TOM JONES
PART 15
Chapter viii. — The meeting between Jones and Sophia.
Jones
departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found just risen from the
ground, where her father had left her, with the tears trickling from her eyes,
and the blood running from her lips. He presently ran to her, and with a voice
full at once of tenderness and terrour, cried, “O my Sophia, what means this
dreadful sight?” She looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and
then said, “Mr Jones, for Heaven’s sake how came you here?—Leave me, I beseech
you, this moment.”—“Do not,” says he, “impose so harsh a command upon me—my
heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily could I drain my
veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood.”—“I have too many obligations to
you already,” answered she, “for sure you meant them such.” Here she looked at
him tenderly almost a minute, and then bursting into an agony, cried, “Oh, Mr
Jones, why did you save my life? my death would have been happier for us
both.”—“Happier for us both!” cried he. “Could racks or wheels kill me so
painfully as Sophia’s—I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her?”
Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness when he spoke
these words; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her hand, which she
did not withdraw from him; to say the truth, she hardly knew what she did or
suffered. A few moments now passed in silence between these lovers, while his
eyes were eagerly fixed on Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground: at
last she recovered strength enough to desire him again to leave her, for that
her certain ruin would be the consequence of their being found together;
adding, “Oh, Mr Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel
afternoon.”—“I know all, my Sophia,” answered he; “your cruel father hath told
me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you.”—“My father sent you to me!”
replied she: “sure you dream.”—“Would to Heaven,” cries he, “it was but a
dream! Oh, Sophia, your father hath sent me to you, to be an advocate for my
odious rival, to solicit you in his favour. I took any means to get access to
you. O speak to me, Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved,
ever doated like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle
hand—one moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me—nothing less than this
cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered the respect and awe with
which you have inspired me.” She stood a moment silent, and covered with
confusion; then lifting up her eyes gently towards him, she cried, “What would
Mr Jones have me say?”—“O do but promise,” cries he, “that you never will give
yourself to Blifil.”—“Name not,” answered she, “the detested sound. Be assured
I never will give him what is in my power to withhold from him.”—“Now then,”
cries he, “while you are so perfectly kind, go a little farther, and add that I
may hope.”—“Alas!” says she, “Mr Jones, whither will you drive me? What hope
have I to bestow? You know my father’s intentions.”—“But I know,” answered he,
“your compliance with them cannot be compelled.”—“What,” says she, “must be the
dreadful consequence of my disobedience? My own ruin is my least concern. I
cannot bear the thoughts of being the cause of my father’s misery.”—“He is
himself the cause,” cries Jones, “by exacting a power over you which Nature
hath not given him. Think on the misery which I am to suffer if I am to lose
you, and see on which side pity will turn the balance.”—“Think of it!” replied
she: “can you imagine I do not feel the ruin which I must bring on you, should
I comply with your desire? It is that thought which gives me resolution to bid
you fly from me for ever, and avoid your own destruction.”—“I fear no
destruction,” cries he, “but the loss of Sophia. If you would save me from the
most bitter agonies, recall that cruel sentence. Indeed, I can never part with
you, indeed I cannot.”
The lovers
now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being unable to withdraw her hand
from Jones, and he almost as unable to hold it; when the scene, which I believe
some of my readers will think had lasted long enough, was interrupted by one of
so different a nature, that we shall reserve the relation of it for a different
chapter.
Chapter ix. — Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.
Before we
proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be proper to recount what
had past in the hall during their tender interview.
Soon after
Jones had left Mr Western in the manner above mentioned, his sister came to
him, and was presently informed of all that had passed between her brother and
Sophia relating to Blifil.
This
behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an absolute breach of the
condition on which she had engaged to keep her love for Mr Jones a secret. She
considered herself, therefore, at full liberty to reveal all she knew to the
squire, which she immediately did in the most explicit terms, and without any
ceremony or preface.
The idea
of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had never once entered into the
squire’s head, either in the warmest minutes of his affection towards that
young man, or from suspicion, or on any other occasion. He did indeed consider
a parity of fortune and circumstances to be physically as necessary an
ingredient in marriage, as difference of sexes, or any other essential; and had
no more apprehension of his daughter’s falling in love with a poor man, than
with any animal of a different species.
