TOM JONES
PART 28
Chapter viii. — In which the history goes backward.
Before we
proceed any farther in our history, it may be proper to look a little back, in
order to account for the extraordinary appearance of Sophia and her father at
the inn at Upton.
The reader
may be pleased to remember that, in the ninth chapter of the seventh book of
our history, we left Sophia, after a long debate between love and duty,
deciding the cause, as it usually, I believe, happens, in favour of the former.
This
debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a visit which her father had
just before made her, in order to force her consent to a marriage with Blifil;
and which he had understood to be fully implied in her acknowledgment “that she
neither must nor could refuse any absolute command of his.”
Now from
this visit the squire retired to his evening potation, overjoyed at the success
he had gained with his daughter; and, as he was of a social disposition, and
willing to have partakers in his happiness, the beer was ordered to flow very
liberally into the kitchen; so that before eleven in the evening there was not
a single person sober in the house except only Mrs Western herself and the
charming Sophia.
Early in
the morning a messenger was despatched to summon Mr Blifil; for, though the
squire imagined that young gentleman had been much less acquainted than he
really was with the former aversion of his daughter, as he had not, however,
yet received her consent, he longed impatiently to communicate it to him, not
doubting but that the intended bride herself would confirm it with her lips. As
to the wedding, it had the evening before been fixed, by the male parties, to
be celebrated on the next morning save one.
Breakfast
was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr Blifil attended, and where the
squire and his sister likewise were assembled; and now Sophia was ordered to be
called.
O,
Shakespear! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! then would I draw the
picture of the poor serving-man, who, with pale countenance, staring eyes,
chattering teeth, faultering tongue, and trembling limbs,
(E’en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam’s curtains in the dead of night,
And would have told him, half his Troy was burn’d)
entered
the room, and declared—That Madam Sophia was not to be found.
“Not to be
found!” cries the squire, starting from his chair; “Zounds and d—nation! Blood
and fury! Where, when, how, what—Not to be found! Where?”
“La!
brother,” said Mrs Western, with true political coldness, “you are always
throwing yourself into such violent passions for nothing. My niece, I suppose,
is only walked out into the garden. I protest you are grown so unreasonable,
that it is impossible to live in the house with you.”
“Nay,
nay,” answered the squire, returning as suddenly to himself, as he had gone
from himself; “if that be all the matter, it signifies not much; but, upon my
soul, my mind misgave me when the fellow said she was not to be found.” He then
gave orders for the bell to be rung in the garden, and sat himself contentedly
down.
No two
things could be more the reverse of each other than were the brother and sister
in most instances; particularly in this, That as the brother never foresaw
anything at a distance, but was most sagacious in immediately seeing everything
the moment it had happened; so the sister eternally foresaw at a distance, but
was not so quick-sighted to objects before her eyes. Of both these the reader
may have observed examples: and, indeed, both their several talents were
excessive; for, as the sister often foresaw what never came to pass, so the
brother often saw much more than was actually the truth.
This was
not however the case at present. The same report was brought from the garden as
before had been brought from the chamber, that Madam Sophia was not to be
found.
The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth the name of Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a voice, as whilome did Hercules that of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that the whole
shore echoed back the name of that beautiful youth, so did the house, the garden, and all the neighbouring fields resound nothing but the name of Sophia, in the hoarse voices of the men, and in the
shrill pipes of the women; while echo seemed so pleased to repeat the beloved sound, that, if there is really such a person, I believe Ovid hath belied her sex.
Nothing reigned for a long time but confusion; till at last the squire, having sufficiently spent his breath, returned to the parlour, where he found Mrs Western and Mr Blifil, and threw himself, with
the utmost dejection in his countenance, into a great chair.
Here Mrs
Western began to apply the following consolation:
“Brother,
I am sorry for what hath happened; and that my niece should have behaved
herself in a manner so unbecoming her family; but it is all your own doings,
and you have nobody to thank but yourself. You know she hath been educated
always in a manner directly contrary to my advice, and now you see the
consequence. Have I not a thousand times argued with you about giving my niece
her own will? But you know I never could prevail upon you; and when I had taken
so much pains to eradicate her headstrong opinions, and to rectify your errors
in policy, you know she was taken out of my hands; so that I have nothing to
answer for. Had I been trusted entirely with the care of her education, no such
accident as this had ever befallen you; so that you must comfort yourself by
thinking it was all your own doing; and, indeed, what else could be expected
from such indulgence?”
“Zounds!
sister,” answered he, “you are enough to make one mad. Have I indulged her?
Have I given her her will?——It was no longer ago than last night that I threatened,
if she disobeyed me, to confine her to her chamber upon bread and water as long
as she lived.——You would provoke the patience of Job.”
