TOM JONES
PART 35
Chapter vii. — Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
Our
cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great Arbiter
Deliciarum, the great high-priest of pleasure, presides; and, like other
heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the pretended presence of the
deity, when in reality no such deity is there.
Mr
Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon left him, and
walked off with a female, saying, “Now you are here, sir, you must beat about
for your own game.”
Jones
began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present; and these hopes
gave him more spirits than the lights, the music, and the company; though these
are pretty strong antidotes against the spleen. He now accosted every woman he
saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore any resemblance to his angel. To all of
whom he endeavoured to say something smart, in order to engage an answer, by which
he might discover that voice which he thought it impossible he should mistake.
Some of these answered by a question, in a squeaking voice, Do you know me?
Much the greater number said, I don’t know you, sir, and nothing more. Some
called him an impertinent fellow; some made him no answer at all; some said,
Indeed I don’t know your voice, and I shall have nothing to say to you; and
many gave him as kind answers as he could wish, but not in the voice he desired
to hear.
Whilst he
was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit of a shepherdess) a
lady in a domino came up to him, and slapping him on the shoulder, whispered
him, at the same time, in the ear, “If you talk any longer with that trollop, I
will acquaint Miss Western.”
Jones no
sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his former companion, he
applied to the domino, begging and entreating her to show him the lady she had
mentioned, if she was then in the room.
The mask
walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost apartment before she spoke;
and then, instead of answering him, sat down, and declared she was tired. Jones
sat down by her, and still persisted in his entreaties; at last the lady coldly
answered, “I imagined Mr Jones had been a more discerning lover, than to suffer
any disguise to conceal his mistress from him.” “Is she here, then, madam?”
replied Jones, with some vehemence. Upon which the lady cried—“Hush, sir, you
will be observed. I promise you, upon my honour, Miss Western is not here.”
Jones, now
taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in the most earnest manner,
to acquaint him where he might find Sophia; and when he could obtain no direct
answer, he began to upbraid her gently for having disappointed him the day
before; and concluded, saying, “Indeed, my good fairy queen, I know your
majesty very well, notwithstanding the affected disguise of your voice. Indeed,
Mrs Fitzpatrick, it is a little cruel to divert yourself at the expense of my
torments.”
The mask
answered, “Though you have so ingeniously discovered me, I must still speak in
the same voice, lest I should be known by others. And do you think, good sir,
that I have no greater regard for my cousin, than to assist in carrying on an
affair between you two, which must end in her ruin, as well as your own?
Besides, I promise you, my cousin is not mad enough to consent to her own
destruction, if you are so much her enemy as to tempt her to it.”
“Alas,
madam!” said Jones, “you little know my heart, when you call me an enemy of
Sophia.”
“And yet
to ruin any one,” cries the other, “you will allow, is the act of an enemy; and
when by the same act you must knowingly and certainly bring ruin on yourself,
is it not folly or madness, as well as guilt? Now, sir, my cousin hath very
little more than her father will please to give her; very little for one of her
fashion—you know him, and you know your own situation.”
Jones
vowed he had no such design on Sophia, “That he would rather suffer the most
violent of deaths than sacrifice her interest to his desires.” He said, “he
knew how unworthy he was of her, every way, that he had long ago resolved to
quit all such aspiring thoughts, but that some strange accidents had made him
desirous to see her once more, when he promised he would take leave of her for
ever. No, madam,” concluded he, “my love is not of that base kind which seeks
its own satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its object. I would
sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia, but Sophia herself.”
Though the
reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of the virtue of the
lady in the mask; and though possibly she may hereafter appear not to deserve
one of the first characters of her sex; yet, it is certain, these generous
sentiments made a strong impression upon her, and greatly added to the
affection she had before conceived for our young heroe.
The lady
now, after silence of a few moments, said, “She did not see his pretensions to
Sophia so much in the light of presumption, as of imprudence. Young fellows,”
says she, “can never have too aspiring thoughts. I love ambition in a young
man, and I would have you cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may
succeed with those who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced
there are women——but don’t you think me a strange creature, Mr Jones, to be
thus giving advice to a man with whom I am so little acquainted, and one with
whose behaviour to me I have so little reason to be pleased?”