He became,
therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister’s relation. He was, at first,
incapable of making any answer, having been almost deprived of his breath by
the violence of the surprize. This, however, soon returned, and, as is usual in
other cases after an intermission, with redoubled force and fury.
The first
use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery from the sudden effects
of his astonishment, was to discharge a round volley of oaths and imprecations.
After which he proceeded hastily to the apartment where he expected to find the
lovers, and murmured, or rather indeed roared forth, intentions of revenge
every step he went.
As when
two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and Phyllis (for that comes
nearest to the mark) are retired into some pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy
the delightful conversation of Love, that bashful boy, who cannot speak in
public, and is never a good companion to more than two at a time; here, while
every object is serene, should hoarse thunder burst suddenly through the
shattered clouds, and rumbling roll along the sky, the frightened maid starts
from the mossy bank or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds the red
regimentals in which Love had before drest her cheeks, fear shakes her whole
frame, and her lover scarce supports her trembling tottering limbs.
Or as when
two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of the place, are cracking a
bottle together at some inn or tavern at Salisbury, if the great Dowdy, who
acts the part of a madman as well as some of his setters-on do that of a fool,
should rattle his chains, and dreadfully hum forth the grumbling catch along
the gallery; the frighted strangers stand aghast; scared at the horrid sound,
they seek some place of shelter from the approaching danger; and if the
well-barred windows did admit their exit, would venture their necks to escape
the threatening fury now coming upon them.
So
trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her father, who, in a
voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing, cursing, and vowing the
destruction of Jones. To say the truth, I believe the youth himself would, from
some prudent considerations, have preferred another place of abode at this
time, had his terror on Sophia’s account given him liberty to reflect a moment
on what any otherways concerned himself, than as his love made him partake
whatever affected her.
And now
the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an object which instantly
suspended all his fury against Jones; this was the ghastly appearance of
Sophia, who had fainted away in her lover’s arms. This tragical sight Mr Western
no sooner beheld, than all his rage forsook him; he roared for help with his
utmost violence; ran first to his daughter, then back to the door calling for
water, and then back again to Sophia, never considering in whose arms she then
was, nor perhaps once recollecting that there was such a person in the world as
Jones; for indeed I believe the present circumstances of his daughter were now
the sole consideration which employed his thoughts.
Mrs
Western and a great number of servants soon came to the assistance of Sophia
with water, cordials, and everything necessary on those occasions. These were
applied with such success, that Sophia in a very few minutes began to recover,
and all the symptoms of life to return. Upon which she was presently led off by
her own maid and Mrs Western: nor did that good lady depart without leaving
some wholesome admonitions with her brother, on the dreadful effects of his
passion, or, as she pleased to call it, madness.
The
squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, as it was delivered in
obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of admiration: at least, if he did understand
it, he profited very little by it; for no sooner was he cured of his immediate
fears for his daughter, than he relapsed into his former frenzy, which must
have produced an immediate battle with Jones, had not parson Supple, who was a
very strong man, been present, and by mere force restrained the squire from
acts of hostility.
The moment
Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very suppliant manner to Mr Western,
whom the parson held in his arms, and begged him to be pacified; for that,
while he continued in such a passion, it would be impossible to give him any
satisfaction.
“I wull
have satisfaction o’ thee,” answered the squire; “so doff thy clothes. At
unt half a man, and I’ll lick thee as well as wast ever licked in thy
life.” He then bespattered the youth with abundance of that language which
passes between country gentlemen who embrace opposite sides of the question;
with frequent applications to him to salute that part which is generally
introduced into all controversies that arise among the lower orders of the
English gentry at horse-races, cock-matches, and other public places. Allusions
to this part are likewise often made for the sake of the jest. And here, I
believe, the wit is generally misunderstood. In reality, it lies in desiring
another to kiss your a— for having just before threatened to kick his; for I
have observed very accurately, that no one ever desires you to kick that which belongs
to himself, nor offers to kiss this part in another.
It may
likewise seem surprizing that in the many thousand kind invitations of this
sort, which every one who hath conversed with country gentlemen must have
heard, no one, I believe, hath ever seen a single instance where the desire
hath been complied with;—a great instance of their want of politeness; for in
town nothing can be more common than for the finest gentlemen to perform this
ceremony every day to their superiors, without having that favour once
requested of them.
