TOM JONES
PART 30
Chapter iv. — The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Mrs
Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep sigh, thus
began:
“It is
natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in recollecting those periods
of their lives which have been most delightful to them. The remembrance of past
pleasures affects us with a kind of tender grief, like what we suffer for
departed friends; and the ideas of both may be said to haunt our imaginations.
“For this
reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days (the happiest far of my
life) which we spent together when both were under the care of my aunt Western.
Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss Giddy no more? You remember, I am sure,
when we knew each other by no other names. Indeed, you gave the latter
appellation with too much cause. I have since experienced how much I deserved
it. You, my Sophia, was always my superior in everything, and I heartily hope
you will be so in your fortune. I shall never forget the wise and matronly
advice you once gave me, when I lamented being disappointed of a ball, though
you could not be then fourteen years old.——O my Sophy, how blest must have been
my situation, when I could think such a disappointment a misfortune; and when
indeed it was the greatest I had ever known!”
“And yet,
my dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “it was then a serious matter with you.
Comfort yourself therefore with thinking, that whatever you now lament may
hereafter appear as trifling and contemptible as a ball would at this time.”
“Alas, my
Sophia,” replied the other lady, “you yourself will think otherwise of my
present situation; for greatly must that tender heart be altered if my
misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a tear, from you. The knowledge
of this should perhaps deter me from relating what I am convinced will so much
affect you.” Here Mrs Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of
Sophia, she thus proceeded:
“Though
you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may probably have been
misrepresented, I will set out from the very commencement of my unfortunate
acquaintance with my present husband; which was at Bath, soon after you left my
aunt, and returned home to your father.
“Among the
gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr Fitzpatrick was one. He
was handsome, dégagé, extremely gallant, and in his dress exceeded most
others. In short, my dear, if you was unluckily to see him now, I could
describe him no better than by telling you he was the very reverse of
everything which he is: for he hath rusticated himself so long, that he is
become an absolute wild Irishman. But to proceed in my story: the
qualifications which he then possessed so well recommended him, that, though
the people of quality at that time lived separate from the rest of the company,
and excluded them from all their parties, Mr Fitzpatrick found means to gain
admittance. It was perhaps no easy matter to avoid him; for he required very
little or no invitation; and as, being handsome and genteel, he found it no
very difficult matter to ingratiate himself with the ladies, so, he having
frequently drawn his sword, the men did not care publickly to affront him. Had
it not been for some such reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by
his own sex; for surely he had no strict title to be preferred to the English
gentry; nor did they seem inclined to show him any extraordinary favour. They
all abused him behind his back, which might probably proceed from envy; for by
the women he was well received, and very particularly distinguished by them.
“My aunt,
though no person of quality herself, as she had always lived about the court,
was enrolled in that party; for, by whatever means you get into the polite
circle, when you are once there, it is sufficient merit for you that you are
there. This observation, young as you was, you could scarce avoid making from
my aunt, who was free, or reserved, with all people, just as they had more or
less of this merit.
“And this
merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr Fitzpatrick to her
favour. In which he so well succeeded, that he was always one of her private
parties. Nor was he backward in returning such distinction; for he soon grew so
very particular in his behaviour to her, that the scandal club first began to
take notice of it, and the better-disposed persons made a match between them.
For my own part, I confess, I made no doubt but that his designs were strictly
honourable, as the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by way of
marriage. My aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor handsome enough to
attract much wicked inclination; but she had matrimonial charms in great
abundance.
“I was the
more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary respect which he showed
to myself from the first moment of our acquaintance. This I understood as an
attempt to lessen, if possible, that disinclination which my interest might be
supposed to give me towards the match; and I know not but in some measure it
had that effect; for, as I was well contented with my own fortune, and of all
people the least a slave to interested views, so I could not be violently the
enemy of a man with whose behaviour to me I was greatly pleased; and the more
so, as I was the only object of such respect; for he behaved at the same time
to many women of quality without any respect at all.