Here Jones
began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in anything he had said of
her cousin.—To which the mask answered, “And are you so little versed in the
sex, to imagine you can well affront a lady more than by entertaining her with
your passion for another woman? If the fairy queen had conceived no better opinion
of your gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the
masquerade.”
Jones had
never less inclination to an amour than at present; but gallantry to the ladies
was among his principles of honour; and he held it as much incumbent on him to
accept a challenge to love, as if it had been a challenge to fight. Nay, his
very love to Sophia made it necessary for him to keep well with the lady, as he
made no doubt but she was capable of bringing him into the presence of the
other.
He began therefore
to make a very warm answer to her last speech, when a mask, in the character of
an old woman, joined them. This mask was one of those ladies who go to a
masquerade only to vent ill-nature, by telling people rude truths, and by
endeavouring, as the phrase is, to spoil as much sport as they are able. This
good lady, therefore, having observed Jones, and his friend, whom she well
knew, in close consultation together in a corner of the room, concluded she
could nowhere satisfy her spleen better than by interrupting them. She attacked
them, therefore, and soon drove them from their retirement; nor was she
contented with this, but pursued them to every place which they shifted to
avoid her; till Mr Nightingale, seeing the distress of his friend, at last relieved
him, and engaged the old woman in another pursuit.
While
Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to rid themselves of
the teazer, he observed his lady speak to several masks, with the same freedom
of acquaintance as if they had been barefaced. He could not help expressing his
surprize at this; saying, “Sure, madam, you must have infinite discernment, to
know people in all disguises.” To which the lady answered, “You cannot conceive
anything more insipid and childish than a masquerade to the people of fashion,
who in general know one another as well here as when they meet in an assembly
or a drawing-room; nor will any woman of condition converse with a person with
whom she is not acquainted. In short, the generality of persons whom you see
here may more properly be said to kill time in this place than in any other;
and generally retire from hence more tired than from the longest sermon. To say
the truth, I begin to be in that situation myself; and if I have any faculty at
guessing, you are not much better pleased. I protest it would be almost charity
in me to go home for your sake.” “I know but one charity equal to it,” cries
Jones, “and that is to suffer me to wait on you home.” “Sure,” answered the
lady, “you have a strange opinion of me, to imagine, that upon such an
acquaintance, I would let you into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you
impute the friendship I have shown my cousin to some other motive. Confess
honestly; don’t you consider this contrived interview as little better than a
downright assignation? Are you used, Mr Jones, to make these sudden conquests?”
“I am not used, madam,” said Jones, “to submit to such sudden conquests; but as
you have taken my heart by surprize, the rest of my body hath a right to
follow; so you must pardon me if I resolve to attend you wherever you go.” He
accompanied these words with some proper actions; upon which the lady, after a
gentle rebuke, and saying their familiarity would be observed, told him, “She
was going to sup with an acquaintance, whither she hoped he would not follow
her; for if you should,” said she, “I shall be thought an unaccountable
creature, though my friend indeed is not censorious: yet I hope you won’t
follow me; I protest I shall not know what to say if you do.”
The lady
presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones, notwithstanding the severe
prohibition he had received, presumed to attend her. He was now reduced to the
same dilemma we have mentioned before, namely, the want of a shilling, and
could not relieve it by borrowing as before. He therefore walked boldly on
after the chair in which his lady rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the
chairmen present, who wisely take the best care they can to discountenance all
walking afoot by their betters. Luckily, however, the gentry who attend at the
Opera-house were too busy to quit their stations, and as the lateness of the
hour prevented him from meeting many of their brethren in the street, he
proceeded without molestation, in a dress, which, at another season, would have
certainly raised a mob at his heels.
The lady
was set down in a street not far from Hanover-square, where the door being
presently opened, she was carried in, and the gentleman, without any ceremony,
walked in after her.
