TOM JONES
PART 17
Chapter iv. — A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.
Mr Western
having finished his holla, and taken a little breath, began to lament, in very
pathetic terms, the unfortunate condition of men, who are, says he, “always
whipt in by the humours of some d—n’d b— or other. I think I was hard run
enough by your mother for one man; but after giving her a dodge, here’s another
b— follows me upon the foil; but curse my jacket if I will be run down in this
manner by any o’um.”
Sophia
never had a single dispute with her father, till this unlucky affair of Blifil,
on any account, except in defence of her mother, whom she had loved most
tenderly, though she lost her in the eleventh year of her age. The squire, to
whom that poor woman had been a faithful upper-servant all the time of their
marriage, had returned that behaviour by making what the world calls a good
husband. He very seldom swore at her (perhaps not above once a week) and never
beat her; she had not the least occasion for jealousy, and was perfect mistress
of her time; for she was never interrupted by her husband, who was engaged all
the morning in his field exercises, and all the evening with bottle companions.
She scarce indeed ever saw him but at meals; where she had the pleasure of
carving those dishes which she had before attended at the dressing. From these
meals she retired about five minutes after the other servants, having only
stayed to drink “the king over the water.” Such were, it seems, Mr Western’s
orders; for it was a maxim with him, that women should come in with the first
dish, and go out after the first glass. Obedience to these orders was perhaps
no difficult task; for the conversation (if it may be called so) was seldom
such as could entertain a lady. It consisted chiefly of hallowing, singing,
relations of sporting adventures, b—d—y, and abuse of women, and of the
government.
These,
however, were the only seasons when Mr Western saw his wife; for when he
repaired to her bed, he was generally so drunk that he could not see; and in
the sporting season he always rose from her before it was light. Thus was she
perfect mistress of her time, and had besides a coach and four usually at her
command; though unhappily, indeed, the badness of the neighbourhood, and of the
roads, made this of little use; for none who had set much value on their necks
would have passed through the one, or who had set any value on their hours,
would have visited the other. Now to deal honestly with the reader, she did not
make all the return expected to so much indulgence; for she had been married
against her will by a fond father, the match having been rather advantageous on
her side; for the squire’s estate was upward of £3000 a year, and her fortune
no more than a bare £8000. Hence perhaps she had contracted a little gloominess
of temper, for she was rather a good servant than a good wife; nor had she
always the gratitude to return the extraordinary degree of roaring mirth, with
which the squire received her, even with a good-humoured smile. She would,
moreover, sometimes interfere with matters which did not concern her, as the
violent drinking of her husband, which in the gentlest terms she would take
some of the few opportunities he gave her of remonstrating against. And once in
her life she very earnestly entreated him to carry her for two months to
London, which he peremptorily denied; nay, was angry with his wife for the
request ever after, being well assured that all the husbands in London are
cuckolds.
For this
last, and many other good reasons, Western at length heartily hated his wife;
and as he never concealed this hatred before her death, so he never forgot it
afterwards; but when anything in the least soured him, as a bad scenting day,
or a distemper among his hounds, or any other such misfortune, he constantly
vented his spleen by invectives against the deceased, saying, “If my wife was
alive now, she would be glad of this.”
These
invectives he was especially desirous of throwing forth before Sophia; for as
he loved her more than he did any other, so he was really jealous that she had
loved her mother better than him. And this jealousy Sophia seldom failed of
heightening on these occasions; for he was not contented with violating her
ears with the abuse of her mother, but endeavoured to force an explicit
approbation of all this abuse; with which desire he never could prevail upon
her by any promise or threats to comply.
Hence some
of my readers will, perhaps, wonder that the squire had not hated Sophia as
much as he had hated her mother; but I must inform them, that hatred is not the
effect of love, even through the medium of jealousy. It is, indeed, very
possible for jealous persons to kill the objects of their jealousy, but not to
hate them. Which sentiment being a pretty hard morsel, and bearing something of
the air of a paradox, we shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the
end of the chapter.
Chapter v. — The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
Sophia
kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did she once answer
otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none of the language, or, as
he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not satisfied without some further
approbation of his sentiments, which he now demanded of his daughter; telling
her, in the usual way, “he expected she was ready to take the part of everybody
against him, as she had always done that of the b— her mother.” Sophia
remaining still silent, he cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was
not thy mother a d—d b— to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you despise your
father too, and don’t think him good enough to speak to?”
“For
Heaven’s sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give so cruel a turn to my silence.
I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty of any disrespect towards you; but
how can I venture to speak, when every word must either offend my dear papa, or
convict me of the blackest ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the
best of mothers; for such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”
“And your
aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” replied the squire. “Will you be
so kind as to allow that she is a b—? I may fairly insist upon that, I think?”
“Indeed,
sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my aunt. She hath been a second
mother to me.”
“And a
second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you will take her part too! You
won’t confess that she hath acted the part of the vilest sister in the world?”
“Upon my
word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart wickedly if I did. I know my
aunt and you differ very much in your ways of thinking; but I have heard her a
thousand times express the greatest affection for you; and I am convinced, so
far from her being the worst sister in the world, there are very few who love a
brother better.”
