London. The moment that the ship arrived opposite a large building, 
 which was the grand house of the Customs, I landed in a boat, and with 
 my child in my arms proceeded to the residence of my husband." 
 
 " How did you discover it r" said the priest, forgetting in the 
 interest which the story excited, his promise that the invalid should not 
 be interrupted. 
 
 " I inquired at a tavern near the great fortress of the Tower, and I was 
 informed promptly by a man who consulted a little book. It was night, 
 and the weather was stormy ; long ago as it is, every circumstance is 
 indelibly imprinted on my memory. Before I went to the house — for I 
 was abashed in a strange country, and not knowing how I should be 
 received by, my husband's relations — I went into another tavern, and 
 asked for a pen and some ink. They gave them to me, and I wrote a 
 letter to him, and carried it myself to the door. A servant took it from 
 me, and told me to call again in a little time. I did so ; and then the 
 same servant said, that my husband was gone to the family castle, a long 
 way off. I believe they must have taken me for a beggar, for the servant 
 placed money in my hand, and spoke kindly to me. I wandered about, 
 and at last came to a large hotel where there were many travelling 
 carriages. I heard some one say that a carriage was even then about to 
 set off for the distant part of the country where my husband's castle was 
 situate. I placed myself in that carriage, and was rapidly borne away 
 from the great city of London, towards the north of England. Unhappily, 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOB. 271 
 
 the fatigues of my voyage, my vexation and trouble of mind, added to my 
 having set out on a long journey in my wet clothes, afflicted me with 
 severe illness. At a cross-road near a village, the name of which I forget, 
 I got out of the coach, intending to perform the remainder of my journey 
 on foot. But here my illness increased ; I felt a fever consuming me ; 
 my head was light ; and I was so weak that I could scarcely proceed. In 
 this state I was met by a peasant woman, who helped me to her cottage, 
 which was a little way from the road-side. She put me to bed. My fever 
 increased. I thought I was dying. Desirous of procuring the acknow- 
 ledgement of my child, I entrusted this woman with my little Francesca 
 (here the invalid embraced her ''daughter fondly, and paused for a brief 
 space to recover strength to proceed), I entrusted this woman with my 
 child, then not eighteen months old, and also with a small gold casket, in 
 which was the certificate of my marriage, and of the birth and baptism of my 
 daughter ; and I placed round my child's neck the gold cross which she 
 still wears." 
 
 Colonel Lacey redoubled his attention at these words ; Lord Manley 
 looked anxious ; and Lady Sarum seemed absorbed in some deep thought. 
 The priest said nothing. 
 
 The ItaHan lady pursued her narrative, but her voice grew weaker and 
 weaker : — 
 
 " What happened after that I do not well know. I believe I must have 
 been delirious. But the next day, when I came to myself, I found a 
 gentleman sitting by my bedside, whom I at first supposed to be a physi- 
 cian ; but it was not so. He was cold and stern. I was frightened at a 
 something in his look, which, to my mind, boded misfortune. My fears, 
 as I was made to believe, were well-founded. But seeing one, whom I 
 saw at once was of the higher class, I took advantage of the opportunity, 
 and entreated him to protect my child, telling him at the same time, as 
 well as my weakness, and the confusion in my brain would allow, my story. 
 But what took place at this interview, is by no means clear to me. What 
 I remember most, is the dreadful intelligence of the death of my child I 
 The gentleman told me that it had been precipitated down a pit, called 
 the White Woman's Pit, and that both the woman and the child had 
 perished. I suppose the shock of this event brought on the fever and 
 delirium again, for the next thing that I remember is, that I found 
 myself in London. A nurse was by my bedside. I spoke to her ; and 
 she looked at me, and left the room. Presently she returned to me, 
 accompanied by the same gentleman whom I had seen at the woman's 
 hut." 
 
 " Should you know him again ?" asked Colonel Lacey. 
 
 The Italian lady paused and meditated for a few moments : — 
 
 " I think I should," she said ; " for his features were remarkable ; but 
 let me finish my story, for my voice begins to fa^l me. This gentleman 
 spoke to me with much kindness, and assured me that my husband had 
 gone to Italy to seek for me. I do not know how I suffered myself to be 
 persuaded ; but my child, as I learned from a newspaper which he showed 
 to me, was, as I believed, dead. The gentleman gave me money, and 
 committed me to the care of a man in whom, he said, I might place 
 implicit confidence. Attended by this person I journeyed by land to Italy. 
 He wished me to remain in Germany until, as he said, he could learn 
 
272 FANNY, THE LTTTLE MILLINER I 
 
 news of my husband ; but I was determined to go to Italy, and be was 
 obliged to consent; he told me that he had reason to believe that my 
 husband was at Florence : we travelled thither accordingly ; and my 
 attendant " 
 
 " What was his name ?" again asked Colonel Lacey. 
 
