“I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival of a friend, who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end to my doubts, by the recital of my daughter’s dishonour.  He told me he had his information from a young gentleman, to whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced her.

“I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and without knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my servant to load my pistols and saddle my horses.  My friend, however, with great difficulty, persuaded me to compose myself for that night, promising to accompany me on the morrow, to Sir George Winbrooke’s in quest of his son.

“The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little distant from madness.  We went as early as decency would allow to Sir George’s.  He received me with politeness, and indeed compassion, protested his abhorrence of his son’s conduct, and told me that he had set out some days before for London, on which place he had procured a draft for a large sum, on pretence of finishing his travels, but that he had not heard from him since his departure.

“I did not wait for any more, either of information or comfort, but, against the united remonstrances of Sir George and my friend, set out instantly for London, with a frantic uncertainty of purpose; but there, all manner of search was in vain.  I could trace neither of them any farther than the inn where they first put up on their arrival; and after some days fruitless inquiry, returned home destitute of every little hope that had hitherto supported me.  The journeys I had made, the restless nights I had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had the effect which naturally might be expected—­a very dangerous fever was the consequence.  From this, however, contrary to the expectation of my physicians, I recovered.  It was now that I first felt something like calmness of mind:  probably from being reduced to a state which could not produce the exertions of anguish or despair.  A stupid melancholy settled on my soul; I could endure to live with an apathy of life; at times I forgot my resentment, and wept at the remembrance of my child.

“Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal moment when these misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I received a letter from a friend in town, acquainting me of her present situation.  Could such tales as mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes suggested to the daughters of levity, did they but know with what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the child he loves, they would be less apt to construe into harshness that delicate concern for their conduct, which they often complain of as laying restraint upon things, to the young, the gay, and the thoughtless, seemingly harmless and indifferent.  Alas!  I fondly imagined that I needed not even these common cautions! my Emily was the joy of my age, and the pride of my soul!  Those things are now no more, they are lost for ever!  Her death I could have born, but the death of her honour has added obloquy and shame to that sorrow which bends my grey hairs to the dust!”