“The
English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I am in the wrong. Ay,
certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the right, and the man in the wrong
always.”
“Pardon
me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”
“What
don’t you say?” answered the father: “you have the impudence to say she’s in
the right: doth it not follow then of course that I am in the wrong? And
perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian Hanoverian b— to come
into my house. She may ‘dite me of a plot for anything I know, and give my
estate to the government.”
“So far,
sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my aunt had died
yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her whole fortune.”
Whether
Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but certain it is,
these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of her father, and produced
a much more sensible effect than all she had said before. He received the sound
with much the same action as a man receives a bullet in his head. He started,
staggered, and turned pale. After which he remained silent above a minute, and
then began in the following hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left
me her esteate yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the
year? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody else, and
perhaps out of the vamily.”—“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia, “hath very violent
passions, and I can’t answer what she may do under their influence.”
“You
can’t!” returned the father: “and pray who hath been the occasion of putting
her into those violent passions? Nay, who hath actually put her into them? Was
not you and she hard at it before I came into the room? Besides, was not all
our quarrel about you? I have not quarrelled with sister this many years but
upon your account; and now you would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I
should be the occasion of her leaving the esteate out o’ the vamily. I could
have expected no better indeed; this is like the return you make to all the
rest of my fondness.”
“I beseech
you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I beseech you, if I have been the
unhappy occasion of this difference, that you will endeavour to make it up with
my aunt, and not suffer her to leave your house in this violent rage of anger:
she is a very good-natured woman, and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let
me entreat you, sir.”
“So I must
go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” answered Western. “You have lost the
hare, and I must draw every way to find her again? Indeed, if I was
certain”—Here he stopt, and Sophia throwing in more entreaties, at length
prevailed upon him; so that after venting two or three bitter sarcastical
expressions against his daughter, he departed as fast as he could to recover
his sister, before her equipage could be gotten ready.
Sophia
then returned to her chamber of mourning, where she indulged herself (if the
phrase may be allowed me) in all the luxury of tender grief. She read over more
than once the letter which she had received from Jones; her muff too was used
on this occasion; and she bathed both these, as well as herself, with her
tears. In this situation the friendly Mrs Honour exerted her utmost abilities
to comfort her afflicted mistress. She ran over the names of many young
gentlemen: and having greatly commended their parts and persons, assured Sophia
that she might take her choice of any. These methods must have certainly been
used with some success in disorders of the like kind, or so skilful a
practitioner as Mrs Honour would never have ventured to apply them; nay, I have
heard that the college of chambermaids hold them to be as sovereign remedies as
any in the female dispensary; but whether it was that Sophia’s disease differed
inwardly from those cases with which it agreed in external symptoms, I will not
assert; but, in fact, the good waiting-woman did more harm than good, and at
last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that with an angry
voice she dismissed her from her presence.
Chapter vi. — Containing great variety of matter.
The squire
overtook his sister just as she was stepping into the coach, and partly by
force, and partly by solicitations, prevailed upon her to order her horses back
into their quarters. He succeeded in this attempt without much difficulty; for
the lady was, as we have already hinted, of a most placable disposition, and
greatly loved her brother, though she despised his parts, or rather his little
knowledge of the world.
Poor
Sophia, who had first set on foot this reconciliation, was now made the
sacrifice to it. They both concurred in their censures on her conduct; jointly
declared war against her, and directly proceeded to counsel, how to carry it on
in the most vigorous manner. For this purpose, Mrs Western proposed not only an
immediate conclusion of the treaty with Allworthy, but as immediately to carry
it into execution; saying, “That there was no other way to succeed with her
niece, but by violent methods, which she was convinced Sophia had not
sufficient resolution to resist. By violent,” says she, “I mean rather, hasty
measures; for as to confinement or absolute force, no such things must or can
be attempted. Our plan must be concerted for a surprize, and not for a storm.”
These
matters were resolved on, when Mr Blifil came to pay a visit to his mistress.
The squire no sooner heard of his arrival, than he stept aside, by his sister’s
advice, to give his daughter orders for the proper reception of her lover:
which he did with the most bitter execrations and denunciations of judgment on
her refusal.
The
impetuosity of the squire bore down all before him; and Sophia, as her aunt
very wisely foresaw, was not able to resist him. She agreed, therefore, to see
Blifil, though she had scarce spirits or strength sufficient to utter her
assent. Indeed, to give a peremptory denial to a father whom she so tenderly
loved, was no easy task. Had this circumstance been out of the case, much less
resolution than what she was really mistress of, would, perhaps, have served
her; but it is no unusual thing to ascribe those actions entirely to fear,
which are in a great measure produced by love.
In
pursuance, therefore, of her father’s peremptory command, Sophia now admitted
Mr Blifil’s visit. Scenes like this, when painted at large, afford, as we have
observed, very little entertainment to the reader. Here, therefore, we shall
strictly adhere to a rule of Horace; by which writers are directed to pass over
all those matters which they despair of placing in a shining light;—a rule, we
conceive, of excellent use as well to the historian as to the poet; and which,
if followed, must at least have this good effect, that many a great evil (for
so all great books are called) would thus be reduced to a small one.