 " He went by the name of Mellor. This Mellor, instructed by the same 
 gentleman whom I have told you of, brought me to this cottage, in which 
 I have ever since resided, and I have yearly received through him a sum of 
 money for my maintenance." 
 
 "And have you made no attempt to become united again to your hus- 
 band?" asked Colonel Lacey, with much surprise. 
 
 " Stay," said the Italian ; " another sad part of my sorrows is yet to be 
 told. But now a sudden thought strikes me that I have been purposely 
 deceived. Let me finish my story, for I am beginning to feel exhausted. 
 Let lights be brought — my sight fails me." 
 
 Lights were brought and placed on a rough table behind the garden 
 bench. The air was so still that their flames burnt upwards without 
 diverging ; and the close and sultry atmosphere portended a fearful 
 storm. 
 
 "Another sad part of my story remains to be told," continued the 
 Italian, "but it must be done. — I remained in this cottage for many 
 months, the man, Mellor, pretending to be busy in seeking for my husband, 
 and diverting me with false information. — At last, I learned from a French 
 newspaper which I saw at the house of my kind friend and religious father, 
 the holy man now present, that my husband had married the English lady, 
 of whom mention had been made in an English newspaper, before I left 
 Italy for England. Stunned by this blow, I uttered sudden exclamations 
 which revealed my secret to my religious adviser. At first, he counselled 
 me to proceed immediately to England, and claim my rights. But the man, 
 Mellor, anticipating my intention, beguiled me with a tale which I still 
 believe, because to believe otherwise, would be to think too badly of human 
 nature. He told me that my husband, whom he affected to consider 
 only as my lover, supposed that I had perished with my child in the 
 White Woman's Pit, and that considering himself free, he had complied 
 with the wishes of his father, and had contracted an alliance with a 
 noble house, which, for family reasons, was especially desii'able. — My 
 narrative distresses your noble heart, dear lady," she said, addressing 
 Lady Saruni, who was sobbing audibly, " but my story will soon be 
 done." 
 
 " W^hat then," continued the Italian, " could I do ? — Claim my husband, 
 who, supposing me to be dead, had married again to comply with the 
 wishes of a beloved parent ; and by so doing expose him to the action of 
 the laws, and his innocent wife to the scorn of the world ? No : that was 
 not my part. — I was widowed in heart, and childless ; — my husband had 
 shown that he could forget me by wedding with another. Was it for me 
 to force back his heart and his affections ? No ; my pride forbade it. — 
 Was it for me to expose him to ruin and infamy ? No ; my love forbade 
 it : — for though his was extinct, mine was of a nature to continue till my 
 death. Lady, when an Italian loves, she loves for ever ! She can love but 
 once, and that is for life — and for eternity ! She cannot hate him whom 
 
OE, THE RICH AND THE POOR. 273 
 
 she lias once loved, and she cannot injure him. She may revenge ; but my 
 love, lady, was too pure for revenge !" 
 
 " Be calm, my daughter," said the priest ; " this excitement is too much 
 for you." 
 
 *' What light is that?" said the Italian, looking up ; " something seems 
 to flash across my eyes." 
 
 *' It is lightning," said the priest ; " we are on the eve, it seems, of a 
 terrible storm." 
 
 " My story is done," continued the Italian ; " my griefs are now told, 
 and the secret of my life is reveale^. I have resided in this cottage ever 
 since, feeding on my grief ; resigning myself to my destiny ; lamenting 
 my child, and praying Heaven to pity and pardon those, who from 
 accident or ill-intention, have so foully wronged me ; but the houi- 
 of retribution is at hand ! — ^My father, what noise is that ? is it the 
 thunder?" 
 
 *' No ; my daughter : it is a carriage driving rapidly towards the cottage. 
 It has stopped : some one has alighted ; they come ; it is an old man with 
 a lordly air accompanied by your physician." 
 
