<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"></SPAN></p>
<h2> CHAPTER 31 </h2>
<h3> Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest </h3>
<p>Mr Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which he seldom wanted, and
was going to embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air of
disdain. 'No fawning, Sir, at present,' cried the Baronet, with a look of
severity, 'the only way to my heart is by the road of honour; but here I
only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression.
How is it, Sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you professed a
friendship, is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely seduced, as a
recompence for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into a prison
perhaps but for resenting the insult? His son too, whom you feared to face
as a man—'</p>
<p>'Is it possible, Sir,' interrupted his nephew, 'that my uncle could object
that as a crime which his repeated instructions alone have persuaded me to
avoid.'</p>
<p>'Your rebuke,' cried Sir William, 'is just; you have acted in this
instance prudently and well, though not quite as your father would have
done: my brother indeed was the soul of honour; but thou—yes you
have acted in this instance perfectly right, and it has my warmest
approbation.'</p>
<p>'And I hope,' said his nephew, 'that the rest of my conduct will not be
found to deserve censure. I appeared, Sir, with this gentleman's daughter
at some places of public amusement; thus what was levity, scandal called
by a harsher name, and it was reported that I had debauched her. I waited
on her father in person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfaction,
and he received me only with insult and abuse. As for the rest, with
regard to his being here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as
I commit the management of business entirely to them. If he has contracted
debts and is unwilling or even unable to pay them, it is their business to
proceed in this manner, and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the
most legal means of redress.'</p>
<p>'If this,' cried Sir William, 'be as you have stated it, there is nothing
unpardonable in your offence, and though your conduct might have been more
generous in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by subordinate
tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable.'</p>
<p>'He cannot contradict a single particular,' replied the 'Squire, 'I defy
him to do so, and several of my servants are ready to attest what I say.
Thus, Sir,' continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact I could
not contradict him, 'thus, Sir, my own innocence is vindicated; but though
at your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gentleman every other offence,
yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem, excite a resentment that I
cannot govern. And this too at a time when his son was actually preparing
to take away my life; this, I say, was such guilt, that I am determined to
let the law take its course. I have here the challenge that was sent me
and two witnesses to prove it; one of my servants has been wounded
dangerously, and even though my uncle himself should dissuade me, which I
know he will not, yet I will see public justice done, and he shall suffer
for it.'</p>
<p>'Thou monster,' cried my wife, 'hast thou not had vengeance enough
already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty. I hope that good Sir
William will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child; I am sure
he is, and never did harm to man.'</p>
<p>'Madam,' replied the good man, 'your wishes for his safety are not greater
than mine; but I am sorry to find his guilt too plain; and if my nephew
persists—' But the appearance of Jenkinson and the gaoler's two
servants now called off our attention, who entered, haling in a tall man,
very genteelly drest, and answering the description already given of the
ruffian who had carried off my daughter—'Here,' cried Jenkinson,
pulling him in, 'here we have him, and if ever there was a candidate for
Tyburn, this is one.'</p>
<p>The moment Mr Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jenkinson, who had him
in custody, he seemed to shrink back with terror. His face became pale
with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but Jenkinson, who
perceived his design, stopt him—'What, 'Squire,' cried he, 'are you
ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter: but this is
the way that all great men forget their friends, though I am resolved we
will not forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour,' continued he,
turning to Sir William, 'has already confessed all. This is the gentleman
reported to be so dangerously wounded: He declares that it was Mr
Thornhill who first put him upon this affair, that he gave him the cloaths
he now wears to appear like a gentleman, and furnished him with the
post-chaise. The plan was laid between them that he should carry off the
young lady to a place of safety, and that there he should threaten and
terrify her; but Mr Thornhill was to come in in the mean time, as if by
accident, to her rescue, and that they should fight awhile and then he was
to run off, by which Mr Thornhill would have the better opportunity of
gaining her affections himself under the character of her defender.'</p>
<p>Sir William remembered the coat to have been frequently worn by his
nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a more
circumstantial account; concluding, that Mr Thornhill had often declared
to him that he was in love with both sisters at the same time.</p>
<p>'Heavens,' cried Sir William, 'what a viper have I been fostering in my
bosom! And so fond of public justice too as he seemed to be. But he shall
have it; secure him, Mr Gaoler—yet hold, I fear there is not legal
evidence to detain him.'</p>
<p>Upon this, Mr Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated that two such
abandoned wretches might not be admitted as evidences against him, but
that his servants should be examined.—'Your servants' replied Sir
William, 'wretch, call them yours no longer: but come let us hear what
those fellows have to say, let his butler be called.'</p>
<p>When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his former master's
looks that all his power was now over. 'Tell me,' cried Sir William
sternly, 'have you ever seen your master and that fellow drest up in his
cloaths in company together?' 'Yes, please your honour,' cried the butler,
'a thousand times: he was the man that always brought him his ladies.'—'How,'
interrupted young Mr Thornhill, 'this to my face!'—'Yes,' replied
the butler, 'or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill,
I never either loved you or liked you, and I don't care if I tell you now
a piece of my mind.'—'Now then,' cried Jenkinson, 'tell his honour
whether you know any thing of me.'—'I can't say,' replied the
butler, 'that I know much good of you. The night that gentleman's daughter
was deluded to our house, you were one of them.'—'So then,' cried
Sir William, 'I find you have brought a very fine witness to prove your
innocence: thou stain to humanity! to associate with such wretches!' (But