It is
possible the great art used by Blifil at this interview would have prevailed on
Sophia to have made another man in his circumstances her confident, and to have
revealed the whole secret of her heart to him; but she had contracted so ill an
opinion of this young gentleman, that she was resolved to place no confidence
in him; for simplicity, when set on its guard, is often a match for cunning.
Her behaviour to him, therefore, was entirely forced, and indeed such as is
generally prescribed to virgins upon the second formal visit from one who is
appointed for their husband.
But though
Blifil declared himself to the squire perfectly satisfied with his reception;
yet that gentleman, who, in company with his sister, had overheard all, was not
so well pleased. He resolved, in pursuance of the advice of the sage lady, to
push matters as forward as possible; and addressing himself to his intended
son-in-law in the hunting phrase, he cried, after a loud holla, “Follow her,
boy, follow her; run in, run in; that’s it, honeys. Dead, dead, dead. Never be
bashful, nor stand shall I, shall I? Allworthy and I can finish all matters
between us this afternoon, and let us ha’ the wedding to-morrow.”
Blifil
having conveyed the utmost satisfaction into his countenance, answered, “As
there is nothing, sir, in this world which I so eagerly desire as an alliance
with your family, except my union with the most amiable and deserving Sophia,
you may easily imagine how impatient I must be to see myself in possession of
my two highest wishes. If I have not therefore importuned you on this head, you
will impute it only to my fear of offending the lady, by endeavouring to hurry
on so blessed an event faster than a strict compliance with all the rules of
decency and decorum will permit. But if, by your interest, sir, she might be
induced to dispense with any formalities—”
“Formalities!
with a pox!” answered the squire. “Pooh, all stuff and nonsense! I tell thee,
she shall ha’ thee to-morrow: you will know the world better hereafter, when
you come to my age. Women never gi’ their consent, man, if they can help it,
‘tis not the fashion. If I had stayed for her mother’s consent, I might have
been a batchelor to this day.—To her, to her, co to her, that’s it, you jolly
dog. I tell thee shat ha’ her to-morrow morning.”
Blifil
suffered himself to be overpowered by the forcible rhetoric of the squire; and
it being agreed that Western should close with Allworthy that very afternoon,
the lover departed home, having first earnestly begged that no violence might
be offered to the lady by this haste, in the same manner as a popish inquisitor
begs the lay power to do no violence to the heretic delivered over to it, and
against whom the church hath passed sentence.
And, to
say the truth, Blifil had passed sentence against Sophia; for, however pleased
he had declared himself to Western with his reception, he was by no means
satisfied, unless it was that he was convinced of the hatred and scorn of his
mistress: and this had produced no less reciprocal hatred and scorn in him. It
may, perhaps, be asked, Why then did he not put an immediate end to all further
courtship? I answer, for that very reason, as well as for several others
equally good, which we shall now proceed to open to the reader.
Though Mr
Blifil was not of the complexion of Jones, nor ready to eat every woman he saw;
yet he was far from being destitute of that appetite which is said to be the
common property of all animals. With this, he had likewise that distinguishing
taste, which serves to direct men in their choice of the object or food of
their several appetites; and this taught him to consider Sophia as a most
delicious morsel, indeed to regard her with the same desires which an ortolan
inspires into the soul of an epicure. Now the agonies which affected the mind
of Sophia, rather augmented than impaired her beauty; for her tears added
brightness to her eyes, and her breasts rose higher with her sighs. Indeed, no
one hath seen beauty in its highest lustre who hath never seen it in distress.
Blifil therefore looked on this human ortolan with greater desire than when he viewed
her last; nor was his desire at all lessened by the aversion which he
discovered in her to himself. On the contrary, this served rather to heighten
the pleasure he proposed in rifling her charms, as it added triumph to lust;
nay, he had some further views, from obtaining the absolute possession of her
person, which we detest too much even to mention; and revenge itself was not
without its share in the gratifications which he promised himself. The
rivalling poor Jones, and supplanting him in her affections, added another spur
to his pursuit, and promised another additional rapture to his enjoyment.
Besides
all these views, which to some scrupulous persons may seem to savour too much
of malevolence, he had one prospect, which few readers will regard with any
great abhorrence. And this was the estate of Mr Western; which was all to be
settled on his daughter and her issue; for so extravagant was the affection of
that fond parent, that, provided his child would but consent to be miserable
with the husband he chose, he cared not at what price he purchased him.
For these
reasons Mr Blifil was so desirous of the match that he intended to deceive
Sophia, by pretending love to her; and to deceive her father and his own uncle,
by pretending he was beloved by her. In doing this he availed himself of the
piety of Thwackum, who held, that if the end proposed was religious (as surely
matrimony is), it mattered not how wicked were the means. As to other
occasions, he used to apply the philosophy of Square, which taught, that the
end was immaterial, so that the means were fair and consistent with moral
rectitude. To say truth, there were few occurrences in life on which he could
not draw advantage from the precepts of one or other of those great masters.