 As he spoke, the physician and Lord Grandborough stood before her. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 JOY AND SOKROW 
 
 It is impossible to describe the astounded aspect of Lord Grandborougn, 
 as he suddenly found himself amidst the group which surrounded the 
 Italian lady. — He stood for some time aghast ! — as if petrified with surprise 
 and horror ! — Then, turning himself slowly round, he gazed from one 
 to another like a man violently awakened from a fearful dream, whose 
 frightful visions had become suddenly substantiated in appalling reality I 
 
 Presently he fixed his eyes on Francesca, and the Italian. No one 
 ■could have looked on those two, as they sat side by side, their hands locked 
 together, without being struck with the conviction that they were mother 
 and daughter. Francesca sat in a position of calm beatitude like a spii*it 
 blessed ! In her mother's features the expression of overwhelming happi- 
 ness was mingled with the signs of other sti-uggling thoughts, in wliich 
 hope and fear were wildly blended. — But this object was the least of the 
 fearful sights that struck anguish and terror into the soul of the trembling 
 old man ! Here were his victims — but there stood the witnesses of his 
 ignominy ! — His name was dishonoured ! his son disgraced ! his daughter- 
 in-law brought to public shame ! her boy, whom he had fondly hoped' 
 would succeed to his cherished titles and estates, illegitimatized ! — Himself 
 exposed — ^And there stood the witnesses to publish his infamy to the world I 
 Stunned by the blow ; — crushed with the infinite weight of the calamity — 
 the old man lost all strength, and as if borne dovni by an irresistible power, 
 he sunk on his knees, and covering his face with his hands — uttered iii 
 piteous accents : — 
 T 
 
274 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK: 
 
 " All is lost !" 
 
 " The judgment of God is come ! " said the priest. *' But who is this 
 man?" he asked, as the physician and Lord St. Austin raised Lord 
 Grandborough from his knees, " who seems overwhelmed with the 
 consciousness of some enormous crime ? My daughter, is he known to 
 you?" 
 
 The Italian had already been endeavouring to recoUect where she had 
 seen this new personage in the scene, of whose countenance, although 
 changed in some degree by years, she had a dim remembrance ; but at 
 this moment the attention of all present was distracted by a convulsive sob 
 which proceeded from some one at a distance, and who was not visible 
 in the gloom which the flames of the tapers were not sufficient to 
 illuminate. 
 
 "What does he say?" asked the physician, who not understanding 
 English, was not aware of the meaning of the words spoken by Lord 
 Grandborough, but who was astonished at his attitude, and the fearful, 
 workings of his features. 
 
 Lord Manley translated them. 
 
 " I do not know," continued the physician, " to what those words refer, 
 but this noble gentleman is Lord Grandborough, an English nobleman of 
 high rank " 
 
 " Ha ! " exclaimed the Italian ; " Lord Grandborough ! That is he 
 whom I met in the hut on the moor ; who told me of the death of my 
 child ; who persuaded me to leave England for Italy ; and at whose 
 instance I have lived in solitude for more than sixteen long years, mourn- 
 ing for my perished daughter ! I remember it now ! All is clear to me ! — 
 But you, then," she added, as she clasped her hands, and regarded the old 
 man with a mixture of reproach and affection — " you are the father of. 
 my husband ?" 
 
 A deep groan from some one as in mortal anguish, but who did not 
 form part of the assembly, responded to this exclamation. 
 
 " I call God to witness, said Lord Grandborough, " that when I 
 forwarded the marriage of my son with the Lady Eleanor, I did not know 
 of his previous marriage. It is true, that I did my utmost to cause her 
 whom I believed to be his mistress to retire from England, and so to hide 
 herself as to induce a belief in her death, for my heart was fixed on 
 another alliance for my son. But it was not until the last marriage was 
 effected, that I had reason to believe that my son had contracted the first. 
 — Would to God that I had not turned that which I supposed to be a 
 begging letter from my door on that fatal night, and then all this misery 
 might have been avoided ! " 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ?" said Lord St. Austin, in an agitated 
 and rather angry voice ; " who is this lady, who speaks of Lord Grand- 
 borough as the father of her husband ?" 
 
 " This lady," said the priest — " but stay .—My child," he said to Fran- 
 cesca, " give to me that gold cross which just now you showed to me. — 
 Behold," he continued, holding up the cross to the view of the spectators, 
 who listened to his words with the varied emotions with which their 
 different feelings and their interests possessed them ; " this cross is proved 
 to have been found at the edge of the pit T^en this child was rescued by 
 one named Lacey.'* ' 
 
OE, THE lilCH AND THE j>OOE. 275 
 
 ** I was present when it was found," said Colonel Lacey. 
 
 " Another witness ! " said the priest. " And this is the cross which was 
 entrusted, with the child, to the woman who perished in that pit when the 
 child was saved." 
 
 *' But who is that lady ?" said Lady St. Austin, coming forward from a 
 cluster of shrubs, and pointing to the Italian, with an impatient gesture ; 
 " I am Lady St. Austin, reverend father, and it is my daughter who is 
 married to the son of the Earl of Grandborough. — Who is this lady who 
 claims also to be his wife ?" 
 
