TOM JONES
PART
38
BOOK XV. — IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i. — Too short to need a preface.
There are
a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that virtue is the
certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this world. A very wholesome
and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have but one objection, namely, that
it is not true.
Indeed, if
by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal virtues, which like
good housewives stay at home, and mind only the business of their own family, I
shall very readily concede the point; for so surely do all these contribute and
lead to happiness, that I could almost wish, in violation of all the antient
and modern sages, to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of
virtue; for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser
than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to constitute the
chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites, those modern epicures,
who place all felicity in the abundant gratification of every sensual appetite.
But if by
virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain relative quality, which
is always busying itself without-doors, and seems as much interested in
pursuing the good of others as its own; I cannot so easily agree that this is
the surest way to human happiness; because I am afraid we must then include
poverty and contempt, with all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and
ingratitude, can bring on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes
perhaps we shall be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since
many by the above virtue have brought themselves thither.
I have not
now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation, as here seems
opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine that lay in my way;
since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous part imaginable in labouring
to preserve his fellow-creatures from destruction, the devil, or some other
evil spirit, one perhaps cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him
completely miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.
This
therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it was a rule;
but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many other exceptions to it,
we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it is founded, which we don’t
apprehend to be Christian, which we are convinced is not true, and which is
indeed destructive of one of the noblest arguments that reason alone can
furnish for the belief of immortality.
But as the
reader’s curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and hungry, we shall
provide to feed it as fast as we can.
Chapter ii. — In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
I remember
a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When children are doing nothing, they
are doing mischief.” I will not enlarge this quaint saying to the most
beautiful part of the creation in general; but so far I may be allowed, that
when the effects of female jealousy do not appear openly in their proper
colours of rage and fury, we may suspect that mischievous passion to be at work
privately, and attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
This was
exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all the smiles which
she wore in her countenance, concealed much indignation against Sophia; and as
she plainly saw that this young lady stood between her and the full indulgence
of her desires, she resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was
it long before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented
itself to her.
The reader
may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown into that consternation
at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a set of young gentlemen who call
themselves the town, we informed him, that she had put herself under the
protection of a young nobleman, who had very safely conducted her to her chair.
This
nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than once seen Sophia
there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a very great liking to her;
which liking, as beauty never looks more amiable than in distress, Sophia had
in this fright so encreased, that he might now, without any great impropriety,
be said to be actually in love with her.
It may
easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an occasion of
improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now offered itself to
elapse, when even good breeding alone might have prompted him to pay her a
visit.
The next
morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia, with the usual
compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm from her last night’s
adventure.
As love,
like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a flame, Sophia in
a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now flew away unperceived, and
the noble lord had been two hours in company with the lady, before it entered
into his head that he had made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone
would have alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at
present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of her lover
of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make any open declaration
of his passion, yet many of his expressions were rather too warm, and too
tender, to have been imputed to complacence, even in the age when such
complacence was in fashion; the very reverse of which is well known to be the
reigning mode at present.
Lady
Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship’s visit at his first arrival; and
the length of it very well satisfied her, that things went as she wished, and
as indeed she had suspected the second time she saw this young couple together.
This business, she rightly I think concluded, that she should by no means
forward by mixing in the company while they were together; she therefore
ordered her servants, that when my lord was going, they should tell him she
desired to speak with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating how
best to accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would
very readily embrace the execution of.
Lord
Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no sooner
introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the following strain:
“Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my servants had made a mistake,
and let you go away; and I wanted to see you about an affair of some importance.”——“Indeed,
Lady Bellaston,” said he, “I don’t wonder you are astonished at the length of
my visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I had staid
above half-a-one.”——“What am I to conclude from thence, my lord?” said she.