Little
deceit was indeed necessary to be practised on Mr Western; who thought the
inclinations of his daughter of as little consequence as Blifil himself
conceived them to be; but as the sentiments of Mr Allworthy were of a very
different kind, so it was absolutely necessary to impose on him. In this,
however, Blifil was so well assisted by Western, that he succeeded without
difficulty; for as Mr Allworthy had been assured by her father that Sophia had
a proper affection for Blifil, and that all which he had suspected concerning
Jones was entirely false, Blifil had nothing more to do than to confirm these
assertions; which he did with such equivocations, that he preserved a salvo for
his conscience; and had the satisfaction of conveying a lie to his uncle,
without the guilt of telling one. When he was examined touching the
inclinations of Sophia by Allworthy, who said, “He would on no account be
accessary to forcing a young lady into a marriage contrary to her own will;” he
answered, “That the real sentiments of young ladies were very difficult to be
understood; that her behaviour to him was full as forward as he wished it, and
that if he could believe her father, she had all the affection for him which
any lover could desire. As for Jones,” said he, “whom I am loth to call
villain, though his behaviour to you, sir, sufficiently justifies the
appellation, his own vanity, or perhaps some wicked views, might make him boast
of a falsehood; for if there had been any reality in Miss Western’s love to
him, the greatness of her fortune would never have suffered him to desert her,
as you are well informed he hath. Lastly, sir, I promise you I would not
myself, for any consideration, no, not for the whole world, consent to marry
this young lady, if I was not persuaded she had all the passion for me which I
desire she should have.”
This
excellent method of conveying a falsehood with the heart only, without making
the tongue guilty of an untruth, by the means of equivocation and imposture,
hath quieted the conscience of many a notable deceiver; and yet, when we
consider that it is Omniscience on which these endeavour to impose, it may
possibly seem capable of affording only a very superficial comfort; and that
this artful and refined distinction between communicating a lie, and telling one,
is hardly worth the pains it costs them.
Allworthy
was pretty well satisfied with what Mr Western and Mr Blifil told him: and the
treaty was now, at the end of two days, concluded. Nothing then remained
previous to the office of the priest, but the office of the lawyers, which
threatened to take up so much time, that Western offered to bind himself by all
manner of covenants, rather than defer the happiness of the young couple.
Indeed, he was so very earnest and pressing, that an indifferent person might
have concluded he was more a principal in this match than he really was; but
this eagerness was natural to him on all occasions: and he conducted every
scheme he undertook in such a manner, as if the success of that alone was
sufficient to constitute the whole happiness of his life.
The joint
importunities of both father and son-in-law would probably have prevailed on Mr
Allworthy, who brooked but ill any delay of giving happiness to others, had not
Sophia herself prevented it, and taken measures to put a final end to the whole
treaty, and to rob both church and law of those taxes which these wise bodies
have thought proper to receive from the propagation of the human species in a
lawful manner. Of which in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange stratagem of Mrs Honour.
Though Mrs
Honour was principally attached to her own interest, she was not without some
little attachment to Sophia. To say truth, it was very difficult for any one to
know that young lady without loving her. She no sooner therefore heard a piece
of news, which she imagined to be of great importance to her mistress, than,
quite forgetting the anger which she had conceived two days before, at her
unpleasant dismission from Sophia’s presence, she ran hastily to inform her of
the news.
The
beginning of her discourse was as abrupt as her entrance into the room. “O dear
ma’am!” says she, “what doth your la’ship think? To be sure I am frightened out
of my wits; and yet I thought it my duty to tell your la’ship, though perhaps
it may make you angry, for we servants don’t always know what will make our
ladies angry; for, to be sure, everything is always laid to the charge of a
servant. When our ladies are out of humour, to be sure we must be scolded; and
to be sure I should not wonder if your la’ship should be out of humour; nay, it
must surprize you certainly, ay, and shock you too.”—“Good Honour, let me know
it without any longer preface,” says Sophia; “there are few things, I promise you,
which will surprize, and fewer which will shock me.”—“Dear ma’am,” answered
Honour, “to be sure, I overheard my master talking to parson Supple about
getting a licence this very afternoon; and to be sure I heard him say, your
la’ship should be married to-morrow morning.” Sophia turned pale at these
words, and repeated eagerly, “To-morrow morning!”—“Yes, ma’am,” replied the
trusty waiting-woman, “I will take my oath I heard my master say so.”—“Honour,”
says Sophia, “you have both surprized and shocked me to such a degree that I
have scarce any breath or spirits left. What is to be done in my dreadful
situation?”—“I wish I was able to advise your la’ship,” says she. “Do advise
me,” cries Sophia; “pray, dear Honour, advise me. Think what you would attempt if
it was your own case.”—“Indeed, ma’am,” cries Honour, “I wish your la’ship and
I could change situations; that is, I mean without hurting your la’ship; for to
be sure I don’t wish you so bad as to be a servant; but because that if so be
it was my case, I should find no manner of difficulty in it; for, in my poor
opinion, young Squire Blifil is a charming, sweet, handsome man.”—“Don’t
mention such stuff,” cries Sophia. “Such stuff!” repeated Honour; “why, there.
