The short continuance of friendship amongst the vicious, which is
coeval only with mutual satisfaction.
My son’s account was too long to be delivered at once, the first part
of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner
the next day, when the appearance of Mr Thornhill’s equipage at the
door seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler,
who was now become my friend in the family, informed me with a whisper,
that the ’Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and
that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr
Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start
back; but I readily imputed that to surprize, and not displeasure.
However, upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting
with the most apparent candour; and after a short time, his presence
served only to encrease the general good humour.
After tea he called me aside, to enquire after my daughter; but upon my
informing him that my enquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly
surprised; adding, that he had been since frequently at my house, in
order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He
then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, or my
son; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly
approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep
it a secret: ‘For at best,’ cried he, ‘it is but divulging one’s own
infamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine.’
We were here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask the ’Squire in,
to stand up at country dances; so that he left me quite pleased with
the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, however,
to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mistaken; and yet she seemed not
perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of
her aunt, than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to
see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other
could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr Thornhill’s
seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me: we had now
continued here a week, at the pressing instances of Mr Arnold; but each
day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot shewed my son, Mr Thomhill’s
friendship seemed proportionably to encrease for him.
He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest
to serve the family; but now his generosity was not confined to
promises alone: the morning I designed for my departure, Mr Thornhill
came to me with looks of real pleasure to inform me of a piece of
service he had done for his friend George. This was nothing less than
his having procured him an ensign’s commission in one of the regiments
that was going to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one
hundred pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement
of the other two. ‘As for this trifling piece of service,’ continued
the young gentleman, ‘I desire no other reward but the pleasure of
having served my friend; and as for the hundred pound to be paid, if
you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall
repay me at your leisure.’ This was a favour we wanted words to express
our sense of. I readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and
testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay.
George was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission, in
pursuance of his generous patron’s directions, who judged it highly
expedient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should step in
with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our
young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only
person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and
dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress, for
Miss Wilmot actually loved him, he was leaving behind, any way damped
his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I
gave him all I had, my blessing. ‘And now, my boy,’ cried I, ‘thou art
going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather
fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue.
Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a
misfortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you fall, tho’
distant, exposed and unwept by those that love you, the most precious
tears are those with which heaven bedews the unburied head of a
soldier.’
The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind
enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of
gratitude to Mr Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the
enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding
procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my
daughter more, but sending a sigh to heaven to spare and to forgive
her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired an
horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the
hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night
coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the roadside, and asked
for the landlord’s company over a pint of wine. We sate beside his
kitchen fire, which was the best room in the house, and chatted on
politics and the news of the country. We happened, among other topics,
to talk of young ’Squire Thornhill, who the host assured me was hated
as much as his uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the
country, was loved. He went on to observe, that he made it his whole
study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their houses,
and after a fortnight or three weeks possession, turned them out
unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we continued our discourse in
this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and
perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was
not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did there, to
which he only replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. ‘Mr
Symmonds,’ cried she, ‘you use me very ill, and I’ll bear it no longer.
Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth
left unfinished; while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day
long, whereas if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I
never touch a drop.’ I now found what she would be at, and immediately
poured her out a glass, which she received with a curtesy, and drinking
towards my good health, ‘Sir,’ resumed she, ‘it is not so much for the
value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it, when the house
is going out of the windows. If the customers or guests are to be
dunned, all the burthen lies upon my back, he’d as lief eat that glass
as budge after them himself.’ There now above stairs, we have a young
woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don’t believe
she has got any money by her over-civility. I am certain she is very
slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it.’—‘What
signifies minding her,’ cried the host, ‘if she be slow, she is
sure.’—‘I don’t know that,’ replied the wife; ‘but I know that I am
sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross
of her money.’—‘I suppose, my dear,’ cried he, ‘we shall have it all in
a, lump.’—‘In a lump!’ cried the other, ‘I hope we may get it any way;
and that I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, bag
and baggage.’—‘Consider, my dear,’ cried the husband, ‘she is a
gentlewoman, and deserves more respect.’—‘As for the matter of that,’
returned the hostess, ‘gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a
sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they take; but for my part I
never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow.’—Thus saying,
she ran up a narrow flight of stairs, that went from the kitchen to a
room over-head, and I soon perceived by the loudness of her voice, and
the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her
lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly: ‘Out I say,
pack out this moment, tramp thou infamous strumpet, or I’ll give thee a
mark thou won’t be the better for this three months. What! you
trumpery, to come and take up an honest house, without cross or coin to
bless yourself with; come along I say.’—‘O dear madam,’ cried the
stranger, ‘pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and
death will soon do the rest.’ I instantly knew the voice of my poor
ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was dragging
her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my
arms.—‘Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to
your poor old father’s bosom. Tho’ the vicious forsake thee, there is
yet one in the world that will never forsake thee; tho’ thou hadst ten
thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them all.’—‘O my own
dear’—for minutes she could no more—‘my own dearest good papa! Could
angels be kinder! How do I deserve so much! The villain, I hate him and
myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You can’t forgive me. I know
you cannot.’—‘Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee! Only
repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days
yet, my Olivia!’—‘Ah! never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life
must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But, alas! papa, you look much
paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much
uneasiness? Sure you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my
guilt upon yourself.’—‘Our wisdom, young woman,’ replied I.—‘Ah, why so
cold a name papa?’ cried she. ‘This is the first time you ever called
me by so cold a name.’—‘I ask pardon, my darling,’ returned I; ‘but I
was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence against
trouble, though at last a sure one.’