“Did ever
mortal hear the like?” replied she. “Brother, if I had not the patience of
fifty Jobs, you would make me forget all decency and decorum. Why would you
interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not intreat you, to leave the whole conduct
to me? You have defeated all the operations of the campaign by one false step.
Would any man in his senses have provoked a daughter by such threats as these?
How often have I told you that English women are not to be treated like
Ciracessian[*] slaves. We have the protection of the world; we are to be won by
gentle means only, and not to be hectored, and bullied, and beat into compliance.
I thank Heaven no Salique law governs here. Brother, you have a roughness in
your manner which no woman but myself would bear. I do not wonder my niece was
frightened and terrified into taking this measure; and, to speak honestly, I
think my niece will be justified to the world for what she hath done. I repeat
it to you again, brother, you must comfort yourself by rememb’ring that it is
all your own fault. How often have I advised—” Here Western rose hastily from
his chair, and, venting two or three horrid imprecations, ran out of the room.
[*] Possibly Circassian.
When he
was departed, his sister expressed more bitterness (if possible) against him
than she had done while he was present; for the truth of which she appealed to
Mr Blifil, who, with great complacence, acquiesced entirely in all she said;
but excused all the faults of Mr Western, “as they must be considered,” he
said, “to have proceeded from the too inordinate fondness of a father, which
must be allowed the name of an amiable weakness.” “So much the more
inexcuseable,” answered the lady; “for whom doth he ruin by his fondness but
his own child?” To which Blifil immediately agreed.
Mrs
Western then began to express great confusion on the account of Mr Blifil, and
of the usage which he had received from a family to which he intended so much
honour. On this subject she treated the folly of her niece with great severity;
but concluded with throwing the whole on her brother, who, she said, was
inexcuseable to have proceeded so far without better assurances of his
daughter’s consent: “But he was (says she) always of a violent, headstrong
temper; and I can scarce forgive myself for all the advice I have thrown away
upon him.”
After much
of this kind of conversation, which, perhaps, would not greatly entertain the
reader, was it here particularly related, Mr Blifil took his leave and returned
home, not highly pleased with his disappointment: which, however, the
philosophy which he had acquired from Square, and the religion infused into him
by Thwackum, together with somewhat else, taught him to bear rather better than
more passionate lovers bear these kinds of evils.
Chapter ix. — The escape of Sophia.
It is now
time to look after Sophia; whom the reader, if he loves her half so well as I
do, will rejoice to find escaped from the clutches of her passionate father,
and from those of her dispassionate lover.
Twelve
times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous bell-metal, summoning
the ghosts to rise and walk their nightly round.——In plainer language, it was
twelve o’clock, and all the family, as we have said, lay buried in drink and
sleep, except only Mrs Western, who was deeply engaged in reading a political
pamphlet, and except our heroine, who now softly stole down-stairs, and, having
unbarred and unlocked one of the house-doors, sallied forth, and hastened to
the place of appointment.
Notwithstanding
the many pretty arts which ladies sometimes practise, to display their fears on
every little occasion (almost as many as the other sex uses to conceal theirs),
certainly there is a degree of courage which not only becomes a woman, but is
often necessary to enable her to discharge her duty. It is, indeed, the idea of
fierceness, and not of bravery, which destroys the female character; for who
can read the story of the justly celebrated Arria without conceiving as high an
opinion of her gentleness and tenderness as of her fortitude? At the same time,
perhaps, many a woman who shrieks at a mouse, or a rat, may be capable of
poisoning a husband; or, what is worse, of driving him to poison himself.
Sophia,
with all the gentleness which a woman can have, had all the spirit which she
ought to have. When, therefore, she came to the place of appointment, and,
instead of meeting her maid, as was agreed, saw a man ride directly up to her,
she neither screamed out nor fainted away: not that her pulse then beat with
its usual regularity; for she was, at first, under some surprize and
apprehension: but these were relieved almost as soon as raised, when the man,
pulling off his hat, asked her, in a very submissive manner, “If her ladyship
did not expect to meet another lady?” and then proceeded to inform her that he
was sent to conduct her to that lady.
Sophia
could have no possible suspicion of any falsehood in this account: she
therefore mounted resolutely behind the fellow, who conveyed her safe to a town
about five miles distant, where she had the satisfaction of finding the good
Mrs Honour: for, as the soul of the waiting-woman was wrapt up in those very
habiliments which used to enwrap her body, she could by no means bring herself
to trust them out of her sight. Upon these, therefore, she kept guard in person,
while she detached the aforesaid fellow after her mistress, having given him
all proper instructions.
