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The Adventures of Hugh Trevor

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Ignorant as I was and surprised at the question, I asked where else
they meant to take me? He replied 'To my house, Sir: or to any other
lock up house that you choose.'

'A lock up house, Sir!' said I. 'Pray what is that?'

The bailiff knew not how to give a direct answer; but replied 'There
_is_ some lock up houses at which a gentleman may be treated like a
gentleman: though I cannot say but there _is_ others that _is_ shabby
enough. I see very well, Sir, you are a young gentleman, and do not
know the trim of such things: so, if you please to go to my house, you
will find very civil usage. I can tell by your cut, Sir, that you are
no scrub; so my wife will take care to furnish you with every thing
that is genteel and polite.'

The man smelled excessively of brandy and tobacco; which,
corresponding with his gait, looks, and language, seemed an
introduction to the purgatory to which I was doomed. I thought proper
however to accept his offer, and go to the house where I was to be
treated with so much politeness and gentility.




CHAPTER XIV


_The good breeding of a bailiff: A period of dejection: A visit from
Mr. Hilary: The hopes he conceives_


The bailiff and one of his followers walked beside me, cautiously
keeping in advance; and the other marched behind till we came to
a stand of coaches, and I was asked whether one of them should be
called? I was thoroughly ashamed of my company: but a deep sense
of indignity confuses thought; and, till it was proposed by the
bailiff, I had forgotten that there was such a thing as a coach.
His proposal was immediately accepted; and we were driven through
Lincoln's-inn-fields into Carey-street, where we were obliged to
alight and pass through several narrow allies.

I had no great expectations of the gentility of the bailiff's abode:
but, slender as they were, the few I had were disappointed. I was
wholly unused to such places: this I suspect was one of the meanest of
them; and the approach to the house, as well as all that was in it,
bespoke wretchedness, and inspired disgust.

As soon as we entered the doors, the bailiff called aloud for
Charlotte (the name of his wife) and desired her to bring light
into the drawing room. 'Why what do you talk of, George?' replied
Charlotte. 'Are you drunk? Don't you know the gentleman is there that
you brought in this morning?'

'Do you think I don't know what I am about?' answered George. 'I have
brought another gentleman: so that there gentleman must come down, and
_hoik_ into the best parlour.'

'I am sure,' retorted Charlotte with great vivacity and significance,
'he has behaved vastly proper, since he came into my house. He has had
friends with him all afternoon; and dined, and called for wine, and
done every thing that was genteel.'

Though half in a trance, I was sufficiently awake to understand her
meaning. I therefore interrupted the bailiff, who had begun to reply
with passion. 'You are very right, Madam;' said I. 'The gentleman must
not be disturbed. I have no friends that drink wine; and I drink none
myself.'

This hint was quite sufficient. Neither the drawing room nor the best
parlour were now to be had; and I was shewn into a dirty back place,
which was little more than a closet, decorated with a wooden cut of
Lord Lovat over the mantle piece, and corresponding pictures of the
king and queen on each side.

Before she shut the door, Charlotte demanded 'if I chose to have some
more coals on the fire? And whether I would have two candles or one?'
'Whatever you please madam,' I replied. 'Nay, sir,' said she pertly,
'that is just as you please.' I made no answer, and she shut the door
with a dissatisfied air; which she locked on the outside.

At any other time, this George and Charlotte, with their drawing-room,
would have presented many whimsical associations to my mind: but at
present my attention was called to the iron bars of the one window of
my prison hole; and to the recollection that, in all probability, I
was now shut up for life. The weight of evil was so oppressive that I
sat motionless, in sullen stupefaction, for a considerable time.

Hearing no sound whatever, the bailiff I suppose was alarmed: for he
unlocked the door, and coming in abruptly exclaimed 'Oh! I thought it
could not be!' Meaning probably that I could not possibly have escaped
through the window. Recollecting himself, he asked 'if I did not think
proper to send to some friends?' To which I laconically answered,
'No.'

'But I suppose you mean to give bail, sir?'

'I have none to give.'