continuing his examination) 'You tell me, Mr Butler, that this was the
person who brought him this old gentleman's daughter.'—'No, please
your honour,' replied the butler, 'he did not bring her, for the 'Squire
himself undertook that business; but he brought the priest that pretended
to marry them.'—'It is but too true,' cried Jenkinson, 'I cannot
deny it, that was the employment assigned me, and I confess it to my
confusion.'</p>
<p>'Good heavens!' exclaimed the Baronet, 'how every new discovery of his
villainy alarms me. All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his present
prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice and revenge; at my request,
Mr Gaoler, set this young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to
me for the consequences. I'll make it my business to set the affair in a
proper light to my friend the magistrate who has committed him. But where
is the unfortunate young lady herself: let her appear to confront this
wretch, I long to know by what arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to
come in. Where is she?'</p>
<p>'Ah, Sir,' said I, 'that question stings me to the heart: I was once
indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries—' Another interruption
here prevented me; for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was next day to have been married to Mr Thornhill. Nothing
could equal her surprize at seeing Sir William and his nephew here before
her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that she and the
old gentleman her father were passing through the town, on their way to
her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr Thornhill should be
consummated at her house; but stopping for refreshment, they put up at an
inn at the other end of the town. It was there from the window that the
young lady happened to observe one of my little boys playing in the
street, and instantly sending a footman to bring the child to her, she
learnt from him some account of our misfortunes; but was still kept
ignorant of young Mr Thornhill's being the cause. Though her father made
several remonstrances on the impropriety of going to a prison to visit us,
yet they were ineffectual; she desired the child to conduct her, which he
did, and it was thus she surprised us at a juncture so unexpected.</p>
<p>Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those accidental meetings, which,
though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprize but upon some
extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe
every pleasure and convenience of our lives. How many seeming accidents
must unite before we can be cloathed or fed. The peasant must be disposed
to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or
numbers must want the usual supply.</p>
<p>We all continued silent for some moments, while my charming pupil, which
was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her looks
compassion and astonishment, which gave new finishings to her beauty.
'Indeed, my dear Mr Thornhill,' cried she to the 'Squire, who she supposed
was come here to succour and not to oppress us, 'I take it a little
unkindly that you should come here without me, or never inform me of the
situation of a family so dear to us both: you know I should take as much
pleasure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old master here,
whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your uncle,
you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.'</p>
<p>'He find pleasure in doing good!' cried Sir William, interrupting her.
'No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, madam,
as complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A wretch, who after
having deluded this poor man's daughter, after plotting against the
innocence of her sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the eldest
son into fetters, because he had courage to face his betrayer. And give me
leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from the embraces of
such a monster.'</p>
<p>'O goodness,' cried the lovely girl, 'how have I been deceived! Mr
Thornhill informed me for certain that this gentleman's eldest son,
Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new married lady.'</p>
<p>'My sweetest miss,' cried my wife, 'he has told you nothing but
falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor was married. Tho'
you have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to think of any
body else; and I have heard him say he would die a batchellor for your
sake.' She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's
passion, she set his duel with Mr Thornhill in a proper light, from thence
she made a rapid digression to the 'Squire's debaucheries, his pretended
marriages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his cowardice.</p>
<p>'Good heavens!' cried Miss Wilmot, 'how very near have I been to the brink
of ruin! But how great is my pleasure to have escaped it! Ten thousand
falsehoods has this gentleman told me! He had at last art enough to
persuade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no longer
binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was taught to
detest one equally brave and generous!'</p>
<p>But by this time my son was freed from the encumbrances of justice as the
person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr Jenkinson
also, who had acted as his valet de chambre, had dressed up his hair, and
furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. He
now therefore entered, handsomely drest in his regimentals, and, without
vanity, (for I am above it) he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wore
a military dress. As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant
bow, for he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the eloquence
of his mother had wrought in his favour. But no decorums could restrain
the impatience of his blushing mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her
looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her heart for
having forgotten her former promise and having suffered herself to be
deluded by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and
could scarce believe it real.—'Sure, madam,' cried he, 'this is but
delusion! I can never have merited this! To be, blest thus is to be too
happy.'—'No, Sir,' replied she, 'I have been deceived, basely
deceived, else nothing could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You
know my friendship, you have long known it; but forget what I have done,
and as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have them
repeated; and be assured that if your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall
never be another's.'—'And no other's you shall be,' cried Sir
William, 'if I have any influence with your father.'</p>
<p>This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the inn
where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every circumstance that had
happened. But in the mean time the 'Squire perceiving that he was on every
side undone, now finding that no hopes were left from flattery or
dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face his
pursuers. Thus laying aside all shame, he appeared the open hardy villain.
