First Love. Mrs. Loudon
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“He spoke of thee, but not by name.”
About six months after the death of Lady L., Mrs. Montgomery, in looking over papers of all descriptions, which had accumulated on her dressing-table, while she had been unable to attend to any thing, found one, folded and wafered, which had the appearance of a petition. On being opened, however, it proved to be a sort of letter, but vulgarly written, badly spelt, and without signature. It was also without date of time or place. It bore, notwithstanding, in its simplicity, strong marks of truth.
It professed to be from a person, calling herself Edmund’s nurse. Yet it gave him no name but that of the “young masther; or, be rights, the young lord, sure; only he was too young, the crathur, to be calling him any thing, barring the misthress’s child.” In like manner, it called Edmund’s father “the lord,” and his mother “the lady,” but did not mention the title of the family. The writer asserted, that having laid the child down for a moment, on the grass of the lawn, at a time when the family were from home, it was stolen by a strolling beggar, for the sake of the fine clothes it had on; for, that the “lord and the lady” were, that very day, expected at the castle. That afraid of blame, she had substituted her own infant. That it had been received without suspicion by the parents, who, having been “mostly in London town and other foreign parts,” had seen but little of their boy. It then went on as follows:—“A little while after, sure, I seen the poor child, with hardly a tack on him, of a winter’s day, in the arms of the divil’s own wife, at laste, if it was’nt the divil himself, the strolling woman, I mane, in the big town, hard by. I went up to her, and abused her all to nothing, and offered to take the child from her. And glad enough he was, the crathur, to see me, and stretched out his poor arms to come to me. But the woman, she hits him a thump, and houlds down both his little hands with one of her great big fists, and turns to me, and says, smelling strong wid spirits all the while, (but for a drunkard as she was, she had cunning enough left,) and she says, spakin’ low, and winking her eye, like, ‘And whose young master is that, dressed up at the castle, yonder?’ says she. ‘And it’s my boy, to be sure,’ says I, ‘and small blame to me, when you didn’t lave me the right one.’ ‘And are you going to send the right one there now, if you get him?’ says she. ‘And what’s that to you?’ says I. And with that, she gives a whistle like, and snaps her fingers afore my face, and thrusts her tongue in her cheek, and begins jogging off. ‘And’ says I, following of her, ‘and what do you want o’ the child?’ says I; ‘and haven’t you got the clothes? and can’t yee be satisfied? I’m not going, sure, to ax them of yee, and can’t yee give me the child! when it’s I that ’ill kape him warm, any how, and fade him well too; I that gave him the strame o’ life from my own breast,’ says I; ‘and what ’ud I be grudging of him afther that?’ says I. ‘Then nothing at all sure, but jist what belongs to him!’ says she, ‘But the divil a bit of him you’ll get, any how; for there’s not a day since I’ve carried him, that I haven’t got the price of a dram, at laste, by the pitiful face of him!’ says she. ‘And for that mather,’ says she, ‘if any one takes him to the castle,’ says she, ‘it’ll be myself that’ll do it,’ says she, ‘and git the reward too.’ ‘You the reward!’ says I; ‘is it for stailing him? It’s the gaol’s the reward you’ll get, my madam!’ says I. ‘It’s the resaver’s as bad as the thafe,’ says she. ‘And it’s you, and yours, that’ll git more by the job than iver I will. But it’s I that’ll make my young gintleman up at the castle yonder, pay for his sate in the coach, and his sate in the parler, too, one o’ these days,’ says she, wagging her head, and looking cunning like. And so it was, to make a long story short, the divil tempted me; and I couldn’t think te take my own boy out o’ the snug birth he had got safe into; and the divil a bit o’ her ’at was worse nor the divil, that ’ud give up the mistress’s boy quietly, at all, at all; and so, I was forced, without I’d a mind to tell the whole truth, to say no more why about it, and let her take the poor child away wid her, tho’ my heart bled for him. Well, sure, twis every year, she came to the big town, begging, and brought him with her, sure enough; but looking miserable like, and starved like; for it was less of him there was every time, instead o’ more. And be the time he was near