“Agreeable
as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind of behaviour, which was
perhaps more so. He now put on much softness and tenderness, and languished and
sighed abundantly. At times, indeed, whether from art or nature I will not
determine, he gave his usual loose to gaiety and mirth; but this was always in
general company, and with other women; for even in a country-dance, when he was
not my partner, he became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the
moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all things so very particular towards
me, that I must have been blind not to have discovered it. And, and, and——”
“And you was more pleased still, my dear Harriet,” cries Sophia; “you need not
be ashamed,” added she, sighing; “for sure there are irresistible charms in
tenderness, which too many men are able to affect.” “True,” answered her
cousin; “men, who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavels
in the art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance.—Well, scandal now
began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my aunt; and some good
ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr Fitzpatrick had an intrigue with us
both.
“But, what
may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least seemed to suspect,
that which was visible enough, I believe, from both our behaviours. One would
indeed think that love quite puts out the eyes of an old woman. In fact, they
so greedily swallow the addresses which are made to them, that, like an
outrageous glutton, they are not at leisure to observe what passes amongst
others at the same table. This I have observed in more cases than my own; and
this was so strongly verified by my aunt, that, though she often found us
together at her return from the pump, the least canting word of his, pretending
impatience at her absence, effectually smothered all suspicion. One artifice
succeeded with her to admiration. This was his treating me like a little child,
and never calling me by any other name in her presence but that of pretty miss.
This indeed did him some disservice with your humble servant; but I soon saw
through it, especially as in her absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a
different manner. However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a conduct of which
I had discovered the design, I smarted very severely for it; for my aunt really
conceived me to be what her lover (as she thought him) called me, and treated
me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say the truth, I wonder she had not
insisted on my again wearing leading-strings.
“At last,
my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn manner, to disclose a
secret which I had known long before. He now placed all the love which he had
pretended to my aunt to my account. He lamented, in very pathetic terms, the
encouragement she had given him, and made a high merit of the tedious hours in
which he had undergone her conversation.—What shall I tell you, my dear
Sophia?—Then I will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I was pleased
with my conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me; to rival so many other women
charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave as I should do, even upon
the very first declaration—I wish I did not almost give him positive
encouragement before we parted.
“The Bath
now talked loudly—I might almost say, roared against me. Several young women
affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much, perhaps, from any real
suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me from a company in which I too much
engrossed their favourite man. And here I cannot omit expressing my gratitude
to the kindness intended me by Mr Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me
advice, which if I had followed, I had been a happy woman. `Child,’ says he, `I
am sorry to see the familiarity which subsists between you and a fellow who is
altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As for your
old stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my pretty Sophy Western
(I assure you I repeat his words), I should be heartily glad that the fellow
was in possession of all that belongs to her. I never advise old women: for, if
they take it into their heads to go to the devil, it is no more possible than
worth while to keep them from him. Innocence and youth and beauty are worthy a
better fate, and I would save them from his clutches. Let me advise you
therefore, dear child, never suffer this fellow to be particular with you
again.’ Many more things he said to me, which I have now forgotten, and indeed
I attended very little to them at the time; for inclination contradicted all he
said; and, besides, I could not be persuaded that women of quality would
condescend to familiarity with such a person as he described.
“But I am
afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many minute circumstances.
To be concise, therefore, imagine me married; imagine me with my husband, at
the feet of my aunt; and then imagine the maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving
fit, and your imagination will suggest to you no more than what really
happened.
“The very
next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr Fitzpatrick or
myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one else; for, though I am told
she hath since denied everything stoutly, I believe she was then a little
confounded at her disappointment. Since that time, I have written to her many
letters, but never could obtain an answer, which I must own sits somewhat the
heavier, as she herself was, though undesignedly, the occasion of all my
sufferings: for, had it not been under the colour of paying his addresses to
her, Mr Fitzpatrick would never have found sufficient opportunities to have
engaged my heart, which, in other circumstances, I still flatter myself would
not have been an easy conquest to such a person. Indeed, I believe I should not
have erred so grossly in my choice if I had relied on my own judgment; but I
trusted totally to the opinion of others, and very foolishly took the merit of
a man for granted whom I saw so universally well received by the women. What is
the reason, my dear, that we, who have understandings equal to the wisest and
greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of the silliest fellows for
companions and favourites? It raises my indignation to the highest pitch to
reflect on the numbers of women of sense who have been undone by fools.” Here
she paused a moment; but, Sophia making no answer, she proceeded as in the next
chapter.
