TOM JONES
PART 42
BOOK XVII.
CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i. — Containing a portion of introductory writing.
When a
comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he can, or when a
tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch of human misery, they both
conclude their business to be done, and that their work is come to a period.
Had we
been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we were very nearly
arrived at this period, since it would be difficult for the devil, or any of
his representatives on earth, to have contrived much greater torments for poor
Jones than those in which we left him in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a
good-natured woman would hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she
must at present be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy
but a murder or two and a few moral sentences!
But to
bring our favourites out of their present anguish and distress, and to land
them at last on the shore of happiness, seems a much harder task; a task indeed
so hard that we do not undertake to execute it. In regard to Sophia, it is more
than probable that we shall somewhere or other provide a good husband for her
in the end—either Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones,
such are the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to his
imprudence, by which if a man doth not become felon to the world, he is at
least a felo de se; so destitute is he now of friends, and so persecuted
by enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to any good; and if our
reader delights in seeing executions, I think he ought not to lose any time in
taking a first row at Tyburn.
This I
faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which we may be
supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have unfortunately made our heroe, we
will lend him none of that supernatural assistance with which we are entrusted,
upon condition that we use it only on very important occasions. If he doth not
therefore find some natural means of fairly extricating himself from all his
distresses, we will do no violence to the truth and dignity of history for his sake;
for we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may very probably
be the case) than forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.
In this
the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their mythology, which was
at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar than any religion is at
present, gave them always an opportunity of delivering a favourite heroe. Their
deities were always ready at the writer’s elbow, to execute any of his
purposes; and the more extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the
surprize and delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater
ease have conveyed a heroe from one country to another, nay from one world to
another, and have brought him back again, than a poor circumscribed modern can
deliver him from a jail.
The
Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their tales from the
genii and fairies, which they believe in as an article of their faith, upon the
authority of the Koran itself. But we have none of these helps. To natural
means alone we are confined; let us try therefore what, by these means, may be
done for poor Jones; though to confess the truth, something whispers me in the
ear that he doth not yet know the worst of his fortune; and that a more shocking
piece of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the unopened leaves
of fate.
Chapter ii. — The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
Mr
Allworthy and Mrs Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when Blifil, who had
gone out very early that morning, returned to make one of the company.
He had not
been long seated before he began as follows: “Good Lord! my dear uncle, what do
you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of telling it you, for fear of
shocking you with the remembrance of ever having shewn any kindness to such a
villain.” “What is the matter, child?” said the uncle. “I fear I have shewn
kindness in my life to the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt
the vices of its objects.” “O, sir!” returned Blifil, “it is not without the
secret direction of Providence that you mention the word adoption. Your adopted
son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished in your bosom, hath proved
one of the greatest villains upon earth.” “By all that’s sacred ‘tis false,”
cries Mrs Miller. “Mr Jones is no villain. He is one of the worthiest creatures
breathing; and if any other person had called him villain, I would have thrown
all this boiling water in his face.” Mr Allworthy looked very much amazed at
this behaviour. But she did not give him leave to speak, before, turning to
him, she cried, “I hope you will not be angry with me; I would not offend you,
sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to hear him called so.” “I
must own, madam,” said Allworthy, very gravely, “I am a little surprized to
hear you so warmly defend a fellow you do not know.” “O! I do know him, Mr
Allworthy,” said she, “indeed I do; I should be the most ungrateful of all
wretches if I denied it. O! he hath preserved me and my little family; we have
all reason to bless him while we live.—And I pray Heaven to bless him, and turn
the hearts of his malicious enemies. I know, I find, I see, he hath such.” “You
surprize me, madam, still more,” said Allworthy; “sure you must mean some
other. It is impossible you should have any such obligations to the man my
nephew mentions.” “Too surely,” answered she, “I have obligations to him of the
greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been the preserver of me and mine. Believe
me, sir, he hath been abused, grossly abused to you; I know he hath, or you,
whom I know to be all goodness and honour, would not, after the many kind and
tender things I have heard you say of this poor helpless child, have so
disdainfully called him fellow.—Indeed, my best of friends, he deserves a
kinder appellation from you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful
things which I have heard him utter of you. He never mentions your name but
with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him on his knees,
imploring all the blessings of heaven upon your head. I do not love that child
there better than he loves you.”