'I perceive how it is, sir. You are not used to the business; and so
you are cast down. You must bethink yourself: for I dare say a young
gentleman like you will find bail fast enough; _becase_ why, the sum
is not quite four hundred and forty pounds. We have people enough
_which_ will go of any message for you; so I would advise you to send,
though it is late; _becase_, as you _says_ you don't drink, there will
be no good much in your staying here. Not but what we have as good
beds, and as good wines and all sorts of liquors, and can get any
thing else as good as a gentleman needs lick his lips to. There _is_
never _no_ complaints at our house. So you had better take my advice,
and cheer up your spirits; and get a little something good in your
belly, in the way of eating and drinking; and send to let your
friends know as how you are _nabbed_: _becase_ nothing can come of it
otherwise, neither to you nor _no_body else.'

His discourse awakened me enough to remind me of the necessity of
sending to the gentleman, with whom I had intended to travel the next
day, and inform him of the impossibility of my taking the journey.
This led me to reflect further. The remark of the bailiff was just:
delay was prejudicial. What had happened could not be kept secret,
secrecy was in itself vicious, and to increase evil by procrastination
was cowardly. Thus far roused, I presently conceived and determined
on my plan. I saw no probability of avoiding a prison: but, being in
this house, I was resolved first to see my friends. I had already sold
my horses, and discharged my servant. Clarke, I knew, would reproach
me, if I did not accept his goods offices in my distress; when such
good offices as he could perform would be most necessary. I intended
therefore to request him the next morning to go round and inform such
of my friends as I wished to see: but, as the bailiff told me it
would be proper to send for my attorney immediately, I thought proper
to dispatch a messenger; with one note to him, and another to the
gentleman with whom I was to have travelled.

Mr. Hilary was at home and came instantly on the receipt of my billet.
When he saw me, he endeavoured to smile; and not appear in the least
surprised, or affected. But his feelings betrayed him; the tears
started into his eyes, and he was obliged to turn away his face. He
made an effort, however, and recovered himself: after which, he rather
endeavoured to enter into easy conversation than to talk of business.
By this I suspected that he neither durst trust himself nor me; till a
little time should have reconciled us to the scene.

This was a proper opportunity for enquiries which my sudden misfortune
had not made me forget. I questioned him concerning the stranger,
whose person I described; and mentioned my having seen Mr. Hilary
light him out of the house, the moment before I was arrested.

'What do you know of him?' said Mr. Hilary, with an eager air. 'Have
you ever seen him before?'

'Yes; if I am not very much mistaken.'

'Nay but tell me, what do you know?'

'First answer me concerning who and what he is?'

'A gentleman of large fortune, the last of his family, and a great
traveller.'

'Has he met with any accident lately?'

'Yes. But why do you ask?'

'And why do you seem so much awakened by the question?'

'Because he is excessively desirous of discovering some gentleman, who
found him after he had been robbed, and left, supposed to be dead;
that he may if possible reward his preserver. Now there are some
circumstances, as related by the people of an inn to which he was
taken, that have suggested a thought to me which, should it prove
true, would give me inexpressible pleasure.'

'What are they?'

'That the good Samaritan, who performed this act of humanity, was a
young gentleman with a servant out of livery; that he and his man
rode two blood horses, both bright bays; that the servant's name was
Samuel; and that the master was in person very like you. All which
correspond; and I really believe, by your smiling, that it actually
was you.'

'Suppose it: what then?'

'Why then I am sure you have gained a friend, who will never suffer
you to go to prison.'

The word friend conjured up a train of ideas, which almost overcame
me. 'I have lost a friend,' said I, 'who would not have suffered me to
go to prison. But he is gone. I accepted even _his_ favours with an
aching and unwilling heart; and prison itself will not, I suspect, be
so painful to me as more obligations of the same kind, and conferred
by a person who, though I am strongly prepossessed in his favour, I
scarcely can hope should equal Mr. Evelyn. And, if he even did, an
extravagant supposition, I should still hesitate: I doubt if a prison
itself be so hateful as a knowledge that I am only out of one on
sufferance; and that, when any caprice shall seize my creditor, I may
be hunted like a ferocious beast; and commanded to my den, like a
crouching cur.

Mr. Hilary endeavoured to combat this train of thinking: but it was
not to be conquered. The short period of trial since the death of
Mr. Evelyn had afforded me too many proofs of the painful sensations
which such a knowledge can excite; and of the propensity which I had
to give them encouragement. To be as I have said the slave of any
man's temper, not as an effort of duty but from a sense of fear, was
insufferable. A prison, locks, bolts, and bread and water, were to be
preferred.