Chapter v. — In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.
“We
remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding; for as to any
reconciliation with my aunt, there were no hopes; and of my fortune not one
farthing could be touched till I was of age, of which I now wanted more than
two years. My husband therefore was resolved to set out for Ireland; against which
I remonstrated very earnestly, and insisted on a promise which he had made me
before our marriage that I should never take this journey against my consent;
and indeed I never intended to consent to it; nor will anybody, I believe,
blame me for that resolution; but this, however, I never mentioned to my
husband, and petitioned only for the reprieve of a month; but he had fixed the
day, and to that day he obstinately adhered.
“The
evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point with great
eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his chair, and left me
abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was hardly out of the house when
I saw a paper lying on the floor, which, I suppose, he had carelessly pulled
from his pocket, together with his handkerchief. This paper I took up, and,
finding it to be a letter, I made no scruple to open and read it; and indeed I
read it so often that I can repeat it to you almost word for word. This then
was the letter:
‘To Mr Brian Fitzpatrick.
‘SIR,
‘YOURS received, and am surprized you should use me in this manner,
as have never seen any of your cash, unless for one linsey-woolsey
coat, and your bill now is upwards of £150. Consider, sir, how often
you have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be married to this
lady and t’other lady; but I can neither live on hopes or promises,
nor will my woollen-draper take any such in payment. You tell me you
are secure of having either the aunt or the niece, and that you
might have married the aunt before this, whose jointure you say is
immense, but that you prefer the niece on account of her ready
money. Pray, sir, take a fool’s advice for once, and marry the first
you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I
sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you per next post, in favour
of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen days, which doubt
not your honouring, and am,
Sir, your humble servant, ‘SAM. COSGRAVE.’
“This was
the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl—guess how this letter affected
me. You prefer the niece on account of her ready money! If every one of these
words had been a dagger, I could with pleasure have stabbed them into his
heart; but I will not recount my frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had
pretty well spent my tears before his return home; but sufficient remains of
them appeared in my swollen eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and
for a long time we were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he said, `I
hope, madam, your servants have packed up all your things; for the coach will
be ready by six in the morning.’ My patience was totally subdued by this
provocation, and I answered, `No, sir, there is a letter still remains
unpacked;’ and then throwing it on the table I fell to upbraiding him with the
most bitter language I could invent.
“Whether
guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him I cannot say; but, though he is
the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on this occasion. He
endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the most gentle means. He swore
the phrase in the letter to which I principally objected was not his, nor had
he ever written any such. He owned, indeed, the having mentioned his marriage,
and that preference which he had given to myself, but denied with many oaths
the having mentioned any such matter at all on account of the straits he was in
for money, arising, he said, from his having too long neglected his estate in
Ireland. And this, he said, which he could not bear to discover to me, was the
only reason of his having so strenuously insisted on our journey. He then used
several very endearing expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and
many violent protestations of love.
“There was
one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it, had much weight with me
in his favour, and that was the word jointure in the taylor’s letter, whereas
my aunt never had been married, and this Mr Fitzpatrick well knew.——As I
imagined, therefore, that the fellow must have inserted this of his own head,
or from hearsay, I persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on that
odious line on no better authority. What reasoning was this, my dear? was I not
an advocate rather than a judge?—But why do I mention such a circumstance as this,
or appeal to it for the justification of my forgiveness?—In short, had he been
guilty of twenty times as much, half the tenderness and fondness which he used
would have prevailed on me to have forgiven him. I now made no farther
objections to our setting out, which we did the next morning, and in a little
more than a week arrived at the seat of Mr Fitzpatrick.
“Your
curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which past during our
journey; for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to travel it over again,
and no less so to you to travel it over with me.
“This
seat, then, is an ancient mansion-house: if I was in one of those merry humours
in which you have so often seen me, I could describe it to you ridiculously
enough. It looked as if it had been formerly inhabited by a gentleman. Here was
room enough, and not the less room on account of the furniture; for indeed
there was very little in it. An old woman, who seemed coeval with the building,
and greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us at
the gate, and in a howl scarce human, and to me unintelligible, welcomed her
master home. In short, the whole scene was so gloomy and melancholy, that it
threw my spirits into the lowest dejection; which my husband discerning, instead
of relieving, encreased by two or three malicious observations. `There are good
houses, madam,’ says he, `as you find, in other places besides England; but
perhaps you had rather be in a dirty lodgings at Bath.’