 " Noble lady, you shall be satisfied," said the priest ; " and it is for- 
 timate that you and the noble Earl Grandborough, with others perhaps, 
 who may know the same, are present to testify to the handwriting of the 
 Viscount Sarum acknowledging his marriage." 
 
 "What handwTiting ? And how dare you assert that Lord Sarum has 
 married my daughter contrarj' to honour and to the laws ?" said Lord St. 
 Austin, vehemently agitated, and regarding the priest with a look which, 
 notwithstanding his sacred character, was almost threatening. 
 
 " You shall see," said the priest, holding up the cross. — " Behold ! " 
 
 Saying this, and requesting one of the company to hold a taper, which 
 was done by Colonel Lacey, the priest took a pointed instrument, and 
 applying a little force, he caused a thin plate of gold which secretly 
 covered one side of the cross, to sHde back, and displayed a slip of vellum 
 covered with a glass of crystal, and on which was written in legible 
 characters : — 
 
 FRANCESCA, VISCOUNTESS SAKUM, 
 
 MARRIED TO YISCOUNT SARUM, 
 
 BY THE REVEREND FATHER LORETTI, 
 
 AT MILAN. 
 
 SARUM. 
 
 At the comer, in small characters, was the date of the marriage, in words 
 at length. 
 
 " Where is that Father Loretti ?" said Lady Austin, taking the cross in 
 her hands and examining the handwriting. 
 
 " It is I," said the priest ; " it was I who married them ; and it was I 
 who procured this cross to be made ; and caused to be enclosed within it 
 this written acknowledgment of the English lord's marriage with this 
 injured lady." 
 
 A scream of anguish here interrupted the solemn stillness of the night, 
 so thrilling — so indicative of the broken heart from which that somid was 
 rent, that the horror-struck bystanders started with fear, and it was some 
 moments before Lord St. Austin could recover presence of mind to raise his 
 daughter from the ground, on which she had fallen prostrate. The priest 
 assisted him to raise her ; and they placed her on the bench by the side of 
 the Italian ; — Francesca rising up, and exhibiting signs of the most Hvely 
 grief at a sight so painfully distressing. 
 
 " My child," said the Italian to her daughter, " who is this lady ?" 
 
 " My benefactress, and my protectress," replied Francesca, her eyes 
 streaming with tears. 
 
276 TANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK : 
 
 " And her name ? my child ; tell me her name that I may duly honour 
 it, and thank her for her care and kindness of you, my daughter." 
 
 " Oh, my mother ! this kind and nohle lady — see ! she recovers ; life is 
 returning to her. — Oh, good and dear lady ! Oh ! dearest mother ! What 
 shall I say ? What can I do ? — This lady, mother, is she who has pro- 
 tected by her care and countenance your daughter when in her most 
 humble state." 
 
 " Enough, my child ; she is welcome and dear to your mother. Dearest 
 lady, let me embrace you. Your kind heart is affected by this scene, but 
 if the blessings of a mother can give you ease or joy " 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " — cried out Francesca, as the Italian held the stranger 
 in her grateful embrace — " by benefactress is Lady Sarum." 
 
 Feeble and faint as the Italian was every moment becoming more and 
 more, she seemed at this intimation, as if from an electric shock, to recover 
 momentary strength and energy ! With a sudden recoil from the unhappy 
 Lady Sarum, she placed her two hands on her shoulders, and gazed at the 
 woman who had usurped her place in her husband's affections for sixteen 
 years, with a look in which many passions were strangely blended : there was 
 jealousy of her love — that woman's feeling, the strongest of her life — the 
 first often to be awakened — the last that dies : — there was compassion for 
 her misery ; sorrow for her fate ; gratitude for her benevolence to her 
 child ! In the generous heart of the Italian, the last predominated ; 
 clasping again the passive and resistless lady to her bosom, she wept over 
 her as a sister, and the two mingled their tears together. Francesca 
 sinking on her knees, held a hand of each, while the spectators of this 
 extraordinary scene, held their breath with wonder and amazement. The 
 priest first broke silence : — 
 
 " God is just," he said ; " he has brought together, by means miracu- 
 lous, all those whose presence was necessary to punish the wrong-doers, 
 and to establish the right ; may God grant to the wicked pardon, and to 
 this afflicted lady who has been the innocent victim of bad deeds, that 
 peace of mind which the world cannot give ! " 
 
 " Father !" said the Italian ; " I feel very feeble. — Something tells me 
 that I have not long to live. Too much joy has hastened the death for 
 which I was preparing. — I pray you all to leave me alone with this lady." 
 