They now
debated what course to take, in order to avoid the pursuit of Mr Western, who
they knew would send after them in a few hours. The London road had such charms
for Honour, that she was desirous of going on directly; alleging that, as
Sophia could not be missed till eight or nine the next morning, her pursuers
would not be able to overtake her, even though they knew which way she had
gone. But Sophia had too much at stake to venture anything to chance; nor did
she dare trust too much to her tender limbs, in a contest which was to be
decided only by swiftness. She resolved, therefore, to travel across the
country, for at least twenty or thirty miles, and then to take the direct road
to London. So, having hired horses to go twenty miles one way, when she
intended to go twenty miles the other, she set forward with the same guide
behind whom she had ridden from her father’s house; the guide having now taken
up behind him, in the room of Sophia, a much heavier, as well as much less
lovely burden; being, indeed, a huge portmanteau, well stuffed with those
outside ornaments, by means of which the fair Honour hoped to gain many
conquests, and, finally, to make her fortune in London city.
When they
had gone about two hundred paces from the inn on the London road, Sophia rode
up to the guide, and, with a voice much fuller of honey than was ever that of
Plato, though his mouth is supposed to have been a bee-hive, begged him to take
the first turning which led towards Bristol.
Reader, I
am not superstitious, nor any great believer of modern miracles. I do not,
therefore, deliver the following as a certain truth; for, indeed, I can scarce
credit it myself: but the fidelity of an historian obliges me to relate what
hath been confidently asserted. The horse, then, on which the guide rode, is
reported to have been so charmed by Sophia’s voice, that he made a full stop,
and expressed an unwillingness to proceed any farther.
Perhaps,
however, the fact may be true, and less miraculous than it hath been
represented; since the natural cause seems adequate to the effect: for, as the
guide at that moment desisted from a constant application of his armed right
heel (for, like Hudibras, he wore but one spur), it is more than possible that
this omission alone might occasion the beast to stop, especially as this was
very frequent with him at other times.
But if the
voice of Sophia had really an effect on the horse, it had very little on the
rider. He answered somewhat surlily, “That measter had ordered him to go a
different way, and that he should lose his place if he went any other than that
he was ordered.”
Sophia,
finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now to add irresistible charms
to her voice; charms which, according to the proverb, makes the old mare trot,
instead of standing still; charms! to which modern ages have attributed all
that irresistible force which the antients imputed to perfect oratory. In a
word, she promised she would reward him to his utmost expectation.
The lad
was not totally deaf to these promises; but he disliked their being indefinite;
for, though perhaps he had never heard that word, yet that, in fact, was his
objection. He said, “Gentlevolks did not consider the case of poor volks; that
he had like to have been turned away the other day, for riding about the
country with a gentleman from Squire Allworthy’s, who did not reward him as he
should have done.”
“With
whom?” says Sophia eagerly. “With a gentleman from Squire Allworthy’s,”
repeated the lad; “the squire’s son, I think they call ‘un.”—“Whither? which
way did he go?” says Sophia.—“Why, a little o’ one side o’ Bristol, about
twenty miles off,” answered the lad.—“Guide me,” says Sophia, “to the same
place, and I’ll give thee a guinea, or two, if one is not sufficient.”—“To be
certain,” said the boy, “it is honestly worth two, when your ladyship considers
what a risk I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise me the two
guineas, I’ll e’en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride about my
measter’s horses; but one comfort is, I can only be turned away, and two
guineas will partly make me amends.”
The
bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol road, and
Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly contrary to the remonstrances of
Mrs Honour, who had much more desire to see London than to see Mr Jones: for
indeed she was not his friend with her mistress, as he had been guilty of some
neglect in certain pecuniary civilities, which are by custom due to the
waiting-gentlewoman in all love affairs, and more especially in those of a
clandestine kind. This we impute rather to the carelessness of his temper than
to any want of generosity; but perhaps she derived it from the latter motive.
Certain it is that she hated him very bitterly on that account, and resolved to
take every opportunity of injuring him with her mistress. It was therefore
highly unlucky for her, that she had gone to the very same town and inn whence
Jones had started, and still more unlucky was she in having stumbled on the
same guide, and on this accidental discovery which Sophia had made.
Our
travellers arrived at Hambrook[*] at the break of day, where Honour was against
her will charged to enquire the route which Mr Jones had taken. Of this,
indeed, the guide himself could have informed them; but Sophia, I know not for
what reason, never asked him the question.
[*] This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.
When Mrs
Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with much difficulty,
procured some indifferent horses, which brought her to the inn where Jones had
been confined rather by the misfortune of meeting with a surgeon than by having
met with a broken head.