“The company must be very agreeable which can make time slide away so very
deceitfully.”——“Upon my honour,” said he, “the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray
tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is this blazing star which you have produced among
us all of a sudden?”——“What blazing star, my lord?” said she, affecting a
surprize. “I mean,” said he, “the lady I saw here the other day, whom I had
last night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been making that
unreasonable visit.”——“O, my cousin Western!” said she; “why, that blazing
star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire, and hath been in town
about a fortnight, for the first time.”——“Upon my soul,” said he, “I should
swear she had been bred up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw
anything so genteel, so sensible, so polite.”——“O brave!” cries the lady, “my
cousin hath you, I find.”——“Upon my honour,” answered he, “I wish she had; for
I am in love with her to distraction.”——“Nay, my lord,” said she, “it is not
wishing yourself very ill neither, for she is a very great fortune: I assure
you she is an only child, and her father’s estate is a good £3000 a-year.”
“Then I can assure you, madam,” answered the lord, “I think her the best match
in England.” “Indeed, my lord,” replied she, “if you like her, I heartily wish
you had her.” “If you think so kindly of me, madam,” said he, “as she is a
relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her father?” “And
are you really then in earnest?” cries the lady, with an affected gravity. “I
hope, madam,” answered he, “you have a better opinion of me, than to imagine I
would jest with your ladyship in an affair of this kind.” “Indeed, then,” said
the lady, “I will most readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can,
I believe, assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a
bar, which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will never be
able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who, though I blush to
name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever be able to conquer.” “Upon
my word, Lady Bellaston,” cries he, “you have struck a damp to my heart, which
hath almost deprived me of being.” “Fie, my lord,” said she, “I should rather
hope I had struck fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I
rather imagined you would have asked your rival’s name, that you might have
immediately entered the lists with him.” “I promise you, madam,” answered he,
“there are very few things I would not undertake for your charming cousin; but
pray, who is this happy man?”—“Why, he is,” said she, “what I am sorry to say
most happy men with us are, one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a
beggar, a bastard, a foundling, a fellow in meaner circumstances than one of
your lordship’s footmen.” “And is it possible,” cried he, “that a young
creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so
unworthily?” “Alas! my lord,” answered she, “consider the country—the bane of
all young women is the country. There they learn a set of romantic notions of
love, and I know not what folly, which this town and good company can scarce
eradicate in a whole winter.” “Indeed, madam,” replied my lord, “your cousin is
of too immense a value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must be prevented.”
“Alas!” cries she, “my lord, how can it be prevented? The family have already
done all in their power; but the girl is, I think, intoxicated, and nothing
less than ruin will content her. And to deal more openly with you, I expect
every day to hear she is run away with him.” “What you tell me, Lady
Bellaston,” answered his lordship, “affects me most tenderly, and only raises
my compassion, instead of lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means
must be found to preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your ladyship
endeavoured to reason with her?” Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, “My
dear lord, sure you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman out
of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as the jewels they
wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure their folly; but this is
a medicine which I am certain she will not take; nay, I live in hourly horrors
on her account. In short, nothing but violent methods will do.” “What is to be
done?” cries my lord; “what methods are to be taken?—Is there any method upon
earth?—Oh! Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for
such a reward.”——“I really know not,” answered the lady, after a pause; and
then pausing again, she cried out—“Upon my soul, I am at my wit’s end on this
girl’s account.—If she can be preserved, something must be done immediately;
and, as I say, nothing but violent methods will do.——If your lordship hath
really this attachment to my cousin (and to do her justice, except in this
silly inclination, of which she will soon see her folly, she is every way
deserving), I think there may be one way, indeed, it is a very disagreeable
one, and what I am almost afraid to think of.—It requires a great spirit, I
promise you.” “I am not conscious, madam,” said he, “of any defect there; nor
am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an egregious defect indeed,
which could make me backward on this occasion.” “Nay, my lord,” answered she,
“I am so far from doubting you, I am much more inclined to doubt my own
courage; for I must run a monstrous risque. In short, I must place such a
confidence in your honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place in a man on
any consideration.” In this point likewise my lord very well satisfied her; for
his reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did him no more than
justice, in speaking well of him. “Well, then,” said she, “my lord,—I—I vow, I
can’t bear the apprehension of it.—No, it must not be.——At least every other
method shall be tried. Can you get rid of your engagements, and dine here
to-day? Your lordship will have an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss
Western.—I promise you we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady
Betty, and Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they will all go
soon—and I shall be at home to nobody. Then your lordship may be a little more
explicit. Nay, I will contrive some method to convince you of her attachment to
this fellow.” My lord made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, and
then they parted to dress, it being now past three in the morning, or to reckon
by the old style, in the afternoon.
