TOM JONES
PART 40
Chapter vii. — In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
Affairs
were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs Miller’s, and
called Jones out from the company, as we have before seen, with whom, when she
found herself alone, she began as follows:—
“O, my
dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone, sir, and my poor
lady’s undone, and I am undone.” “Hath anything happened to Sophia?” cries
Jones, staring like a madman. “All that is bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall
never get such another lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” At
these words Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour
went on—“O! Mr Jones, I have lost my lady for ever.” “How? what! for Heaven’s
sake, tell me. O, my dear Sophia!” “You may well call her so,” said Honour;
“she was the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place.”——“D—n
your place!” cries Jones; “where is—what—what is become of my Sophia?” “Ay, to
be sure,” cries she, “servants may be d—n’d. It signifies nothing what becomes
of them, though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they
are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing
what becomes of them.” “If you have any pity, any compassion,” cries Jones, “I
beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” “To be sure, I
have more pity for you than you have for me,” answered Honour; “I don’t d—n you
because you have lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure you are worthy
to be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there
was a good mistress——” “What hath happened?” cries Jones, in almost a raving
fit. “What?—What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that could have happened both
for you and for me.—Her father is come to town, and hath carried her away from
us both.” Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse.
“No worse!” repeated Honour; “what could be worse for either of us? He carried
her off, swearing she should marry Mr Blifil; that’s for your comfort; and, for
poor me, I am turned out of doors.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered Jones, “you
frightened me out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had
happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even seeing her married to
Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are hopes, my dear
Honour. Women in this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal
force.” “To be sure, sir,” said she, “that’s true. There may be some hopes for
you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you
must be sensible I suffer all this upon your account. All the quarrel the
squire hath to me is for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil.”
“Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered he, “I am sensible of my obligations to you, and
will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends.” “Alas! sir,” said
she, “what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place but the getting
another altogether as good?” “Do not despair, Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope
to reinstate you again in the same.” “Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I
flatter myself with such hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the
squire is so set against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be
sure I now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured
gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you as dearly
as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because as why, everybody,
that is in the least acquainted with my lady, must see it; for, poor dear lady,
she can’t dissemble: and if two people who loves one another a’n’t happy, why
who should be so? Happiness don’t always depend upon what people has; besides,
my lady has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be
all the pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am
convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is to be,
there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all the justices of
peace upon earth can’t break it off. To be sure I wishes that parson Supple had
but a little more spirit, to tell the squire of his wickedness in endeavouring
to force his daughter contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is
on the squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good
sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the squire’s back,
yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face. To be sure I never saw
him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the squire would have struck him. I
would not have your honour be melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go
better, as long as you are sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be;
for she never will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed I am
terribly afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a
prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor lady will be
brought to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a chicken. It is
pity, methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If I was in love with a
young man, and my father offered to lock me up, I’d tear his eyes out but I’d
come at him; but then there’s a great fortune in the case, which it is in her
father’s power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make some
difference.”
Whether
Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or whether it was
for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot determine; but he never once
attempted to answer, nor did she once stop till Partridge came running into the
room, and informed him that the great lady was upon the stairs.
Nothing
could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour knew nothing of
any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady Bellaston, and she was
almost the last person in the world to whom he would have communicated it. In
this hurry and distress, he took (as is common enough) the worst course, and,
instead of exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little
consequence, he chose to expose the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide
Honour, whom he had but just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the
curtains.
The hurry
in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his poor landlady and her
family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour, and the confusion into which he
was thrown by the sudden arrival of Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven
former thoughts out of his head; so that it never once occurred to his memory
to act the part of a sick man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress,
nor the freshness of his countenance, would have at all supported.
He
received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires than to her
expectations, with all the good humour he could muster in his countenance, and
without any real or affected appearance of the least disorder.
Lady
Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself down on the
bed: “So, my dear Jones,” said she, “you find nothing can detain me long from
you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I have neither seen nor heard
from you all day; for I perceive your distemper would have suffered you to come
abroad: nay, I suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a
fine lady to see company after a lying-in; but, however, don’t think I intend
to scold you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a
husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife.”
“Nay, Lady
Bellaston,” said Jones, “I am sure your ladyship will not upbraid me with
neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who, my dear creature, hath
reason to complain? Who missed an appointment last night, and left an unhappy
man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and languish?”