Well, to be sure, what’s one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and the same
is altogether as true of women.”—“Honour,” says Sophia, “rather than submit to
be the wife of that contemptible wretch, I would plunge a dagger into my
heart.”—“O lud! ma’am!” answered the other, “I am sure you frighten me out of
my wits now. Let me beseech your la’ship not to suffer such wicked thoughts to
come into your head. O lud! to be sure I tremble every inch of me. Dear ma’am,
consider, that to be denied Christian burial, and to have your corpse buried in
the highway, and a stake drove through you, as farmer Halfpenny was served at
Ox Cross; and, to be sure, his ghost hath walked there ever since, for several
people have seen him. To be sure it can be nothing but the devil which can put
such wicked thoughts into the head of anybody; for certainly it is less wicked
to hurt all the world than one’s own dear self; and so I have heard said by
more parsons than one. If your la’ship hath such a violent aversion, and hates
the young gentleman so very bad, that you can’t bear to think of going into bed
to him; for to be sure there may be such antipathies in nature, and one had
lieverer touch a toad than the flesh of some people.”—
Sophia had
been too much wrapt in contemplation to pay any great attention to the
foregoing excellent discourse of her maid; interrupting her therefore, without
making any answer to it, she said, “Honour, I am come to a resolution. I am
determined to leave my father’s house this very night; and if you have the
friendship for me which you have often professed, you will keep me
company.”—“That I will, ma’am, to the world’s end,” answered Honour; “but I beg
your la’ship to consider the consequence before you undertake any rash action.
Where can your la’ship possibly go?”—“There is,” replied Sophia, “a lady of
quality in London, a relation of mine, who spent several months with my aunt in
the country; during all which time she treated me with great kindness, and
expressed so much pleasure in my company, that she earnestly desired my aunt to
suffer me to go with her to London. As she is a woman of very great note, I
shall easily find her out, and I make no doubt of being very well and kindly
received by her.”—“I would not have your la’ship too confident of that,” cries
Honour; “for the first lady I lived with used to invite people very earnestly
to her house; but if she heard afterwards they were coming, she used to get out
of the way. Besides, though this lady would be very glad to see your la’ship,
as to be sure anybody would be glad to see your la’ship, yet when she hears
your la’ship is run away from my master—” “You are mistaken, Honour,” says
Sophia: “she looks upon the authority of a father in a much lower light than I
do; for she pressed me violently to go to London with her, and when I refused
to go without my father’s consent, she laughed me to scorn, called me silly
country girl, and said, I should make a pure loving wife, since I could be so
dutiful a daughter. So I have no doubt but she will both receive me and protect
me too, till my father, finding me out of his power, can be brought to some
reason.”
“Well,
but, ma’am,” answered Honour, “how doth your la’ship think of making your
escape? Where will you get any horses or conveyance? For as for your own horse,
as all the servants know a little how matters stand between my master and your
la’ship, Robin will be hanged before he will suffer it to go out of the stable
without my master’s express orders.” “I intend to escape,” said Sophia, “by
walking out of the doors when they are open. I thank Heaven my legs are very
able to carry me. They have supported me many a long evening”—“Yes, to be
sure,” cries Honour, “I will follow your la’ship through the world; but your
la’ship had almost as good be alone: for I should not be able to defend you, if
any robbers, or other villains, should meet with you. Nay, I should be in as
horrible a fright as your la’ship; for to be certain, they would ravish us
both. Besides, ma’am, consider how cold the nights are now; we shall be frozen
to death.”—“A good brisk pace,” answered Sophia, “will preserve us from the
cold; and if you cannot defend me from a villain, Honour, I will defend you;
for I will take a pistol with me. There are two always charged in the
hall.”—“Dear ma’am, you frighten me more and more,” cries Honour: “sure your
la’ship would not venture to fire it off! I had rather run any chance than your
la’ship should do that.”—“Why so?” says Sophia, smiling; “would not you,
Honour, fire a pistol at any one who should attack your virtue?”—“To be sure,
ma’am,” cries Honour, “one’s virtue is a dear thing, especially to us poor
servants; for it is our livelihood, as a body may say: yet I mortally hate
fire-arms; for so many accidents happen by them.”—“Well, well,” says Sophia, “I
believe I may ensure your virtue at a very cheap rate, without carrying any
arms with us; for I intend to take horses at the very first town we come to,
and we shall hardly be attacked in our way thither. Look’ee, Honour, I am
resolved to go; and if you will attend me, I promise you I will reward you to
the very utmost of my power.”
