The Fruits Of Disobedience

OR THE KIDNAPPED CHILD

In a beautiful villa on the banks of the Medway resided a gentleman whose name was Darnley, who had, during the early part of life, filled a post of some importance about the Court, and even in its decline preserved that elegance of manners which so peculiarly marks a finished gentleman.

The loss of a beloved wife had given a pensive cast to his features, and a seriousness to his deportment, which many people imagined proceeded from haughtiness of disposition, yet nothing could be further from Mr. Darnley's character, for he was affable, gentle, benevolent, and humane.

His family consisted of an only sister, who, like himself, had lost the object of her tenderest affection, but who, in dividing her attention between her brother and his amiable children, endeavored to forget her own misfortunes.

Mr. Darnley's fortune was sufficiently great to enable him to place his daughters in the first school in London, but he preferred having them under his immediate instruction, and as Mrs. Collier offered to assist him in their education he resolved for some years not to engage a governess, as Nurse Chapman was one of those worthy creatures to whose care he could securely trust them.

An old friend of Mr. Darnley's had recently bought a house at Rochester, and that gentleman and his sister were invited to pass a few days there, and as Emily grew rather too big for the nurse's management Mrs. Collier resolved to make her of the party, leaving Sophia, Amanda, and Eliza under that good woman's protection.

It was Mr. Darnley's wish that the young folks should rise early and take a long walk every morning before breakfast, but they were strictly ordered never to go beyond their own grounds unless their aunt or father accompanied them. This [pg 340] order they had frequently endeavored to persuade Nurse Chapman to disregard, but, faithful to the trust reposed in her, she always resisted their urgent entreaties.

The morning after Mr. Darnley went to Rochester the poor woman found herself thoroughly indisposed, and wholly incapable of rising at the accustomed hour. The children, however, were dressed for walking, and the nurse-maid charged not to go beyond the shrubbery, and they all sallied out in high good humor.

"Now, Susan," said Sophia, as soon as they entered the garden, "this is the only opportunity you may ever have of obliging us. Do let us walk to the village, and then you know you can see your father and mother."

"La, missy!" replied the girl, "why, you know 'tis as much as my place is worth if Nurse Chapman should find out."

"Find it out indeed," said Amanda; "how do you think she is to find it out? Come, do let us go, there's a dear, good creature."

"Yes, dear, dear Susan, do let us go," said Eliza, skipping on before them, "and I'll show you the way, for I walked there last summer with father."

Whether it was the wish of obliging the young ladies, or the desire of seeing her parents, I cannot pretend to say, but in a luckless hour Susan yielded, and the party soon reached the village.

Susan's mother was delighted at seeing her, and highly honored by the young ladies' presence.

"Oh, sweet, dear creatures!" said the old woman, "I must get something for them to eat after their long walk, and my oven's quite hot, and I can bake them a little cake in a quarter of an hour, and I'll milk Jenny in ten minutes."

The temptation of her hot cake and new milk was not to be withstood, and Susan began taking down some smart china cups, which were arranged in form upon the mantelpiece, and carefully dusted them for the young ladies' use.

Eliza followed the old woman into the cow-house, and began asking a thousand questions, when her attention was suddenly attracted by the appearance of a tame lamb, who went up [pg 341] bleating to its mistress with a view of asking its accustomed breakfast.

"You must wait a little, Billy," said the woman, "and let your betters be served before you. Don't you see that we have got gentlefolks to breakfast with us this morning?"

Eliza was so delighted with the beauty of the little animal that she wanted to kiss it, and attempted to restrain it for that purpose, while Billy, ungrateful for her intended kindness, gave a sudden spring and frisked away.

Eliza followed in hopes of being able to catch him, but he ran baaing along into the high road.

A woman whose appearance was descriptive of poverty but whose smiling countenance indicated good nature, at that moment happened to pass, and, accosting Eliza in a tone of familiarity, said: "That's not half such a pretty lamb, miss, as I have got at home, and not a quarter so tame, for if you did but say, 'Bob' he'd follow you from one end of the town to the other, and then he'll fetch and carry like a dog, stand up on his hind legs, when my husband says 'Up' for the thing, and play more tricks than a young kitten."

"Oh, the pretty creature," replied Eliza, "how I should like to see it!"

"Well, come along with me, miss," said the woman, "for I only lives just across the next field, but you must run as hard as you can, because my husband is going to work, and he generally takes Bob with him."

"Well, make haste, then," said Eliza.

"Give me your hand, miss," replied the woman; "for we can run faster together. But there goes my husband, I declare; and there's Bob, as usual, skipping on before."

"Where? where?" exclaimed Eliza, stretching her little neck as far as she possibly could, to see if she could discern the lamb.

"You are not tall enough," said the artful creature; "but let me lift you up, miss, and then I dare say you will see them;" and, instantly catching her up, she cried out: "Look directly towards the steeple, miss; but I'll run with you in my arms, and I warrant we'll soon overtake them."

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