Chapter iii. — A further explanation of the foregoing design.
Though the
reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a member (and no
inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in reality a very considerable
member of the little world; by which appellation was distinguished a very
worthy and honourable society which not long since flourished in this kingdom.
Among
other good principles upon which this society was founded, there was one very
remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an honourable club of heroes, who
assembled at the close of the late war, that all the members should every day
fight once at least; so ‘twas in this, that every member should, within the
twenty-four hours, tell at least one merry fib, which was to be propagated by
all the brethren and sisterhood.
Many idle
stories were told about this society, which from a certain quality may be,
perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the society themselves. As,
that the devil was the president; and that he sat in person in an elbow-chair
at the upper end of the table; but, upon very strict enquiry, I find there is
not the least truth in any of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in
reality of a set of very good sort of people, and the fibs which they
propagated were of a harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good
humour.
Edwards
was likewise a member of this comical society. To him therefore Lady Bellaston
applied as a proper instrument for her purpose, and furnished him with a fib,
which he was to vent whenever the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to be
till the evening, when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were gone,
and while they were engaged in a rubber at whist.
To this
time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening, we will convey our
reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss Western, and Tom, being
engaged at whist, and in the last game of their rubbers, Tom received his cue
from Lady Bellaston, which was, “I protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable
lately; you used to tell us all the news of the town, and now you know no more
of the world than if you lived out of it.”
Mr Edwards
then began as follows: “The fault is not mine, madam: it lies in the dulness of
the age, that doth nothing worth talking of.——O la! though now I think on’t
there hath a terrible accident befallen poor Colonel Wilcox.——Poor Ned.——You
know him, my lord, everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for
him.”
“What is
it, pray?” says Lady Bellaston.
“Why, he
hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that’s all.”
His
lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had killed? To which
Edwards answered, “A young fellow we none of us know; a Somersetshire lad just
came to town, one Jones his name is; a near relation of one Mr Allworthy, of
whom your lordship I believe hath heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a
coffee-house.—Upon my soul, he is one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my
life!”
Sophia,
who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was killed, stopt
her hand, and listened with attention (for all stories of that kind affected
her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter part of the story than she
began to deal again; and having dealt three cards to one, and seven to another,
and ten to a third, at last dropt the rest from her hand, and fell back in her
chair.
The
company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual disturbance ensued,
the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at last, as it is usual, returned
again to life, and was soon after, at her earnest desire, led to her own
apartment; where, at my lord’s request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the
truth, attempted to carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with
repeated assurances, that neither his lordship nor Tom, though she had taught
him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.
There was
no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how justly the case had
been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and now, at her return into the
room, a scheme was laid between these two noble persons, which, though it
appeared in no very heinous light to his lordship (as he faithfully promised,
and faithfully resolved too, to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his
power by marriage), yet many of our readers, we doubt not, will see with just
detestation.
The next
evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when Lady Bellaston
undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his lordship should be introduced to
her. The whole family were to be regulated for the purpose, most of the
servants despatched out of the house; and for Mrs Honour, who, to prevent
suspicion, was to be left with her mistress till his lordship’s arrival, Lady
Bellaston herself was to engage her in an apartment as distant as possible from
the scene of the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia.
Matters
being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her ladyship retired to
rest, highly pleased with a project, of which she had no reason to doubt the
success, and which promised so effectually to remove Sophia from being any
further obstruction to her amour with Jones, by a means of which she should
never appear to be guilty, even if the fact appeared to the world; but this she
made no doubt of preventing by huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the
ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at which all the rest
of her family would rejoice.
But
affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other conspirator;
his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so nobly described by
Shakespear—
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.”——
Though the
violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the first hint of this
design, especially as it came from a relation of the lady, yet when that friend
to reflection, a pillow, had placed the action itself in all its natural black
colours before his eyes, with all the consequences which must, and those which
might probably attend it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go
over to the other side; and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night,
between honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he determined
to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the design.