This last
argument had a stronger effect on Honour than all the preceding. And since she
saw her mistress so determined, she desisted from any further dissuasions. They
then entered into a debate on ways and means of executing their project. Here a
very stubborn difficulty occurred, and this was the removal of their effects,
which was much more easily got over by the mistress than by the maid; for when
a lady hath once taken a resolution to run to a lover, or to run from him, all
obstacles are considered as trifles. But Honour was inspired by no such motive;
she had no raptures to expect, nor any terrors to shun; and besides the real
value of her clothes, in which consisted a great part of her fortune, she had a
capricious fondness for several gowns, and other things; either because they
became her, or because they were given her by such a particular person; because
she had bought them lately, or because she had had them long; or for some other
reasons equally good; so that she could not endure the thoughts of leaving the
poor things behind her exposed to the mercy of Western, who, she doubted not,
would in his rage make them suffer martyrdom.
The
ingenious Mrs Honour having applied all her oratory to dissuade her mistress
from her purpose, when she found her positively determined, at last started the
following expedient to remove her clothes, viz., to get herself turned out of
doors that very evening. Sophia highly approved this method, but doubted how it
might be brought about. “O, ma’am,” cries Honour, “your la’ship may trust that
to me; we servants very well know how to obtain this favour of our masters and
mistresses; though sometimes, indeed, where they owe us more wages than they
can readily pay, they will put up with all our affronts, and will hardly take
any warning we can give them; but the squire is none of those; and since your
la’ship is resolved upon setting out to-night, I warrant I get discharged this
afternoon.” It was then resolved that she should pack up some linen and a
night-gown for Sophia, with her own things; and as for all her other clothes,
the young lady abandoned them with no more remorse than the sailor feels when
he throws over the goods of others, in order to save his own life.
Chapter viii. — Containing scenes of altercation, of no very uncommon kind.
Mrs Honour
had scarce sooner parted from her young lady, than something (for I would not,
like the old woman in Quevedo, injure the devil by any false accusation, and
possibly he might have no hand in it)—but something, I say, suggested itself to
her, that by sacrificing Sophia and all her secrets to Mr Western, she might
probably make her fortune. Many considerations urged this discovery. The fair
prospect of a handsome reward for so great and acceptable a service to the
squire, tempted her avarice; and again, the danger of the enterprize she had
undertaken; the uncertainty of its success; night, cold, robbers, ravishers,
all alarmed her fears. So forcibly did all these operate upon her, that she was
almost determined to go directly to the squire, and to lay open the whole
affair. She was, however, too upright a judge to decree on one side, before she
had heard the other. And here, first, a journey to London appeared very
strongly in support of Sophia. She eagerly longed to see a place in which she
fancied charms short only of those which a raptured saint imagines in heaven.
In the next place, as she knew Sophia to have much more generosity than her
master, so her fidelity promised her a greater reward than she could gain by
treachery. She then cross-examined all the articles which had raised her fears
on the other side, and found, on fairly sifting the matter, that there was very
little in them. And now both scales being reduced to a pretty even balance, her
love to her mistress being thrown into the scale of her integrity, made that
rather preponderate, when a circumstance struck upon her imagination which
might have had a dangerous effect, had its whole weight been fairly put into
the other scale. This was the length of time which must intervene before Sophia
would be able to fulfil her promises; for though she was intitled to her
mother’s fortune at the death of her father, and to the sum of £3000 left her
by an uncle when she came of age; yet these were distant days, and many
accidents might prevent the intended generosity of the young lady; whereas the
rewards she might expect from Mr Western were immediate. But while she was
pursuing this thought the good genius of Sophia, or that which presided over
the integrity of Mrs Honour, or perhaps mere chance, sent an accident in her
way, which at once preserved her fidelity, and even facilitated the intended
business.
Mrs
Western’s maid claimed great superiority over Mrs Honour on several accounts.
First, her birth was higher; for her great-grandmother by the mother’s side was
a cousin, not far removed, to an Irish peer. Secondly, her wages were greater.
And lastly, she had been at London, and had of consequence seen more of the
world. She had always behaved, therefore, to Mrs Honour with that reserve, and
had always exacted of her those marks of distinction, which every order of
females preserves and requires in conversation with those of an inferior order.
Now as Honour did not at all times agree with this doctrine, but would
frequently break in upon the respect which the other demanded, Mrs Western’s
maid was not at all pleased with her company; indeed, she earnestly longed to
return home to the house of her mistress, where she domineered at will over all
the other servants. She had been greatly, therefore, disappointed in the
morning, when Mrs Western had changed her mind on the very point of departure;
and had been in what is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever since.
In this
humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came into the room where Honour was
debating with herself in the manner we have above related. Honour no sooner saw
her, than she addressed her in the following obliging phrase: “Soh, madam, I
find we are to have the pleasure of your company longer, which I was afraid the
quarrel between my master and your lady would have robbed us of.”—“I don’t
know, madam,” answered the other, “what you mean by we and us. I assure you I
do not look on any of the servants in this house to be proper company for me. I
am company, I hope, for their betters every day in the week. I do not speak on
your account, Mrs Honour; for you are a civilized young woman; and when you
have seen a little more of the world, I should not be ashamed to walk with you
in St James’s Park.”—“Hoity toity!” cries Honour, “madam is in her airs, I
protest. Mrs Honour, forsooth! sure, madam, you might call me by my sir-name;
for though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sir-name as well as other folks.