Mr. Hilary sat with me till bed time; and, not only to put the bailiff
in good humour, but to cheer my heart and his own, ordered supper,
and drank more plentifully of wine than was his custom: urging me to
follow his example. I did not refuse: for I had a contempt for any
thing that had the appearance of an incapacity to endure whatever the
tyranny of rancorous men and unjust laws could inflict. The stranger,
he told me, was gone down into the country; from whence he would
return within a week: but he forbore to mention his name, as he had
been instructed; the stranger having enquiries to make, which induced
him to keep it secret.

Before he left me, Mr. Hilary received instructions from me to be
given to Clarke: after which we quitted the best parlour, into which
we had been introduced with great ceremony to sup; and I retired to
try how soundly I could sleep, in one of the good beds of a lock-up
house.




CHAPTER XV


_Morning visitors: A generous proposal rejected: The affectionate
friendship of Miss Wilmot: A very unexpected visitor: His
extraordinary conduct, and a scene of reconciliation: A letter which
excites delightful sensations_


The morning came, the diligence of Mr. Hilary was that of a friend,
and the best parlour was soon filled: the reader will easily guess by
whom. There is an undescribable pleasure, when we are persecuted by
one set of human beings, to receive marks of affection from another.
It is a strong consolation to know that kindness and justice have not
wholly forsaken the earth.

Wilmot, Clarke, and Turl were with me. I called for breakfast; and
felt a gratification at enjoying another social meal, before being
immured in I knew not what kind of dungeon. Charlotte and her maid,
Pol, were very alert; and I believe she almost repented that I was not
in the drawing-room, since she found I had so many friends.

Clarke was asked to partake; but answered with a 'no thank you, Mr.
Trevor.' I supposed it was awkward bashfulness. I did him wrong. He
had a more refined and feeling motive: for, when I pressed him very
earnestly, he replied--'At another time, Mr. Trevor, such a favour
would make me happy; and you know I have not refused: but, just now,
why it would look as if, because you are under misfortunes, I might
take liberties.'

Honest-hearted generous fellow! He was still the same. But he
breakfasted with us. Be assured, good reader, he breakfasted with us.

And now I had a contest to undergo, which was maintained with so much
obstinacy that it became truly painful. Wilmot, in consequence of the
success of his comedy, had the power to discharge my debt; and on this
at first he peremptorily insisted. But it was what I could not accept.
He was, I knew, an Evelyn in soul: but I too panted to be something.
I could not endure to rob him of the labour of a life, and walk at
large oppressed by the consciousness of impotence: of a depressed and
sunken spirit; of which groveling meanness would be the chief feature.
Such at least were my sensations: and they were too impetuous to be
overcome.

In the ardour we mutually felt, Turl was appealed to by both. At
first he strongly inclined to the side of Wilmot: but, hearing my
reasons and perceiving the anguish which the proposal gave, he at
length said--'Let us pause awhile. We are friends. Imprisonment is a
detestable thing; and there is no danger that, as friends, we should
suffer each other to endure it long, if there should be any possible
and honest means of imparting freedom. We need make no professions. In
one part of his argument, Mr. Trevor is undoubtedly right. If he can
relieve himself, by his abilities and industry, which he is persuaded
he can, it is his duty. For it will not only increase his immediate
happiness, but it will give confidence to his efforts, and strength
to his mind: qualities that are inestimable. Impediments serve but to
rouse the man of genius. To reject aid from a sentiment of haughtiness
is a vice: but to despair of our own resources is the death of all
true greatness of character. In any case, suspend your contest; in
which, though from the best of motives, you are both too warm. Examine
your arguments at leisure. If Mr. Trevor can be rendered most happy
and useful by accepting your offer, it will then be just in him to
cede: but remember once more we are friends, that know each other's
worth; and it will be just that I should partake in his release. To
this I know you will both joyfully consent. If good can be done, you
will not deny me my share!'

It was characteristic of Turl never to speak on serious occasions
without leaving a deep impression on his hearers. Wilmot heaved a
profound sigh, but was silent.

Having thus far prevailed, I was desirous of being immediately removed
to prison: but to this they both vehemently objected. It had an air of
ostentation: of affecting to love misery for misery's sake. Time ought
to be taken for consideration; and evil should not be sported with,
though when unavoidable it ought to be endured with fortitude.

