# The Vicar of Wakefield/Volume 2/Chapter 28

CHAP. IX.
I had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having com­municated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apart­ment, leaning on her sister's arm. The change which I saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided there were now fled, and the hand ​of death seemed to have molded every fea­ture to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sate upon her cheek.
"I am glad to see thee, my dear," cri­ed I; "but why this dejection Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a re­gard for me, to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be chearful child, and we may yet see happier days."
"You have ever, sir," replied she, "been kind to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportu­nity of sharing that happiness you pro­mise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here; and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to Mr. Thorn​­hill; it may, in some measure, induce him to pity you, and it will give me re­lief in dying."
"Never, child," replied I, "I never shall be brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute; for tho' the world may look upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way mi­serable in this place, however dismal it may seem, and be assured that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying another."
After the departure of my daughter, my fellow prisoner, who was by at this inter­view, sensibly enough expostulated upon my obstinacy, in refusing a submission, which promised to give me freedom. He observ­ed, that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child ​alone, and she the only one who had of­fended me. "Beside," added he, "I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match which you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy."
"Sir," replied I, "you are unac­quainted with the man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my submission and ap­probation could transfer me from hence, to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of; yet I would grant neither, as something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were ​she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for an union. No, vil­lain as he is, I could then wish him married, to prevent the consequences of his future debaucheries. But should I not now be the most cruel of all fathers, to sign an Instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus to escape one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand?"
He acquiesced in the justice of this an­swer, but could not avoid observing, that he feared my daughter's life was already too much wasted to keep me long a pri­soner. "However, continued he, though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your case before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for every thing that is just and good. I ​would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage, and my life for it that in three days you shall have an answer." I thank'd him for the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and un­luckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions, however he supplied me.
For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety, to know what reception my letter might meet with; but in the mean time was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain here, and every hour received repea­ted accounts of the decline of my daugh­ter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter: the complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew, were no way likely to succeed; so that these hopes soon vanished like all my former. My mind, ​however, still supported itself though confinement and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire, grew worse. But my children still sate by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's health declined faster than mine; every message from her contributed to encrease my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter which was sent to sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it was, that confinement was truly painful to me; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pil­low of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to heaven! Another ac­count came. She was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weep​­ing by her. My fellow prisoner, some time after, came with the last account. He bade me be patient. She was dead!—The next morning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only companions, who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated to read to me, and bid me not to cry, for I was now too old to weep. "And is not my sister an angel, now, pappa," cried the eldest, "and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my pappa were with me" "Yes," added my youngest darling, "Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are very bad."
Mr. Jenkinson interupted their harmless prattle, by observing that now my daugh­ter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt to ​save my own life, which was every day de­clining, for want of necessaries and whole­some air. He added, that it was now in­cumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own, to the welfare of those who depended on me for support; and that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my land­lord.
"Heaven be praised," replied I, "there is no pride left me now, I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. On the con­trary, as my oppressor has been once my parishioner, I hope one day to pre­sent him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now, and though he has ta­ken from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow prisoner, yet that ​shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve his mar­riage, and if this submission can do him any pleasure, let him know, that if I have done him any injury, I am sorry for it." Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submission nearly as I have exprest it, to which I signed my name, My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, and in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were in­solent and suspicious; but he accidentally saw him as he was going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in three days. He continued to inform us, that he stept up in the humblest manner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all sub­mission was now too late and unnecessary; that he had heard of our application to his ​uncle, which met with the contempt it deserved; and as for the rest, that all future applications should be directed to his at­torney, not to him. He observed, how­ever, that as he had a very good opinion of the discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable intercessors.
"Well, sir," said I to my fellow pri­soner, "you now discover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious and cruel; but let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I shall leave an helpless fa­mily of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken; some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, and some ​may charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly father."
Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to speak. "Why, my love," cried I, "why will you thus encrease my afflic­tion by your own, what though no sub­missions can turn our severe master, tho' he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more." "We have indeed lost," returned she, "a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried off by ruffians!"
​"How, madam," cried my fellow pri­soner, "miss Sophia carried off by villains, sure it cannot be?"