“I see,
sir, now,” said Blifil, with one of those grinning sneers with which the devil
marks his best beloved, “Mrs Miller really doth know him. I suppose you will
find she is not the only one of your acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you.
As for my character, I perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath
been very free with it, but I forgive him.” “And the Lord forgive you, sir!”
said Mrs Miller; “we have all sins enough to stand in need of his forgiveness.”
“Upon my
word, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “I do not take this behaviour of yours to my
nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as any reflections which you cast upon him
must come only from that wickedest of men, they would only serve, if that were
possible, to heighten my resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs
Miller, the young man who now stands before you hath ever been the warmest
advocate for the ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when
you hear it from my own mouth, will make you wonder at so much baseness and
ingratitude.”
“You are
deceived, sir,” answered Mrs Miller; “if they were the last words which were to
issue from my lips, I would say you were deceived; and I once more repeat it,
the Lord forgive those who have deceived you! I do not pretend to say the young
man is without faults; but they are all the faults of wildness and of youth;
faults which he may, nay, which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he
should not, they are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender,
honest hearts that ever man was blest with.”
“Indeed,
Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “had this been related of you, I should not have
believed it.” “Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you will believe everything I have
said, I am sure you will: and when you have heard the story which I shall tell
you (for I will tell you all), you will be so far from being offended, that you
will own (I know your justice so well), that I must have been the most
despicable and most ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part than I
have.”
“Well,
madam,” said Allworthy, “I shall be very glad to hear any good excuse for a
behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants an excuse. And now, madam, will
you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in his story without interruption. He
would not have introduced a matter of slight consequence with such a preface.
Perhaps even this story will cure you of your mistake.”
Mrs Miller
gave tokens of submission, and then Mr Blifil began thus: “I am sure, sir, if
you don’t think proper to resent the ill-usage of Mrs Miller, I shall easily
forgive what affects me only. I think your goodness hath not deserved this
indignity at her hands.” “Well, child,” said Allworthy, “but what is this new
instance? What hath he done of late?” “What,” cries Blifil, “notwithstanding
all Mrs Miller hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you should never
have heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal from the
whole world. In short he hath killed a man; I will not say murdered—for perhaps
it may not be so construed in law, and I hope the best for his sake.”
Allworthy
looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to Mrs Miller, he cried,
“Well, madam, what say you now?”
“Why, I
say, sir,” answered she, “that I never was more concerned at anything in my
life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced the man, whoever he is, was in
fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in this town who make it their
business to provoke young gentlemen. Nothing but the greatest provocation could
have tempted him; for of all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw
one so gentle or so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by every one in the house,
and every one who came near it.”
While she
was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door interrupted their
conversation, and prevented her from proceeding further, or from receiving any
answer; for, as she concluded this was a visitor to Mr Allworthy, she hastily
retired, taking with her her little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at
the melancholy news she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little wife,
and not only gave her many playthings, but spent whole hours in playing with
her himself.
Some
readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances, in relating
of which we follow the example of Plutarch, one of the best of our brother
historians; and others, to whom they may appear trivial, will, we hope, at
least pardon them, as we are never prolix on such occasions.
Chapter iii. — The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning the paternal authority.
Mrs Miller
had not long left the room when Mr Western entered; but not before a small
wrangling bout had passed between him and his chairmen; for the fellows, who
had taken up their burden at the Hercules Pillars, had conceived no hopes of
having any future good customer in the squire; and they were moreover farther
encouraged by his generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence
more than their fare); they therefore very boldly demanded another shilling,
which so provoked the squire, that he not only bestowed many hearty curses on
them at the door, but retained his anger after he came into the room; swearing
that all the Londoners were like the court, and thought of nothing but
plundering country gentlemen. “D—n me,” says he, “if I won’t walk in the rain
rather than get into one of their hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more
in a mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase.”
