# The Vicar of Wakefield/Volume 2/Chapter 23

CHAP. IV.
None but the guilty can be long and com­pletely miserable.
Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Being dis­abled myself from assisting my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family from the few books that were saved, and particu­larly from such, as, by amusing the imagi­nation, contributed to ease the heart. Our good neighbours too came every day with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at repairing my former dwelling. Honest farmer Wil​­liams was not last among these visitors; but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have renewed his addresses to my daughter; but she rejected them in such a manner as totally represt his future soli­citations. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little society that a week did not restore to chearfulness. She now lost that un­blushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxeity now had taken strong pos­session of her mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, tho' cured, almost ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, tho' driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for her's, ​collecting such amusing passages of history, as a strong memory and some reading could suggest. "Our happiness, my dear," I would say, "is in the power of one who can bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If ex­ample be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, tho' sometimes a romancing, his­torian.
"Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an apartment, which hung over the river Volturna, the child, with a sudden spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The mother, struck with in­stant surprize, and making an effort to save him, plunged in after; but, far ​from being able to assist the infant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were plundering the coun­try on that side, who immediately made her their prisoner.
"As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with the utmost in­humanity, they were going at once to per­petrate those two extremes, suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed by a young offi­cer, who, tho' their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit soon after his heart. They were married; he rose to the highest posts; they lived long toge­ther, and were happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called perma­nent: after an interval of several years, ​the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can produce more various in­stances of cruelty, than those which the French and Italians at that time exer­cised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death; but particularly the husband of the un­fortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed almost as soon as resolved up­on. The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner, with his sword, stood ready, while the spectators in gloo­my silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and ex­​pectation, that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death in the ri­ver Volturna, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprize at her beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for whom she had encounter'd so much danger. He ac­knowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed: the captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friend­ship, and duty could confer on each, were united."
In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she listened with divided attention; for her own misfortunes engrossed ​all the pity she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her wretchedness, when we received certain in­formation, that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had a real passion, tho' he took every opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This news only served to en­crease poor Olivia's affliction; such a fla­grant breach of fidelity, was more than her courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more certain information, and to defeat, if possible, the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot's, with instructions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My son went, in pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned, assuring us of the truth of ​the acount; but that he had found it im­possible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared toge­ther at church the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, the bride attended by six young ladies drest in white, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country with re­joicing, and they usually rode out together in the grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were there, particularly the 'Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing but mirth and feasting were going forward; that all the country praised the young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each other; concluding, that he ​could not help thinking Mr. Thorn­hill one of the most happy men in the world.
"Why let him if he can," returned I: "but, my son, observe this bed of straw, and unsheltering roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round me for bread; you have come home, my child, to all this, yet here, even here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situ­ations. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would little re­gard the elegance and splendours of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and them­selves the travellers. The similitude ​still may be improved when we ob­serve that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile."
My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster, inter­rupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from this time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution: but ap­pearances deceived me; for her tranquility was the langour of over-wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse chearfulness amongst the rest of the fa­mily, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their ​satisfactions, merely to condole with re­solute melancholy, or to burthen them with a sadness they did not feel. Once more, therefore, the tale went round and the song was demanded, and chearfulness con­descended to hover round our little habi­tation.