TOM JONES
PART 47
Chapter x. — Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
When
Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones was just arrived before
him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty chamber, whither he ordered
Mr Jones to be brought to him alone.
It is
impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the meeting between
the uncle and nephew (for Mrs Waters, as the reader may well suppose, had at
her last visit discovered to him the secret of his birth). The first agonies of
joy which were felt on both sides are indeed beyond my power to describe: I
shall not therefore attempt it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet,
where he had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, “O my child!”
he cried, “how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What amends can I
ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I have
entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to you?” “Am I not
now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not my sufferings, if they had been ten
times greater, have been now richly repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness,
this tenderness overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports
which flow so fast upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your
favour; to be once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous
benefactor.”—“Indeed, child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you cruelly.”——He
then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated
expressions of the utmost concern, for having been induced by that treachery to
use him so ill. “O, talk not so!” answered Jones; “indeed, sir, you have used
me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were; and, under such a
deception, the best must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed
itself in the midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to
that goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on
self-accusation, by carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas! sir, I
have not been punished more than I have deserved; and it shall be the whole
business of my future life to deserve that happiness you now bestow on me; for,
believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away upon me:
though I have been a great, I am not a hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have
had time to reflect on my past life, where, though I cannot charge myself with
any gross villany, yet I can discern follies and vices more than enough to
repent and to be ashamed of; follies which have been attended with dreadful
consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of destruction.” “I am
rejoiced, my dear child,” answered Allworthy, “to hear you talk thus sensibly;
for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it
in others!) was never among your faults, so I can readily believe all you say.
You now see, Tom, to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for
virtue, I am now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the
duty which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to
neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in discharging their
duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of his own ruin, others will, I
am afraid, be too apt to build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your
errors, and will reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child; and
therefore, from this moment, you shall never be reminded of them by me.
Remember them only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to
avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort, that there is this great difference
between those faults which candor may construe into imprudence, and those which
can be deduced from villany only. The former, perhaps, are even more apt to
subject a man to ruin; but if he reform, his character will, at length, be
totally retrieved; the world, though not immediately, will in time be
reconciled to him; and he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on
the dangers he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered is
irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The
censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in
publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he will go to it with all
those terrors with which a weary child, who is afraid of hobgoblins, retreats
from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt
him.—Repose, like a false friend, will fly from him. Wherever he turns his
eyes, horror presents itself; if he looks backward, unavailable repentance
treads on his heels; if forward, incurable despair stares him in the face,
till, like a condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present
condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to relieve him
from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is not your case; and
rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath suffered you to see your errors,
before they have brought on you that destruction to which a persistance in even
those errors must have led you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now
before you is such, that happiness seems in your own power.” At these words
Jones fetched a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said,
“Sir, I will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence of my
vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost a
treasure.” “You need say no more,” answered Allworthy; “I will be explicit with
you; I know what you lament; I have seen the young lady, and have discoursed
with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity
in all you have said, and of the stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey
me in one instance. To abide intirely by the determination of the young lady,
whether it shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from
solicitations which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further constraint to
my family: I know her father will be as ready to torment her now on your
account as he hath formerly been on another’s; but I am determined she shall
suffer no more confinement, no more violence, no more uneasy hours.” “O, my
dear uncle!” answered Jones, “lay, I beseech you, some command on me, in which
I shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in
which I could disobey you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No,
sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of
forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her misery,
will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and
now the only additional blessing which heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing
which I must owe to her alone.” “I will not flatter you, child,” cries
Allworthy; “I fear your case is desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an
unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in her vehement declarations
against receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you can account better
than myself.” “Oh, sir! I can account too well,” answered Jones; “I have sinned
against her beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am, my guilt
unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the real colours. O, my
dear uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness cannot
save me from perdition.”
A servant
now acquainted them that Mr Western was below-stairs; for his eagerness to see
Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon which Jones, whose eyes were full
of tears, begged his uncle to entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little
recovered himself; to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr
Western to be shewn into a parlour, went down to him.
Mrs Miller
no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet seen him since his
release from prison) than she came eagerly into the room, and, advancing
towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his new-found uncle and his happy
reconciliation; adding, “I wish I could give you joy on another account, my
dear child; but anything so inexorable I never saw.”