Lady
Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia sitting by
her bed-side, when the servant acquainted her that Lord Fellamar was below in
the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him to stay, and that she would
see him presently; but the servant was no sooner departed than poor Sophia
began to intreat her cousin not to encourage the visits of that odious lord (so
she called him, though a little unjustly) upon her account. “I see his design,”
said she; “for he made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I am
resolved never to admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together
any more, and to order the servants that, if he enquires for me, I may be
always denied to him.”
“La!
child,” says Lady Bellaston, “you country girls have nothing but sweethearts in
your head; you fancy every man who is civil to you is making love. He is one of
the most gallant young fellows about town, and I am convinced means no more
than a little gallantry. Make love to you indeed! I wish with all my heart he
would, and you must be an arrant mad woman to refuse him.”
“But as I
shall certainly be that mad woman,” cries Sophia, “I hope his visits shall not
be intruded upon me.”
“O child!”
said Lady Bellaston, “you need not be so fearful; if you resolve to run away
with that Jones, I know no person who can hinder you.”
“Upon my
honour, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship injures me. I will never run away
with any man; nor will I ever marry contrary to my father’s inclinations.”
“Well,
Miss Western,” said the lady, “if you are not in a humour to see company this
morning, you may retire to your own apartment; for I am not frightened at his
lordship, and must send for him up into my dressing-room.”
Chapter iv. — By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.
When Lady
Bellaston heard the young lord’s scruples, she treated them with the same
disdain with which one of those sages of the law, called Newgate solicitors,
treats the qualms of conscience in a young witness. “My dear lord,” said she,
“you certainly want a cordial. I must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best
drams. Fie upon it! have more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape?
Or are you apprehensive——? Well! if the story of Helen was modern, I should
think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of Paris, not the fondness of the
lady; for all women love a man of spirit. There is another story of the Sabine
ladies—and that too, I thank heaven, is very antient. Your lordship, perhaps,
will admire my reading; but I think Mr Hook tells us, they made tolerable good
wives afterwards. I fancy few of my married acquaintance were ravished by their
husbands.” “Nay, dear Lady Bellaston,” cried he, “don’t ridicule me in this
manner.” “Why, my good lord,” answered she, “do you think any woman in England
would not laugh at you in her heart, whatever prudery she might wear in her
countenance?——You force me to use a strange kind of language, and to betray my sex
most abominably; but I am contented with knowing my intentions are good, and
that I am endeavouring to serve my cousin; for I think you will make her a
husband notwithstanding this; or, upon my soul, I would not even persuade her
to fling herself away upon an empty title. She should not upbraid me hereafter
with having lost a man of spirit; for that his enemies allow this poor young
fellow to be.”
Let those
who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of this kind from a wife
or a mistress, declare whether they are at all sweetened by coming from a
female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk deeper into his lordship than anything
which Demosthenes or Cicero could have said on the occasion.
Lady
Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord’s pride, began now, like a
true orator, to rouse other passions to its assistance. “My lord,” says she, in
a graver voice, “you will be pleased to remember, you mentioned this matter to
me first; for I would not appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring
to put off my cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need
of an advocate to recommend them.” “Nor doth Miss Western,” said he, “require
any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my opinion, no woman ever had half
her charms.” “Yes, yes, my lord,” replied the lady, looking in the glass,
“there have been women with more than half her charms, I assure you; not that I
need lessen her on that account: she is a most delicious girl, that’s certain;
and within these few hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth not
deserve her, though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a man of
spirit.”
“I hope
so, madam,” said my lord; “though I must own he doth not deserve her; for,
unless heaven or your ladyship disappoint me, she shall within that time be in
mine.”
“Well
spoken, my lord,” answered the lady; “I promise you no disappointment shall
happen from my side; and within this week I am convinced I shall call your
lordship my cousin in public.”
The
remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses, and
compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the parties; but rather dull when
related at second hand. Here, therefore, we shall put an end to this dialogue,
and hasten to the fatal hour when everything was prepared for the destruction
of poor Sophia.
But this
being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we shall treat it in a
chapter by itself.
Chapter v. — Containing some matters which may affect, and others which may surprize, the reader.
The clock
had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and melancholy, sat reading a
tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and she was now come to that part where the
poor distrest Isabella disposes of her wedding-ring.