“Do not
mention it, my dear Mr Jones,” cried she. “If you knew the occasion, you would
pity me. In short, it is impossible to conceive what women of condition are
obliged to suffer from the impertinence of fools, in order to keep up the farce
of the world. I am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done
you no harm; for you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones,
you might at this instant sit for the picture of Adonis.”
There are
certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can properly be answered
only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there may be some expressions which can
be answered only by a kiss. Now the compliment which Lady Bellaston now made
Jones seems to be of this kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in
which the lady conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with
her tongue.
Jones was
certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable and distressed
situations imaginable; for, to carry on the comparison we made use of before,
though the provocation was given by the lady, Jones could not receive
satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it, in the presence of a third
person; seconds in this kind of duels not being according to the law of arms.
As this objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any
other woman being there but herself, she waited some time in great astonishment
for an answer from Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made,
stood at a distance, and, not daring to give the proper answer, gave none at
all. Nothing can be imagined more comic, nor yet more tragical, than this scene
would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had already changed
colour two or three times; had got up from the bed and sat down again, while
Jones was wishing the ground to sink under him, or the house to fall on his
head, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment out of which neither
the eloquence of a Cicero, nor the politics of a Machiavel, could have
delivered him, without utter disgrace.
This was
no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk; or rather in that
state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use of their reason without
depriving them of the use of their limbs.
Mrs Miller
and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking his pipe by the
kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr Jones’s chamber-door without any interruption.
This he burst open, and was entering without any ceremony, when Jones started
from his seat and ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that
Nightingale never came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the
bed.
Nightingale
had in reality mistaken Jones’s apartment for that in which himself had lodged;
he therefore strongly insisted on coming in, often swearing that he would not
be kept from his own bed. Jones, however, prevailed over him, and delivered him
into the hands of Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his
master’s assistance.
And now
Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment, where at the very
instant of his entrance he heard Lady Bellaston venting an exclamation, though
not a very loud one; and at the same time saw her flinging herself into a chair
in a vast agitation, which in a lady of a tender constitution would have been
an hysteric fit.
In reality
the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men, of which she did
not know what would be the issue, as she heard Nightingale swear many oaths he
would come to his own bed, attempted to retire to her known place of hiding,
which to her great confusion she found already occupied by another.
“Is this
usage to be borne, Mr Jones?” cries the lady.—“Basest of men?——What wretch is
this to whom you have exposed me?” “Wretch!” cries Honour, bursting in a
violent rage from her place of concealment—“Marry come up!——Wretch
forsooth?——as poor a wretch as I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks
who are richer can say.”
Jones,
instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of Mrs Honour’s
resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have done, fell to cursing his
stars, and lamenting himself as the most unfortunate man in the world; and
presently after, addressing himself to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very
absurd protestations of innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the
use of her reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially
on such occasions, calmly replied: “Sir, you need make no apologies, I see now
who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs Honour: but now I do, I can
suspect nothing wrong between her and you; and I am sure she is a woman of too
good sense to put any wrong constructions upon my visit to you; I have been
always her friend, and it may be in my power to be much more hereafter.”
Mrs Honour
was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing, therefore, Lady
Bellaston assume the soft tone, she likewise softened hers.——“I’m sure, madam,”
says she, “I have been always ready to acknowledge your ladyship’s friendships
to me; sure I never had so good a friend as your ladyship——and to be sure, now
I see it is your ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue off
for very mad.—I constructions upon your ladyship—to be sure it doth not become
a servant as I am to think about such a great lady—I mean I was a servant: for
indeed I am nobody’s servant now, the more miserable wretch is me.—I have lost
the best mistress——” Here Honour thought fit to produce a shower of
tears.—“Don’t cry, child,” says the good lady; “ways perhaps may be found to
make you amends. Come to me to-morrow morning.” She then took up her fan which
lay on the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very majestically
out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of women of
quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in circumstances of
this nature.
Jones
followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she absolutely
refused him, and got into her chair without taking any notice of him as he
stood bowing before her.
At his
return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs Honour, while she was
adjusting herself after the discomposure she had undergone. The subject of this
was his infidelity to her young lady; on which she enlarged with great
bitterness; but Jones at last found means to reconcile her, and not only so,
but to obtain a promise of most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next
morning endeavour to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the
proceedings of the squire.
Thus ended
this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs Honour; for a secret
(as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge from experience) is often a
very valuable possession: and that not only to those who faithfully keep it,
but sometimes to such as whisper it about till it come to the ears of every one
except the ignorant person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is
publickly known.