To all
such wit, Jones very calmly answered, “Sir, this usage may perhaps cancel every
other obligation you have conferred on me; but there is one you can never
cancel; nor will I be provoked by your abuse to lift my hand against the father
of Sophia.”
At these
words the squire grew still more outrageous than before; so that the parson
begged Jones to retire; saying, “You behold, sir, how he waxeth wrath at your
abode here; therefore let me pray you not to tarry any longer. His anger is too
much kindled for you to commune with him at present. You had better, therefore,
conclude your visit, and refer what matters you have to urge in your behalf to
some other opportunity.”
Jones
accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately departed. The squire now
regained the liberty of his hands, and so much temper as to express some
satisfaction in the restraint which had been laid upon him; declaring that he
should certainly have beat his brains out; and adding, “It would have vexed one
confoundedly to have been hanged for such a rascal.”
The parson
now began to triumph in the success of his peace-making endeavours, and
proceeded to read a lecture against anger, which might perhaps rather have
tended to raise than to quiet that passion in some hasty minds. This lecture he
enriched with many valuable quotations from the antients, particularly from
Seneca; who hath indeed so well handled this passion, that none but a very
angry man can read him without great pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded
this harangue with the famous story of Alexander and Clitus; but as I find that
entered in my common-place under title Drunkenness, I shall not insert it here.
The squire
took no notice of this story, nor perhaps of anything he said; for he
interrupted him before he had finished, by calling for a tankard of beer;
observing (which is perhaps as true as any observation on this fever of the
mind) that anger makes a man dry.
No sooner
had the squire swallowed a large draught than he renewed the discourse on
Jones, and declared a resolution of going the next morning early to acquaint Mr
Allworthy. His friend would have dissuaded him from this, from the mere motive
of good-nature; but his dissuasion had no other effect than to produce a large
volley of oaths and curses, which greatly shocked the pious ears of Supple; but
he did not dare to remonstrate against a privilege which the squire claimed as
a freeborn Englishman. To say truth, the parson submitted to please his palate
at the squire’s table, at the expense of suffering now and then this violence
to his ears. He contented himself with thinking he did not promote this evil
practice, and that the squire would not swear an oath the less, if he never
entered within his gates. However, though he was not guilty of ill manners by
rebuking a gentleman in his own house, he paid him off obliquely in the pulpit:
which had not, indeed, the good effect of working a reformation in the squire
himself; yet it so far operated on his conscience, that he put the laws very
severely in execution against others, and the magistrate was the only person in
the parish who could swear with impunity.
Chapter x. — In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy.
Mr
Allworthy was now retired from breakfast with his nephew, well satisfied with
the report of the young gentleman’s successful visit to Sophia (for he greatly
desired the match, more on account of the young lady’s character than of her riches),
when Mr Western broke abruptly in upon them, and without any ceremony began as
follows:—
“There,
you have done a fine piece of work truly! You have brought up your bastard to a
fine purpose; not that I believe you have had any hand in it neither, that is,
as a man may say, designedly: but there is a fine kettle-of-fish made on’t up
at our house.” “What can be the matter, Mr Western?” said Allworthy. “O, matter
enow of all conscience: my daughter hath fallen in love with your bastard,
that’s all; but I won’t ge her a hapeny, not the twentieth part of a brass
varden. I always thought what would come o’ breeding up a bastard like a
gentleman, and letting un come about to vok’s houses. It’s well vor un I could
not get at un: I’d a lick’d un; I’d a spoil’d his caterwauling; I’d a taught
the son of a whore to meddle with meat for his master. He shan’t ever have a
morsel of meat of mine, or a varden to buy it: if she will ha un, one smock
shall be her portion. I’d sooner ge my esteate to the zinking fund, that it may
be sent to Hanover to corrupt our nation with.” “I am heartily sorry,” cries
Allworthy. “Pox o’ your sorrow,” says Western; “it will do me abundance of good
when I have lost my only child, my poor Sophy, that was the joy of my heart,
and all the hope and comfort of my age; but I am resolved I will turn her out
o’ doors; she shall beg, and starve, and rot in the streets. Not one hapeny,
not a hapeny shall she ever hae o’ mine. The son of a bitch was always good at