Here the
book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down into her bosom. In
this situation she had continued a minute, when the door opened, and in came
Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her chair at his entrance; and his lordship
advancing forwards, and making a low bow, said, “I am afraid, Miss Western, I
break in upon you abruptly.” “Indeed, my lord,” says she, “I must own myself a
little surprized at this unexpected visit.” “If this visit be unexpected,
madam,” answered Lord Fellamar, “my eyes must have been very faithless interpreters
of my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for surely you could not
otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your possession, without receiving a
visit from its owner.” Sophia, confused as she was, answered this bombast (and
very properly I think) with a look of inconceivable disdain. My lord then made
another and a longer speech of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling,
said, “Am I really to conceive your lordship to be out of your senses? Sure, my
lord, there is no other excuse for such behaviour.” “I am, indeed, madam, in
the situation you suppose,” cries his lordship; “and sure you will pardon the
effects of a frenzy which you yourself have occasioned; for love hath so
totally deprived me of reason, that I am scarce accountable for any of my
actions.” “Upon my word, my lord,” said Sophia, “I neither understand your
words nor your behaviour.” “Suffer me then, madam,” cries he, “at your feet to
explain both, by laying open my soul to you, and declaring that I doat on you
to the highest degree of distraction. O most adorable, most divine creature!
what language can express the sentiments of my heart?” “I do assure you, my
lord,” said Sophia, “I shall not stay to hear any more of this.” “Do not,”
cries he, “think of leaving me thus cruelly; could you know half the torments
which I feel, that tender bosom must pity what those eyes have caused.” Then
fetching a deep sigh, and laying hold of her hand, he ran on for some minutes
in a strain which would be little more pleasing to the reader than it was to
the lady; and at last concluded with a declaration, “That if he was master of
the world, he would lay it at her feet.” Sophia then, forcibly pulling away her
hand from his, answered with much spirit, “I promise you, sir, your world and its
master I should spurn from me with equal contempt.” She then offered to go; and
Lord Fellamar, again laying hold of her hand, said, “Pardon me, my beloved
angel, freedoms which nothing but despair could have tempted me to
take.——Believe me, could I have had any hope that my title and fortune, neither
of them inconsiderable, unless when compared with your worth, would have been
accepted, I had, in the humblest manner, presented them to your
acceptance.——But I cannot lose you.—By heaven, I will sooner part with my
soul!—You are, you must, you shall be only mine.” “My lord,” says she, “I
intreat you to desist from a vain pursuit; for, upon my honour, I will never
hear you on this subject. Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from
you this moment; nor will I ever see you more.” “Then, madam,” cries his
lordship, “I must make the best use of this moment; for I cannot live, nor will
I live without you.”——“What do you mean, my lord?” said Sophia; “I will raise
the family.” “I have no fear, madam,” answered he, “but of losing you, and that
I am resolved to prevent, the only way which despair points to me.”—He then
caught her in his arms: upon which she screamed so loud, that she must have
alarmed some one to her assistance, had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove
all ears.
But a more
lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another noise now broke forth,
which almost drowned her cries; for now the whole house rang with, “Where is
she? D—n me, I’ll unkennel her this instant. Show me her chamber, I say. Where
is my daughter? I know she’s in the house, and I’ll see her if she’s
above-ground. Show me where she is.”—At which last words the door flew open,
and in came Squire Western, with his parson and a set of myrmidons at his
heels.
How
miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when the enraged voice
of her father was welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it was, and luckily did
he come; for it was the only accident upon earth which could have preserved the
peace of her mind from being for ever destroyed.
Sophia,
notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father’s voice; and his
lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the voice of reason, which
peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for the perpetration of his
villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice approach, and hearing likewise whose it
was (for as the squire more than once roared forth the word daughter, so
Sophia, in the midst of her struggling, cried out upon her father), he thought
proper to relinquish his prey, having only disordered her handkerchief, and
with his rude lips committed violence on her lovely neck.
If the
reader’s imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able to describe the
situation of these two persons when Western came into the room. Sophia tottered
into a chair, where she sat disordered, pale, breathless, bursting with
indignation at Lord Fellamar; affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, at the arrival
of her father.