While these debates took place, it was no uninteresting spectacle
to contemplate the changes in the countenance of Clarke. Before
the adventure of Bath, he had risen much above the level of his
companions: but now, when he saw a man willing to part with all he
possessed to rescue another from prison, and heard strong reasons why
it was probable the offer ought not to be accepted, his feelings were
all in arms. His passions, while Wilmot pleaded, were ready to break
their bounds; and, when he listened to the answers that were returned,
his mind was filled and expanded. He discovered that there is a
disinterested grandeur in morality, of which he had no previous
conception. He was in a new world; and a dark room, with barred
windows, was heaven in all its splendor.

Having agreed to follow their advice, Wilmot and Turl left me; with a
promise to return early in the evening: but poor Clarke said 'he had
no heart for work that day; and he could not abide to leave me shut
up by myself. He saw plainly enough I had true friends; such as would
never forsake me: and no more would he, though he could do me no
good.' When however I represented to him my wish to be alone, that I
might consider on my situation, and requested he would dine with his
family, and bring some books from my lodgings in the evening, he
complied.

The morning of the day was chiefly consumed; and I was not suffered
long to remain alone. I had scarcely dined before a coach stopped at
the door, and Charlotte came in with demure significance in her face.
'There is a young lady, sir,' said she, '_which_ says her name is
Wilmot, _which_ wants to see you.'

At this moment, she was the most agreeable visitor that could have
arrived. Her heart was full, her eyes were swollen, and red with
weeping, and, as soon as she entered the room, she again burst into
tears.

It has often been asked why sorrows like these should excite so much
gratification? The answer is evident. They are not only tokens of
personal respect and affection, but they are proofs that injustice
cannot be committed without being perceptibly and often deeply felt by
others, as well as by those on whom it is exercised.

When she had appeased her feelings sufficiently to be able to speak, I
found that, like her brother, she was come with a disinterested plan
for my relief. She began by blaming herself for not having strenuously
enough opposed my forbearance with respect to Wakefield; and pleaded
with great energy of feeling to persuade me immediately to do myself
right. I took the first favourable opportunity to interrupt her; and
enquired if she had seen or heard any thing of Wakefield since the
letter he wrote? She answered, he had been with her above an hour that
very morning.

'In what temper of mind was he?'

'Extremely exasperated.'

'Not at you?'

'Oh no: at Lord Bray: at your persecutors: at the world in general. He
says you are not fit to live in it: you are no match for it. You have
been persuading him, contrary to all history and experience, that men
are capable of virtue and happiness. In short, he owns that he was
more than half convinced: but that he believes he shall be obliged to
relapse into his former opinions.'

'I have persuaded him?'

'So he says.'

'When? Where?'

'I cannot tell. I thought from his discourse that he had met with
you.'

While we were engaged in this conversation, Charlotte again entered;
and told me there was a gentleman of the name of Wakefield, who
desired to see me. 'Is it possible?' exclaimed Miss Wilmot.

The door opened, and he appeared. 'Belmont!' cried I, with surprise.
'Why did you announce yourself by the name of Wakefield?'

He stretched out his hand to me, and turned his face aside: then
recovering himself replied 'The farce is over.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I suppose you will despise me. But do, if you please: for,
though I love you, I too despise to fear you. I have done you various
wrongs. My name is Wakefield. I have been one of the infernal
instruments to bring you here: but I am come to make you all the
atonement in my power, and take you out. Forgive me only so far as not
to insult me, by repeating your contempt of that villain Wakefield.
It is a damned undigestible term: but I deserved it; and you applied
it to me without intending an affront. I know you are as brave as you
are generous. Till I met with you, I thought myself the first man in
the world: but, notwithstanding my evasive raillery, I felt your hand
upon me. I sunk under you. There was something in you that excited my
envy, at first; and afterward, perhaps, a better passion. What damned
accidents they were that made me what I have been I cannot tell. I
know not what I shall be: but I know what I am. I disdain penitential
promises. If you will be my friend, here is my hand. Good fortune or
bad, we will share it together.'

Thus invited, could I refrain? Oh no. I cannot describe the scene
that passed. We did not embrace, for we were no actors; and, as our
passions for a time were too big for utterance, we were silent.

