As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Bettesworth gave a house-warming, as she called it, to all her acquaintance; a dinner, a ball, and a supper, in her new house. The house was not half dry, and all the company caught cold. Mrs. Bettesworth's cold was the most severe. It happened at this time to be the fashion to go almost without clothes; and as this lady was extremely vain and fond of dress, she would absolutely appear in the height of fashion. The Sunday after her ball, whilst she had still the remains of a bad cold, she positively would go to church, equipped in one petticoat, and a thin muslin gown, that she might look as young as her daughter Jessy. Every body laughed, and Jessy laughed more than any one else; but, in the end, it was no laughing matter; Mrs. Bettesworth "caught her death of cold." She was confined to her bed on Monday, and was buried the next Sunday.

Jessy, who had a great notion that she should marry a lord, if she could but once get into company with one, went to live with blind Mrs.

Cheviott; where, according to her mother's instructions, "she laid herself out for goodness." She also took two thousand pounds with her, upon her promise never to trouble her father more. Her brothers perceived how much was to be gained by tormenting a father, who gave from weakness, and not from a sense of justice, or a feeling of kindness; and they soon rendered themselves so troublesome that he was obliged to buy off their reproaches. Idle Isaac was a sportsman, and would needs have a pack of hounds: they cost him two hundred a year.

Then he would have race-horses; and by them he soon lost some thousands.

He was arrested for the money, and his father was forced to pay it.

Bob and Will soon afterwards began to think, "it was very hard that so much was to be done for Isaac, and nothing for them!"

Wild Will kept a mistress; and Bullying Bob was a c.o.c.k-fighter: their demands for money were frequent and unconscionable; and their continual plea was, "Why, Isaac lost a thousand by his race-horses, and why should not we have our share?"

The mistress and the c.o.c.kpit had their share; and the poor old father, at last, had only one thousand left. He told his sons this, with tears in his eyes: "I shall die in a jail, after all!" said he. They listened not to what he said, for they were intent upon the bank-notes of this last thousand, which were spread upon the table before him. Will, half in jest, half in earnest, s.n.a.t.c.hed up a parcel of the notes; and Bob insisted on dividing the treasure. Will fled out of the house; Bob pursued him, and they fought at the end of their own avenue.

This was on the day that Frankland and his family were returning from poor George's funeral, and saw the battle betwixt the brothers. They were shamed into a temporary reconciliation, and soon afterwards united against their father, whom they represented to all the neighbours as the most cruel and the most avaricious of men, because he would not part with the very means of subsistence to supply their profligacy.

Whilst their minds were in this state, Will happened to become acquainted with a set of smugglers, whose disorderly life struck his fancy. He persuaded his brothers to leave home with him, and to list in the service of Admiral Tipsey. Their manners then became more brutal; and they thought, felt, and lived like men of desperate fortunes. The consequence we have seen. In a quarrel about a keg of brandy, at an alehouse, their pa.s.sions got the better of them, and, on entering their boat, they committed the offence for which they were now imprisoned.

Mr. Barlow was the attorney to whom they applied, and they endeavoured to engage him to manage their cause on their trial; but he absolutely refused. From the moment he heard from James that Will and Bob Bettesworth were the persons who set fire to Frankland's hay-stack, he urged Frank to prosecute them for this crime. "When you only suspected them, my dear Frank, I strongly dissuaded you from going to law: but now you cannot fail to succeed, and you will recover ample damages."

"That is impossible, my dear sir," replied Frank; "for the Bettesworths, I understand, are ruined."

"I am sorry for that, on your account; but I still think you ought to carry on this prosecution, for the sake of public justice. Such pests of society should not go unpunished."

"They will probably be punished sufficiently for this unfortunate a.s.sault, for which they are now to stand their trial. I cannot, in their distress, revenge either my own or my father's wrongs. I am sure he would be sorry if I did; for I have often and often heard him say, 'Never trample upon the fallen.'"

"You are a good, generous young man," cried Mr. Barlow, "and no wonder you love the father who inspired you with such sentiments, and taught you such principles. But what a shame it is that such a father should be in an almshouse! You say he will not consent to be dependent upon any one; and that he will not accept of relief from any but his own children. This is pride; but it is an honourable species of pride; fit for an English yeoman. I cannot blame it. But, my dear Frank, tell your father he must accept of your friend's credit, as well as of yours.

Your credit with me is such, that you may draw upon me for five hundred pounds whenever you please. No thanks, my boy. Half the money I owe you for your services as my clerk; and the other half is well secured to me, by the certainty of your future diligence and success in business.

You will be able to pay me in a year or two; so I put you under no obligation, remember. I will take your bond for half the money, if that will satisfy you and your proud father."