finding a hare sitting, an be rotted to’n: I little thought what puss he was
looking after; but it shall be the worst he ever vound in his life. She shall
be no better than carrion: the skin o’er is all he shall ha, and zu you may
tell un.” “I am in amazement,” cries Allworthy, “at what you tell me, after
what passed between my nephew and the young lady no longer ago than yesterday.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Western, “it was after what passed between your nephew and
she that the whole matter came out. Mr Blifil there was no sooner gone than the
son of a whore came lurching about the house. Little did I think when I used to
love him for a sportsman that he was all the while a poaching after my
daughter.” “Why truly,” says Allworthy, “I could wish you had not given him so
many opportunities with her; and you will do me the justice to acknowledge that
I have always been averse to his staying so much at your house, though I own I
had no suspicion of this kind.” “Why, zounds,” cries Western, “who could have
thought it? What the devil had she to do wi’n? He did not come there a courting
to her; he came there a hunting with me.” “But was it possible,” says
Allworthy, “that you should never discern any symptoms of love between them,
when you have seen them so often together?” “Never in my life, as I hope to be
saved,” cries Western: “I never so much as zeed him kiss her in all my life;
and so far from courting her, he used rather to be more silent when she was in
company than at any other time; and as for the girl, she was always less civil
to’n than to any young man that came to the house. As to that matter, I am not
more easy to be deceived than another; I would not have you think I am,
neighbour.” Allworthy could scarce refrain laughter at this; but he resolved to
do a violence to himself; for he perfectly well knew mankind, and had too much
good-breeding and good-nature to offend the squire in his present
circumstances. He then asked Western what he would have him do upon this
occasion. To which the other answered, “That he would have him keep the rascal
away from his house, and that he would go and lock up the wench; for he was
resolved to make her marry Mr Blifil in spite of her teeth.” He then shook
Blifil by the hand, and swore he would have no other son-in-law. Presently
after which he took his leave; saying his house was in such disorder that it
was necessary for him to make haste home, to take care his daughter did not
give him the slip; and as for Jones, he swore if he caught him at his house, he
would qualify him to run for the geldings’ plate.
When
Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long silence ensued between
them; all which interval the young gentleman filled up with sighs, which
proceeded partly from disappointment, but more from hatred; for the success of
Jones was much more grievous to him than the loss of Sophia.
At length
his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, and he answered in the
following words:—“Alas! sir, can it be a question what step a lover will take,
when reason and passion point different ways? I am afraid it is too certain he
will, in that dilemma, always follow the latter. Reason dictates to me, to quit
all thoughts of a woman who places her affections on another; my passion bids
me hope she may in time change her inclinations in my favour. Here, however, I
conceive an objection may be raised, which, if it could not fully be answered,
would totally deter me from any further pursuit. I mean the injustice of
endeavouring to supplant another in a heart of which he seems already in
possession; but the determined resolution of Mr Western shows that, in this
case, I shall, by so doing, promote the happiness of every party; not only that
of the parent, who will thus be preserved from the highest degree of misery,
but of both the others, who must be undone by this match. The lady, I am sure,
will be undone in every sense; for, besides the loss of most part of her own
fortune, she will be not only married to a beggar, but the little fortune which
her father cannot withhold from her will be squandered on that wench with whom
I know he yet converses. Nay, that is a trifle; for I know him to be one of the
worst men in the world; for had my dear uncle known what I have hitherto
endeavoured to conceal, he must have long since abandoned so profligate a
wretch.” “How!” said Allworthy; “hath he done anything worse than I already
know? Tell me, I beseech you?” “No,” replied Blifil; “it is now past, and
perhaps he may have repented of it.” “I command you, on your duty,” said
Allworthy, “to tell me what you mean.” “You know, sir,” says Blifil, “I never
disobeyed you; but I am sorry I mentioned it, since it may now look like
revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, no such motive ever entered my heart; and if
you oblige me to discover it, I must be his petitioner to you for your forgiveness.”
