“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?”
“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 surprise 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 learned 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.
Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those accidental meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise 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 clothed 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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“My sweetest miss,” cried my wife, “he has told you nothing but falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor was married, though you have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to think of anybody else; and I have heard him say he would die a bachelor 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.
“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!”
But by this time my son was freed