Jones and
his companion were now together in a very well-furnished and well-warmed room;
when the female, still speaking in her masquerade voice, said she was surprized
at her friend, who must absolutely have forgot her appointment; at which, after
venting much resentment, she suddenly exprest some apprehension from Jones, and
asked him what the world would think of their having been alone together in a
house at that time of night? But instead of a direct answer to so important a
question, Jones began to be very importunate with the lady to unmask; and at
length having prevailed, there appeared not Mrs Fitzpatrick, but the Lady
Bellaston herself.
It would
be tedious to give the particular conversation, which consisted of very common
and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted from two till six o’clock in the
morning. It is sufficient to mention all of it that is anywise material to this
history. And this was a promise that the lady would endeavour to find out
Sophia, and in a few days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that
he would then take his leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled, and a
second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place, they separated; the
lady returned to her house, and Jones to his lodgings.
Chapter viii. — Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary to most of our readers.
Jones
having refreshed himself with a few hours’ sleep, summoned Partridge to his
presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty pounds, ordered him to go and
change it. Partridge received this with sparkling eyes, though, when he came to
reflect farther, it raised in him some suspicions not very advantageous to the
honour of his master: to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the
disguise in which his master had gone out and returned, and his having been
abroad all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he could
possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by robbery: and,
to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should suspect it was owing to the
generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly imagine any other.
To clear,
therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the liberality of the
lady, he had really received this present from her, who, though she did not
give much into the hackney charities of the age, such as building hospitals,
&c., was not, however, entirely void of that Christian virtue; and
conceived (very rightly I think) that a young fellow of merit, without a
shilling in the world, was no improper object of this virtue.
Mr Jones
and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs Miller. At the
appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen, with the two girls,
attended in the parlour, where they waited from three till almost five before
the good woman appeared. She had been out of town to visit a relation, of whom,
at her return, she gave the following account.
“I hope,
gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if you knew the
occasion—I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six miles off, who now lies
in.—It should be a warning to all persons (says she, looking at her daughters)
how they marry indiscreetly. There is no happiness in this world without a
competency. O Nancy! how shall I describe the wretched condition in which I
found your poor cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and not a
bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire; her second son, that
sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed with his mother; for
there is no other bed in the house. Poor little Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you
will never see your favourite any more; for he is really very ill. The rest of
the children are in pretty good health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself
an injury: she is but thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet, in my life,
I never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother; and,
what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the chearfulness in the
world to her mother; and yet I saw her—I saw the poor child, Mr Nightingale,
turn about, and privately wipe the tears from her eyes.” Here Mrs Miller was
prevented, by her own tears, from going on, and there was not, I believe, a
person present who did not accompany her in them; at length she a little
recovered herself, and proceeded thus: “In all this distress the mother
supports her spirits in a surprizing manner. The danger of her son sits
heaviest upon her, and yet she endeavours as much as possible to conceal even
this concern, on her husband’s account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the
better of all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of this
boy, and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was never
more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch, who is hardly yet
seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with her tears, beg her to be
comforted. `Indeed, mamma,’ cried the child, `I shan’t die; God Almighty, I’m
sure, won’t take Tommy away; let heaven be ever so fine a place, I had rather
stay here and starve with you and my papa than go to it.’ Pardon me, gentlemen,
I can’t help it” (says she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection
in a child.—And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a day or two
will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all human evils. The father
is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his countenance is the very
picture of horror, and he looks like one rather dead than alive. Oh heavens!
what a scene did I behold at my first coming into the room! The good creature
was lying behind the bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife.
He had nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.—When he rose up at my entrance, I scarce knew
him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as you ever beheld; Mr
Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face pale, with a long beard. His
body shivering with cold, and worn with hunger too; for my cousin says she can
hardly prevail upon him to eat.—He told me himself in a whisper—he told me—I
can’t repeat it—he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted.
And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife has as good
caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest affluence; I tasted it, and I
scarce ever tasted better.—The means of procuring her this, he said, he
believed was sent him by an angel from heaven. I know not what he meant; for I
had not spirits enough to ask a single question.