“Happy, my
dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a cheerful good-natured
companion to support and comfort her! But why do I reflect on happy situations
only to aggravate my own misery? my companion, far from clearing up the gloom
of solitude, soon convinced me that I must have been wretched with him in any
place, and in any condition. In a word, he was a surly fellow, a character
perhaps you have never seen; for, indeed, no woman ever sees it exemplified but
in a father, a brother, or a husband; and, though you have a father, he is not
of that character. This surly fellow had formerly appeared to me the very
reverse, and so he did still to every other person. Good heaven! how is it
possible for a man to maintain a constant lie in his appearance abroad and in
company, and to content himself with shewing disagreeable truth only at home?
Here, my dear, they make themselves amends for the uneasy restraint which they
put on their tempers in the world; for I have observed, the more merry and gay
and good-humoured my husband hath at any time been in company, the more sullen
and morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How shall I
describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was cold and insensible. My little
comical ways, which you, my Sophy, and which others, have called so agreeable,
he treated with contempt. In my most serious moments he sung and whistled; and
whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable he was angry, and abused me:
for, though he was never pleased with my good-humour, nor ascribed it to my
satisfaction in him, yet my low spirits always offended him, and those he
imputed to my repentance of having (as he said) married an Irishman.
“You will
easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I really forgot myself),
that, when a woman makes an imprudent match in the sense of the world, that is,
when she is not an arrant prostitute to pecuniary interest, she must
necessarily have some inclination and affection for her man. You will as easily
believe that this affection may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you,
contempt will wholly eradicate it. This contempt I now began to entertain for
my husband, whom I now discovered to be—I must use the expression—an arrant
blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long before;
but women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for the folly of those
they like: besides, give me leave to tell you, it requires a most penetrating
eye to discern a fool through the disguises of gaiety and good breeding.
“It will
be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband, as I confess to you I
soon did, I must consequently dislike his company; and indeed I had the
happiness of being very little troubled with it; for our house was now most
elegantly furnished, our cellars well stocked, and dogs and horses provided in
great abundance. As my gentleman therefore entertained his neighbours with
great hospitality, so his neighbours resorted to him with great alacrity; and
sports and drinking consumed so much of his time, that a small part of his conversation,
that is to say, of his ill-humours, fell to my share.
“Happy
would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided all other
disagreeable company; but, alas! I was confined to some which constantly
tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of being relieved from them.
These companions were my own racking thoughts, which plagued and in a manner
haunted me night and day. In this situation I past through a scene, the horrors
of which can neither be painted nor imagined. Think, my dear, figure, if you
can, to yourself, what I must have undergone. I became a mother by the man I
scorned, hated, and detested. I went through all the agonies and miseries of a
lying-in (ten times more painful in such a circumstance than the worst labour
can be when one endures it for a man one loves) in a desert, or rather, indeed,
a scene of riot and revel, without a friend, without a companion, or without
any of those agreeable circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps
sometimes more than compensate, the sufferings of our sex at that season.”
Chapter vi. — In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful consternation.
Mrs
Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative when she was interrupted by the
entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of Sophia; for the misfortunes of
her friend had raised her anxiety, and left her no appetite but what Mrs
Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by her relation.
FIXME(replacing -- with —)-->The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the same respect in his countenance and address which he would have put on had the ladies arrived in a coach and six. -- The married lady seemed less affected with her own misfortunes than was her cousin; for the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia likewise showed more
concern and sorrow in her countenance than appeared in the other lady; who, having observed these symptoms in her friend, begged her to be comforted, saying, “Perhaps all may yet end better than
either you or I expect.”
Our
landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth, and was resolved
not to omit it. “I am sorry, madam,” cries he, “that your ladyship can’t eat;
for to be sure you must be hungry after so long fasting. I hope your ladyship
is not uneasy at anything, for, as madam there says, all may end better than
anybody expects. A gentleman who was here just now brought excellent news; and
perhaps some folks who have given other folks the slip may get to London before
they are overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but they will find people
who will be very ready to receive them.”