Miss Wilmot at length looked up; and, while the tears were streaming
down her cheeks, her countenance assumed an expression infinitely
beyond smiling, though something like it, while she exclaimed--'This
is a happy day!'

Her eye first met mine, and then Wakefield's. He instantly hung his
head, and said--'Lydia! When we were alone, I could just endure to
look at you: but now I cannot. Yet I am an ass. What is done is done.
The affections that I have are yours: but I must not, no nor I will
not be afraid, even of my own thoughts. I know I have nothing to fear
from you. Man is a strange animal; and may be many things in the
course of a short life.'

Wakefield then rang the bell, and desired the bailiff would send
immediately to Lord Bray's attorney; that my debts might be settled,
and I released; and to call, as he knew they must for form's sake, and
see that there were no more detainers.

Hearing him give these directions, I could not but ask his meaning?
'What,' replied he, with generous indignation, 'do you suppose that I
am come to cant about virtue? That, at least, is a vice of which you
have never yet found me guilty. I am here to pay your debts, with
money in my possession. Whether, in a court of law, it would be proved
to be yours or mine I neither know nor care. But there is something
better that I do know: which is that, if I were in your place and you
in mine, you would not long let me remain in a house like this. With
respect to the future, I am partly persuaded we shall neither of us
act the miser.'

Miss Wilmot again exclaimed--'This is a happy day!'

Wakefield was impatient to see me released; and was well acquainted
with bailiffs. 'If you are expeditious,' said he to George, 'you will
have a guinea for your industry. If you are dilatory, not a farthing
more than your fees.'

The promised guinea gave the messenger wings; and in less than an hour
the debt was discharged, and a receipt in full delivered.

Just as this account was closed, another messenger came from a
different quarter. The anxiety of Miss Wilmot had induced her to take
a bold step. In the first emotions of grief, she wrote to Olivia; and
informed her of every circumstance, as well as of the place of my
detention. This information produced the following letter, and the
bills inclosed; as mentioned in its contents.

'I have no words to speak my feelings. I have never yet had an
opportunity, since I thought the love I bear you justifiable, to
declare them. This is the time. To be silent now would argue a
distrust of you, which would degrade me; and render me unworthy both
of you and the dignified virtues by which your conduct is guided.
Every new fact that I hear of you does but increase that affection;
which I find ennobled by being so worthily placed. After the proofs
you have so repeatedly given, it would be cowardice and hypocrisy to
say less.

'I inclose you five hundred pounds. They are my own. I would sooner
even see you suffer than be guilty of an action which I know you could
not approve. They are what I have reserved, from money allowed me,
to be employed on any urgent occasion. Surely there can be few more
urgent than the present. Your refusal of them would wound me to the
soul. It would break my heart. I need not add any thing more.

OLIVIA MOWBRAY.'

Who will tell me that virtue is not its own reward? Who will affirm
that to conquer selfish desires, to render the passions subservient to
reason, and to make those principles we commend in others rules for
ourselves, is not the way to be happy? The tide of joy was full to
overflowing! And yet, when I recollected that, though no longer a
prisoner it was denied me to obey the yearnings of my heart and pass
the threshold of Olivia, how suddenly did it ebb!




CHAPTER XVI


_A journey to aid Hector once more projected: An interview with the
wounded stranger: A discovery of great importance_


I shall forbear to repeat the joy and congratulations of friends, with
other less events; and hasten to one which gave a more surprising turn
to my affairs than even any that I had yet experienced. The morning
after my release, it was my intention to go down into the county
of ****: agreeable to the desire of Hector. Of this I informed Mr.
Hilary, the evening before: but, as I was become very cautious in
money matters, I meant to go by the coach.

When he heard this, Mr. Hilary smiled: and told me, if I would go
post, he believed he could find me a companion, who would willingly
bear half the expence.

I enquired who? and found it was no other than the stranger. He had
been down into Cambridgeshire, to settle some affairs; and was now
preparing for a journey into my native county, for purposes which he
will himself presently explain. A proposal more agreeable than this
could not have been made to me; and it was agreed that we should meet
and breakfast with Mr. Hilary. When I made the appointment, Mr. Hilary
pressed me with unusual earnestness not to be induced to break it, by
any accident whatever.

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