“This was
a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a match between two
beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder couple; but what is their
fondness good for, but to torment each other?” “Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I
have always looked on my cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of
the happiest of women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller, “the case at present is
much otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender consideration
of each other’s sufferings makes the most intolerable part of their calamity,
both to the husband and wife. Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they
affect their own persons only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the
youngest, which is not two years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for
they are a most loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be
the happiest people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery at her
house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what you now tell me.”—“O
child,” answered the mother, “she hath always endeavoured to make the best of
everything. They have always been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute
ruin hath been brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the
villain his brother; and about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in,
their goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter
to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.—What
must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”
It was not
with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was ended he took Mrs
Miller apart with him into another room, and, delivering her his purse, in
which was the sum of £50, desired her to send as much of it as she thought
proper to these poor people. The look which Mrs Miller gave Jones, on this
occasion, is not easy to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of
transport, and cryed out—“Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?”—But
recollecting herself, she said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there be
another?” “I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have common
humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures, can hardly be
called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which were the utmost he could
prevail with her to accept, and said, “She would find some means of conveying
them early the next morning;” adding, “that she had herself done some little
matter for the poor people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as
she found them.”
They then
returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much concern at the
dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he knew; for he had seen them
more than once at Mrs Miller’s. He inveighed against the folly of making
oneself liable for the debts of others; vented many bitter execrations against
the brother; and concluded with wishing something could be done for the
unfortunate family. “Suppose, madam,” said he, “you should recommend them to Mr
Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a guinea with
all my heart.”
Mrs Miller
made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered the generosity of
Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if either of them was angry with
Nightingale, it was surely without reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he
had known it, was not an example which he had any obligation to follow; and
there are thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as
indeed he did not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and therefore,
as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his
pocket.
I have, in
truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity than at present to
communicate my observation, that the world are in general divided into two
opinions concerning charity, which are the very reverse of each other. One
party seems to hold, that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary
gifts, and, however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes),
you acquire a great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary,
appear to be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that
whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the
distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being
meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and are in
some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.
To
reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only add, that
the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the receivers are almost
universally inclined to the latter.
Chapter ix. — Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the preceding chapter.
In the
evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again ensued between
them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary occurrences as before, we
shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we despair of rendering agreeable to
the reader; unless he is one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the
papists to their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am
so far from desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish
to draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain French
novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us here under the
name of translations.
Jones grew
still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding, after repeated
interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of obtaining this by her means
(for, on the contrary, the lady began to treat even the mention of the name of
Sophia with resentment), he resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt
but that Lady Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely
that some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret. Partridge
therefore was employed to get acquainted with those servants, in order to fish
this secret out of them.
Few
situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor master was
at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met with in discovering
Sophia, besides the fears he had of having disobliged her, and the assurances
he had received from Lady Bellaston of the resolution which Sophia had taken
against him, and of her having purposely concealed herself from him, which he
had sufficient reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to
combat which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind
her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of her to be
disinherited of all her father’s estate, the almost inevitable consequence of
their coming together without a consent, which he had no hopes of ever
obtaining.
Add to all
these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose violent fondness we can
no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so that by her means he was now become
one of the best-dressed men about town; and was not only relieved from those
ridiculous distresses we have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a
state of affluence beyond what he had ever known.
Now,
though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to their consciences
to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a woman, without making her any
kind of return; yet to a mind, the proprietor of which doth not deserved to be
hanged, nothing is, I believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude
only; especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was the
unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to Sophia, and
which left very little affection for any other woman, had been entirely out of
the question, he could never have been able to have made any adequate return to
the generous passion of this lady, who had indeed been once an object of
desire, but was now entered at least into the autumn of life, though she wore
all the gaiety of youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still
to maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out of
season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with which Nature, at
the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She had, besides, a certain
imperfection, which renders some flowers, though very beautiful to the eye,
very improper to be placed in a wilderness of sweets, and what above all others
is most disagreeable to the breath of love.