The landlady now returned to know if we did not chuse a more genteel
apartment, to which assenting, we were shewn a room, where we could
converse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some degree of
tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations
that led to her present wretched situation. ‘That villain, sir,’ said
she, ‘from the first day of our meeting made me honourable, though
private, proposals.’
‘Villain indeed,’ cried I; ‘and yet it in some measure surprizes me,
how a person of Mr Burchell’s good sense and seeming honour could be
guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo
it.’
‘My dear papa,’ returned my daughter, ‘you labour under a strange
mistake, Mr Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Instead of that he
took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the
artifices of Mr Thornhill, who I now find was even worse than he
represented him.’—‘Mr Thornhill,’ interrupted I, ‘can it be?’—‘Yes,
Sir,’ returned she, ‘it was Mr Thornhill who seduced me, who employed
the two ladies, as he called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned
women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London.
Their artifices, you may remember would have certainly succeeded, but
for Mr Burchell’s letter, who directed those reproaches at them, which
we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as
to defeat their intentions, still remains a secret to me; but I am
convinced he was ever our warmest sincerest friend.’
‘You amaze me, my dear,’ cried I; ‘but now I find my first suspicions
of Mr Thornhill’s baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph
in security; for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child,
sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the
impressions of such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as
thine.’
‘Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘he owes all his triumph to the desire I
had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of
our marriage, which was privately performed by a popish priest, was no
way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour.’
‘What,’ interrupted I, ‘and were you indeed married by a priest, and in
orders?’—‘Indeed, Sir, we were,’ replied she, ‘though we were both
sworn to conceal his name.’—‘Why then, my child, come to my arms again,
and now you are a thousand times more welcome than before; for you are
now his wife to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of man,
tho’ written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred
connexion.’
‘Alas, Papa,’ replied she, ‘you are but little acquainted with his
villainies: he has been married already, by the same priest, to six or
eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned.’
‘Has he so?’ cried I, ‘then we must hang the priest, and you shall
inform against him to-morrow.’—‘But Sir,’ returned she, ‘will that be
right, when I am sworn to secrecy?’—‘My dear,’ I replied, ‘if you have
made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even
tho’ it may benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all
human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good;
as in politics, a province may be given away to secure a kingdom; in
medicine, a limb may be lopt off, to preserve the body. But in religion
the law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my
child, is right: for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil, to procure
a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of
contingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow,
yet the interval between commission and advantage, which is allowed to
be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the
things we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed for
ever. But I interrupt you, my dear, go on.’
‘The very next morning,’ continued she, ‘I found what little
expectations I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he
introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had
deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too
tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my
infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view, I danced, dressed, and
talked; but still was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me
every moment of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to
encrease my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away.
Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last
the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young Baronet of his
acquaintance. Need I describe, Sir, how his ingratitude stung me. My
answer to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. As I was
going he offered me a purse; but I flung it at him with indignation,
and burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of
the miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw
myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to
apply to. Just in that interval, a stage-coach happening to pass by, I
took a place, it being my only aim to be driven at a distance from a
wretch I despised and detested. I was set down here, where, since my
arrival, my own anxiety, and this woman’s unkindness, have been my only
companions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and
sister, now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much; but mine is
greater than theirs; for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy.’
‘Have patience, my child,’ cried I, ‘and I hope things will yet be
better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I’ll carry you home to
your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive a
kind reception. Poor woman, this has gone to her heart: but she loves
you still, Olivia, and will forget it.