The manner in which this favour was conferred touched Frank to the heart. He had a heart which could be strongly moved by kindness. He was beginning to express his grat.i.tude, when Mr. Barlow interrupted him with, "Come, come! Why do we waste our time here, talking sentiment, when we ought to be writing law? Here is work to be done, which requires some expedition: a marriage settlement to be drawn. Guess for whom."

Frank guessed all the probable matches amongst his Monmouth acquaintance; but he was rather surprised when told that the bridegroom was to be young Mr. Folingsby; as it was scarcely two months since this gentleman was in love with f.a.n.n.y Frankland. Frank proceeded to draw the settlement.

Whilst he and Mr. Barlow were writing, they were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Josiah Crumpe. He came to announce Mrs. Crumpe's death, and to request Mr. Barlow's attendance at the opening of her will. This poor lady had lingered out many months longer than it was thought she could possibly live; and during all her sufferings, Patty, with indefatigable goodness and temper, bore with the caprice and peevishness of disease. Those who thought she acted merely from interested motives expected to find she had used her power over her mistress's mind entirely for her own advantage: they were certain a great part of the fortune would be left to her. Mrs. Crumpe's relations were so persuaded of this, that, when they were a.s.sembled to hear her will read by Mr.

Barlow, they began to say to one another in whispers, "We'll set the will aside; we'll bring her into the courts: Mrs. Crumpe was not in her right senses when she made this will: she had received two paralytic strokes; we can prove that: we can set aside the will."

Mr. Josiah Crumpe was not one of these whisperers; he set apart from them, leaning on his oaken stick in silence.

Mr. Barlow broke the seals of the will, opened it, and read it to the eager company. They were much astonished when they found that the whole fortune was left to Mr. Josiah Crumpe. The reason for this bequest was given in these words:

"Mr. Josiah Crumpe, being the only one of my relations who did not torment me for my money, even upon my death-bed, I trust that he will provide suitably for that excellent girl, Patty Frankland. On this head he knows my wishes. By her own desire, I have not myself left her any thing; I have only bequeathed fifty pounds for the use of her father."

Mr. Josiah Crumpe was the only person who heard unmoved the bequest that was made to him; the rest of the relations were clamorous in their reproaches, or hypocritical in their congratulations. All thoughts of setting aside the will were, however, abandoned; every legal form had been observed, and with a technical nicety that precluded all hopes of successful litigation.

Mr. Crumpe arose, as soon as the tumult of disappointment had somewhat subsided, and counted with his oaken stick the numbers that were present. "Here are ten of you, I think. Well! you, every soul of you, hate me; but that is nothing to the purpose. I shall keep up to the notion I have of the character of a true British merchant, for my own sake--not for yours. I don't want this woman's money; I have enough of my own, and of my own honest making, without legacy hunting. Why did you torment the dying woman? You would have been better off, if you had behaved better; but that's over now. A thousand pounds a-piece you shall have from me, deducting fifty pounds, which you must each of you give to that excellent girl, Patty Frankland. I am sure you must be all sensible of your injustice to her."

Fully aware that it was their interest to oblige Mr. Crumpe, they now vied with each other in doing justice to Patty. Some even declared they had never had any suspicions of her; and others laid the blame on the false representations and information which they said they had had from the mischief-making Mrs. Martha. They very willingly accepted of a thousand pounds a-piece; and the fifty pounds deduction was paid as a tax by each to Patty's merit.

Mistress now of five hundred pounds, she exclaimed, "Oh! my dear father!

You shall no longer live in an almshouse! To-morrow will be the happiest day of my life! I don't know how to thank you as I ought, sir,"

continued she, turning to her benefactor.

"You have thanked me as you ought, and as I like best," said this plain-spoken merchant, "and now let us say no more about it."

In obedience to Mr. Crumpe's commands, Patty said no more to him; but she was impatient to tell her brother Frank, and her lover, Mr. Mason, of her good fortune: she therefore returned to Monmouth with Mr. Barlow, in hopes of seeing them immediately; but Frank was not at work at the marriage settlement. Soon after Mr. Barlow left him, he was summoned to attend the trial of the Bettesworths.

These unfortunate young men, depending on Frank's good nature, well knowing he had refused to prosecute them for setting fire to his father's hay-rick, thought they might venture to call upon him to give them a good character. "Consider, dear Frank," said Will Bettesworth, "a good word from one of your character might do a great deal for us. You were so many years our neighbour. If you would only just say that we were never counted wild, idle, quarrelsome fellows, to your knowledge.

Will you?"

"How can I do that?" said Frank: "or how could I be believed, if I did, when it is so well known in the country--forgive me; at such a time as this I cannot mean to taunt you: but it is well known in the country that you were called Wild Will, Bullying Bob, and Idle Isaac."