 The physician approached and felt her pulse. He spoke a few words to 
 the priest apart ; and then felt her pulse again, and hesitated. 
 
 " I know vfhat you mean, and what you would say," said the Italian ; 
 * but I pray all to go, and to leave me alone with this dear hdy." 
 
 *' Mother," said Francesca, her eyes glistening with the emotion which 
 an heroic thought excited in her, " I have something to pray of you." 
 
 " Remain, then, with us, my daughter." 
 
 All but these three retired. 
 
 *' Lady," said the Italian, " I feel that my mmutes are numbered, and 
 my words can be but few. Are you satisfied of the truth of that which 
 the reverend minister of God has deposed to, and which the hand- 
 writing of the cross testifies ? I entreat you, answer me, for I grow more 
 feeble." 
 
 What words can describe the whirlwind of agonizing sensations that 
 possessed the unhappy Lady Sarum, at such a question from such a person ! 
 But humiliated — overwhelmed — and broken hearted as she was, she had 
 
OB, THE RICH AND THE POOK. 277 
 
 neither the courage nor the strength, mental or physical, to combat a truth 
 which the attestation of Lord Sarum's formal handwriting placed beyond 
 all doubt. Bowing her head, she replied meekly : — 
 
 " I am satisfied." 
 
 " Can you be generous enough," said the Italian, " to restore my 
 daughter to her rights ? — I do not ask you for myself, for I shall presently 
 be removed, I feel, from all earthly cares and affections ! But I shall die 
 happy, for I have seen my child alive! — But you, lady; say, are you 
 generous enough to promise me that you will see my child acknowledged ?" 
 
 " Dearest mother," interposed' Francesca, " do not speak so mournfully 
 of yourself? — I cannot believe — I will not believe — that the parent whom 
 I have only this moment found, is the next moment to be lost to me for 
 ever ! But, hear me, dearest mother, and let me speak. To whom am I 
 indebted for shelter and protection in my misfortune ? To this lady. — 
 Through whose agency have I been brought to Italy ? By this dear lady. — 
 To whom do I owe the unspeakable happiness of embracing a mother? It is 
 to this most dear, and most benevolent lady, that I and you are indebted, 
 under God, for this great blessing. — Shall she then suffer pain and worldly 
 degradation by our means ? No : dearest mother ! From us only grati- 
 tude is due ! It is not by our hands that a blow should be struck to 
 wound her gentle heart ! — what matters rank or fortune to us, dearest 
 mother ? Do not all these events prove of how little avail they are to 
 happiness ? Let us live in retirement and solitude, restored as we are to 
 each other ; and let this dear lady preserve the rank which she holds, 
 which it would cost her so much pain to lose, and which would give us so 
 little pleasure to gain, and so we shall feel that we have done something 
 towards discharging that debt of gratitude which is due to her from you 
 and from me, for having protected me in my misfortune.*' 
 
 "Noble-hearted girl!" exclaimed Lady Sarum, "how can I allow you 
 to become the victim of such generosity ? No : it is God's will ; to his 
 decree I resign myself in all humility. But — my boy — my Augustus ! 
 Oh, my God !" she cried, raising her hands to heaven, " give me strength 
 to bear this blow : — but it is too much — it is too much — my boy ! my 
 boy ! — Oh ! not for me — oh, God ! but for his sake, if it may be so^ I pray 
 you to soften this terrible affliction!" 
 
 The prayer of the afflicted woman was interrupted by a cry from 
 Francesca, who, alarmed at a sudden expression in the countenance of her 
 parent, hastily called for assistance. 
 
 The physician with the priest immediately made their appearance. 
 
 " It is as I feared," said the physician. " Young lady, you must 
 prepare yourself for a new trial. Your mother has been long ill, and 
 for this event she is prepared. It was impossible for her to recover. 
 Father, comfort this poor child, while I endeavour to rally our sinking 
 patient." He forced a cordial down her throat, at which the Italian 
 presently revived : — 
 
 " Come to me, my daughter." 
 
 Francesca held her mother's hands. 
 
 " Come nearer to me, that I may see you." 
 
 " I am near to you, mother, I am close to you.'* 
 
 " And that dear and excellent lady — where is she ?" 
 
 " Dearest mother, she is holding you in her arms." 
 
278 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER I 
 
 " And — ^he — your father — ^my husband — ^where is he ? " 
 
 "He is here," said Lord Sarum, emerging from the gloom.— "Oh, 
 Francesca ! I was innocent towards you — and towards " 
 
 " Do you acknowledge your daughter?" said the dying woman. 
 