“I will have no conditions,” answered Allworthy; “I think I have shown
tenderness enough towards him, and more perhaps than you ought to thank me
for.” “More, indeed, I fear, than he deserved,” cries Blifil; “for in the very
day of your utmost danger, when myself and all the family were in tears, he
filled the house with riot and debauchery. He drank, and sung, and roared; and
when I gave him a gentle hint of the indecency of his actions, he fell into a
violent passion, swore many oaths, called me rascal, and struck me.” “How!”
cries Allworthy; “did he dare to strike you?” “I am sure,” cries Blifil, “I
have forgiven him that long ago. I wish I could so easily forget his
ingratitude to the best of benefactors; and yet even that I hope you will forgive
him, since he must have certainly been possessed with the devil: for that very
evening, as Mr Thwackum and myself were taking the air in the fields, and
exulting in the good symptoms which then first began to discover themselves, we
unluckily saw him engaged with a wench in a manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr
Thwackum, with more boldness than prudence, advanced to rebuke him, when (I am
sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy man, and beat him so outrageously that
I wish he may have yet recovered the bruises. Nor was I without my share of the
effects of his malice, while I endeavoured to protect my tutor; but that I have
long forgiven; nay, I prevailed with Mr Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to
inform you of a secret which I feared might be fatal to him. And now, sir,
since I have unadvisedly dropped a hint of this matter, and your commands have
obliged me to discover the whole, let me intercede with you for him.” “O
child!” said Allworthy, “I know not whether I should blame or applaud your
goodness, in concealing such villany a moment: but where is Mr Thwackum? Not
that I want any confirmation of what you say; but I will examine all the
evidence of this matter, to justify to the world the example I am resolved to
make of such a monster.”
Thwackum
was now sent for, and presently appeared. He corroborated every circumstance
which the other had deposed; nay, he produced the record upon his breast, where
the handwriting of Mr Jones remained very legible in black and blue. He
concluded with declaring to Mr Allworthy, that he should have long since
informed him of this matter, had not Mr Blifil, by the most earnest
interpositions, prevented him. “He is,” says he, “an excellent youth: though
such forgiveness of enemies is carrying the matter too far.”
In reality,
Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the parson, and to prevent the
discovery at that time; for which he had many reasons. He knew that the minds
of men are apt to be softened and relaxed from their usual severity by
sickness. Besides, he imagined that if the story was told when the fact was so
recent, and the physician about the house, who might have unravelled the real
truth, he should never be able to give it the malicious turn which he intended.
Again, he resolved to hoard up this business, till the indiscretion of Jones
should afford some additional complaints; for he thought the joint weight of
many facts falling upon him together, would be the most likely to crush him;
and he watched, therefore, some such opportunity as that with which fortune had
now kindly presented him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the
matter for a time, he knew he should confirm an opinion of his friendship to
Jones, which he had greatly laboured to establish in Mr Allworthy.
Chapter xi. — A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to affect the good-natured reader.
It was Mr
Allworthy’s custom never to punish any one, not even to turn away a servant, in
a passion. He resolved therefore to delay passing sentence on Jones till the
afternoon.
The poor
young man attended at dinner, as usual; but his heart was too much loaded to
suffer him to eat. His grief too was a good deal aggravated by the unkind looks
of Mr Allworthy; whence he concluded that Western had discovered the whole
affair between him and Sophia; but as to Mr Blifil’s story, he had not the
least apprehension; for of much the greater part he was entirely innocent; and
for the residue, as he had forgiven and forgotten it himself, so he suspected
no remembrance on the other side. When dinner was over, and the servants
departed, Mr Allworthy began to harangue. He set forth, in a long speech, the
many iniquities of which Jones had been guilty, particularly those which this
day had brought to light; and concluded by telling him, “That unless he could
clear himself of the charge, he was resolved to banish him his sight for ever.”
Many
disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay, indeed, he hardly
knew his accusation; for as Mr Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, &c.,
while he lay ill, out of modesty sunk everything that related particularly to
himself, which indeed principally constituted the crime; Jones could not deny
the charge. His heart was, besides, almost broken already; and his spirits were
so sunk, that he could say nothing for himself; but acknowledged the whole,
and, like a criminal in despair, threw himself upon mercy; concluding, “That
though he must own himself guilty of many follies and inadvertencies, he hoped
he had done nothing to deserve what would be to him the greatest punishment in
the world.”
