The plan of Wakefield pursued, and the hopes and fears of an affectionate woman: News of Philip: An artless exculpatory tale

Quitting the place, meditating on the scene that had passed, surprised at every part of it, at the interested manner of the man, at the intimate knowledge which he professed to have of Wakefield, at the promises and the threats which he appeared to make in his name, at the coincidence not only of their characters, if his account were true, but at their similar incidents of fortune and corresponding inclinations to reform, astonished while I recollected these various particulars, instead of returning immediately to my lodgings I called on Miss Wilmot.

When I came to the door, I had scarcely decided with myself whether it were advisable to relate what had passed to her, which as she was personally in question I thought myself bound to do whenever it could be done with safety; or whether, if related at present, it might not excite hopes that would be disappointed, and anxieties prejudicial to her peace.

She no sooner saw me than she exclaimed—'I am very glad you are come, Mr. Trevor! I have two unexpected affairs, on which I wish to consult you. One of them relates to myself; and I will begin with that because you are not only concerned in it but are appealed to in a very remarkable manner. I have received two extraordinary letters; by both of which I have been not a little affected. Pray read this first. It is from Mr. Wakefield. The promises it contains, the style it assumes, and the appeal it makes, are so strange as to appear either like miracle or romance.'

She then gave me a letter, and I read as follows.

'Should you imagine, Lydia, that because I have long forborn all intercourse with you I have forgotten you, be assured you are mistaken. I have treated you so shamefully, and deceived you so often, that I have little right to expect you should believe my professions, be moved by my intreaties, or remember me with any other feelings than those of hatred. Yet, to deal sincerely with you, this is what I do not expect. I have had such proofs of the kindness of your heart, and the strength of your affection, that my confidence is still entire.

'It is the more unshaken because my own intentions are direct: of which the plainness with which I shall deliver my thoughts will I imagine be some proof.

'I once more repeat, I have behaved to you like a —— Spare me the word. It is enough to recollect that I have been the thing. I could plead the extreme vivacity of my youth, my ungovernable passions, and the dangerous temptation of critical moments; but that I will not exhibit any feature of pitiful apology, or endeavour to extenuate what I cannot defend.

'You are intimate with Mr. Trevor. You know that his mother, my late wife, is dead; and you have heard of a will, said to have been left by my uncle. I feel but little scruple in affirming that I imbibed many of the vices of my early youth from being placed under this uncle's care. That such a man should die like a coward, and endeavour to disinherit a relation to save his soul, supposing this disinheritance to be true, would be no miracle. It would only be an act of contemptible stupidity.

'I will not here enter into any enquiries of a legal kind: for I will be open enough to own that, being in possession both in right of my wife and as the heir of my uncle of the property he left, and determined as I am to assert my claims, which I think paramount to those of any other person, I will not commit myself even to you. On the contrary, I write this letter purposely that you may shew it to Mr. Trevor.

'You will ask my motive for this, and perhaps will be surprised at my answer.

'By certain whimsical accidents, I have become acquainted with Mr. Trevor's principles. I believe, or I rather know, him to be possessed of a heart and understanding equally excellent. I wish to appeal to them both. When he shall read this, he will have had a conversation relating to me; which may have led him to expect the language I am about to use. In an argument concerning property he cannot forget that he lately delivered himself thus:

"If I strictly adhere to the principle of justice, I must not singly consider my own wishes; which may create innumerable false wants, and crave to have them gratified. I must ask is there no being, within my knowledge, who may be more benefited by the enjoyment of that which I am desirous to appropriate to myself than I can? If so, what right have I to prefer self gratification to superior utility?"

'Mine is a case in point.

'Again: property is left for which he may be induced to contend; and which, should he do so, will probably be dissipated in law. If not, it may with no less probability be decided by law to be mine. He affirms that to contend at law is immoral.

'Do you and he listen to what I have now to say.

'I am desirous of totally changing my conduct. I have a heart more capable of affection than you, Lydia, have reason to suppose; and I love you. My ambition at present is to do you much more good than I have ever done you harm. I am once more at my own disposal; and, unless that ardent love which you formerly bore me be entirely changed, which I do not believe it is, I am now sincerely desirous to make you my wife.