 " I do— I do." 
 
 " My child, does your father embrace you ?" 
 
 " He does, mother," replied Francesca, sobbing convulsively. 
 
 " I die content," said the Italian faintly — " my child, kiss me." 
 
 " It is for God's minister now to do his office," said the priest, coming 
 forward. " Retire, my children, and leave me while there is yet time to 
 perform the sacred duties of our holy religion." 
 
 The brief parlance between the priest and the dying Italian was soon 
 over, and her daughter being again summoned, she returned with her 
 father and her benefactress. Consciousness had almost left the dying 
 lady, but she opened her eyes once more ; and turning them first on Lord 
 Sarum, and then settling them on her daughter, with her regards so fixed, 
 she gradually closed them, and expired in Lady Sarum's arms. 
 
 " May God receive her spirit !" solemnly spoke the priest. 
 
 "Amen," — said all. And Lady Sarum taking the hand of Francesca, 
 while the other was held by her father, led her away to the cottage. 
 
 On their entrance, it was plain from the countenances of Lord St. Austin 
 and Lord Manley, that some new event had occurred. 
 
 Lord St. Austin took Lord Sarum into another room ; and communi- 
 cated to him, in a few and cautious words, that his father was dead ! 
 
 Lord Sarum said nothing, but requesting to be left alone, he was found 
 by Lady Sarum, who after the lapse of some time went to seek him, in 
 earnest prayer. Kneeling down by his side, they prayed for consolation 
 together and in silence. Then, returning to Francesca, Lady Sarum wept 
 over her, and said : — 
 
 " You are now my daughter." 
 
 But the cup of that sufiering lady's sorrows was not yet full. It pleased 
 God, in the inscrutable designs of His far-seeing providence, and in the 
 fulfilment of his retributive justice, to remove from the sorrows of the 
 earth another victim. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 THE CURSE FULFILLED. 
 
 Colonel Lacey, who was filled with one absorbing idea — that of estab- 
 lishing the rights of his adopted ward in the face of the world — immedi- 
 ately after these events, taking counsel of no one, travelled with the utmost 
 speed back to England with the design of recovering the casket mentioned 
 by Francesca's mother, and which contained a document which might be 
 of importance to the legal establishment of Francesca's rights as a baroness 
 of the kingdom, and the heiress to vast estates. He conjectured that this 
 casket must have been precipitated into the pit with the woman who bore 
 
OR, THE RICH AND THE x»OOR. 279 
 
 -Francesca in her arms, and who there lost her life on that memorable 
 night sixteen years ago. 
 
 He no sooner arrived at the nearest port where he could disembark, 
 than he set off to the neighbourhood of Grandborough Castle, and pro- 
 ceeded to the cottage of Matthew the woodman. In the confidence of old 
 acquaintance, and in the exuberance of his joy at the high fortunes of the 
 child whose life he had saved, he related to his ancient friend the discovery 
 of Francesca's parents and of her own legitimate rank as a peeress in her 
 own right ; and consulted with Matthew as to the best mode of making a 
 descent into the pit for the pm-po^e of recovering the casket. 
 
 " I wish that this should be kept a secret," he added, " from every one 
 but yourself ; I know that I can rely on your silence and discretion ; but 
 for the present, do not mention it even to your wife." 
 
 *' Margaret is gone to the village," replied Matthew, " so, for the matter 
 •of that, the secret is safe enough so far. But I wish you had told me that 
 you wished it to be a secret at first, for there is one lying in the inn^' 
 room there who has sharp ears." 
 
 "A\Tio is it?" asked Lacey. 
 
 " You knew him years ago," said Matthew, speaking low ; " He Is the 
 brother of the mad Rebecca. — Black Will they called him. He is bad 
 from some wounds which he received from Lord Grandborough's game- 
 keepers ; he is not expected to live ; but I could not refuse to give him 
 shelter, although it is said that he killed one of the keepers who tried to 
 take him. However, I don't know the truth of it." 
 
 "That's unlucky," said Lacey, " but perhaps it will be better to caution 
 him not to speak of what he has heard — ^if he has heard anything." 
 
 He stepped into the back room to act on this purpose, but Black Will 
 was gone. — An open window showed the mode of his exit. 
 
 " I didn't think he was so strong," said Matthew. 
 
 "What will he do?" said Lacey. 
 