Jones,
with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant. “Why then,” says
she, “I have been with your young lady, and have explained all matters to her,
as they were told to me by my son Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt
about the letter; of that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was
ready to take his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and
the letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the letter
ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a
plain proof that you was resolved to quit all your profligacy for the future;
that you had never been guilty of a single instance of infidelity to her since
your seeing her in town: I am afraid I went too far there; but Heaven forgive
me! I hope your future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have
said all I can; but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she
had forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed such detestation of
the character of a libertine, that she absolutely silenced me. I often
attempted to excuse you; but the justness of her accusation flew in my face.
Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman, and one of the sweetest and most
sensible creatures I ever saw. I could have almost kissed her for one
expression she made use of. It was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a
bishop. `I once fancied madam.’ and she, `I had discovered great goodness of
heart in Mr Jones; and for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire
profligacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and all which a
good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix some grains of pity
with our contempt and abhorrence.’ She is an angelic creature, that is the
truth on’t.” “O, Mrs Miller!” answered Jones, “can I bear to think that I have lost
such an angel?” “Lost! no,” cries Mrs Miller; “I hope you have not lost her
yet. Resolve to leave such vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes, nay, if
she would remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a sweet pretty young
lady, and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I heard
of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I went a little
beyond the truth again; for I told her you had refused her; but indeed I knew
you would refuse her. And here I must give you a little comfort; when I
mentioned the young lady’s name, who is no other than the pretty widow Hunt, I
thought she turned pale; but when I said you had refused her, I will be sworn
her face was all over scarlet in an instant; and these were her very words: `I
will not deny but that I believe he has some affection for me.’”
Here the
conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could no longer be
kept out of the room even by the authority of Allworthy himself; though this,
as we have often seen, had a wonderful power over him.
Western
immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My old friend Tom, I am glad to see
thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten; I could not intend any
affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I
took thee for another person; and where a body means no harm, what signifies a
hasty word or two? One Christian must forget and forgive another.” “I hope,
sir,” said Jones, “I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you;
but as for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger.” “A’t,”
says Western, “then give me thy fist; a’t as hearty an honest cock as any in
the kingdom. Come along with me; I’ll carry thee to thy mistress this moment.”
Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire being unable to prevail either with
the uncle or nephew, was, after some litigation, obliged to consent to delay
introducing Jones to Sophia till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as
well in compassion to Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of Western,
was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table.
The
conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which, had it
happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our reader; but as
we have now leisure only to attend to what is very material, it shall suffice
to say that matters being entirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit Mr
Western again returned home.
Chapter xi. — The history draws nearer to a conclusion.
When Mr
Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller that
his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who, together with two
surgeons and a friend of Mr Nightingale’s, had attended the magistrate by whom
he had been committed, and by whom, on the surgeons’ oaths, that the wounded
person was out of all manner of danger from his wound, he was discharged.
One only
of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no more than once;
but the other had greatly surprized him by asking his pardon for an offence he
had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he said, entirely by his ignorance
who he was.
Now the
reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till afterwards, was
this:—The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had employed, according to the advice
of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a vagabond into the sea-service, when he
came to report to his lordship the event which we have before seen, spoke very
favourably of the behaviour of Mr Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured
that lord that he must have mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a
gentleman; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly a man of honour, and
would by no means have been guilty of an action which the world in general would
have condemned, began to be much concerned for the advice which he had taken.
Within a
day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine with the Irish peer, who,
in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his company with the character of
Fitzpatrick; to which, indeed, he did not do strict justice, especially in what
related to his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman
alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then
declared an intention of going the next morning to Fitzpatrick’s lodgings, in
order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation from his
wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever
return to be under the power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with
him, that he might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances
of the duel; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The
moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of
the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the other nobleman, who depended much on
the authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly contribute to
awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance; and perhaps he was in the right; for the
poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his
wife than he submitted, and articles of separation were soon drawn up and
signed between the parties.
Fitzpatrick,
who had been so well satisfied by Mrs Waters concerning the innocence of his
wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps, from some other reasons, was now become
so indifferent to that matter, that he spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord
Fellamar, took all the blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved very
much like a gentleman and a man of honour; and upon that lord’s further enquiry
concerning Mr Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very
great fashion and fortune, which was the account he had just received from Mrs
Waters after her interview with Dowling.