Allworthy
answered, “That he had forgiven him too often already, in compassion to his
youth, and in hopes of his amendment: that he now found he was an abandoned
reprobate, and such as it would be criminal in any one to support and
encourage. Nay,” said Mr Allworthy to him, “your audacious attempt to steal
away the young lady, calls upon me to justify my own character in punishing
you. The world who have already censured the regard I have shown for you may
think, with some colour at least of justice, that I connive at so base and
barbarous an action—an action of which you must have known my abhorrence: and
which, had you had any concern for my ease and honour, as well as for my
friendship, you would never have thought of undertaking. Fie upon it, young
man! indeed there is scarce any punishment equal to your crimes, and I can
scarce think myself justifiable in what I am now going to bestow on you.
However, as I have educated you like a child of my own, I will not turn you
naked into the world. When you open this paper, therefore, you will find
something which may enable you, with industry, to get an honest livelihood; but
if you employ it to worse purposes, I shall not think myself obliged to supply
you farther, being resolved, from this day forward, to converse no more with
you on any account. I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of your conduct
which I resent more than your ill-treatment of that good young man (meaning
Blifil) who hath behaved with so much tenderness and honour towards you.”
These last
words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. A flood of tears now
gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of speech and motion seemed to
have deserted him. It was some time before he was able to obey Allworthy’s
peremptory commands of departing; which he at length did, having first kissed
his hands with a passion difficult to be affected, and as difficult to be
described.
The reader
must be very weak, if, when he considers the light in which Jones then appeared
to Mr Allworthy, he should blame the rigour of his sentence. And yet all the
neighbourhood, either from this weakness, or from some worse motive, condemned
this justice and severity as the highest cruelty. Nay, the very persons who had
before censured the good man for the kindness and tenderness shown to a bastard
(his own, according to the general opinion), now cried out as loudly against
turning his own child out of doors. The women especially were unanimous in
taking the part of Jones, and raised more stories on the occasion than I have
room, in this chapter, to set down.
One thing
must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this occasion, none ever
mentioned the sum contained in the paper which Allworthy gave Jones, which was no
less than five hundred pounds; but all agreed that he was sent away penniless,
and some said naked, from the house of his inhuman father.
Chapter xii. — Containing love-letters, &c.
Jones was
commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that his clothes and
everything else should be sent to him whithersoever he should order them.
He
accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regarding, and indeed scarce
knowing, whither he went. At length a little brook obstructing his passage, he
threw himself down by the side of it; nor could he help muttering with some
little indignation, “Sure my father will not deny me this place to rest in!”
Here he
presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his hair from his head,
and using most other actions which generally accompany fits of madness, rage,
and despair.
When he
had in this manner vented the first emotions of passion, he began to come a
little to himself. His grief now took another turn, and discharged itself in a
gentler way, till he became at last cool enough to reason with his passion, and
to consider what steps were proper to be taken in his deplorable condition.
And now
the great doubt was, how to act with regard to Sophia. The thoughts of leaving
her almost rent his heart asunder; but the consideration of reducing her to
ruin and beggary still racked him, if possible, more; and if the violent desire
of possessing her person could have induced him to listen one moment to this
alternative, still he was by no means certain of her resolution to indulge his
wishes at so high an expense. The resentment of Mr Allworthy, and the injury he
must do to his quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and lastly, the
apparent impossibility of his success, even if he would sacrifice all these
considerations to it, came to his assistance; and thus honour at last backed
with despair, with gratitude to his benefactor, and with real love to his
mistress, got the better of burning desire, and he resolved rather to quit
Sophia, than pursue her to her ruin.
It is
difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the glowing warmth which
filled his breast on the first contemplation of this victory over his passion.
Pride flattered him so agreeably, that his mind perhaps enjoyed perfect
happiness; but this was only momentary: Sophia soon returned to his
imagination, and allayed the joy of his triumph with no less bitter pangs than
a good-natured general must feel, when he surveys the bleeding heaps, at the
price of whose blood he hath purchased his laurels; for thousands of tender
ideas lay murdered before our conqueror.