Ashamed to walk with me, quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I hope.”—“Since
you make such a return to my civility,” said the other, “I must acquaint you,
Mrs Honour, that you are not so good as me. In the country, indeed, one is
obliged to take up with all kind of trumpery; but in town I visit none but the
women of women of quality. Indeed, Mrs Honour, there is some difference, I
hope, between you and me.”—“I hope so too,” answered Honour: “there is some
difference in our ages, and—I think in our persons.” Upon speaking which last
words, she strutted by Mrs Western’s maid with the most provoking air of
contempt; turning up her nose, tossing her head, and violently brushing the
hoop of her competitor with her own. The other lady put on one of her most
malicious sneers, and said, “Creature! you are below my anger; and it is
beneath me to give ill words to such an audacious saucy trollop; but, hussy, I
must tell you, your breeding shows the meanness of your birth as well as of
your education; and both very properly qualify you to be the mean serving-woman
of a country girl.”—“Don’t abuse my lady,” cries Honour: “I won’t take that of
you; she’s as much better than yours as she is younger, and ten thousand times
more handsomer.”
Here ill
luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs Western to see her maid in tears, which
began to flow plentifully at her approach; and of which being asked the reason
by her mistress, she presently acquainted her that her tears were occasioned by
the rude treatment of that creature there—meaning Honour. “And, madam,”
continued she, “I could have despised all she said to me; but she hath had the
audacity to affront your ladyship, and to call you ugly—Yes, madam, she called
you ugly old cat to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship called
ugly.”—“Why do you repeat her impudence so often?” said Mrs Western. And then
turning to Mrs Honour, she asked her “How she had the assurance to mention her
name with disrespect?”—“Disrespect, madam!” answered Honour; “I never mentioned
your name at all: I said somebody was not as handsome as my mistress, and to be
sure you know that as well as I.”—“Hussy,” replied the lady, “I will make such
a saucy trollop as yourself know that I am not a proper subject of your
discourse. And if my brother doth not discharge you this moment, I will never
sleep in his house again. I will find him out, and have you discharged this
moment.”—“Discharged!” cries Honour; “and suppose I am: there are more places
in the world than one. Thank Heaven, good servants need not want places; and if
you turn away all who do not think you handsome, you will want servants very
soon; let me tell you that.”
Mrs
Western spoke, or rather thundered, in answer; but as she was hardly
articulate, we cannot be very certain of the identical words; we shall
therefore omit inserting a speech which at best would not greatly redound to
her honour. She then departed in search of her brother, with a countenance so
full of rage, that she resembled one of the furies rather than a human
creature.
The two
chambermaids being again left alone, began a second bout at altercation, which
soon produced a combat of a more active kind. In this the victory belonged to
the lady of inferior rank, but not without some loss of blood, of hair, and of
lawn and muslin.
Chapter ix. — The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a magistrate. A hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary qualifications of a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal madness and
filial
affection.
Logicians
sometimes prove too much by an argument, and politicians often overreach
themselves in a scheme. Thus had it like to have happened to Mrs Honour, who,
instead of recovering the rest of her clothes, had like to have stopped even
those she had on her back from escaping; for the squire no sooner heard of her
having abused his sister, than he swore twenty oaths he would send her to
Bridewell.
Mrs
Western was a very good-natured woman, and ordinarily of a forgiving temper.
She had lately remitted the trespass of a stage-coachman, who had overturned
her post-chaise into a ditch; nay, she had even broken the law, in refusing to
prosecute a highwayman who had robbed her, not only of a sum of money, but of
her ear-rings; at the same time d—ning her, and saying, “Such handsome b—s as
you don’t want jewels to set them off, and be d—n’d to you.” But now, so
uncertain are our tempers, and so much do we at different times differ from
ourselves, she would hear of no mitigation; nor could all the affected
penitence of Honour, nor all the entreaties of Sophia for her own servant,
prevail with her to desist from earnestly desiring her brother to execute
justiceship (for it was indeed a syllable more than justice) on the wench.
But
luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to a justice of peace
ought ever to be without, namely, some understanding in the law of this realm.
He therefore whispered in the ear of the justice that he would exceed his
authority by committing the girl to Bridewell, as there had been no attempt to
break the peace; “for I am afraid, sir,” says he, “you cannot legally commit
any one to Bridewell only for ill-breeding.”
In matters
of high importance, particularly in cases relating to the game, the justice was
not always attentive to these admonitions of his clerk; for, indeed, in
executing the laws under that head, many justices of peace suppose they have a
large discretionary power, by virtue of which, under the notion of searching
for and taking away engines for the destruction of the game, they often commit
trespasses, and sometimes felony, at their pleasure.
But this
offence was not of quite so high a nature, nor so dangerous to the society.
Here, therefore, the justice behaved with some attention to the advice of his
clerk; for, in fact, he had already had two informations exhibited against him
in the King’s Bench, and had no curiosity to try a third.