When his
wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the same passionate
tone on another. “There,” says he, “there is fine business forwards now. The
hounds have changed at last; and when we imagined we had a fox to deal with,
od-rat it, it turns out to be a badger at last!”
“Pray, my
good neighbour,” said Allworthy, “drop your metaphors, and speak a little
plainer.” “Why, then,” says the squire, “to tell you plainly, we have been all
this time afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of somebody’s, I don’t know
whose, not I. And now here’s a confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be
a bastard too for what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of
mine by my consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar
me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover.”
“You
surprize me much, my good friend,” said Allworthy. “Why, zounds! I am surprized
myself,” answered the squire. “I went to zee sister Western last night,
according to her own appointment, and there I was had into a whole room full of
women. There was my lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady
Catherine, and my lady I don’t know who; d—n me, if ever you catch me among
such a kennel of hoop-petticoat b—s! D—n me, I’d rather be run by my own dogs,
as one Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a hare, and his own
dogs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no mortal was ever run in such a
manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered to clap back, another
snapped me. `O! certainly one of the greatest matches in England,’ says one
cousin (here he attempted to mimic them); `A very advantageous offer indeed,’
cries another cousin (for you must know they be all my cousins, thof I never
zeed half o’ um before). `Surely,’ says that fat a—se b—, my Lady Bellaston,
`cousin, you must be out of your wits to think of refusing such an offer.’”
“Now I
begin to understand,” says Allworthy; “some person hath made proposals to Miss
Western, which the ladies of the family approve, but is not to your liking.”
“My
liking!” said Western, “how the devil should it? I tell you it is a lord, and
those are always volks whom you know I always resolved to have nothing to do
with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty years’ purchase now for a bit of land,
which one o’ um had a mind to put into a park, only because I would have no
dealings with lords, and dost think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides,
ben’t I engaged to you, and did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised?”
“As to
that point, neighbour,” said Allworthy, “I entirely release you from any
engagement. No contract can be binding between parties who have not a full
power to make it at the time, nor ever afterwards acquire the power of
fulfilling it.”
“Slud!
then,” answered Western, “I tell you I have power, and I will fulfil it. Come
along with me directly to Doctors’ Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go
to sister and take away the wench by force, and she shall ha un, or I will lock
her up, and keep her upon bread and water as long as she lives.”
“Mr
Western,” said Allworthy, “shall I beg you will hear my full sentiments on this
matter?”—“Hear thee; ay, to be sure I will,” answered he. “Why, then, sir,”
cries Allworthy, “I can truly say, without a compliment either to you or the
young lady, that when this match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and
heartily, from my regard to you both. An alliance between two families so
nearly neighbours, and between whom there had always existed so mutual an
intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable event; and with regard
to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion of all who knew her, but my
own observation assured me that she would be an inestimable treasure to a good
husband. I shall say nothing of her personal qualifications, which certainly
are admirable; her good nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are
too well known to need any panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in
a high degree in that best of women, who is now one of the first of angels,
which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes observation; so
little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to express it. I must use
negatives on this occasion. I never heard anything of pertness, or what is
called repartee, out of her mouth; no pretence to wit, much less to that kind
of wisdom which is the result only of great learning and experience, the
affectation of which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations
of an ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions, no profound
criticisms. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath been all
attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the forwardness of a teacher.
You’ll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her only, desired her opinion on a
point which was controverted between Mr Thwackum and Mr Square. To which she
answered, with much sweetness, `You will pardon me, good Mr Allworthy; I am
sure you cannot in earnest think me capable of deciding any point in which two
such gentlemen disagree.’ Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought
themselves sure of a favourable decision, seconded my request. She answered
with the same good humour, `I must absolutely be excused: for I will affront
neither so much as to give my judgment on his side.’ Indeed, she always shewed
the highest deference to the understandings of men; a quality absolutely
essential to the making a good wife. I shall only add, that as she is most
apparently void of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real.”
Here
Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were full of tears at
the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, “Don’t be chicken-hearted, for shat ha
her, d—n me, shat ha her, if she was twenty times as good.”