All
persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see and hear
into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore immediately concluded,
from the foregoing speech, that she was known, and pursued by her father. She
was now struck with the utmost consternation, and for a few minutes deprived of
the power of speech; which she no sooner recovered than she desired the
landlord to send his servants out of the room, and then, addressing herself to
him, said, “I perceive, sir, you know who we are; but I beseech you—nay, I am convinced,
if you have any compassion or goodness, you will not betray us.”
“I betray
your ladyship!” quoth the landlord; “no (and then he swore several very hearty
oaths); I would sooner be cut into ten thousand pieces. I hate all treachery.
I! I never betrayed any one in my life yet, and I am sure I shall not begin
with so sweet a lady as your ladyship. All the world would very much blame me
if I should, since it will be in your ladyship’s power so shortly to reward me.
My wife can witness for me, I knew your ladyship the moment you came into the
house: I said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your horse, and I
shall carry the bruises I got in your ladyship’s service to the grave; but what
signified that, as long as I saved your ladyship? To be sure some people this
morning would have thought of getting a reward; but no such thought ever
entered into my head. I would sooner starve than take any reward for betraying
your ladyship.”
“I promise
you, sir,” says Sophia, “if it be ever in my power to reward you, you shall not
lose by your generosity.”
“Alack-a-day,
madam!” answered the landlord; “in your ladyship’s power! Heaven put it as much
into your will! I am only afraid your honour will forget such a poor man as an
innkeeper; but, if your ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what
reward I refused—refused! that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it may
be called refusing, for I might have had it certainly; and to be sure you might
have been in some houses;—but, for my part, would not methinks for the world
have your ladyship wrong me so much as to imagine I ever thought of betraying
you, even before I heard the good news.”
“What
news, pray?” says Sophia, something eagerly.
“Hath not
your ladyship heard it, then?” cries the landlord; “nay, like enough, for I
heard it only a few minutes ago; and if I had never heard it, may the devil fly
away with me this instant if I would have betrayed your honour! no, if I would,
may I—” Here he subjoined several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last
interrupted, and begged to know what he meant by the news.—He was going to
answer, when Mrs Honour came running into the room, all pale and breathless,
and cried out, “Madam, we are all undone, all ruined, they are come, they are
come!” These words almost froze up the blood of Sophia; but Mrs Fitzpatrick
asked Honour who were come?—“Who?” answered she, “why, the French; several
hundred thousands of them are landed, and we shall be all murdered and
ravished.”
As a
miser, who hath, in some well-built city, a cottage, value twenty shillings,
when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of a fire, turns pale and
trembles at his loss; but when he finds the beautiful palaces only are burnt,
and his own cottage remains safe, he comes instantly to himself, and smiles at
his good fortunes: or as (for we dislike something in the former simile) the
tender mother, when terrified with the apprehension that her darling boy is
drowned, is struck senseless and almost dead with consternation; but when she
is told that little master is safe, and the Victory only, with twelve hundred
brave men, gone to the bottom, life and sense again return, maternal fondness
enjoys the sudden relief from all its fears, and the general benevolence which
at another time would have deeply felt the dreadful catastrophe, lies fast
asleep in her mind;—so Sophia, than whom none was more capable of tenderly
feeling the general calamity of her country, found such immediate satisfaction
from the relief of those terrors she had of being overtaken by her father, that
the arrival of the French scarce made any impression on her. She gently chid
her maid for the fright into which she had thrown her, and said “she was glad
it was no worse; for that she had feared somebody else was come.”
“Ay, ay,”
quoth the landlord, smiling, “her ladyship knows better things; she knows the
French are our very best friends, and come over hither only for our good. They
are the people who are to make Old England flourish again. I warrant her honour
thought the duke was coming; and that was enough to put her into a fright. I
was going to tell your ladyship the news.—His honour’s majesty, Heaven bless
him, hath given the duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to London,
and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road.”
Sophia was
not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman who related it; but,
as she still imagined he knew her (for she could not possibly have any
suspicion of the real truth), she durst not show any dislike. And now the
landlord, having removed the cloth from the table, withdrew; but at his
departure frequently repeated his hopes of being remembered hereafter.
