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<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> The curate, in the disorder of his mind, scarcely felt the ground he trod as he hastened to the dean’s house to complain of his wrongs.  His name procured him immediate admittance into the library, and the moment the dean appeared the curate burst into tears.  The cause being required of such “very singular marks of grief,” Mr. Rymer described himself “as having been a few moments ago the happiest of parents; but that his peace and that of his whole family had been destroyed by Mr. Henry Norwynne, the dean’s nephew.” He now entered into a minute recital of Henry’s frequent visits there, and of all which had occurred in his house that morning, from the suspicion that a child was concealed under his roof, to the confession made by his youngest daughter of her fall from virtue, and of her betrayer’s name. The dean was astonished, shocked, and roused to anger: he vented reproaches and menaces on his nephew; and “blessing himself in a virtuous son, whose wisdom and counsel were his only solace in every care,” sent for William to communicate with him on this unhappy subject. William came, all obedience, and heard with marks of amazement and indignation the account of such black villainy!  In perfect sympathy with Mr. Rymer and his father, he allowed “no punishment could be too great for the seducer of innocence, the selfish invader of a whole family’s repose.” Nor did William here speak what he did not think—he merely forgot his own conduct; or if he did recall it to his mind, it was with some fair interpretations in his own behalf; such as self-love ever supplies to those who wish to cheat intruding conscience. Young Henry being sent for to appear before this triumvirate, he came with a light step and a cheerful face.  But, on the charge against him being exhibited, his countenance changed—yet only to the expression of surprise!  He boldly asserted his innocence, plainly told the real fact, and with a deportment so perfectly unembarrassed, that nothing but the asseverations of the curate, “that his daughter had confessed the whole,” could have rendered the story Henry told suspected; although some of the incidents he related were of no common kind.  But Mr. Rymer’s charge was an objection to his veracity too potent to be overcome; and the dean exclaimed in anger— “We want not your avowal of your guilt—the mother’s evidence is testimony sufficient.” “The virtuous Rebecca is not a mother,” said Henry, with firmness. William here, like Rebecca’s sisters, took Henry aside, and warned him not to “add to his offence by denying what was proved against him.” But Henry’s spirit was too manly, his affection too sincere, not to vindicate the chastity of her he loved, even at his own peril.  He again and again protested “she was virtuous.” “Let her instantly be sent for,” said the dean, “and this madman confronted with her.”  Then adding, that as he wished everything might be conducted with secrecy, he would not employ his clerk on the unhappy occasion: he desired William to draw up the form of an oath, which he would administer as soon as she arrived. A man and horse were immediately despatched to bring Rebecca: William drew up an affidavit as his father had directed him—in Rebecca’s name solemnly protesting she was a mother, and Henry the father of her child.  And now, the dean, suppressing till she came the warmth of his displeasure, spoke thus calmly to Henry:— “Even supposing that your improbable tale of having found this child, and all your declarations in respect to it were true, still you would be greatly criminal.  What plea can you make for not having immediately revealed the circumstance to me or some other proper person, that the real mother might have been detected and punished for her design of murder?” “In that, perhaps, I was to blame,” returned Henry: “but whoever the mother was, I pitied her.” “Compassion on such an occasion was unplaced,” said the dean. “Was I wrong, sir, to pity the child?” “No.” “Then how could I feel for that, and yet divest myself of all feeling for its mother?” “Its mother!” exclaimed William, in anger: “she ought to have been immediately pursued, apprehended, and committed to prison.” “It struck me, cousin William,” replied Henry, “that the father was more deserving of a prison: the poor woman had abandoned only one—the man, in all likelihood, had forsaken two pitiable creatures.” William was pouring execrations “on the villain if such there could be,” when Rebecca was announced. Her eyes were half closed with weeping; deep confusion overspread her face; and her tottering limbs could hardly support her to the awful chamber where the dean, her father, and William sat in judgment, whilst her beloved Henry stood arraigned as a culprit, by her false evidence. Upon her entrance, her father first addressed her, and said in a stern, threatening, yet feeling tone, “Unhappy girl, answer me before all present—Have you, or have you not, owned yourself a mother?” She replied, stealing a fearful look at Henry, “I have.” “And have you not,” asked the dean, “owned that Henry Norwynne is the father of your child?” She seemed as if she wished to expostulate. The curate raised his voice—“Have you or have you not?” “I have,” she faintly replied. “Then here,” cried the dean to William, “read that paper to her, and take the Bible.” William read the paper, which in her name declared a momentous falsehood: he then held the book in form, while she looked like one distracted—wrung her hands, and was near sinking to the earth. At the moment when the book was lifted up to her lips to kiss, Henry rushed to her—“Stop!” he cried, “Rebecca! do not wound your future peace.  I plainly see under what prejudices you have been accused, under what fears you have fallen.  But do not be terrified into the commission of a crime which hereafter will distract your delicate conscience.  My requesting you of your father for my wife will satisfy his scruples, prevent your oath—and here I make the demand.” “He at length confesses!  Surprising audacity!  Complicated villainy!” exclaimed the dean; then added, “Henry Norwynne, your first guilt is so enormous; your second, in steadfastly denying it, so base, this last conduct so audacious; that from the present hour you must never dare to call me relation, or to consider my house as your home.” William, in unison with his father, exclaimed, “Indeed, Henry, your actions merit this punishment.” Henry answered with firmness, “Inflict what punishment you please.” “With the dean’s permission, then,” said the curate, “you must marry my daughter.” Henry started—“Do you pronounce that as a punishment?  It would be the greatest blessing Providence could bestow.  But how are we to live?  My uncle is too much offended ever to be my friend again; and in this country, persons of a certain class are so educated, they cannot exist without the assistance, or what is called the patronage, of others: when that is withheld, they steal or starve.  Heaven protect Rebecca from such misfortune!  Sir (to the curate), do you but consent to support her only a year or two longer, and in that time I will learn some occupation, that shall raise me to the eminence of maintaining both her and myself without one obligation, or one inconvenience, to a single being.” Rebecca exclaimed, “Oh! you have saved me from such a weight of sin, that my future life would be too happy passed as your slave.” “No, my dear Rebecca, return to your father’s house, return to slavery but for a few years more, and the rest of your life I will make free.” “And can you forgive me?” “I can love you; and in that is comprised everything that is kind.” The curate, who, bating a few passions and a few prejudices, was a man of some worth and feeling, and felt, in the midst of her distress, though the result of supposed crimes, that he loved this neglected daughter better than he had before conceived; and he now agreed “to take her home for a time, provided she were relieved from the child, and the matter so hushed up, that it might draw no imputation upon the characters of his other daughters.” The dean did not degrade his consequence by consultations of this nature: but, having penetrated (as he imagined) into the very bottom of this intricate story, and issued his mandate against Henry, as a mark that he took no farther concern in the matter, he proudly walked out of the room without uttering another word. William as proudly and silently followed. The curate was inclined to adopt the manners of such great examples: but self-interest, some affection to Rebecca, and concern for the character of his family, made him wish to talk a little more with Henry, who new repeated what he had said respecting his marriage with Rebecca, and promised “to come the very next day in secret, and deliver her from the care of the infant, and the suspicion that would attend her nursing it.” “But, above all,” said the curate, “procure your uncle’s pardon; for without that, without his protection, or the protection of some other rich man, to marry, to obey God’s ordinance, increase and multiply is to want food for yourselves and your offspring.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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