“Remember
your promise, sir,” cried Allworthy, “I was not to be interrupted.” “Well, shat
unt,” answered the squire; “I won’t speak another word.”
“Now, my
good friend,” continued Allworthy, “I have dwelt so long on the merit of this
young lady, partly as I really am in love with her character, and partly that
fortune (for the match in that light is really advantageous on my nephew’s
side) might not be imagined to be my principal view in having so eagerly
embraced the proposal. Indeed, I heartily wished to receive so great a jewel
into my family; but though I may wish for many good things, I would not,
therefore, steal them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to possess
myself of them. Now to force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or
approbation, is an act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish the laws
of our country could restrain it; but a good conscience is never lawless in the
worst regulated state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the
neglect of legislators hath forgotten to supply. This is surely a case of that
kind; for, is it not cruel, nay, impious, to force a woman into that state
against her will; for her behaviour in which she is to be accountable to the
highest and most dreadful court of judicature, and to answer at the peril of
her soul? To discharge the matrimonial duties in an adequate manner is no easy
task; and shall we lay this burthen upon a woman, while we at the same time
deprive her of all that assistance which may enable her to undergo it? Shall we
tear her very heart from her, while we enjoin her duties to which a whole heart
is scarce equal? I must speak very plainly here. I think parents who act in
this manner are accessories to all the guilt which their children afterwards
incur, and of course must, before a just judge, expect to partake of their
punishment; but if they could avoid this, good heaven! is there a soul who can
bear the thought of having contributed to the damnation of his child?
“For these
reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of this young lady are
most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must decline any further thoughts of the
honour you intended him, though I assure you I shall always retain the most
grateful sense of it.”
“Well,
sir,” said Western (the froth bursting forth from his lips the moment they were
uncorked), “you cannot say but I have heard you out, and now I expect you’ll
hear me; and if I don’t answer every word on’t, why then I’ll consent to gee
the matter up. First then, I desire you to answer me one question—Did not I
beget her? did not I beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise
father that knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her,
for I bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if I
be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to govern my own
child? and if I am to govern her in other matters, surely I am to govern her in
this, which concerns her most. And what am I desiring all this while? Am I
desiring her to do anything for me? to give me anything?—Zu much on t’other
side, that I am only desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t’other
half when I die. Well, and what is it all vor? Why, is unt it to make her
happy? It’s enough to make one mad to hear volks talk; if I was going to marry
myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber; but, on the contrary,
han’t I offered to bind down my land in such a manner, that I could not marry
if I would, seeing as narro’ woman upon earth would ha me. What the devil in
hell can I do more? I contribute to her damnation!—Zounds! I’d zee all the
world d—n’d bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr Allworthy, you
must excuse me, but I am surprized to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I
must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense.”
Allworthy
resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could he, if he would have
endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any mixture of malice or
contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose the angels
bestow on the absurdities of mankind.
Blifil now
desired to be permitted to speak a few words. “As to using any violence on the
young lady, I am sure I shall never consent to it. My conscience will not
permit me to use violence on any one, much less on a lady for whom, however
cruel she is to me, I shall always preserve the purest and sincerest affection;
but yet I have read that women are seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I
not hope then by such perseverance at last to gain those inclinations, in which
for the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr
Western is so kind to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not deny but
that a parent hath at least a negative voice in these matters; nay, I have
heard this very young lady herself say so more than once, and declare that she
thought children inexcusable who married in direct opposition to the will of
their parents. Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to favour
the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined to give
him any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I am too sensible
that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her heart.”
“Ay, ay,
so he does,” cries Western.
“But
surely,” says Blifil, “when she hears of this murder which he hath committed,
if the law should spare his life——”
“What’s
that?” cries Western. “Murder! hath he committed a murder, and is there any
hopes of seeing him hanged?—Tol de rol, tol lol de rol.” Here he fell a singing
and capering about the room.
“Child,”
says Allworthy, “this unhappy passion of yours distresses me beyond measure. I
heartily pity you, and would do every fair thing to promote your success.”
“I desire
no more,” cries Blifil; “I am convinced my dear uncle hath a better opinion of
me than to think that I myself would accept of more.”