'I find then,' cried he, 'that I am to expect no justice here; but I am
resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, Sir,' turning to Sir
William, 'I am no longer a poor dependent upon your favours. I scorn them.
Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her
father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a bond for her
fortune, are signed, and safe in my possession. It was her fortune, not
her person, that induced me to wish for this match, and possessed of the
one, let who will take the other.'</p>
<p>This was an alarming blow, Sir William was sensible of the justice of his
claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the marriage articles
himself. Miss Wilmot therefore perceiving that her fortune was
irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she asked if the loss of fortune
could lessen her value to him. 'Though fortune,' said she, 'is out of my
power, at least I have my hand to give.'</p>
<p>'And that, madam,' cried her real lover, 'was indeed all that you ever had
to give; at least all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And now I
protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune this
moment encreases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my
sincerity.'</p>
<p>Mr Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the danger his
daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of the
match. But finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr Thornhill by
bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. He
now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his
own. He could bear his being a rascal; but to want an equivalent to his
daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sate therefore for some minutes
employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir William attempted
to lessen his anxiety.—'I must confess, Sir' cried he, 'that your
present disappointment does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate
passion for wealth is now justly punished. But tho' the young lady cannot
be rich, she has still a competence sufficient to give content. Here you
see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune;
they have long loved each other, and for the friendship I bear his father,
my interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave then that
ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit that happiness which
courts your acceptance.'</p>
<p>'Sir William,' replied the old gentleman, 'be assured I never yet forced
her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love this
young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is still, thank
heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it something more.
Only let my old friend here (meaning me) give me a promise of settling six
thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I
am ready this night to be the first to join them together.'</p>
<p>As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily gave
a promise of making the settlement he required, which, to one who had such
little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had now therefore the
satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other's arms in a transport.
'After all my misfortunes,' cried my son George, 'to be thus rewarded!
Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To be
possessed of all that's good, and after such an interval of pain! My
warmest wishes could never rise so high!'—'Yes, my George,' returned
his lovely bride, 'now let the wretch take my fortune; since you are happy
without it so am I. O what an exchange have I made from the basest of men
to the dearest best!—Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be happy
even in indigence.'—'And I promise you,' cried the 'Squire, with a
malicious grin, 'that I shall be very happy with what you despise.'—'Hold,
hold, Sir,' cried Jenkinson, 'there are two words to that bargain. As for
that lady's fortune, Sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it.
Pray your honour,' continued he to Sir William, 'can the 'Squire have this
lady's fortune if he be married to another?'—'How can you make such
a simple demand,' replied the Baronet, 'undoubtedly he cannot.'—'I
am sorry for that,' cried Jenkinson; 'for as this gentleman and I have
been old fellow spotters, I have a friendship for him. But I must declare,
well as I love him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco stopper, for
he is married already.'—'You lie, like a rascal,' returned the
'Squire, who seemed rouzed by this insult, 'I never was legally married to
any woman.'—'Indeed, begging your honour's pardon,' replied the
other, 'you were; and I hope you will shew a proper return of friendship
to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife, and if the company
restrains their curiosity a few minutes, they shall see her.'—So
saying he went off with his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form
any probable conjecture as to his design.—'Ay let him go,' cried the
'Squire, 'whatever else I may have done I defy him there. I am too old now
to be frightened with squibs.'</p>
<p>'I am surprised,' said the Baronet, 'what the fellow can intend by this.