She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of the pri­soner's wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct ac­count: she informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and herself, were taking a walk together on the great road a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and four drove up to them and instantly stopt. Upon which, a well drest man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment.
"Now," cried I, "the sum of my mi­series is made up, nor is it in the power of any thing on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not to leave ​me one! the monster! the child that was next my heart! she had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an an­gel. But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!"—"Alas! my husband, said my wife, "you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children and all the world, if they leave me but you."
My Son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful.—"My child," cried I, "look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out; while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave!"—"My dear father," returned he, "I hope there is still something that will give you an in​­terval of satisfaction; for I have a let­ter from my brother George"—"What of him, child," interrupted I, "does he know of our misery. I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers?"—"Yes, sir," returned he, "he is perfectly gay, chearful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the fa­vourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant!"
"And are you sure of all this," cried my wife, "are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?"—"Nothing indeed, madam," returned my son, "you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I am sure that will." "But are you sure," still re­peated she, "that the letter is from him­self, and that he is really so happy?—​"Yes, Madam," replied he, "it is cer­tainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of our family!"—"Then I thank providence," cried she, "that my last letter to him has miscar­ried." "Yes, my dear," continued she," turning to me, "I will now confess that though the hand of heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitter­ness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to him that directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest." "Woman," cried I "thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulph hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin. Providence, indeed, ​has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stript of every com­fort, when still I hear that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mo­ther, to protect his brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left, he has no sis­ters now, they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone."—"Father," interupted my son, "I beg you will give me leave to read his letter, I know it will please you." Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows:
I have called off my imagination a few mo­ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more plea­sing, the dear little fire-side at home. My fancy draws that harmless groupe as listen­ing to every line of this with great com­posure. I view those faces with delight which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress! But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it, to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here.
Our regiment is countermanded and is not to leave the kingdom; the colonel, who pro­fesses himself my friend, takes me with him to all companies where he is ac­quainted, and after my first visit I gene­rally find myself received with encreased respect upon repeating it. I danced last ​night with Lady G———, and could I for­get you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate still to remem­ber others, while I am myself forgotten by most of my absent friends, and in this number, I fear, Sir, that I must consider you; for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too, promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent pas­sion with them: yet still, I know not how, tho' I want to bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, sir, that after all, I love them affectionately, and be assured of my ever remaining
Your dutiful son.
"Where, Sir, is your fortitude," return­ed my son with an intrepid voice. "I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it; it is my last happiness that I have committed no murder, tho' I have lost all hopes of pardon."
I tried to restrain my passions for a few mi­nutes in silence, but I thought I should have died with the effort—"O my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the mo­ment that I thought thee blest, and pray­ed for thy safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, wounded. And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have ​lived to see this day. To see my chil­dren all untimely falling about me, while I continue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children. May he live, like me, to see—"
"Hold, Sir," replied my son, "or I shall blush for thee. How, Sir, forget­ful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice of heaven, and fling those curses upward that must soon descend to crush thy own grey head with destruction! No, Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with hope and resolution, to give me courage to drink of that bitterness which must short­ly be my portion."
"My child, you must not die: I am sure no offence of thine can deserve so ​vile a punishment. My George could never be guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him."
"Mine, Sir," returned my son, "is, I fear, an unpardonable one. I have sent a challenge, and that is death by a late act of parliament. When I received my mother's letter from home, I immediate­ly came down, determined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, not in person, but by his dispatching four of his domestics to seize me. I wound­ed one, but the rest made me their pri­soner. The coward is determined to put the law in execution against me, the proofs are undeniable, and as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have of­ten charmed me with the lessons of forti­tude, let me now, Sir, find them in your example."
​"And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in the as­cent, for we will take our flight together. I now see and am convinced you can ex­pect no pardon here, and I can only ex­hort you to seek it at that greatest tribu­nal where we both shall shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhor­tation, but let all our fellow prisoners have a share: good gaoler let them be permitted to stand here, while I attempt to improve them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline a­gainst the wall. The prisoners assembled according to my directions, for they loved ​to hear my council, my son and his mother supported me on either side, I looked and saw that none were wanting, and then ad­dressed them with the following exhorta­tion.