Lord
Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to make
satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly injured, and without any
consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over all thoughts of Sophia),
determined to procure Mr Jones’s liberty, being satisfied, as well from
Fitzpatrick as his surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore
prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was
confined, to whom he behaved as we have already related.
When
Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried Jones into his room,
and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well what he had heard from
Mrs Waters as what he had discovered from Mr Dowling.
Jones
expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this account, but without
making any comment or observation upon it. And now a message was brought from
Mr Blifil, desiring to know if his uncle was at leisure that he might wait upon
him. Allworthy started and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than
I believe he had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him not.
“Consider, dear sir,” cries Jones, in a trembling voice. “I have considered,”
answered Allworthy, “and you yourself shall carry my message to the villain. No
one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as the man whose
ruin he hath so villanously contrived.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” said Jones; “a
moment’s reflection will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might
perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult; and to
whom?—my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarously—indeed,
that would have been more inexcusable than anything he hath done. Fortune may
tempt men of no very bad dispositions to injustice; but insults proceed only
from black and rancorous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me
beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your anger.
Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard.” Allworthy stood
silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said, with tears gushing from
his eyes, “O my child! to what goodness have I been so long blind!”
Mrs Miller
entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which was not perceived,
and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor woman in an agony of joy
fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most ecstatic thanksgivings to
heaven for what had happened; then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly,
crying, “My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of
this blest day.” And next Mr Allworthy himself received the same
congratulations. To which he answered, “Indeed, indeed, Mrs Miller, I am beyond
expression happy.” Some few more raptures having passed on all sides, Mrs
Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said
there were a very happy set of people assembled—being indeed no other than Mr
Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom.
Allworthy
excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had ordered some little
thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment, for that they had much private
business to discourse of; but would not resist promising the good woman that
both he and Jones would make part of her society at supper.
Mrs Miller
then asked what was to be done with Blifil? “for indeed,” says she, “I cannot
be easy while such a villain is in my house.”—Allworthy answered, “He was as
uneasy as herself on the same account.” “Oh!” cries she, “if that be the case,
leave the matter to me, I’ll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I
warrant you. Here are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs.” “There will be
no need of any violence,” cries Allworthy; “if you will carry him a message
from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord.” “Will I?” said Mrs
Miller; “I never did anything in my life with a better will.” Here Jones
interfered, and said, “He had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr
Allworthy pleased, be himself the messenger. I know,” says he, “already enough
of your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words.
Let me beseech you, sir,” added he, “to reflect on the dreadful consequences of
driving him to violent and sudden despair. How unfit, alas! is this poor man to
die in his present situation.” This suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs
Miller. She left the room, crying, “You are too good, Mr Jones, infinitely too
good to live in this world.” But it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. “My
good child,” said he, “I am equally astonished at the goodness of your heart, and
the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid that this wretch
should be deprived of any means or time for repentance! That would be a
shocking consideration indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own
discretion; yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness; for I
shall never forgive villany farther than my religion obliges me, and that
extends not either to our bounty or our conversation.”
Jones went
up to Blifil’s room, whom he found in a situation which moved his pity, though
it would have raised a less amiable passion in many beholders. He cast himself
on his bed, where he lay abandoning himself to despair, and drowned in tears;
not in such tears as flow from contrition, and wash away guilt from minds which
have been seduced or surprized into it unawares, against the bent of their
natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the
good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief sheds in his cart, and
are indeed the effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom
deficient in feeling for themselves.
It would
be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let it suffice to
say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess. He omitted nothing which
his invention could supply, to raise and comfort the drooping spirits of
Blifil, before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must
quit the house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he
wanted, assured him of his hearty forgiveness of all he had done against him,
that he would endeavour to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would
leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle.
Blifil was
at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether he should yet deny
all; but, finding at last the evidence too strong against him, he betook
himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his brother in the most
vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in
short he was now as remarkably mean as he had been before remarkably wicked.
Jones
could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered itself in
his countenance at this extreme servility. He raised his brother the moment he
could from the ground, and advised him to bear his afflictions more like a man;
repeating, at the same time, his promises, that he would do all in his power to
lessen them; for which Blifil, making many professions of his unworthiness,
poured forth a profusion of thanks; and then, he having declared he would
immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle.