Though
Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt his obligations
full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly discern the ardent
passion whence those obligations proceeded, the extreme violence of which if he
failed to equal, he well knew the lady would think him ungrateful; and, what is
worse, he would have thought himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon
which all her favours were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to
accept them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This
therefore he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself
to her, from that great principle of justice, by which the laws of some
countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise capable of discharging his debt,
to become the slave of his creditor.
While he
was meditating on these matters, he received the following note from the lady:—
“A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since
our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more
at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive some other place
by to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.”
This
disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very great; but if it
was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an hour afterwards another note
was brought him from the same hand, which contained as follows:—
“I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no
stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I
am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever
may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad,
but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.
“If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them
show you into the drawing-room.”
To confess
the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle than he had been with
the former, as he was prevented by it from complying with the earnest
entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he had now contracted much intimacy and
friendship. These entreaties were to go with that young gentleman and his
company to a new play, which was to be acted that evening, and which a very
large party had agreed to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author,
who was a friend to one of Mr Nightingale’s acquaintance. And this sort of fun,
our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred to the
above kind appointment; but his honour got the better of his inclination.
Before we
attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we think proper to account
for both the preceding notes, as the reader may possibly be not a little
surprized at the imprudence of Lady Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the
very house where her rival was lodged.
First,
then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto met, and who
had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now become a methodist,
and had that very morning waited upon her ladyship, and after rebuking her very
severely for her past life, had positively declared that she would, on no
account, be instrumental in carrying on any of her affairs for the future.
The hurry
of spirits into which this accident threw the lady made her despair of possibly
finding any other convenience to meet Jones that evening; but as she began a
little to recover from her uneasiness at the disappointment, she set her
thoughts to work, when luckily it came into her head to propose to Sophia to go
to the play, which was immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for
her companion. Mrs Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the same
errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the safe reception
of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or three hours of uninterrupted
conversation after her return from the place where she dined, which was at a
friend’s house in a pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of
assignation, where she had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the
revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.
Chapter x. — A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes.
Mr Jones
was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller rapped at his door;
and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his company below-stairs, to drink
tea in the parlour.
Upon his
entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to him, saying,
“This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly beholden to your goodness,
for which he begs to return you his sincerest thanks.”
The man
had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so kindly prefaced,
when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each other, showed at once the
utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the latter began instantly to faulter;
and, instead of finishing his speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, “It is
so, I am convinced it is so!”
“Bless me!
what’s the meaning of this?” cries Mrs Miller; “you are not ill, I hope,
cousin? Some water, a dram this instant.”
“Be not
frighted, madam,” cries Jones, “I have almost as much need of a dram as your
cousin. We are equally surprized at this unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an
acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller.”
“An
acquaintance!” cries the man.—“Oh, heaven!”
“Ay, an
acquaintance,” repeated Jones, “and an honoured acquaintance too. When I do not
love and honour the man who dares venture everything to preserve his wife and
children from instant destruction, may I have a friend capable of disowning me
in adversity!”
“Oh, you
are an excellent young man,” cries Mrs Miller:—“Yes, indeed, poor creature! he
hath ventured everything.—If he had not had one of the best of constitutions,
it must have killed him.”
“Cousin,”
cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself, “this is the angel
from heaven whom I meant. This is he to whom, before I saw you, I owed the
preservation of my Peggy. He it was to whose generosity every comfort, every
support which I have procured for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest,
bravest, noblest; of all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this
gentleman of such a nature!”
“Mention
nothing of obligations,” cries Jones eagerly; “not a word, I insist upon it,
not a word” (meaning, I suppose, that he would not have him betray the affair
of the robbery to any person). “If, by the trifle you have received from me, I
have preserved a whole family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap.”
“Oh, sir!”
cries the man, “I wish you could this instant see my house. If any person had
ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I am convinced it is yourself. My
cousin tells me she acquainted you with the distress in which she found us.