Some low piece of humour I suppose!'—'Perhaps, Sir,' replied I, 'he
may have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various
schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more
artful than the rest has been found able to deceive him. When we consider
what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish the
infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their families, it
would not surprise me if some one of them—Amazement! Do I see my
lost daughter! Do I hold her! It is, it is my life, my happiness. I
thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee—and still thou
shalt live to bless me.'—The warmest transports of the fondest lover
were not greater than mine when I saw him introduce my child, and held my
daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. 'And art thou
returned to me, my darling,' cried I, 'to be my comfort in age!'—'That
she is,' cried Jenkinson, 'and make much of her, for she is your own
honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room, let the
other be who she will. And as for you 'Squire, as sure as you stand there
this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to convince you that I
speak nothing but truth, here is the licence by which you were married
together.'—So saying, he put the licence into the Baronet's hands,
who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. 'And now, gentlemen,'
continued he, I find you are surprised at all this; but a few words will
explain the difficulty. That there 'Squire of renown, for whom I have a
great friendship, but that's between ourselves, as often employed me in
doing odd little things for him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to
procure him a false licence and a false priest, in order to deceive this
young lady. But as I was very much his friend, what did I do but went and
got a true licence and a true priest, and married them both as fast as the
cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll think it was generosity that made me
do all this. But no. To my shame I confess it, my only design was to keep
the licence and let the 'Squire know that I could prove it upon him
whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted
money.' A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our
joy reached even to the common room, where the prisoners themselves
sympathized,</p>
<p>—And shook their chains<br/>
In transport and rude harmony.<br/></p>
<p>Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheek seemed
flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and
fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of decay
and restore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all there was
not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear-loved
child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion.
'How could you,' cried I, turning to Mr Jenkinson, 'how could you add to
my miseries by the story of her death! But it matters not, my pleasure at
finding her again, is more than a recompence for the pain.'</p>
<p>'As to your question,' replied Jenkinson, 'that is easily answered. I
thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by
submitting to the 'Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other
young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter was
living, there was therefore no other method to bring things to bear but by
persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the
deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you till
now.'</p>
<p>In the whole assembly now there only appeared two faces that did not glow
with transport. Mr Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him: he now
saw the gulph of infamy and want before him, and trembled to take the
plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of
piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn him
away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few moments,
'Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,' cried he, 'deserve no tenderness;
yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken, a bare competence shall be
supplied, to support the wants of life, but not its follies. This young
lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a third part of that fortune
which once was thine, and from her tenderness alone thou art to expect any
extraordinary supplies for the future.' He was going to express his
gratitude for such kindness in a set speech; but the Baronet prevented him
by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, which was already but too
apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be gone, and from all his
former domestics to chuse one such as he should think proper, which was
all that should be granted to attend him.</p>
<p>As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stept up to his new niece
with a smile, and wished her joy. His example was followed by Miss Wilmot
and her father; my wife too kissed her daughter with much affection, as,
to use her own expression, she was now made an honest woman of. Sophia and
Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be
admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed scarce capable of
increase. Sir William, whose greatest leasure was in doing good, now
looked round with a countenance open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy
in the looks of all except that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some
reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. 'I
think now,' cried he, with a smile, 'that all the company, except one or
two, seem perfectly happy. There only remains an act of justice for me to
do. You are sensible, Sir,' continued he, turning to me, 'of the
obligations we both owe Mr Jenkinson. And it is but just we should both
reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy, and
he shall have from me five hundred pounds as her fortune, and upon this I
am sure they can live very comfortably together. Come, Miss Sophia, what
say you to this match of my making? Will you have him?'—My poor girl
seemed almost sinking into her mother's arms at the hideous proposal.—'Have
him, Sir!' cried she faintly. 'No, Sir, never.'—'What,' cried he
again, 'not have Mr Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome young fellow,
with five hundred pounds and good expectations!'—'I beg, Sir,'
returned she, scarce able to speak, 'that you'll desist, and not make me
so very wretched.'—'Was ever such obstinacy known,' cried he again,
'to refuse a man whom the family has such infinite obligations to, who has
preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds! What not have
him!'—'No, Sir, never,' replied she, angrily, 'I'd sooner die
first.'—'If that be the case then,' cried he, 'if you will not have
him—I think I must have you myself.' And so saying, he caught her to
his breast with ardour. 'My loveliest, my most sensible of girls,' cried
he, 'how could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or that
Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mistress that loved him
for himself alone? I have for some years sought for a woman, who a
stranger to my fortune could think that I had merit as a man. After having
tried in vain, even amongst the pert and the ugly, how great at last must
be my rapture to have made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly
beauty.' Then turning to Jenkinson, 'As I cannot, Sir, part with this
young lady myself, for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all
the recompence I can make is to give you her fortune, and you may call
upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds.' Thus we had all our
compliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of
ceremony that her sister had done before. In the mean time Sir William's
gentleman appeared to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry us to
the inn, where every thing was prepared for our reception. My wife and I
led the van, and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous
Baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr
Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. We were received below
by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or
three of my honest parishioners, who were among the number. They attended
us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and coarser
provisions distributed in great quantities among the populace.</p>
<p>After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of pleasure
and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked permission to
withdraw, and leaving the company in the midst of their mirth, as soon as
I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in gratitude to the giver of
joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning.</p>
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