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.”