The mind
of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being known at this
house; for she still applied to herself many things which the landlord had
addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore ordered her maid to pump out of him
by what means he had become acquainted with her person, and who had offered him
the reward for betraying her; she likewise ordered the horses to be in
readiness by four in the morning, at which hour Mrs Fitzpatrick promised to
bear her company; and then, composing herself as well as she could, she desired
that lady to continue her story.
Chapter vii. — In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.
While Mrs
Honour, in pursuance of the commands of her mistress, ordered a bowl of punch,
and invited my landlord and landlady to partake of it, Mrs Fitzpatrick thus
went on with her relation.
“Most of
the officers who were quartered at a town in our neighbourhood were of my
husband’s acquaintance. Among these there was a lieutenant, a very pretty sort
of man, and who was married to a woman, so agreeable both in her temper and
conversation, that from our first knowing each other, which was soon after my
lying-in, we were almost inseparable companions; for I had the good fortune to
make myself equally agreeable to her.
“The
lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was frequently of our
parties; indeed he was very little with my husband, and no more than good
breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost constantly at our house. My
husband often expressed much dissatisfaction at the lieutenant’s preferring my
company to his; he was very angry with me on that account, and gave me many a
hearty curse for drawing away his companions; saying, `I ought to be d—n’d for
having spoiled one of the prettiest fellows in the world, by making a milksop
of him.’
“You will
be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger of my husband arose
from my depriving him of a companion; for the lieutenant was not a person with
whose society a fool could be pleased; and, if I should admit the possibility
of this, so little right had my husband to place the loss of his companion to
me, that I am convinced it was my conversation alone which induced him ever to
come to the house. No, child, it was envy, the worst and most rancorous kind of
envy, the envy of superiority of understanding. The wretch could not bear to
see my conversation preferred to his, by a man of whom he could not entertain
the least jealousy. O my dear Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a
man, as is most probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make
frequent trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear to
submit to such a superiority.—Promise me, Sophy, you will take this advice; for
you will hereafter find its importance.” “It is very likely I shall never marry
at all,” answered Sophia; “I think, at least, I shall never marry a man in
whose understanding I see any defects before marriage; and I promise you I
would rather give up my own than see any such afterwards.” “Give up your
understanding!” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “oh, fie, child! I will not believe so
meanly of you. Everything else I might myself be brought to give up; but never
this. Nature would not have allotted this superiority to the wife in so many
instances, if she had intended we should all of us have surrendered it to the
husband. This, indeed, men of sense never expect of us; of which the lieutenant
I have just mentioned was one notable example; for though he had a very good
understanding, he always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a
better. And this, perhaps, was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her.
“Before he
would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such an ugly b— (for,
indeed, she was not a regular beauty, but very agreeable and extremely
genteel), he would see all the women upon earth at the devil, which was a very
usual phrase with him. He said, he wondered what I could see in her to be so
charmed with her company: since this woman, says he, hath come among us, there
is an end of your beloved reading, which you pretended to like so much, that
you could not afford time to return the visits of the ladies in this country;
and I must confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way; for the
ladies there are at least no better than the mere country ladies here; and I
think I need make no other excuse to you for declining any intimacy with them.
“This
correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the while the
lieutenant was quartered in that town; for which I was contented to pay the tax
of being constantly abused in the manner above mentioned by my husband; I mean
when he was at home; for he was frequently absent a month at a time at Dublin,
and once made a journey of two months to London: in all which journeys I
thought it a very singular happiness that he never once desired my company;
nay, by his frequent censures on men who could not travel, as he phrased it,
without a wife tied up to their tail, he sufficiently intimated that, had I
been never so desirous of accompanying him, my wishes would have been in vain;
but, Heaven knows, such wishes were very far from my thoughts.
“At length
my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my solitude, to the
tormenting conversation with my own reflections, and to apply to books for my
only comfort. I now read almost all day long. How many books do you think I
read in three months?” “I can’t guess, indeed, cousin,” answered Sophia.
“Perhaps half a score.” “Half a score! half a thousand, child!” answered the
other. “I read a good deal in Daniel’s English History of France; a great deal
in Plutarch’s Lives, the Atalantis, Pope’s Homer, Dryden’s Plays,
Chillingworth, the Countess D’Aulnois, and Locke’s Human Understanding.