Chapter viii. — Short and sweet.
Notwithstanding
all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs Miller could not forbear
in the morning some gentle remonstrances for the hurricane which had happened
the preceding night in his chamber. These were, however, so gentle and so
friendly, professing, and indeed truly, to aim at nothing more than the real
good of Mr Jones himself, that he, far from being offended, thankfully received
the admonition of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had past,
excused it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same
disturbances into the house.
But though
Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in private at their first
meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned downstairs that morning was of
a much more agreeable kind, being indeed to perform the office of a father to
Miss Nancy, and to give her in wedlock to Mr Nightingale, who was now ready
drest, and full as sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who
receives a wife in so imprudent a manner.
And here
perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this young gentleman
had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the condition in which we
have seen him the night before.
Now when
the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly to indulge his
own inclinations (for he dearly loved his bottle), and partly to disqualify his
nephew from the immediate execution of his purpose, he ordered wine to be set
on the table; with which he so briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this
latter, who, though not much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be
guilty of disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely
finished.
Just as
the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed for his nephew, a
messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so entirely disconcerted and
shocked him, that he in a moment lost all consideration for his nephew, and his
whole mind became entirely taken up with his own concerns.
This
sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had taken the
opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and had gone off with a
neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though her father could have had
but one objection, namely, that he was worth nothing, yet she had never thought
proper to communicate her amour even to that father; and so artfully had she
managed, that it had never been once suspected by any, till now that it was
consummated.
Old Mr
Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost confusion he
ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and, having recommended his
nephew to the care of a servant, he directly left the house, scarce knowing
what he did, nor whither he went.
The uncle
thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to bed, had waked him
for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible that his uncle was gone,
he, instead of accepting the kind offices tendered him, insisted on a chair
being called; with this the servant, who had received no strict orders to the
contrary, readily complied; and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs
Miller, he had staggered up to Mr Jones’s chamber, as hath been before
recounted.
This bar
of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew not as yet in
what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the mother, Mr Jones, Mr
Nightingale, and his love, stept into a hackney-coach, which conveyed them to
Doctors’ Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest
woman, and the poor mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the
happiest of all human beings.
And now Mr
Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and her family brought
to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to his own concerns; but here,
lest many of my readers should censure his folly for thus troubling himself
with the affairs of others, and lest some few should think he acted more
disinterestedly than indeed he did, we think proper to assure our reader, that
he was so far from being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very
considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.
To explain
this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly say with him in
Terence, Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto. He was never an
indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of any one; and he felt either
the one or the other in great proportion as he himself contributed to either.
He could not, therefore, be the instrument of raising a whole family from the
lowest state of wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying
great felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to
themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading through
the deepest iniquity.
Those
readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps think this short
chapter contains abundance of matter; while others may probably wish, short as
it is, that it had been totally spared as impertinent to the main design, which
I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible,
to a more deplorable catastrophe.
Chapter ix. — Containing love-letters of several sorts.
Mr Jones,
at his return home, found the following letters lying on his table, which he
luckily opened in the order they were sent.
LETTER I.
“Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know
that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you
can invent.——Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come
to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an
excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too——I will
think no more.——Come to me directly.——This is the third letter I
have writ, the two former are burnt——I am almost inclined to burn
this too——I wish I may preserve my senses.——Come to me
presently.”
LETTER II.
“If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my
doors, come to me this instant.”
LETTER III.
“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
The moment you receive this let me see you;—I shall not stir out;
nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
you long.”
Jones had
just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came into the room.
“Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston, after last night’s adventure?”
(for it was now no secret to any one in that house who the lady was). “The Lady
Bellaston?” answered Jones very gravely.——“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale,
“don’t be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last
night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the queen of
the fairies is?” “And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade?”
said Jones. “Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said Nightingale, “and have given you
twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on that point,
that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in
this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of the lady as
with her person. Don’t be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first
young fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe me.”
Though
Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal kind when
his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very
little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that character which is
vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man
she likes, under the name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some
over-nice ladies will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the
whole town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.
When he
found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his intrigue,
and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed
was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend’s
tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the
lady.
Nightingale,
who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had
a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore,
received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than he entered upon a long
narrative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly
to her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to
repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future
commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of forcing
us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never entered into our
head.