"There's the rub!" said the attorney who was employed for the Bettesworths. "This will come out in open court; and the judge and jury will think a great deal of it."

"Oh! Mr. Frank, Mr. Frank," cried old Bettesworth, "have pity upon us!

Speak in favour of these boys of mine! Think what a disgrace it is to me in my old age, to have my sons brought this way to a public trial! And if they should be transported! Oh! Mr. Frank, say what you can for them!

You were always a good young man, and a good-natured young man."

Frank was moved by the entreaties and tears of the unhappy father; but his good-nature could not make him consent to say what he knew to be false. "Do not call me to speak to their characters upon this trial,"

said he; "I cannot say any thing that would serve them: I shall do them more harm than good."

Still they had hopes his good-nature would, at the last moment, prevail over his sense of justice, and they summoned him.

"Well, sir," said Bettesworths' counsel, "you appear in favour of the prisoners. You have known them, I understand, from their childhood; and your own character is such that whatever you say in their favour will doubtless make a weighty impression upon the jury."

The court was silent in expectation of what Frank should say. He was so much embarra.s.sed betwixt his wish to serve his old neighbours and playfellows, and his dread of saying what he knew to be false, that he could not utter a syllable. He burst into tears. {Footnote: This is drawn from real life.}

"This evidence is most strongly against the prisoners," whispered a juryman to his fellows.

The verdict was brought in at last--Guilty!--Sentence--transportation.

As the judge was p.r.o.nouncing this sentence, old Bettesworth was carried out of the court: he had dropped senseless. Ill as his sons had behaved to him, he could not sustain the sight of their utter disgrace and ruin.

When he recovered his senses, he found himself sitting on the stone bench before the court-house, supported by Frank. Many of the town's-people had gathered round; but regardless of every thing but his own feelings, the wretched father exclaimed, in a voice of despair, "I have no children left me in my old age! My sons are gone! And where are my daughters? At such a time as this, why are not they near their poor old father? Have they no touch of natural affection in them? No! they have none. And why should they have any for me? I took no care of them when they were young; no wonder they take none of me now I am old. Ay!

Neighbour Frankland was right: he brought up his children 'in the way they should go.' Now he has the credit and the comfort of them; and see what mine are come to! They bring their father's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave!"

The old man wept bitterly: then looking round him, he again asked for his daughters. "Surely they are in the town, and it cannot be much trouble to them to come to me! Even these strangers, who have never seen me before, pity me. But _my own_ have no feeling; no, not for one another! Do these girls know the sentence that has been pa.s.sed upon their brothers! Where are they? Where are they? Jessy, at least, might be near me at such a time as this! I was always an indulgent father to Jessy."

There were people present who knew what was become of Jessy; but they would not tell the news to her father at this terrible moment. Two of Mrs. Cheviott's servants were in the crowd; and one of them whispered to Frank, "You had best, sir, prevail on this poor old man to go to his home, and not to ask for his daughter: he will hear the bad news soon enough."

Frank persuaded the father to go home to his lodgings, and did every thing in his power to comfort him. But, alas! the old man said, too truly, "There is no happiness left for me in this world! What a curse it is to have bad children! My children have broken my heart! And it is all my own fault: I took no care of them when they were young; and they take no care of me now I am old. But, tell me, have you found out what is become of my daughter?"

Frank evaded the question, and begged the old man to rest in peace this night. He seemed quite exhausted by grief, and at last sunk into a sort of stupefaction: it could hardly be called sleep. Frank was obliged to return home, to proceed with his business for Mr. Barlow; and he was glad to escape from the sight of misery, which, however he might pity, he could not relieve.

It was happy indeed for Frank that he had taken his father's advice, and had early broken off all connexion with Jilting Jessy. After duping others, she at length had become a greater dupe. She had this morning gone off with a common serjeant, with whom she had fallen suddenly and desperately in love. He cared for nothing but her two thousand pounds; and, to complete her misfortune, was a man of bad character, whose extravagance and profligacy had reduced him to the sad alternative of either marrying for money, or going to jail.

As for Sally, she was at this instant far from all thoughts either of her father or her brothers; she was in the heat of a scolding match, which terminated rather unfortunately for her matrimonial schemes.

Ensign Bloomington had reproached her with having forced him into his aunt's room, when she had absolutely refused to see him, and thus being the cause of his losing a handsome legacy. Irritated by this charge, the lady replied in no very gentle terms. Words ran high; and so high at last, that the gentleman finished by swearing that he would sooner marry the devil than such a vixen!

The match was thus broken off, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of all Saucy Sally's acquaintance. Her ill-humour had made her hated by all the neighbours; so that her disappointment at the loss of the ensign was embittered by their malicious raillery, and by the prophecy which she heard more than whispered from all sides, that she would never have another admirer, either for "love or money."