The Vicar of Wakefield (16 page)

'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.

The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my
return home. As we travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion,
to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to
bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every opportunity,
from the prospect of a fine country, through which we passed, to
observe how much kinder heaven was to us, than we to each other,
and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very few. I
assured her, that she should never perceive any change in my
affections, and that during my life, which yet might be long, she
might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her against
the censures of the world, shewed her that books were sweet
unreproaching companions to the miserable, and that if they could
not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure
it.

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an
inn by the way, within about five miles from my house, and as I was
willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I
determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to return for
her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It
was night before we reached our appointed stage: however, after
seeing her provided with a decent apartment, and having ordered the
hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded
towards home. And now my heart caught new sensations of pleasure
the nearer I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had
been frighted from its nest, my affections out-went my haste, and
hovered round my little fire-side, with all the rapture of
expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and
anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's
tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I
walked but slowly, the night wained apace. The labourers of the day
were all retired to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no
sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed
watch-dog, at hollow distance. I approached my little abode of
pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of the place, our
honest mastiff came running to welcome me.

It was now near mid-night that I came to knock at my door: all
was still and silent: my heart dilated with unutterable happiness,
when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of
fire, and every apperture red with conflagration! I gave a loud
convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. This
alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep, and he perceiving
the flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter, and all running
out, naked, and wild with apprehension, recalled me to life with
their anguish. But it was only to objects of new terror; for the
flames had, by this time, caught the roof of our dwelling, part
after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood, with
silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed
upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two
little ones; but they were not to be seen. O misery! 'Where,' cried
I, 'where are my little ones?'—'They are burnt to death in the
flames,' says my wife calmly, 'and I will die with them.'—That
moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by
the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. 'Where, where, are my
children?' cried I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the
door of the chamber in which they were confined, 'Where are my
little ones?'—'Here, dear papa, here we are,' cried they together,
while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I
caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through the fire as
fast as possible, while just as I was got out, the roof sunk in.
'Now,' cried I, holding up my children, 'now let the flames burn
on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are, I have saved my
treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall
yet be happy.' We kissed our little darlings a thousand times, they
clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports,
while their mother laughed and wept by turns.

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time,
began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a
terrible manner. It was therefore out of my power to give my son
any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or
preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By this time, the
neighbours were alarmed, and came running to our assistance; but
all they could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the
calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for
my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box, with
some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more
of little consequence, which my son brought away in the beginning.
The neighbours contributed, however, what they could to lighten our
distress. They brought us cloaths, and furnished one of our
out-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day-light we had
another, tho' a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next
neighbour, and his children, were not the least assiduous in
providing us with every thing necessary, and offering what ever
consolation untutored benevolence could suggest.

When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the
cause of my long stay began to take place; having therefore
informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for
the reception of our lost one, and tho' we had nothing but
wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a welcome
to what we had. This task would have been more difficult but for
our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, and blunted
it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor
child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and
daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent,
who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no
instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation;
for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. 'Ah,
madam,' cried her mother, 'this is but a poor place you are come to
after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little
entertainment to persons who have kept company only with people of
distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered
very much of late; but I hope heaven will forgive you.'—During this
reception, the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to
weep or to reply; but I could not continue a silent spectator of
her distress, wherefore assuming a degree of severity in my voice
and manner, which was ever followed with instant submission, 'I
entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for all: I
have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to
duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of
life are now coming fast upon us, let us not therefore encrease
them by dissention among each other. If we live harmoniously
together, we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us to
shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance.
The kindness of heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours be
directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more
pleased to view a repentant sinner, than ninety nine persons who
have supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is
right; for that single effort by which we stop short in the
downhill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue,
than an hundred acts of justice.'

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 Williams 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 cheerfulness. She now lost that
unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and
to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety 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, 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 all 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 expectation, 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 account; 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, 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.