hand five years ould, she brought him, at last, sure, lainin’ up on crutches, and only one leg on him! I flewd upon her like a tiger, to be sure, and just fastening every nail o’ me in the face of her, I axed her where the rest o’ the boy was. And she tould me, but not till she was tired bateing me for what my nails had done, that the leg o’ him was safe enough in the bag. And a dirty rag of a bag there was, sure enough, hanging where the tother leg should be. And jist then, cums by the coach and six from the castle! And up she makes to the side of it, with the brazen face of her, driving the poor cripple before her. And, sure, I see my mistress throw money out to him, little thinking it was her own child, with the one bare foot of him over the instip in mud, and them crutches, pushing his little shoulders a’most as high as his head, and his poor teeth chattering with the could, and the tears streaming from his eyes, (for she’d given him a divil of a pinch, to make him look pitiful.) And there was my boy sitting laughing on the mistress’s knee. But he looked quite sorry like, when the little cripple said he was hungry, and he throw’d him out a cake he was ateing. ‘Well!’ says I, (quite low to myself,) ‘that you should be throwing a mouthful of bread to the mistress’s child!’ And it was for dropping on my knees I was, and telling all, to the mistress herself; but just then, they brought her out a sight o’ toys she was waiting for, and she drawd up the winder, and the coach druv off. And the next time the woman cum, she cum’d without him, at all, at all! ‘And,’ says I, ‘the last time you cum’d, you brought but a piece of him, and now you’ve brought none at all of him!’ But she tould me, sure, his fortune was made, and that he was with grand people that ’ud do for him. But I wouldn’t believe her, you see, and gave her no pace, any way, but threat’nin’ te hav’ her hanged at the ’sizes, if I was hanged myself along with her, till she took’d my husband with her over seas, and let him see the boy. And he seen him, sure enough, walking with a nice ould lady, that’s been your ladyship, I suppose. And he had his two legs, my husband said, which I was particular glad to hear. And he was getting fat, too, and rosy-like, and was dressed, as the mistress’s child (heaven love the boy) should be. And this made my mind a dale asier, for now there was little wrong dun him.
“But, by and bye, troubles came upon me, and my husband died; but, before he died, he thought, and I thought about our sin in regard to the child, and so I made him write down the way to get a letter to your ladyship’s hands; and it was a thing that my husband, as he was a dying, seemed to hear to. Well, when I buried my husband, sure, I fell sick myself, and then I begun to think the hand of Heaven was upon me, and I sat up in my bed, and wrote this long letter to your ladyship; which, becourse of what my husband set down for me before he died, I give to one that’s going over seas to the harvest, to give to your ladyship’s own hand. He’ll tell your ladyship all my husband thought it best not to put down in the letter. But just ax him that takes it what is nurse’s name, and he’ll tell you fast enough, and all about the great folk at the castle. And it’s he that can tell that too, for its he that ought to know it, for his father, and grandfather before him, got bread under them, and he might have got bread under them himself, only for his tricks. But no matter for that. He knows no more o’ what’s inside the letter, than one that never seen the outside of it; and he’s sworn too, before the praist, at the bedside of the sick, and may be of the dying, to deliver it safe, for the ase of the conscience of the living, and the rest of the soul of him that’s dead.
“And now I have no more to add, but that the young masther (that’s him that’s with your ladyship this present time,) when he has all, should take it to heart to do for his foster-brother, that’s innocent of all harm, and that has larned to lie on a soft bed, without fault o’ his, and that throwd him the cake he was aiting in the coach, poor boy, when he thought it was his own, and that may be too.—But no matter for that now: the penance has been done for that, and the absolution has been given for that, and the priest has had his dues. And it’s not like the sin that satisfaction can be done for, and that it must be done for too, before the absolution can serve the soul: sich as giving back to the owner his own, or the likes of that; or the setting up of the misthress’s child again in his own place, and the pulling