“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 dressed, 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.”
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, stopped 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 clothes 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 meantime, 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.”
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.
“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.”
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.”
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 dressed up in his clothes 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