His
lordship sat down near her, with the bag of his wig hanging over one of his
shoulders, the rest of his dress being somewhat disordered, and rather a
greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at his bosom. As to the
rest, he was amazed, affrighted, vexed, and ashamed.
As to
Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an enemy, which
very frequently pursues, and seldom fails to overtake, most of the country
gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally speaking, drunk; which circumstance,
together with his natural impetuosity, could produce no other effect than his
running immediately up to his daughter, upon whom he fell foul with his tongue
in the most inveterate manner; nay, he had probably committed violence with his
hands, had not the parson interposed, saying, “For heaven’s sake, sir,
animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let me beg you to
mitigate your wrath; it should minister a fulness of satisfaction that you have
found your daughter; for as to revenge, it belongeth not unto us. I discern
great contrition in the countenance of the young lady. I stand assured, if you
will forgive her, she will repent her of all past offences, and return unto her
duty.”
The
strength of the parson’s arms had at first been of more service than the
strength of his rhetoric. However, his last words wrought some effect, and the
squire answered, “I’ll forgee her if she wull ha un. If wot ha un, Sophy, I’ll
forgee thee all. Why dost unt speak? Shat ha un! d—n me, shat ha un! Why dost
unt answer? Was ever such a stubborn tuoad?”
“Let me
intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate,” said the parson; “you frighten
the young lady so, that you deprive her of all power of utterance.”
“Power of
mine a—,” answered the squire. “You take her part then, you do? A pretty
parson, truly, to side with an undutiful child! Yes, yes, I will gee you a
living with a pox. I’ll gee un to the devil sooner.”
“I humbly
crave your pardon,” said the parson; “I assure your worship I meant no such
matter.”
My Lady
Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire, who no sooner saw
her, than, resolving to follow the instructions of his sister, he made her a
very civil bow, in the rural manner, and paid her some of his best compliments.
He then immediately proceeded to his complaints, and said, “There, my lady
cousin; there stands the most undutiful child in the world; she hankers after a
beggarly rascal, and won’t marry one of the greatest matches in all England,
that we have provided for her.”
“Indeed,
cousin Western,” answered the lady, “I am persuaded you wrong my cousin. I am
sure she hath a better understanding. I am convinced she will not refuse what
she must be sensible is so much to her advantage.”
This was a
wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew whom Mr Western meant;
though perhaps she thought he would easily be reconciled to his lordship’s
proposals.
“Do you
hear there,” quoth the squire, “what her ladyship says? All your family are for
the match. Come, Sophy, be a good girl, and be dutiful, and make your father
happy.”
“If my
death will make you happy, sir,” answered Sophia, “you will shortly be so.”
“It’s a
lye, Sophy; it’s a d—n’d lye, and you know it,” said the squire.
“Indeed,
Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you injure your father; he hath nothing in
view but your interest in this match; and I and all your friends must
acknowledge the highest honour done to your family in the proposal.”
“Ay, all
of us,” quoth the squire; “nay, it was no proposal of mine. She knows it was
her aunt proposed it to me first.—Come, Sophy, once more let me beg you to be a
good girl, and gee me your consent before your cousin.”
“Let me
give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It is the fashion now-a-days to
dispense with time and long courtships.”
“Pugh!”
said the squire, “what signifies time; won’t they have time enough to court
afterwards? People may court very well after they have been a-bed together.”
As Lord
Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady Bellaston, so, never
having heard nor suspected a word of Blifil, he made no doubt of his being
meant by the father. Coming up, therefore, to the squire, he said, “Though I
have not the honour, sir, of being personally known to you, yet, as I find I
have the happiness to have my proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in
behalf of the young lady, that she may not be more solicited at this time.”
“You
intercede, sir!” said the squire; “why, who the devil are you?”
“Sir, I am
Lord Fellamar,” answered he, “and am the happy man whom I hope you have done
the honour of accepting for a son-in-law.”
“You are a
son of a b——,” replied the squire, “for all your laced coat. You my son-in-law,
and be d—n’d to you!”
“I shall
take more from you, sir, than from any man,” answered the lord; “but I must
inform you that I am not used to hear such language without resentment.”