Jones,
having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, fetched a deep
sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I
hope! Had I imagined my stories would have affected you, I promise you should
never have heard them.” “O my dear friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled
with this woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no,
my friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you
know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to
her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I possibly
desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest
treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me than she can; a woman, my
Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I am half
distracted with doubts how to act.” “And is this other, pray, an honourable
mistress?” cries Nightingale. “Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet
durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream
not clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body,
consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the universe: and
yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities, that, though she is never
from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it.”—“And
can you, my good friend,” cries Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this
upon your hands, hesitate a moment about quitting such a—” “Hold,” said Jones,
“no more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.” “Pooh!” answered
the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of
this kind. She is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you,
her favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a man’s
vanity than his gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this
head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the
truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast of Jones;
and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he began to look on all
the favours he had received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated
not only her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of
humour with both. From this disgust, his mind, by a natural transition, turned
towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his
account, filled all his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston
appear still more odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning
himself out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her,
would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he could but
find a handsome pretence: which being communicated to his friend, Nightingale
considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my boy! I have found out a sure
method; propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging upon the success.”
“Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay, propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she
will declare off in a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who
made the offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”
Jones
declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,” said he, “she may be
less shocked at this proposal from one man than from another. And if she should
take me at my word, where am I then? caught, in my own trap, and undone for
ever.” “No;” answered Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which
you may at any time get out of the trap.”——“What expedient can that be?”
replied Jones. “This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I mentioned, who
is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the world, is so angry with
her for some ill offices she hath since done him, that I am sure he would,
without any difficulty, give you a sight of her letters; upon which you may
decently break with her; and declare off before the knot is tyed, if she should
really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not.”
After some
hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance, consented; but, as he
swore he wanted the confidence to propose the matter to her face, he wrote the
following letter, which Nightingale dictated:—
“MADAM,
“I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement
abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship’s
commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer
of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this
misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in for fear
your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There
is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only
permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so
my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your
feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made
completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal right
of calling you mine for ever.—I am,
madam,
with most profound respect,
your ladyship’s most obliged,
obedient, humble servant,
THOMAS JONES.”
To this
she presently returned the following answer:
“SIR,
“When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness
and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you
mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous
animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or
do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my
senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in
order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are
these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for—?
but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your
profound respect.
“P.S. I am prevented from revising:——Perhaps I have said more than
I meant.——Come to me at eight this evening.”
Jones, by
the advice of his privy-council, replied:
“MADAM,
“It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion
you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a
man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she
treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine,
madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment,
overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think
of indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could
not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when
discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your
opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning
those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to
receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall
ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the very words with which he
had concluded the former letter.
The lady
answered as follows:
“I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you
come here I shall not be at home.”
Though
Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom which those who
have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to be none of the lightest,
he was not, however, perfectly easy in his mind. There was in this scheme too
much of fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested every species of falshood
or dishonesty: nor would he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had
he not been involved in a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be
guilty of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the other; and surely the
reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded strongly
in favour of Sophia.
Nightingale
highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which he received many
thanks and much applause from his friend. He answered, “Dear Tom, we have
conferred very different obligations on each other. To me you owe the regaining
your liberty; to you I owe the loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one
instance as I am in the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in
England.”
The two
gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs Miller, who performed
herself the office of cook, had exerted her best talents to celebrate the
wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she ascribed principally to
the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole soul was fired with gratitude
towards him, and all her looks, words, and actions, were so busied in
expressing it, that her daughter, and even her new son-in-law, were very little
objects of her consideration.
Dinner was
just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter; but as we have had letters enow
in this chapter, we shall communicate its contents in our next.
Chapter x. — Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations upon them.
The letter
then which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was from Mr Allworthy,
and the purport of it was, his intention to come immediately to town, with his
nephew Blifil, and a desire to be accommodated with his usual lodgings, which
were the first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew.
The
chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance of the poor
woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did indeed a good deal
disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match with her daughter, by
presently turning her new son-in-law out of doors, appeared to her very
unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the other, she could scarce bear the
thoughts of making any excuse to Mr Allworthy, after all the obligations
received from him, for depriving him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his
due; for that gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others,
acted by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practised by most generous
people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficence, not only from
the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly used the words Lend
and Pay, instead of Give; and by every other method he could invent, always
lessened with his tongue the favours he conferred, while he was heaping them
with both his hands. When he settled the annuity of £50 a year therefore on Mrs
Miller, he told her, “it was in consideration of always having her first-floor
when he was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that she might
let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month’s warning.”