Being
resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour, as the gigantic
poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewel letter to Sophia; and
accordingly proceeded to a house not far off, where, being furnished with
proper materials, he wrote as follows:—
“MADAM,
“When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your
good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or absurdity which my
letter contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full,
that no language can express its dictates.
“I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying for ever
from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those commands are;
but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, not from my Sophia.
Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary to your preservation, to
forget there ever was such a wretch as I am.
“Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to you, if I
imagined they could possibly escape your ears. I know the goodness
and tenderness of your heart, and would avoid giving you any of
those pains which you always feel for the miserable. O let nothing,
which you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause a moment’s concern;
for, after the loss of you, everything is to me a trifle.
“O Sophia! it is hard to leave you; it is harder still to desire you
to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. Pardon my
conceiving that any remembrance of me can give you disquiet; but if
I am so gloriously wretched, sacrifice me every way to your relief.
Think I never loved you; or think truly how little I deserve you;
and learn to scorn me for a presumption which can never be too
severely punished.—I am unable to say more.—May guardian angels
protect you for ever!”
He was now
searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor indeed anything else,
therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic disposition, tossed everything
from him, and amongst the rest, his pocket-book, which he had received from Mr
Allworthy, which he had never opened, and which now first occurred to his
memory.
The house
supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with which, having sealed
his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook side, in order to search for
the things which he had there lost. In his way he met his old friend Black
George, who heartily condoled with him on his misfortune; for this had already
reached his ears, and indeed those of all the neighbourhood.
Jones
acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily went back with him
to the brook, where they searched every tuft of grass in the meadow, as well
where Jones had not been as where he had been; but all to no purpose, for they
found nothing; for, indeed, though the things were then in the meadow, they
omitted to search the only place where they were deposited; to wit, in the
pockets of the said George; for he had just before found them, and being
luckily apprized of their value, had very carefully put them up for his own
use.
The
gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost goods, as if
he had hoped to find them, desired Mr Jones to recollect if he had been in no
other place: “For sure,” said he, “if you had lost them here so lately, the
things must have been here still; for this is a very unlikely place for any one
to pass by.” And indeed it was by great accident that he himself had passed
through that field, in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to
supply a poulterer at Bath the next morning.
Jones now
gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all thoughts concerning
it, and turning to Black George, asked him earnestly if he would do him the greatest
favour in the world?
George
answered with some hesitation, “Sir, you know you may command me whatever is in
my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power to do you any service.” In
fact, the question staggered him; for he had, by selling game, amassed a pretty
good sum of money in Mr Western’s service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to
borrow some small matter of him; but he was presently relieved from his
anxiety, by being desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great
pleasure he promised to do. And indeed I believe there are few favours which he
would not have gladly conferred on Mr Jones; for he bore as much gratitude
towards him as he could, and was as honest as men who love money better than
any other thing in the universe, generally are.
Mrs Honour
was agreed by both to be the proper means by which this letter should pass to
Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper returned home to Mr Western’s, and
Jones walked to an alehouse at half a mile’s distance, to wait for his messenger’s
return.
George no
sooner came home to his master’s house than he met with Mrs Honour; to whom,
having first sounded her with a few previous questions, he delivered the letter
for her mistress, and received at the same time another from her, for Mr Jones;
which Honour told him she had carried all that day in her bosom, and began to
despair of finding any means of delivering it.
The
gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having received
Sophia’s letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly breaking it open,
read as follows:—
“SIR,
“It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,
lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. As you know his
temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. I wish I had any
comfort to send you; but believe this, that nothing but the last
violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry
to see them bestowed.”
Jones read
this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a hundred times as often. His
passion now brought all tender desires back into his mind. He repented that he
had writ to Sophia in the manner we have seen above; but he repented more that
he had made use of the interval of his messenger’s absence to write and
dispatch a letter to Mr Allworthy, in which he had faithfully promised and
bound himself to quit all thoughts of his love. However, when his cool
reflections returned, he plainly perceived that his case was neither mended nor
altered by Sophia’s billet, unless to give him some little glimpse of hope,
from her constancy, of some favourable accident hereafter. He therefore resumed
his resolution, and taking leave of Black George, set forward to a town about
five miles distant, whither he had desired Mr Allworthy, unless he pleased to
revoke his sentence, to send his things after him.
To be continued