'But I will not deceive you. I can only be such a husband as you desire on condition of being left in quiet possession of that which I believe to be my own. I have ruined my character. Offices of emolument are not easily obtained; but, if they were, I am not a man to be trusted. I will not live a beggar; deprived of all the blessings in which the fools around me wallow, till they turn them into curses. I wish to live happily: unmolesting, and unmolested: but, if I must either prey or be preyed upon, I am still resolved rather to act the fox than the goose.

'I know you will condemn this determination; but I am speaking openly; and telling you what my intentions are, without entering into their defence.

'Supposing Mr. Trevor to be convinced that the law will decide the property contested in his favour, the sacrifice demanded of him is perhaps too great to be expected from any man. Yet, from what I have heard and what I know, this is the sacrifice that I do expect. I expect it from his abhorrence of pretending to seek justice by the aid of law. I expect it from that principle which decides in favour of the greatest good. And I expect it from the earnest desire I have heard him express that you might be restored to that happiness which, for a time, you have lost.

'Should he or you conclude that the motives I now urge originate in that artifice of which I have been very justly accused, I ought perhaps to feel no surprise, and shall certainly make no complaint. But, believe me or believe me not, I have spoken with a sincerity of heart for which I am likely to gain but little credit. Such I feel, at this moment, are the misfortunes to which cunning subjects itself. I am a man but little subject to fear: yet, I own, the fear of being thought still to possess nothing better than this cunning assaults me, obliges me to omit the tender epithets that are in my thoughts, and without addition to sign myself

F. WAKEFIELD.'

While I read, the eyes of Miss Wilmot were fixed upon my countenance. Whenever I looked toward her, I could perceive the strong emotions, of hope and fear, by which she was agitated.

When I had ended, I said—'Mr. Wakefield is indeed an extraordinary man! Be his intentions honest or base, the strength and clearness of his mind and his knowledge of the human heart, when we recollect how these faculties have been employed, are truly astonishing. If this be a plan of artifice, it is little less than miraculous. Yet who can believe it to be any thing else?'

Miss Wilmot heaved a deep sigh, and attempted to speak: but she only stammered. Her utterance failed; and her eyes were cast on the floor. Hope and despair were combating; and the latter was the strongest. She wished to confide, she wished to plead for the possibility of his being sincere: but the mischief he had inflicted, the deceit he had practised, and a remembrance of the picture she had formerly given me of him, rushed upon her mind; and her spirits sunk.

'Look up, lovely Lydia,' said I, taking her hand, 'and revive. There is, there must be hope. The man who could write this letter cannot be all villain.'

The struggle of the passions was violent. A momentary wildness, such as I had formerly witnessed, flashed in her eyes; she started from her seat, griped my hand, then bursting into tears exclaimed—'Oh Mr. Trevor!' and dropped down again upon the chair.

Eager to relieve a heart so overcharged, I again addressed her. 'If,' said I, 'the property left by Mr. Wakefield's uncle can really be employed to so noble a purpose as that of reclaiming him and making you happy, let me perish rather than endeavour to counteract such blessings. Let me be the thing he so much dreads, a beggar: but let me obey the purest passions of the heart, when they are sanctioned by the best principles of the understanding.'

Till this instant she had forgotten that, if I consented to enrich him, I must rob myself. But the thought no sooner occurred than she cried, 'No! It must not be! It cannot be! To require it of you is infamous. It debases him, and would make me hate myself; were I to participate in such an action.'

'You judge too severely,' I replied. 'I am not so unfortunately circumstanced as he is. My character is not lost. I am not shut out of society. I have friends, plans, and prospects; and, granting him to be sincere, his arguments, as far as they relate to him and me, are I suspect unanswerable. Of that sincerity I would fain not doubt: but it is our mutual duty to be wary. Here therefore at present the matter shall rest. I am determined to bring no action, till time and future events shall teach me the course I ought to pursue.'

Overwhelmed by a sense of obligation, and by the thronging emotions of every kind that assailed her, she was again half suffocated with passion. As she recovered her eyes sufficiently spoke her feelings.