“Resent my
a—,” quoth the squire. “Don’t think I am afraid of such a fellow as thee art!
because hast got a spit there dangling at thy side. Lay by your spit, and I’ll
give thee enough of meddling with what doth not belong to thee. I’ll teach you
to father-in-law me. I’ll lick thy jacket.”
“It’s very
well, sir,” said my lord, “I shall make no disturbance before the ladies. I am
very well satisfied. Your humble servant, sir; Lady Bellaston, your most
obedient.”
His
lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to Mr Western,
said, “Bless me, sir, what have you done? You know not whom you have affronted;
he is a nobleman of the first rank and fortune, and yesterday made proposals to
your daughter; and such as I am sure you must accept with the highest
pleasure.”
“Answer
for yourself, lady cousin,” said the squire, “I will have nothing to do with
any of your lords. My daughter shall have an honest country gentleman; I have
pitched upon one for her—and she shall ha’ un.—I am sorry for the trouble she
hath given your ladyship with all my heart.” Lady Bellaston made a civil speech
upon the word trouble; to which the squire answered—“Why, that’s kind—and I
would do as much for your ladyship. To be sure relations should do for one
another. So I wish your ladyship a good night.—Come, madam, you must go along
with me by fair means, or I’ll have you carried down to the coach.”
Sophia
said she would attend him without force; but begged to go in a chair, for she
said she should not be able to ride any other way.
“Prithee,”
cries the squire, “wout unt persuade me canst not ride in a coach, wouldst?
That’s a pretty thing surely! No, no, I’ll never let thee out of my sight any
more till art married, that I promise thee.” Sophia told him, she saw he was
resolved to break her heart. “O break thy heart and be d—n’d,” quoth he, “if a
good husband will break it. I don’t value a brass varden, not a halfpenny, of
any undutiful b— upon earth.” He then took violent hold of her hand; upon which
the parson once more interfered, begging him to use gentle methods. At that the
squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson hold his tongue, saying,
“At’nt in pulpit now? when art a got up there I never mind what dost say; but I
won’t be priest-ridden, nor taught how to behave myself by thee. I wish your
ladyship a good-night. Come along, Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be
well. Shat ha’ un, d—n me, shat ha’ un!”
Mrs Honour
appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy to the squire offered to attend
her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying, “Hold, madam, hold, you come no
more near my house.” “And will you take my maid away from me?” said Sophia.
“Yes, indeed, madam, will I,” cries the squire: “you need not fear being
without a servant; I will get you another maid, and a better maid than this,
who, I’d lay five pounds to a crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no,
Sophy, she shall contrive no more escapes, I promise you.” He then packed up
his daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which he mounted
himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the way thither he
suffered Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself with reading a lecture to
the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to his betters.
It is
possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter from Lady
Bellaston, had that good lady desired to have detained her; but, in reality,
she was not a little pleased with the confinement into which Sophia was going;
and as her project with Lord Fellamar had failed of success, she was well
contented that other violent methods were now going to be used in favour of
another man.
Chapter vi. — By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.
Though the
reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more unaccountable
appearances than this of Mr Western, without any satisfaction at all; yet, as
we dearly love to oblige him whenever it is in our power, we shall now proceed
to shew by what method the squire discovered where his daughter was.
In the
third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint (for it is not our
custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary for the occasion) that Mrs
Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of reconciling her uncle and aunt Western,
thought she had a probable opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia
from committing the same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her family.
After much deliberation, therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt Western
where her cousin was, and accordingly she writ the following letter, which we
shall give the reader at length, for more reasons than one.
“HONOURED MADAM,
“The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine
agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though
I have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of
another.
“Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at
your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the world, my cousin
Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself,
though, alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy
me, that unless she is immediately prevented, she is in danger of
running into the same fatal mischief, which, by foolishly and
ignorantly refusing your most wise and prudent advice, I have
unfortunately brought on myself.
“In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most part of yesterday in
his company, and a charming young fellow I promise you he is. By
what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you
now; but I have this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest
he should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth not yet know
where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath
secured her.——No time therefore is to be lost; and I need only
inform you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen,
and who hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family.
You know, madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome
me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great
understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely
informing you of the matter of fact.