“During
this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I thought, moving letters
to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to any of them, my disdain would not
suffer me to continue my application.” Here she stopt, and, looking earnestly
at Sophia, said, “Methinks, my dear, I read something in your eyes which
reproaches me of a neglect in another place, where I should have met with a kinder
return.” “Indeed, dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “your story is an apology for
any neglect; but, indeed, I feel that I have been guilty of a remissness,
without so good an excuse.—Yet pray proceed; for I long, though I tremble, to
hear the end.”
Thus,
then, Mrs Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:—“My husband now took a second
journey to England, where he continued upwards of three months; during the
greater part of this time I led a life which nothing but having led a worse
could make me think tolerable; for perfect solitude can never be reconciled to
a social mind, like mine, but when it relieves you from the company of those
you hate. What added to my wretchedness was the loss of my little infant: not
that I pretend to have had for it that extravagant tenderness of which I
believe I might have been capable under other circumstances; but I resolved, in
every instance, to discharge the duty of the tenderest mother; and this care
prevented me from feeling the weight of that heaviest of all things, when it
can be at all said to lie heavy on our hands.
“I had
spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen nobody all that
time, except my servants and a very few visitors, when a young lady, a relation
to my husband, came from a distant part of Ireland to visit me. She had staid
once before a week at my house, and then I gave her a pressing invitation to
return; for she was a very agreeable woman, and had improved good natural parts
by a proper education. Indeed, she was to me a welcome guest.
“A few
days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits, without enquiring
the cause, which, indeed, she very well knew, the young lady fell to
compassionating my case. She said, `Though politeness had prevented me from
complaining to my husband’s relations of his behaviour, yet they all were very
sensible of it, and felt great concern upon that account; but none more than
herself.’ And after some more general discourse on this head, which I own I
could not forbear countenancing, at last, after much previous precaution and
enjoined concealment, she communicated to me, as a profound secret—that my
husband kept a mistress.
“You will
certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost insensibility—Upon my word,
if you do, your imagination will mislead you. Contempt had not so kept down my
anger to my husband, but that hatred rose again on this occasion. What can be
the reason of this? Are we so abominably selfish, that we can be concerned at
others having possession even of what we despise? Or are we not rather
abominably vain, and is not this the greatest injury done to our vanity? What
think you, Sophia?”
“I don’t
know, indeed,” answered Sophia; “I have never troubled myself with any of these
deep contemplations; but I think the lady did very ill in communicating to you
such a secret.”
“And yet,
my dear, this conduct is natural,” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “and, when you have
seen and read as much as myself, you will acknowledge it to be so.”
“I am
sorry to hear it is natural,” returned Sophia; “for I want neither reading nor
experience to convince me that it is very dishonourable and very ill-natured:
nay, it is surely as ill-bred to tell a husband or wife of the faults of each
other as to tell them of their own.”
“Well,”
continued Mrs Fitzpatrick, “my husband at last returned; and, if I am
thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated him now more than ever; but
I despised him rather less: for certainly nothing so much weakens our contempt,
as an injury done to our pride or our vanity.
“He now assumed
a carriage to me so very different from what he had lately worn, and so nearly
resembling his behaviour the first week of our marriage, that, had I now had
any spark of love remaining, he might, possibly, have rekindled my fondness for
him. But, though hatred may succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better
of it, love, I believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is too
restless to remain contented without the gratification which it receives from
its object; and one can no more be inclined to love without loving than we can
have eyes without seeing. When a husband, therefore, ceases to be the object of
this passion, it is most probable some other man—I say, my dear, if your
husband grows indifferent to you—if you once come to despise him—I say—that
is—if you have the passion of love in you—Lud! I have bewildered myself so—but
one is apt, in these abstracted considerations, to lose the concatenation of
ideas, as Mr Locke says:—in short, the truth is—in short, I scarce know what it
is; but, as I was saying, my husband returned, and his behaviour, at first,
greatly surprized me; but he soon acquainted me with the motive, and taught me
to account for it. In a word, then, he had spent and lost all the ready money
of my fortune; and, as he could mortgage his own estate no deeper, he was now
desirous to supply himself with cash for his extravagance, by selling a little
estate of mine, which he could not do without my assistance; and to obtain this
favour was the whole and sole motive of all the fondness which he now put on.