The
squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant countenance, after a
preface of several hums and hahs, told his sister, that upon more mature deliberation,
he was of opinion, that “as there was no breaking up of the peace, such as the
law,” says he, “calls breaking open a door, or breaking a hedge, or breaking a
head, or any such sort of breaking, the matter did not amount to a felonious
kind of a thing, nor trespasses, nor damages, and, therefore, there was no
punishment in the law for it.”
Mrs
Western said, “she knew the law much better; that she had known servants very
severely punished for affronting their masters;” and then named a certain
justice of the peace in London, “who,” she said, “would commit a servant to
Bridewell at any time when a master or mistress desired it.”
“Like
enough,” cries the squire; “it may be so in London; but the law is different in
the country.” Here followed a very learned dispute between the brother and
sister concerning the law, which we would insert, if we imagined many of our
readers could understand it. This was, however, at length referred by both
parties to the clerk, who decided it in favour of the magistrate; and Mrs
Western was, in the end, obliged to content herself with the satisfaction of
having Honour turned away; to which Sophia herself very readily and cheerfully
consented.
Thus
Fortune, after having diverted herself, according to custom, with two or three
frolicks, at last disposed all matters to the advantage of our heroine; who
indeed succeeded admirably well in her deceit, considering it was the first she
had ever practised. And, to say the truth, I have often concluded, that the
honest part of mankind would be much too hard for the knavish, if they could
bring themselves to incur the guilt, or thought it worth their while to take
the trouble.
Honour
acted her part to the utmost perfection. She no sooner saw herself secure from
all danger of Bridewell, a word which had raised most horrible ideas in her
mind, than she resumed those airs which her terrors before had a little abated;
and laid down her place, with as much affectation of content, and indeed of
contempt, as was ever practised at the resignation of places of much greater
importance. If the reader pleases, therefore, we chuse rather to say she
resigned—which hath, indeed, been always held a synonymous expression with
being turned out, or turned away.
Mr Western
ordered her to be very expeditious in packing; for his sister declared she
would not sleep another night under the same roof with so impudent a slut. To
work therefore she went, and that so earnestly, that everything was ready early
in the evening; when, having received her wages, away packed bag and baggage,
to the great satisfaction of every one, but of none more than of Sophia; who,
having appointed her maid to meet her at a certain place not far from the
house, exactly at the dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, began to prepare for
her own departure.
But first
she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the one to her aunt, and the
other to her father. In these Mrs Western herself began to talk to her in a
more peremptory stile than before: but her father treated her in so violent and
outrageous a manner, that he frightened her into an affected compliance with
his will; which so highly pleased the good squire, that he changed his frowns
into smiles, and his menaces into promises: he vowed his whole soul was wrapt
in hers; that her consent (for so he construed the words, “You know, sir, I
must not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of yours”) had made him
the happiest of mankind. He then gave her a large bank-bill to dispose of in
any trinkets she pleased, and kissed and embraced her in the fondest manner,
while tears of joy trickled from those eyes which a few moments before had
darted fire and rage against the dear object of all his affection.
Instances
of this behaviour in parents are so common, that the reader, I doubt not, will
be very little astonished at the whole conduct of Mr Western. If he should, I
own I am not able to account for it; since that he loved his daughter most
tenderly, is, I think, beyond dispute. So indeed have many others, who have
rendered their children most completely miserable by the same conduct; which,
though it is almost universal in parents, hath always appeared to me to be the
most unaccountable of all the absurdities which ever entered into the brain of
that strange prodigious creature man.
The latter
part of Mr Western’s behaviour had so strong an effect on the tender heart of
Sophia, that it suggested a thought to her, which not all the sophistry of her
politic aunt, nor all the menaces of her father, had ever once brought into her
head. She reverenced her father so piously, and loved him so passionately, that
she had scarce ever felt more pleasing sensations, than what arose from the
share she frequently had of contributing to his amusement, and sometimes,
perhaps, to higher gratifications; for he never could contain the delight of
hearing her commended, which he had the satisfaction of hearing almost every
day of her life. The idea, therefore, of the immense happiness she should
convey to her father by her consent to this match, made a strong impression on
her mind. Again, the extreme piety of such an act of obedience worked very
forcibly, as she had a very deep sense of religion. Lastly, when she reflected
how much she herself was to suffer, being indeed to become little less than a
sacrifice, or a martyr, to filial love and duty, she felt an agreeable tickling
in a certain little passion, which though it bears no immediate affinity either
to religion or virtue, is often so kind as to lend great assistance in
executing the purposes of both.
Sophia was
charmed with the contemplation of so heroic an action, and began to compliment
herself with much premature flattery, when Cupid, who lay hid in her muff,
suddenly crept out, and like Punchinello in a puppet-show, kicked all out
before him. In truth (for we scorn to deceive our reader, or to vindicate the
character of our heroine by ascribing her actions to supernatural impulse) the
thoughts of her beloved Jones, and some hopes (however distant) in which he was
very particularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial love,
piety, and pride had, with their joint endeavours, been labouring to bring
about.
But before
we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back to Mr Jones.
To be continued