Here
Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had no sooner applied
herself to the landlady, and had described the person of Mr Jones, than that
sagacious woman began, in the vulgar phrase, to smell a rat. When Sophia
therefore entered the room, instead of answering the maid, the landlady,
addressing herself to the mistress, began the following speech: “Good
lack-a-day! why there now, who would have thought it? I protest the loveliest
couple that ever eye beheld. I-fackins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run
on so about your ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the
world, and to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I bepitied him, so I
did, when he used to hug his pillow, and call it his dear Madam Sophia. I did all
I could to dissuade him from going to the wars: I told him there were men enow
that were good for nothing else but to be killed, that had not the love of such
fine ladies.” “Sure,” says Sophia, “the good woman is distracted.” “No, no,”
cries the landlady, “I am not distracted. What, doth your ladyship think I
don’t know then? I assure you he told me all.” “What saucy fellow,” cries
Honour, “told you anything of my lady?” “No saucy fellow,” answered the
landlady, “but the young gentleman you enquired after, and a very pretty young
gentleman he is, and he loves Madam Sophia Western to the bottom of his soul.”
“He love my lady! I’d have you to know, woman, she is meat for his
master.”—“Nay, Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting her, “don’t be angry with the
good woman; she intends no harm.” “No, marry, don’t I,” answered the landlady,
emboldened by the soft accents of Sophia; and then launched into a long
narrative too tedious to be here set down, in which some passages dropt that
gave a little offence to Sophia, and much more to her waiting-woman, who hence
took occasion to abuse poor Jones to her mistress the moment they were alone
together, saying, “that he must be a very pitiful fellow, and could have no
love for a lady, whose name he would thus prostitute in an ale-house.”
Sophia did
not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light, and was perhaps more
pleased with the violent raptures of his love (which the landlady exaggerated
as much as she had done every other circumstance) than she was offended with
the rest; and indeed she imputed the whole to the extravagance, or rather
ebullience, of his passion, and to the openness of his heart.
This
incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and placed in the most
odious colours by Honour, served to heighten and give credit to those unlucky
occurrences at Upton, and assisted the waiting-woman in her endeavours to make
her mistress depart from that inn without seeing Jones.
The
landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her horses were
ready, and that without either eating or drinking, soon withdrew; when Honour
began to take her mistress to task (for indeed she used great freedom), and
after a long harangue, in which she reminded her of her intention to go to
London, and gave frequent hints of the impropriety of pursuing a young fellow,
she at last concluded with this serious exhortation: “For heaven’s sake, madam,
consider what you are about, and whither you are going.”
This
advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and in no very
agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It may be supposed she had well
considered and resolved this already; nay, Mrs Honour, by the hints she threw
out, seemed to think so; and this I doubt not is the opinion of many readers, who
have, I make no doubt, been long since well convinced of the purpose of our
heroine, and have heartily condemned her for it as a wanton baggage.
But in
reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so distracted between
hope and fear, her duty and love to her father, her hatred to Blifil, her
compassion, and (why should we not confess the truth?) her love for Jones;
which last the behaviour of her father, of her aunt, of every one else, and
more particularly of Jones himself, had blown into a flame, that her mind was
in that confused state which may be truly said to make us ignorant of what we
do, or whither we go, or rather, indeed, indifferent as to the consequence of
either.
The
prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool reflection;
and she at length determined to go to Gloucester, and thence to proceed
directly to London.
But,
unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met the hack-attorney,
who, as is before mentioned, had dined there with Mr Jones. This fellow, being
well known to Mrs Honour, stopt and spoke to her; of which Sophia at that time
took little notice, more than to enquire who he was.
But,
having had a more particular account from Honour of this man afterwards at
Gloucester, and hearing of the great expedition he usually made in travelling,
for which (as hath been before observed) he was particularly famous;
recollecting, likewise, that she had overheard Mrs Honour inform him that they
were going to Gloucester, she began to fear lest her father might, by this
fellow’s means, be able to trace her to that city; wherefore, if she should
there strike into the London road, she apprehended he would certainly be able
to overtake her. She therefore altered her resolution; and, having hired horses
to go a week’s journey a way which she did not intend to travel, she again set
forward after a light refreshment, contrary to the desire and earnest
entreaties of her maid, and to the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs
Whitefield, who, from good breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor
young lady appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that
evening at Gloucester.
Having
refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about two hours on the
bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely left Mrs Whitefield’s
about eleven at night, and, striking directly into the Worcester road, within
less than four hours arrived at that very inn where we last saw her.
Having
thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her departure, till her
arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few words bring her father to the same
place; who, having received the first scent from the post-boy, who conducted
his daughter to Hambrook, very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester;
whence he pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr Jones had taken that route
(for Partridge, to use the squire’s expression, left everywhere a strong scent
behind him), and he doubted not in the least but Sophia travelled, or, as he
phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed a very coarse expression, which
need not be here inserted; as fox-hunters, who alone will understand it, will
easily suggest it to themselves.
To be
continued