“With this
I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told him truly, that, had I
been possessed of the Indies at our first marriage, he might have commanded it
all; for it had been a constant maxim with me, that where a woman disposes of
her heart, she should always deposit her fortune; but, as he had been so kind,
long ago, to restore the former into my possession, I was resolved likewise to
retain what little remained of the latter.
“I will
not describe to you the passion into which these words, and the resolute air in
which they were spoken, threw him: nor will I trouble you with the whole scene
which succeeded between us. Out came, you may be well assured, the story of the
mistress; and out it did come, with all the embellishments which anger and
disdain could bestow upon it.
“Mr
Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more confused than I
had seen him, though his ideas are always confused enough, heaven knows. He did
not, however, endeavour to exculpate himself; but took a method which almost
equally confounded me. What was this but recrimination? He affected to be
jealous:—he may, for aught I know, be inclined enough to jealousy in his
natural temper; nay, he must have had it from nature, or the devil must have
put it into his head; for I defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my
character: nay, the most scandalous tongues have never dared censure my
reputation. My fame, I thank heaven, hath been always as spotless as my life;
and let falsehood itself accuse that if it dare. No, my dear Graveairs, however
provoked, however ill-treated, however injured in my love, I have firmly
resolved never to give the least room for censure on this account.—And yet, my
dear, there are some people so malicious, some tongues so venomous, that no
innocence can escape them. The most undesigned word, the most accidental look,
the least familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be misconstrued, and
magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I despise, my dear
Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice, I assure you, ever gave
me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am above all that.—But where was
I? O let me see, I told you my husband was jealous—And of whom, I pray?—Why, of
whom but the lieutenant I mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort
above a year and more back to find any object for this unaccountable passion,
if, indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit in order
to abuse me.
“But I
have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now bring my story to
a very speedy conclusion. In short, then, after many scenes very unworthy to be
repeated, in which my cousin engaged so heartily on my side, that Mr
Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of doors; when he found I was neither to be
soothed nor bullied into compliance, he took a very violent method indeed.
Perhaps you will conclude he beat me; but this, though he hath approached very
near to it, he never actually did. He confined me to my room, without suffering
me to have either pen, ink, paper, or book: and a servant every day made my
bed, and brought me my food.
“When I
had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a visit, and, with the
voice of a schoolmaster, or, what is often much the same, of a tyrant, asked
me, `If I would yet comply?’ I answered, very stoutly, `That I would die
first.’ `Then so you shall, and be d—nd!’ cries he; `for you shall never go
alive out of this room.’
“Here I
remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my constancy was almost
subdued, and I began to think of submission; when, one day, in the absence of
my husband, who was gone abroad for some short time, by the greatest good
fortune in the world, an accident happened.—I—at a time when I began to give
way to the utmost despair——everything would be excusable at such a time—at that
very time I received——But it would take up an hour to tell you all
particulars.—In one word, then (for I will not tire you with circumstances),
gold, the common key to all padlocks, opened my door, and set me at liberty.
“I now
made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a passage to England; and
was proceeding to Bath, in order to throw myself into the protection of my
aunt, or of your father, or of any relation who would afford it me. My husband
overtook me last night at the inn where I lay, and which you left a few minutes
before me; but I had the good luck to escape him, and to follow you.
“And thus,
my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it is to myself; but,
perhaps, I ought rather to apologize to you for its dullness.”
Sophia
heaved a deep sigh, and answered, “Indeed, Harriet, I pity you from my
soul!——But what could you expect? Why, why, would you marry an Irishman?”
“Upon my
word,” replied her cousin, “your censure is unjust. There are, among the Irish,
men of as much worth and honour as any among the English: nay, to speak the
truth, generosity of spirit is rather more common among them. I have known some
examples there, too, of good husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty
in England. Ask me, rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I
will tell you a solemn truth; I did not know him to be so.”—“Can no man,” said
Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, “do you think, make a bad husband, who
is not a fool?” “That,” answered the other, “is too general a negative; but
none, I believe, is so likely as a fool to prove so. Among my acquaintance, the
silliest fellows are the worst husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a
fact, that a man of sense rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very
well.”
To be continued