“I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the
good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of a lady
who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true
interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to
your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and
is so necessary to my future happiness.
“I am,
with the utmost respect,
honoured madam,
your most dutiful obliged niece,
and most obedient humble
servant,
HARRIET FITZPATRICK.”
Mrs Western
was now at her brother’s house, where she had resided ever since the flight of
Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the poor squire in his affliction. Of
this comfort, which she doled out to him in daily portions, we have formerly
given a specimen.
She was
now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of snuff in her hand,
was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort to the squire, while he
smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received the above letter; which she had
no sooner read than she delivered it to him, saying, “There, sir, there is an
account of your lost sheep. Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you
will be governed by my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve her.”
The squire
had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his chair, threw his pipe
into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He then summoned his servants,
called for his boots, and ordered the Chevalier and several other horses to be
saddled, and that parson Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done
this, he turned to his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close
embrace, saying, “Zounds! you don’t seem pleased; one would imagine you was
sorry I have found the girl.”
“Brother,”
answered she, “the deepest politicians, who see to the bottom, discover often a
very different aspect of affairs, from what swims on the surface. It is true,
indeed, things do look rather less desperate than they did formerly in Holland,
when Lewis the Fourteenth was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a
delicacy required in this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I
suspect you want. There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as
Lady Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior, I
am afraid, to yours.”
“Sister,”
cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion of my parts; but I’ll shew you on
this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I have not been in the country
so long without having some knowledge of warrants and the law of the land. I
know I may take my own wherever I can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if
I don’t know how to come at her, I’ll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I
live. There be justices of peace in London, as well as in other places.”
“I
protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the event of this matter, which,
if you will proceed by my advice, you may bring to so good an issue. Do you
really imagine, brother, that the house of a woman of figure is to be attacked
by warrants and brutal justices of the peace? I will inform you how to proceed.
As soon as you arrive in town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for
indeed, brother, you have none at present fit to appear in), you must send your
compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her. When you are
admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and have told her your
story, and have made proper use of my name (for I think you just know one
another only by sight, though you are relations), I am confident she will
withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath certainly imposed upon her.
This is the only method.—Justices of peace, indeed! do you imagine any such
event can arrive to a woman of figure in a civilised nation?”
“D—n their
figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty civilised nation, truly, where women are
above the law. And what must I stand sending a parcel of compliments to a
confounded whore, that keeps away a daughter from her own natural father? I
tell you, sister, I am not so ignorant as you think me——I know you would have
women above the law, but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size,
that no one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.”
“Mr
Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in ignorance.——I protest you are
grown an arrant bear.”
“No more a
bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the squire.—“Pox! you may talk of
your civility an you will, I am sure you never shew any to me. I am no bear,
no, nor no dog neither, though I know somebody, that is something that begins
with a b; but pox! I will show you I have got more good manners than some
folks.”
“Mr
Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you please, je vous mesprise
de tout mon coeur. I shall not therefore be angry.——Besides, as my cousin,
with that odious Irish name, justly says, I have that regard for the honour and
true interest of my family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it,
that I have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed, indeed,
brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite
court.—Greenland—Greenland should always be the scene of the tramontane
negociation.”
“I thank
Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don’t understand you now. You are got to your
Hanoverian linguo. However, I’ll shew you I scorn to be behind-hand in civility
with you; and as you are not angry for what I have said, so I am not angry for
what you have said. Indeed I have always thought it a folly for relations to
quarrel; and if they do now and then give a hasty word, why, people should give
and take; for my part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to
go up to London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not
stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can’t be expected to know
much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied that you know’d
all these matters better than I. For me to dispute that would be all as one as
for you to dispute the management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare
sitting, with me.”—“Which I promise you,” says she, “I never will.”—“Well, and
I promise you,” returned he, “that I never will dispute the t’other.”
Here then
a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady) between the contending
parties; and now the parson arriving, and the horses being ready, the squire
departed, having promised his sister to follow her advice, and she prepared to
follow him the next day.
But having
communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they both agreed that the
prescribed formalities might very well be dispensed with; and the squire,
having changed his mind, proceeded in the manner we have already seen.
To be continued