Among
other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery which he had
made concerning the £500 bank-notes. “I have,” said he, “already consulted a
lawyer, who tells me, to my great astonishment, that there is no punishment for
a fraud of this kind. Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this
fellow toward you, I think a highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent
person.”
“Good
Heaven!” says Jones, “is it possible?—I am shocked beyond measure at this news.
I thought there was not an honester fellow in the world.——The temptation of
such a sum was too great for him to withstand; for smaller matters have come
safe to me through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call
it weakness rather than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves
me, and hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I believe
he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day or two ago, when
my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he visited me in my
confinement, and offered me any money I wanted. Consider, sir, what a
temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress, it must be, to have a
sum in his possession which must put him and his family beyond any future
possibility of suffering the like.”
“Child,”
cries Allworthy, “you carry this forgiving temper too far. Such mistaken mercy
is not only weakness, but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to
society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps,
have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we
suffer any temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and
merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I have often
pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the grand jury; and have
more than once applied to the judge on the behalf of such as have had any
mitigating circumstances in their case; but when dishonesty is attended with
any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like,
compassion and forgiveness then become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a
villain, and he shall be punished; at least as far as I can punish him.”
This was
spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper to make any
reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr Western now drew so near, that he had
barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore ended the present dialogue,
and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, according to
order, with his cloaths.
Partridge
had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor fellow was
unable either to contain or express his transports. He behaved like one frantic,
and made almost as many mistakes while he was dressing Jones as I have seen
made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage.
His
memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many omens
and presages of this happy event, some of which he had remarked at the time,
but many more he now remembered; nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt the
evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, “I always
told your honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other
have it in your power to make my fortune.” Jones assured him that this boding
should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the other omens had
been to himself; which did not a little add to all the raptures which the poor
fellow had already conceived on account of his master.
Chapter xii. — Approaching still nearer to the end.
Jones,
being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr Western’s. He was,
indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld, and his person alone would have
charmed the greater part of womankind; but we hope it hath already appeared in
this history that Nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely, as she
sometimes doth, on this merit only, to recommend her work.
Sophia,
who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for which
I leave my female readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful, that
even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not forbear whispering Western, that he
believed she was the finest creature in the world. To which Western answered,
in a whisper, overheard by all present, “So much the better for Tom;—for d—n me
if he shan’t ha the tousling her.” Sophia was all over scarlet at these words,
while Tom’s countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost ready to sink
from his chair.
The
tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out of the room,
telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and must speak to him
that instant in private, before he forgot it.
The lovers
were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to many readers,
that those who had so much to say to one another when danger and difficulty
attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other’s
arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety they were at
liberty to say or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time
silent and motionless; insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might have
well concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was, however strange
it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some
minutes continued in perfect silence.
Mr Jones
during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely
incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out, some broken words; when
Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse
from the subject which she knew well enough he was endeavouring to open, said—
“Sure,
sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery.” “And can
you really, madam, think me so fortunate,” said Jones, sighing, “while I have
incurred your displeasure?”—“Nay, sir,” says she, “as to that you best know
whether you have deserved it.” “Indeed, madam,” answered he, “you yourself are
as well apprized of all my demerits. Mrs Miller hath acquainted you with the
whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness?”—“I think, Mr
Jones,” said she, “I may almost depend on your own justice, and leave it to
yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct.”—“Alas! madam,” answered he, “it
is mercy, and not justice, which I implore at your hands. Justice I know must
condemn me.—Yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most
solemnly declare you have had a true account.” He then insisted much on the
security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if,
contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer;
but confest that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a
letter as that into her power, “which,” said he, “I have dearly paid for, in
the effect it has upon you.” “I do not, I cannot,” says she, “believe otherwise
of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shews you clearly I
do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr Jones, have I not enough to
resent? After what past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another
woman, while I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me?
Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have profest to
me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a
man capable of so much inconstancy?” “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “do not doubt
the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a human breast. Think,
most adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia,
have flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted to
throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now, it would not have been in the
power of any other woman to have inspired a thought which the severest chastity
could have condemned. Inconstancy to you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness
enough to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut
your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it reconcile
me to my heaven in this dear bosom.” “Sincere repentance, Mr Jones,” answered
she, “will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect
judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any
infallible method to prevent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be
prevailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the
strongest proof of its sincerity.” “Name any proof in my power,” answered Jones
eagerly. “Time,” replied she; “time alone, Mr Jones, can convince me that you
are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious courses, which
I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of persevering in them.” “Do
not imagine it,” cries Jones. “On my knees I intreat, I implore your
confidence, a confidence which it shall be the business of my life to deserve.”
“Let it then,” said she, “be the business of some part of your life to shew me
you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when
I see you merit my confidence, you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can
you expect I should take you upon your word?”
He
replied, “Don’t believe me upon my word; I have a better security, a pledge for
my constancy, which it is impossible to see and to doubt.” “What is that?” said
Sophia, a little surprized. “I will show you, my charming angel,” cried Jones,
seizing her hand and carrying her to the glass. “There, behold it there in that
lovely figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines
through these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these be
inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord Rochester.
You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes but your own.”
Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing again her brow into a frown—“If I
am to judge,” said she, “of the future by the past, my image will no more
remain in your heart when I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass
when I am out of the room.” “By heaven, by all that is sacred!” said Jones, “it
never was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the
grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the heart.”
“I will never marry a man,” replied Sophia, very gravely, “who shall not learn
refinement enough to be as incapable as I am myself of making such a
distinction.” “I will learn it,” said Jones. “I have learnt it already. The
first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught it me at once; and
all the rest of her sex from that moment became as little the objects of desire
to my sense as of passion to my heart.” “Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this
must be from time. Your situation, Mr Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I
have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of
being near me, and convincing me that your mind is altered too.” “O! my angel,”
cries Jones, “how shall I thank thy goodness! And are you so good to own that
you have a satisfaction in my prosperity?——Believe me, believe me, madam, it is
you alone have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear
hope——O! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one.—I will be all obedience to
your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you permit me.
Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short trial. O! tell me when I may expect
you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true.” “When I have gone
voluntarily thus far, Mr Jones,” said she, “I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I
will not.”—“O! don’t look unkindly thus, my Sophia,” cries he. “I do not, I dare
not press you.—Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the
period. O! consider the impatience of love.”—“A twelvemonth, perhaps,” said
she. “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “you have named an eternity.”—“Perhaps it may be
something sooner,” says she; “I will not be teazed. If your passion for me be
what I would have it, I think you may now be easy.”—“Easy! Sophia, call not
such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold a name.——O! transporting thought!
am I not assured that the blessed day will come, when I shall call you mine;
when fears shall be no more; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that
exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia happy?”—“Indeed, sir,” said
she, “that day is in your own power.”—“O! my dear, my divine angel,” cried he,
“these words have made me mad with joy.——But I must, I will thank those dear
lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss.” He then caught her in his
arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before.
At this
instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and,
with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, “To her, boy, to her, go to
her.——That’s it, little honeys, O that’s it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath
she appointed the day, boy? What, shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan’t
be put off a minute longer than next day, I am resolved.” “Let me beseech you,
sir,” says Jones, “don’t let me be the occasion”——“Beseech mine a——,” cries
Western. “I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to
a parcel of maidenish tricks.——I tell thee ‘tis all flimflam. Zoodikers! she’d
have the wedding to-night with all her heart. Would’st not, Sophy? Come,
confess, and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?”
“Why should I confess, sir,” says Sophia, “since it seems you are so well
acquainted with my thoughts?”——“That’s a good girl,” cries he, “and dost
consent then?” “No, indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have given no such
consent.”—-“And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?” says
Western.—“Indeed, sir,” says she, “I have no such intention.” “But I can tell
thee,” replied he, “why hast nut; only because thou dost love to be
disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father.” “Pray, sir,” said Jones,
interfering——“I tell thee thou art a puppy,” cries he. “When I vorbid her, then
it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languishing and writing; now I
am vor thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of contrary, that’s all. She
is above being guided and governed by her father, that is the whole truth on’t.