 " There's no knowing what the like of him may do," replied Matthew. 
 *' He was always a desperate man, and this last damage which he has got 
 from Lord Grandborough's gamekeepers, has made him more savage tban 
 ever against the family." 
 
 iS' •}(■ -iC' iC- * H- •» H- iC' Si- ■» 
 
 Six days after this conversation, a sick man in a cottage about two 
 miles from Eton College, sent an urgent message to the young Augustus, 
 fiaying, that he had a message from Grandborough Castle relating to a 
 matter of great interest to him. The messenger who brought the commu- 
 nication, said that it came from a man who had stopped at their place 
 only an hour before, and that he had with him two sporting dogs of a 
 fine breed. Tempted by the report of the dogs, Augustus repaired to the 
 i^ot as soon as he possibly could, supposing that ^ome friend had planned 
 ian agreeable surprise for him. 
 
 What took place at that interview was never known; but- it was con- 
 jectured by Colonel Lacey, that Black Will had contrived to convey 
 himself so far on his way to the college, when he was compelled to stop 
 from illness and exhaustion; and that, prompted by revenge and his 
 deadly hatred to the Grandborough family, he had maliciously made known 
 to the young Augustus all that he had hoard from Colonel Lacey at the 
 •woodman's cottage, which he no doubt embellished and aggravated so as 
 
2$0 PANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 to produce the most powerful effect on the mind of the son of Lord Sarum. 
 — But this could never positively be known, as the ruffian died that night 
 of his wounds, and the scene that took place between them could be sur- 
 mised only from the event which followed. 
 
 * * ^1 « *i ^4 1^- 'At * -31. -Jf 
 
 It was three days after this that Lacey and Matthew were sitting in the 
 woodman's cottage on the moor, discoursing on the preparations which 
 were in progress for effecting a descent into the pit for the purpose of 
 recovering the casket. 
 
 It was evening, and the weather was gloomy and dark. 
 
 Margaret was there too. The conversation turned, as was natural, on 
 the scenes of old times in which they had been mutually engaged. They 
 talked of The White Woman's Pit, and of the legend which was attached 
 to it. 
 
 *' It was always said," Matthew observed, " that the White Woman's 
 Pit was fatal to the Grandborough family; but now that the young 
 baroness has run her last risk, I suppose The White Woman's curse is 
 fulfilled?" 
 
 " Not yet," said Margaret, who, with the superstition common to her 
 condition and her decaying faculties, was prone to indulge in stories of 
 supernatural appearances, " the curse is not accomplished yet ; it was to 
 descend to three generations, so the saying goes; and this poor young girl 
 may suffer for her ancestor's crime yet." 
 
 " God forbid !" said Lacey, " that any new misfortune should befall that 
 poor girl ; she has already suffered enough, one would think, to expiate 
 all the sins that her ancestors ever committed ! But I must go back to 
 my inn and hasten these preparations for a search in the Pit. What sort 
 
 of a night is it ? There is some one galloping straight to this 
 
 cottage, on the other side of the Pit. There ! he is coming on at a fearful 
 rate ! Matthew, can you see ? Look ! He must be close to the edge of 
 the Pit ! He is at its brink ! See ! the horse snorts and rears ! I see 
 his legs raised up ! He struggles to turn back ! He springs up ! My 
 God ! Matthew ! — ^he is gone ! He has disappeared ! Oh, horror. What 
 is the meaning of this dreadful tragedy?" 
 
 Lacey rushed to the spot, but he could see nothing, and he could hear 
 nothing. All was silent as the grave ! He peeped into the depths of the 
 Pit ; but there all was dark and still. He looked around him, and saw on 
 the scanty grass a small pocket-book. He opened it. The first paper he 
 saw was a letter addressed to her son from Lady Sarum ! Other papers 
 confirmed too clearly that it was indeed the unfortunate son of Lord Sarum 
 who had met with his death in a manner that to men's minds seemed too 
 frightful to contemplate. 
 
 It was afterwards ascertained that the poor boy, after the communica- 
 tion of Black Will, had not returned to the college, but had immediately 
 set off for Grandborough Castle. He was almost mad with excitement, 
 and worn out with fatigue. He asked for wine, which was brought, and 
 of which he drank plentifully. Then he desired ' a horse to be saddled 
 instantly, and, in a state of fmy which bordered on delirium, rode off to 
 the cottage of Matthew, the woodman, where he learned that Colonel 
 Lacey was likely to be found. The groom who followed him said that he 
 rode like a maniac, in a straight line to the cottage, stopping at nothing— 
 
OK, THE KICH AND THE POOE. 281 
 
 his gallant horse clearing all obstacles ; and that to overtake him, although 
 the groom owned that he struck the rowels of his own spurs into his 
 horse's sides till the animal was exasperated to madness, was impossible ! 
 Tidings of the lamentable event were immediately despatched to Lord 
 Sarum, by Colonel Lacey, who had now an additional motive for expediting 
 the preparations for a descent into the Pit. 
 