“Lookee,”
says Allworthy, “you have my leave to write, to visit, if she will permit
it—but I insist on no thoughts of violence. I will have no confinement, nothing
of that kind attempted.”
“Well,
well,” cries the squire, “nothing of that kind shall be attempted; we will try
a little longer what fair means will effect; and if this fellow be but hanged
out of the way—Tol lol de rol! I never heard better news in my life—I warrant
everything goes to my mind.—Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me
at the Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a
spare-rib of pork, and a fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody but
ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord; for I have sent Parson
Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left at an inn there,
and I would not lose it for the world; for it is an old acquaintance of above
twenty years’ standing. I can tell you landlord is a vast comical bitch, you
will like un hugely.”
Mr
Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after the squire went
off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the speedy tragical end of
poor Jones.
When he
was gone, Mr Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject with much gravity. He told
his nephew, “He wished with all his heart he would endeavour to conquer a
passion, in which I cannot,” says he, “flatter you with any hopes of
succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar error, that aversion in a woman may be
conquered by perseverance. Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it;
but the usual triumphs gained by perseverance in a lover are over caprice,
prudence, affectation, and often an exorbitant degree of levity, which excites
women not over-warm in their constitutions to indulge their vanity by
prolonging the time of courtship, even when they are well enough pleased with
the object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all) to make him a very
pitiful amends in the end. But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this is, will
rather gather strength than be conquered by time. Besides, my dear, I have
another apprehension which you must excuse. I am afraid this passion which you
have for this fine young creature hath her beautiful person too much for its
object, and is unworthy of the name of that love which is the only foundation
of matrimonial felicity. To admire, to like, and to long for the possession of
a beautiful woman, without any regard to her sentiments towards us, is, I am
afraid, too natural; but love, I believe, is the child of love only; at least,
I am pretty confident that to love the creature who we are assured hates us is
not in human nature. Examine your heart, therefore, thoroughly, my good boy,
and if, upon examination, you have but the least suspicion of this kind, I am
sure your own virtue and religion will impel you to drive so vicious a passion
from your heart, and your good sense will soon enable you to do it without
pain.”
The reader
may pretty well guess Blifil’s answer; but, if he should be at a loss, we are
not at present at leisure to satisfy him, as our history now hastens on to
matters of higher importance, and we can no longer bear to be absent from
Sophia.
Chapter iv. — An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.
The lowing
heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble safe and
unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter doomed to be the
prey of man; yet many years are they suffered to enjoy their liberty
undisturbed. But if a plump doe be discovered to have escaped from the forest,
and to repose herself in some field or grove, the whole parish is presently
alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs after her; and, if she is preserved
from the rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his own
eating.
I have
often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and fashion, when first
found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be in pretty much the same
situation with this doe. The town is immediately in an uproar; she is hunted
from park to play, from court to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber,
and rarely escapes a single season from the jaws of some devourer or other;
for, if her friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her over to
one of their own chusing, often more disagreeable to her than any of the rest;
while whole herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce regarded,
traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the
most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet for a long time do they
wanton in liberty, without disturbance or controul.
Of all
these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than poor Sophia. Her
ill stars were not contented with all that she had suffered on account of
Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who seemed likely to torment her
no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was less violent, she was
no less assiduous in teizing her, than her father had been before.
The
servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs Western, who had opened
the matter to Sophia, informed her, “That she expected his lordship that very
afternoon, and intended to take the first opportunity of leaving her alone with
him.” “If you do, madam,” answered Sophia, with some spirit, “I shall take the
first opportunity of leaving him by himself.” “How! madam!” cries the aunt; “is
this the return you make me for my kindness in relieving you from your
confinement at your father’s?” “You know, madam,” said Sophia, “the cause of
that confinement was a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I
detested; and will my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress,
involve me in another equally bad?” “And do you think then, madam,” answered
Mrs Western, “that there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr
Blifil?” “Very little, in my opinion,” cries Sophia; “and, if I must be
condemned to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing myself to my
father’s pleasure.” “Then my pleasure, I find,” said the aunt, “hath very
little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act from
nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of ennobling yourself, is
what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there no charms in the
thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?” “None, upon my honour,” said
Sophia. “A pincushion upon my coach would please me just as well.” “Never
mention honour,” cries the aunt. “It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I
am sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear your
groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But,
however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on
mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I encouraged you in
refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its
advantage in fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed,
in title, the advantage of ours.” “Surely,” says Sophia, “I am born deficient,
and have not the senses with which other people are blessed; there must be
certainly some sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I
have not; for surely mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much
for the obtaining, nor would they be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared
to them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles.”