That, sir, is all greatly removed, and chiefly by your goodness.——My children
have now a bed to lie on——and they have——they have——eternal blessings reward
you for it!——they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is out
of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my cousin here,
one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at my house.—Indeed my
wife must see you, and thank you.—My children too must express their
gratitude.——Indeed, sir, they are not without a sense of their obligation; but
what is my feeling when I reflect to whom I owe that they are now capable of
expressing their gratitude.——Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed
had now been cold as ice without your assistance.”
Here Jones
attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but indeed the overflowing
of his own heart would of itself have stopped his words. And now Mrs Miller
likewise began to pour forth thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that
of her cousin, and concluded with saying, “She doubted not but such goodness
would meet a glorious reward.”
Jones
answered, “He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your cousin’s account,
madam,” said he, “hath given me a sensation more pleasing than I have ever
known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at hearing such a story; how
transporting then must be the thought of having happily acted a part in this
scene! If there are men who cannot feel the delight of giving happiness to
others, I sincerely pity them, as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my
opinion, a greater honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure than the
ambitious, the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain.”
The hour
of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a hasty leave, but not
before he had heartily shaken his friend by the hand, and desired to see him
again as soon as possible; promising that he would himself take the first
opportunity of visiting him at his own house. He then stept into his chair, and
proceeded to Lady Bellaston’s, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had
procured to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without horror,
on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them, had he listened
rather to the voice of strict justice than to that of mercy, when he was
attacked on the high road.
Mrs Miller
sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening, in which Mr Anderson,
while he stayed, so passionately accompanied her, that he was often on the very
point of mentioning the circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily
recollected himself, and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much
the greater, as he knew Mrs Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her
principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this lady; and
yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the better both of
discretion and shame, and made him publish that which would have defamed his
own character, rather than omit any circumstances which might do the fullest
honour to his benefactor.
Chapter xi. — In which the reader will be surprized.
Mr Jones
was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than the lady; whose
arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the place where she dined,
but by some other cross accidents very vexatious to one in her situation of
mind. He was accordingly shown into the drawing-room, where he had not been
many minutes before the door opened, and in came——no other than Sophia herself,
who had left the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have
already said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement between the
two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself
under the protection of a young gentleman who safely conveyed her to her chair.
As Lady
Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till late, Sophia,
expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily in, and went directly to a
glass which almost fronted her, without once looking towards the upper end of
the room, where the statue of Jones now stood motionless.—-In this glass it
was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the
said statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of the
vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved herself from
fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support her in his arms.
To paint
the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my power. As their
sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged to have been too big for
their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I should be able to express
them: and the misfortune is, that few of my readers have been enough in love to
feel by their own hearts what past at this time in theirs.
After a
short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said—“I see, madam, you are
surprized.”—“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens! Indeed, I am surprized. I
almost doubt whether you are the person you seem.”—“Indeed,” cries he, “my
Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this once calling you so, I am that very wretched
Jones, whom fortune, after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly
conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have
suffered in this long, fruitless pursuit.”—“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a
little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.—“Can you be so cruel
to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of you?” “Of me!” answered
Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important business with me?”—“To some,
madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an important business” (giving her the
pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you will find it of the same value as when it was
lost.” Sophia took the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted
her thus:—“Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments which
fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of a much
superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”—“My pardon!” cries
she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect, after what I have
heard.”—“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones. “By heavens! I scarce wish
you should pardon me. O my Sophia! henceforth never cast away a thought on such
a wretch as I am. If any remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a
moment’s uneasiness to that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the
remembrance of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”
Sophia
stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow, and her heart
was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of Upton, a blush arose in
her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had scarce lifted up, were turned
upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He understood this silent reproach, and
replied to it thus: “O my Sophia! my only love! you cannot hate or despise me
more for what happened there than I do myself; but yet do me the justice to
think that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly
I was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired of
possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your
charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not
been engaged, she, into whose company I accidently fell at that cursed place,
was not an object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen her
from that day to this; and never intend or desire to see her again.” Sophia, in
her heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more
coldness than she had yet assumed, “Why,” said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the
trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it worth
while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature indeed.”—“What is
it, for heaven’s sake?” answered Jones, trembling and pale, expecting to hear
of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,” said she, “how is it possible! can
everything noble and everything base be lodged together in the same bosom?”
Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose
again in his mind, and stopt his mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,”
proceeded Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any
man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the meanest
vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may have too lightly
betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to hear that you had been
forced to fly from my love!”
Nothing
could equal Jones’s surprize at these words of Sophia; but yet, not being
guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend himself than if she had
touched that tender string at which his conscience had been alarmed. By some
examination he presently found, that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an
outrage against his love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge’s
talk at the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it
was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great
difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an offence so
foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to hinder him from going
instantly home, and putting Partridge to death, which he more than once swore
he would do. This point being cleared up, they soon found themselves so well
pleased with each other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation
with conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to
have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were
aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded like
a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That, did not her duty to her
father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin with him would be more
welcome to her than the most affluent fortune with another man.” At the mention
of the word ruin, he started, let drop her hand, which he had held for some
time, and striking his breast with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then
ruin thee? No; by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia,
whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all
such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I
will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a distance from
you; it shall be in some foreign land; from whence no voice, no sigh of my
despair, shall ever reach and disturb your ears. And when I am dead”—He would
have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his
bosom, upon which she leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed
them off, which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any
resistance; but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms;
and, to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found she
could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time
to put to him before, “How he came into that room?” He began to stammer, and
would, in all probability, have raised her suspicions by the answer he was
going to give, when, at once, the door opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.
Having
advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she suddenly stopt;
when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting herself with admirable
presence of mind, she said—though with sufficient indications of surprize both
in voice and countenance—“I thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”
Though
Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he had discovered
her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the real truth, or that Jones
and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she was very little confounded; and the
less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on the subject, entirely
taken her side against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she
went through the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and the
cause of her hasty return.
The length
of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of rallying her spirits,
and of considering in what manner to act. And as the behaviour of Sophia gave
her hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she put on an air of good humour,
and said, “I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I
had known you had company.”
Lady
Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To which that
poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes and confusion,
answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I shall always think the
honour of your ladyship’s company——” “I hope, at least,” cries Lady Bellaston,
“I interrupt no business.”—“No, madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at
an end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the
loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so
kind to return it to me with the bill in it.”
Jones,
ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with fear. He
sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking more like a fool,
if it be possible, than a young booby squire, when he is first introduced into
a polite assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint
from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any
acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his
part. He said, “Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had
used great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in it; but
never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.”
Sophia had
indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady Bellaston; but as Jones,
for some reason or other, had never once hinted to her that it was in his
possession, she believed not one syllable of what Sophia now said, and
wonderfully admired the extreme quickness of the young lady in inventing such
an excuse. The reason of Sophia’s leaving the playhouse met with no better
credit; and though she could not account for the meeting between these two
lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
With an
affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western, you have had very
good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it fell into the hands of a
gentleman of honour, but as he happened to discover to whom it belonged. I
think you would not consent to have it advertised.—It was great good fortune,
sir, that you found out to whom the note belonged.”
“Oh,
madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in which the young
lady’s name was written.”
“That was
very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:—“And it was no less so, that you heard
Miss Western was at my house; for she is very little known.”
Jones had
at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he conceived he had now an
opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the question she had asked him just
before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded thus: “Why, madam,” answered he,
“it was by the luckiest chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was
mentioning what I had found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a
lady at the masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss
Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would inform me,
I went according to her appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I ever
meet with her till this morning, when she directed me to your ladyship’s house.
I came accordingly, and did myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and
upon my saying that I had very particular business, a servant showed me into
this room; where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the
play.”
Upon his
mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady Bellaston, without any
fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was visibly too much confounded to
make any observations. This hint a little alarmed the lady, and she was silent;
when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia’s mind, resolved to take the only
method of relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he
said, “I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these
occasions;—I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;—it is, madam, no
less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit here.”