He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he had no opportunity of
giving such notice; and this hurry probably prevented him, when he wrote for his
lodgings, adding, if they were then empty; for he would most certainly have
been well satisfied to have relinquished them, on a less sufficient excuse than
what Mrs Miller could now have made.
But there
are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well remarks, direct their
conduct by something
Beyond the fix’d and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law.
To these
it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would acquit them at the
Old Bailey, that they are not even contented, though conscience, the severest
of all judges, should discharge them. Nothing short of the fair and honourable
will satisfy the delicacy of their minds; and if any of their actions fall
short of this mark, they mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a
murderer, who is afraid of a ghost, or of the hangman.
Mrs Miller
was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at this letter; with the
contents of which she had no sooner acquainted the company, and given some
hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel, presently relieved her
anxiety. “As for myself, madam,” said he, “my lodging is at your service at a
moment’s warning; and Mr Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a
house fit to receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging,
whither Mrs Nightingale will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal both
husband and wife instantly agreed.
The reader
will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Miller began again to glow with
additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may be more difficult to
persuade him, that Mr Jones having in his last speech called her daughter Mrs
Nightingale (it being the first time that agreeable sound had ever reached her
ears), gave the fond mother more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more
towards Jones, than his having dissipated her present anxiety.
The next
day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married couple, and of Mr
Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the same house with his friend.
And now the serenity of the company was again restored, and they past the day
in the utmost chearfulness, all except Jones, who, though he outwardly
accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of
his Sophia, which were not a little heightened by the news of Mr Blifil’s
coming to town (for he clearly saw the intention of his journey); and what
greatly aggravated his concern was, that Mrs Honour, who had promised to
inquire after Sophia, and to make her report to him early the next evening, had
disappointed him.
In the
situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there were scarce any
grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good news; yet he was as
impatient to see Mrs Honour as if he had expected she would bring him a letter
with an assignation in it from Sophia, and bore the disappointment as ill.
Whether this impatience arose from that natural weakness of the human mind,
which makes it desirous to know the worst, and renders uncertainty the most
intolerable of pains; or whether he still flattered himself with some secret
hopes, we will not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved
cannot but know. For of all the powers exercised by this passion over our
minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope in the midst of
despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay, impossibilities, are quite
overlooked by it; so that to any man extremely in love, may be applied what
Addison says of Caesar,
“The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!”
Yet it is
equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make mountains of molehills,
and produce despair in the midst of hope; but these cold fits last not long in
good constitutions. Which temper Jones was now in, we leave the reader to
guess, having no exact information about it; but this is certain, that he had
spent two hours in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his
uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made him
frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs Honour, with which
we shall present the reader verbatim et literatim.
“SIR,
“I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind
as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such
thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and
pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare
harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin
thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be
a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so
gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I
never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after
ani other bodi’s plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor
no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don’t
cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi
one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and
belive me to be, sir, ure Onur’s umble servant to cumand till deth,
“HONOUR BLACKMORE.”
Various
were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of Lady Bellaston;
who, in reality, had little farther design than to secure within her own house
the repository of a secret, which she chose should make no farther progress
than it had made already; but mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of
Sophia; for though that young lady was almost the only one who would never have
repeated it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this; since, as
she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a
reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our heroine,
where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance.
While
Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand dreadful
machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined to be at the bottom
of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto seems to have been an utter
enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a new method to put a final end to it, by
throwing a temptation in his way, which in his present desperate situation it
seemed unlikely he should be able to resist.
Chapter xi. — Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.
There was
a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house where he lodged,
being intimately acquainted with the women there, and indeed a very great
friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty, for she owned six-and-twenty;
her face and person very good, only inclining a little too much to be fat. She had
been married young by her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got
a great fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but
not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve years; and
her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very rich. The first year
of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had past it in a good deal of
retirement, seeing only a few particular friends, and dividing her time between
her devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond. Very good
health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it
absolutely necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please herself
in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From her the
following billet was brought to Jones:—
“SIR,
“From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue
nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the
family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and
told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you
are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have
also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,
understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a
fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me
so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur
the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear
the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops
me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a
woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to
the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and
let this remain an eternal secret between you and
“ARABELLA HUNT.”