When she grew calm, she was led to ask what conversation I had had, and with whom, relative to Mr. Wakefield? I gave her the history of my acquaintance with the supposed Belmont, and of the scene that had passed that very day: which she thought altogether surprising, and seemed to shrink with the fear that it was an artful plan, contrived by artful men. She was in some sort appeased, however, when I once more reminded her of my determination to wait and hope for the best.

I then enquired concerning the second letter she had mentioned? To which she answered—'It is addressed to me, as a mediator: but relates entirely to you, and the person who wrote it; your poor penitent servant, Philip.'

She gave it me; and these were its contents.

'Honoured madam,

'I make bold to lay my case before you; which as it is very grievous I hope it may move you to pity me. I am the young man that lived with my honoured master Mr. Trevor; in the same house, madam, that you are pleased to live. My name is Philip. I have been guilty of a very great fault; for which my conscience worries me night and day. So that I am sure I shall never forgive myself: though I take my holy saviour to witness it was more a mistake than a thought of committing so wicked a crime. I was in a flurry, so that I did not know what I was about; for to think of having robbed a master that was so kind to me is such a sin and a shame as never was. But I had no notion but that my poor dear master had drowned himself in the river; and so, as he had told me the day before to make up my account and he would pay me the next morning, I thought it was hard that I should lose my wages and the money beside which I had laid out for washing, and newspapers, and tea, and sugar, and other materials of that kind: which, though my wages was only eight pounds eight shillings, made up the whole to twelve pounds five and threepence three farthings. Which was the reason to make me do so base a thing as it would else have been as to break open the box, and take out a ten pound note, and four pair of stockings, and two waistcoats: because I knew very well my master's kindness so that it is ten to one if he had lived to make his will he would have given me them and more. After which I hurried away: being as I was told of a place, with an old master that I was sure would take me again. But I had no more thought that Mr. Trevor was living than the child unborn: which since I discovered I have never been at rest; being out of place, and having nobody now to ask for a character, which is the greatest misfor_tin_ that can behappen a poor servant that never was guilty of such an action as breaking open his master's box, and running away with his money and things, in all my life before, or since. So that I was tempted to list for a soldier; but that I happened, honoured madam, to meet your maid Mary, and she persuaded me to write to Mr. Trevor: which I durst not do, though I know his goodness. So she said your honoured ladyship would be so kind and tender hearted as to lay my case before Mr. Trevor, and my dear and honoured mistress, Miss Mowbray, both of which I would run to the world's end to serve. On which she said she was sure they would take my case into merciful consideration, and grant me their gracious forgiveness.

'Which is the humble petition of your distressed servant to command, honoured madam.

PHILIP FRANKS.'

Poor fellow! Forgive thee? What is thy crime? An inaccuracy. A mistake of judgment. A desire to do thyself right, without intentional wrong to me or any one. Yet for this mistake, differently circumstanced, thou mightest have lost thy life, and have been hanged like a dog!

I too accused thee of robbery, of taking more than thy due, when thou tookest less. Hadst thou offered thy old waistcoats and stockings to a street hawker, he would not have given thee half the surplus that was thy due.

Such were the reflections that broke from me, after perusing his simple but affecting defence.

Mary was called up, and questioned. She knew where he lived: for the poor, little inclined to suspicion, confide in each other. It is the rich only that tempt them to be treacherous.

After consulting with Miss Wilmot, it was determined that she should write to Olivia; enclosing Philip's letter, and requesting her to give him a character. I knew she would take care to see him paid the wages that were his due; and, as I had been the cause of his want of employment since the fright he took at Cranford-bridge, I left money to reimburse him for the loss of his time from that period.

The people I mixed with, and the prejudices of the world, required that I should keep a servant: but, though the man that was with me was by no means so great a favourite as Philip had been, I did not think I had sufficient cause to discharge him for another. There was an additional motive for not wishing Philip to be my servant again; at least not under my present circumstances. Olivia's aunt had imagined we were in league, at Cranford-bridge; and, should she see him once more in my service, that suspicion might either be revived or strengthened.