“No, no,
miss,” cries the aunt; “you are born with as many senses as other people; but I
assure you you are not born with a sufficient understanding to make a fool of
me, or to expose my conduct to the world; so I declare this to you, upon my
word, and you know, I believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree
to see his lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you
to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere with you,
nor see your face again.” Sophia stood a few moments silent after this speech,
which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then, bursting into
tears, she cryed, “Do with me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most
miserable undone wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt forsakes me where shall I
look for a protector?” “My dear niece,” cries she, “you will have a very good
protector in his lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that
vile fellow Jones can make you decline.” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “you
wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have shewn me, if I had ever any
such thoughts, that I should not banish them for ever? If it will satisfy you,
I will receive the sacrament upon it never to see his face again.” “But, child,
dear child,” said the aunt, “be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?”
“I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection,” answered Sophia.
“What?” cries the aunt; “I remember none.” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “I told
you he had used me in the rudest and vilest manner.” “Indeed, child,” answered
she, “I never heard you, or did not understand you:—but what do you mean by
this rude, vile manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “I am almost ashamed to
tell you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust
his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark
upon my left breast at this moment.” “Indeed!” said Mrs Western. “Yes, indeed,
madam,” answered Sophia; “my father luckily came in at that instant, or Heaven
knows what rudeness he intended to have proceeded to.” “I am astonished and
confounded,” cries the aunt. “No woman of the name of Western hath been ever
treated so since we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out,
if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! sure, Sophia, you
must invent this to raise my indignation against him.” “I hope, madam,” said
Sophia, “you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me capable of telling an
untruth. Upon my soul it is true.” “I should have stabbed him to the heart, had
I been present,” returned the aunt. “Yet surely he could have no dishonourable
design; it is impossible! he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he hath
not; for they are not only honourable, but generous. I don’t know; the age
allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have allowed before
the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several
lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I never encouraged the
least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I never would agree to. No man
kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as much as one can bring oneself to give
lips up to a husband; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I
believe I should not have soon been brought to endure so much.” “You will
pardon me, dear madam,” said Sophia, “if I make one observation: you own you
have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny it. You
refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among them.” “You
say true, dear Sophy,” answered she; “I had once the offer of a title.” “Why,
then,” said Sophia, “will you not suffer me to refuse this once?” “It is true,
child,” said she, “I have refused the offer of a title; but it was not so good
an offer; that is, not so very, very good an offer.”—“Yes, madam,” said Sophia;
“but you have had very great proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not
the first, nor the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered
itself.” “I own it was not,” said she. “Well, madam,” continued Sophia, “and
why may not I expect to have a second, perhaps, better than this? You are now
but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise to yield to the first
lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I
need not despair.” “Well, my dear, dear Sophy,” cries the aunt, “what would you
have me say?” “Why, I only beg that I may not be left alone, at least this evening;
grant me that, and I will submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to
see him in your company.” “Well, I will grant it,” cries the aunt. “Sophy, you
know I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my nature;
I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought cruel; by the men,
I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a window that has
had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as
you, and yet I had something of you formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms
and states, as Tully Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so
must the human form.” Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and
her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, after a most
tedious visit, during which Mrs Western never once offered to leave the room,
retired, not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece; for Sophia
had brought her aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost
everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not
be improper to so forward a lover.
Thus
Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none will blame
her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put off the evil day.
And now we have seen our heroine in a better situation than she hath been for a
long time before, we will look a little after Mr Jones, whom we left in the
most deplorable situation that can be well imagined.