At the
reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His fortune was then at
a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which hitherto he had been
supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Bellaston, not above five guineas
remained; and that very morning he had been dunned by a tradesman for twice
that sum. His honourable mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had
scarce any hopes ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her
expense, from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much
against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady’s fortune would
have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have no objection to her in
any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did any woman except
Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could
not think of it upon any account, Yet why should he not, since it was plain she
could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer
engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in friendship to
her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had almost determined to be
false to her from a high point of honour: but that refinement was not able to
stand very long against the voice of nature, which cried in his heart that such
friendship was treason to love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and
writ as follows to Mrs Hunt:—
“MADAM,
“It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to
sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married
to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely
effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not
more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
grateful humble servant,
“T. JONES.”
When our
heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his scrutore, took out Miss
Western’s muff, kissed it several times, and then strutted some turns about his
room, with more satisfaction of mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying
off a fortune of fifty thousand pounds.
Chapter xii. — A discovery made by Partridge.
While
Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity, Partridge came
capering into the room, as was his custom when he brought, or fancied he
brought, any good tidings. He had been despatched that morning by his master,
with orders to endeavour, by the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other
means, to discover whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and
with a joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird. “I
have seen, sir,” says he, “Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the
servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him presently,
though I have not seen him these several years; but you know, sir, he is a very
remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he hath a most remarkable beard, the
largest and blackest I ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George
could recollect me.” “Well, but what is your good news?” cries Jones; “what do
you know of my Sophia?” “You shall know presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I
am coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would come at
the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir,
it was some time before he recollected my face.”—“Confound your face!” cries
Jones, “what of my Sophia?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing
more of Madam Sophia than what I am going to tell you; and I should have told
you all before this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at
me you will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out
of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left Upton, which
I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years.”—“Well, pray go on your own
way,” said Jones: “you are resolved to make me mad I find.” “Not for the
world,” answered Partridge, “I have suffered enough for that already; which, as
I said, I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live.” “Well,
but Black George?” cries Jones. “Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a long time
before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much altered since I saw
him. Non sum qualis eram. I have had troubles in the world, and nothing
alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it will change the colour of a
man’s hair in a night. However, at last, know me he did, that’s sure enough;
for we are both of an age, and were at the same charity school. George was a
great dunce, but no matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world
according to their learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be
all one a thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?—O—well, we no sooner
knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed to go to
an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was some of the best I
have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point;
for no sooner did I name you, and told him that you and I came to town
together, and had lived together ever since, than he called for another pot,
and swore he would drink to your health; and indeed he drank your health so
heartily that I was overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the
world; and after we had emptied that pot I said I would buy my pot too, and so
we drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you the
news.”
“What
news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word of my Sophia!” “Bless me! I
had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we mentioned a great deal about young
Madam Western, and George told me all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in
order to be married to her. He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody
will have her before he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a
thousand pities somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above
all the women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not
for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of that,
there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune than she can
pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes after him day and night.”
Here Jones
fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said, betrayed him; but
the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name: “Besides, sir,” said he, “I
can assure you George is sincerely your friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the
devil more than once; nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth
to serve you; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I
question whether you have a better friend than George upon earth, except
myself, or one that would go farther to serve you.”
“Well,”
says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this fellow, who, I believe, indeed, is
enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same house with Sophia?”
“In the
same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he is one of the servants of the
family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it was not for his black
beard you would hardly know him.”
“One
service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure he can certainly convey
a letter to my Sophia.”
“You have
hit the nail ad unguem” cries Partridge; “how came I not to think of it?
I will engage he shall do it upon the very first mentioning.”
“Well,
then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present, and I will write a letter,
which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning; for I suppose you know where
to find him.”
“O yes,
sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly find him again; there is no fear
of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no doubt but
he will be there every day he stays in town.”
“So you
don’t know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?” cries Jones.
“Indeed,
sir, I do,” says Partridge.
“What is
the name of the street?” cries Jones.
“The name,
sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, “not above a street or two off.
I don’t, indeed, know the very name; for, as he never told me, if I had asked,
you know, it might have put some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me
alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you.”
“Thou art
most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; “however, I will write to my
charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him to-morrow at
the alehouse.”
And now,
having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat himself down to write,
in which employment we shall leave him for a time. And here we put an end to
the fifteenth book.
To be
continued