 This was performed the next day, and the body of the unfortunate youth 
 was found — quite dead, but scarcely mutilated, although the carcass of 
 the horse was dashed to pieces. It struck Colonel Lacey as remarkable, 
 that one hand of the poor boy was/dbund by the old miner, as he described 
 it, resting on a gold casket, which the miner gave into the hands of 
 Colonel Lacey. It was the casket of the Italian, containing all the legal 
 documents necessary for the perfect proof of her marriage with Lord 
 Sarum. 
 
 H- * if- H- i:- «. ^ ^s ■}{. i:- * 
 
 Lord and Lady Sarum never returned to England, notwithstanding 
 Francesca's determination, which she religiously kept, not to let the world 
 know the secret of her birth, and the innocent illegality of Lady Sarum's 
 marriage. 
 
 They removed to a remote part of Italy, where Franccsca resided with 
 them as their daughter, endeavouring to solace them in their grief, and 
 administering all the consolation which her delicate feelings and her 
 generous heart knew so well how to afford to them. At the end of that 
 time she gave her hand to Lord Manley ; and at the death of her father, 
 and of her whom she ever called her benefactress, which took place nearly 
 together, and about two years after the death of their son Augustus, she 
 returned with her husband to England. 
 
 It was not till then that she learned the marriage of her old friend Julia, 
 who had been prevailed upon by the honourable Mr. Snob to place her 
 pretty person and pretty fortune at his disposal : — 
 
 " I don't think I ever should have been able to make up my mind,'* 
 said Julia, in a confidential conversation with the Countess Manley, " to 
 be called Mrs. Snob, though there was an honom-able before it; — only think ! 
 Snob ! such a horrid name ! if it hadn't been for his father's illness, 
 because when the old gentleman dies, of course I shall be Lady Hookem ; 
 and that name has a decided aristocratic air about it : don't you think so, 
 my dear ! La ! what a beautiful chain that is ! Italian, of course ; they 
 do make such sweet pretty things abroad, don't they ? My Max bought 
 such a love of a necklace before we were married, but he has not seen 
 anything worth buying for me, he says, since. — And now tell me, my 
 dear, don't you think after all it is better to be a Countess than a little 
 milliner? You have no band-box to carry now, eh! — that's some com- 
 fort!" 
 
 "I am glad, Julia," replied Francesca, "thdt, amidst all your own 
 troubles, you have preserved your spirits — which have stood you in such 
 good stead in difficult times. But I must say, from what my o^vn expe- 
 rience has taught me, that there is not so much difference in the happiness 
 and the enjoyments of the upper and the lower classes as the vulgar 
 suppose. It seems to me that in this, as in other dispensations of Provi- 
 dence, there is a compensatory principle in action. Tlie rich are not, in 
 fact, happier than the poor ; they only appear so. The rich have the 
 
282 FANNY, THE LITTLE MILLINEK. 
 
 cares, the anxieties, and the mortifications which appertain to their state, 
 as the poor have the privations and sujfferings which belong to their own. 
 I have leai-ned that our portion of the sorrow^s which are the lot of man, 
 though different in form, is, in amount, the same." 
 
 "Why, Fanny," said Julia, flirting her lace-embroidered handkerchief 
 with an aristocratic air, and applying it delicately to her lips, pinched up 
 artistically in the middle, so as to display its richness and taste to the 
 greatest advantage, " you are a little philosopher." 
 
 "If philosophy is to be derived from much suffering, dear Julia," replied 
 Francesca, " why, then, I am. And at least I have learned this ; — I have 
 learned how often the poor mistake and misjudge the actions of the rich, 
 and how often the rich overlook and neglect the sujfferings of the poor ; I 
 have learned, too, how much good may be done with very little money ; 
 and how much more the poor prize kind words than ostentatious gifts. 
 And more than this — and do not think that I philosophise too much, dear 
 Julia, for it is a religious opinion with me — I think that it is my duty to 
 employ the riches and the influence with which God has been pleased to 
 invest me for the benefit of all w^ho are in want of my sympathy or assist- 
 ance. My own experience has taught me, that if the rich were to employ 
 the means in their power with the charity and diligence which this sacred 
 book," laying her hand on a Bible which was near, " enjoins, there would 
 not be the ill-will and the dangerous division which of late years has so 
 much increased between the Rich and the Poob." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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