“Sir,”
replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a gentleman, and my doors are
never shut to people of fashion.”
Jones
then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own satisfaction, and
no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should
discover what she knew already but too well.
Upon the
stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who, notwithstanding all she
had said against him, was now so well bred to behave with great civility. This
meeting proved indeed a lucky circumstance, as he communicated to her the house
where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted.
Chapter xii. — In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
The
elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much truth: by which
it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie is not only excusable
but commendable.
And surely
there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right to this commendable
deviation from truth, as young women in the affair of love; for which they may
plead precept, education, and above all, the sanction, nay, I may say the
necessity of custom, by which they are restrained, not from submitting to the
honest impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from
owning them.
We are
not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued the dictates of
the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As she was perfectly
satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she
determined to keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little
fibbing.
Jones had
not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, “Upon my word, a good pretty
young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don’t remember ever to have seen his
face before.”
“Nor I
neither, madam,” cries Sophia. “I must say he behaved very handsomely in
relation to my note.”
“Yes; and
he is a very handsome fellow,” said the lady: “don’t you think so?”
“I did not
take much notice of him,” answered Sophia, “but I thought he seemed rather
awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise.”
“You are
extremely right,” cries Lady Bellaston: “you may see, by his manner, that he
hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning your note, and
refusing the reward, I almost question whether he is a gentleman.——I have
always observed there is a something in persons well born, which others can
never acquire.——I think I will give orders not to be at home to him.”
“Nay,
sure, madam,” answered Sophia, “one can’t suspect after what he hath
done;—besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an elegance in his
discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression that, that——”
“I
confess,” said Lady Bellaston, “the fellow hath words——And indeed, Sophia, you
must forgive me, indeed you must.”
“I forgive
your ladyship!” said Sophia.
“Yes,
indeed you must,” answered she, laughing; “for I had a horrible suspicion when
I first came into the room——I vow you must forgive it; but I suspected it was
Mr Jones himself.”
“Did your
ladyship, indeed?” cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a laugh.
“Yes, I
vow I did,” answered she. “I can’t imagine what put it into my head: for, give
the fellow his due, he was genteely drest; which, I think, dear Sophy, is not
commonly the case with your friend.”
“This
raillery,” cries Sophia, “is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my promise
to your ladyship.”
“Not at
all, child,” said the lady;——“It would have been cruel before; but after you
have promised me never to marry without your father’s consent, in which you
know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little raillery on a
passion which was pardonable enough in a young girl in the country, and of
which you tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my
dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall
begin to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you
have dealt ingenuously with me.”
“Indeed,
madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I had any
concern on his account.”
“On his
account!” answered the lady: “You must have mistaken me; I went no farther than
his dress;——for I would not injure your taste by any other comparison—I don’t
imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr Jones had been such a fellow as this—”
“I
thought,” says Sophia, “your ladyship had allowed him to be handsome”——
“Whom,
pray?” cried the lady hastily.
“Mr
Jones,” answered Sophia;—and immediately recollecting herself, “Mr Jones!—no,
no; I ask your pardon;—I mean the gentleman who was just now here.”
“O Sophy!
Sophy!” cries the lady; “this Mr Jones, I am afraid, still runs in your head.”
“Then,
upon my honour, madam,” said Sophia, “Mr Jones is as entirely indifferent to
me, as the gentleman who just now left us.”
“Upon my
honour,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it. Forgive me, therefore, a little
innocent raillery; but I promise you I will never mention his name any more.”
And now
the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of Sophia than of Lady
Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her rival a little longer, had
not business of more importance called her away. As for Sophia, her mind was
not perfectly easy under this first practice of deceit; upon which, when she
retired to her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious
shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the necessity of
the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind
was too delicate to bear the thought of having been guilty of a falsehood,
however qualified by circumstances. Nor did this thought once suffer her to
close her eyes during the whole succeeding night.
To be
continued