It is only to disoblige and contradict me.” “What would my papa have me do?”
cries Sophia. “What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi’ un thy hand this
moment.”—“Well, sir,” says Sophia, “I will obey you.—There is my hand, Mr
Jones.” “Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow morning?” says
Western.—“I will be obedient to you, sir,” cries she.—“Why then to-morrow
morning be the day,” cries he. “Why then to-morrow morning shall be the day,
papa, since you will have it so,” says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees,
and kissed her hand in an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance
about the room, presently crying out—“Where the devil is Allworthy? He is
without now, a talking with that d—d lawyer Dowling, when he should be minding
other matters.” He then sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left
the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.
But he
soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won’t believe me, you may ask her
yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be married to-morrow?” “Such are
your commands, sir,” cries Sophia, “and I dare not be guilty of disobedience.”
“I hope, madam,” cries Allworthy, “my nephew will merit so much goodness, and
will be always as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my
family. An alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed
be an honour to the greatest in England.” “Yes,” cries Western, “but if I had
suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly dally, you might not have had that
honour yet a while; I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring
her to.” “I hope not, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I hope there is not the least
constraint.” “Why, there,” cries Western, “you may bid her unsay all again if
you will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?” “Indeed,
papa,” cries she, “I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any
promise in favour of Mr Jones.” “Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I felicitate
you most heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men. And, madam, you
will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful occasion: indeed, I am
convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who will be sensible of your great
merit, and who will at least use his best endeavours to deserve it.” “His best
endeavours!” cries Western, “that he will, I warrant un.——Harkee, Allworthy,
I’ll bet thee five pounds to a crown we have a boy to-morrow nine months; but
prithee tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for, please
Jupiter, we’ll make a night on’t.” “Indeed, sir,” said Allworthy, “you must
excuse me; both my nephew and I were engaged before I suspected this near
approach of his happiness.”—“Engaged!” quoth the squire, “never tell me.—I
won’t part with thee to-night upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please the
lord Harry.” “You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!” answered Allworthy; “I
have given a solemn promise, and that you know I never break.” “Why, prithee,
who art engaged to?” cries the squire.——Allworthy then informed him, as
likewise of the company.——“Odzookers!” answered the squire, “I will go with
thee, and so shall Sophy! for I won’t part with thee to-night; and it would be
barbarous to part Tom and the girl.” This offer was presently embraced by
Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a private promise from
her father that he would not mention a syllable concerning her marriage.
Chapter the last.
In which the history is concluded.
Young
Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait on his father, who
received him much more kindly than he expected. There likewise he met his
uncle, who was returned to town in quest of his new-married daughter.
This
marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to the young
gentleman; for these brothers lived in a constant state of contention about the
government of their children, both heartily despising the method which each
other took. Each of them therefore now endeavoured, as much as he could, to
palliate the offence which his own child had committed, and to aggravate the
match of the other. This desire of triumphing over his brother, added to the
many arguments which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on the old
gentleman that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed
to sup with him that evening at Mrs Miller’s.
As for the
other, who really loved his daughter with the most immoderate affection, there
was little difficulty in inclining him to a reconciliation. He was no sooner
informed by his nephew where his daughter and her husband were, than he
declared he would instantly go to her. And when he arrived there he scarce
suffered her to fall upon her knees before he took her up, and embraced her
with a tenderness which affected all who saw him; and in less than a quarter of
an hour was as well reconciled to both her and her husband as if he had himself
joined their hands.
In this
situation were affairs when Mr Allworthy and his company arrived to complete
the happiness of Mrs Miller, who no sooner saw Sophia than she guessed
everything that had happened; and so great was her friendship to Jones, that it
added not a few transports to those she felt on the happiness of her own
daughter.
There have
not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people met together, where
every one was so perfectly happy as in this company. Amongst whom the father of
young Nightingale enjoyed the least perfect content; for, notwithstanding his
affection for his son, notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of
Allworthy, together with the other motive mentioned before, he could not so
entirely be satisfied with his son’s choice; and, perhaps, the presence of
Sophia herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his concern, as a
thought now and then suggested itself that his son might have had that lady, or
some other such. Not that any of the charms which adorned either the person or
mind of Sophia created the uneasiness; it was the contents of her father’s
coffers which set his heart a longing. These were the charms which he could not
bear to think his son had sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs Miller.
The brides
were both very pretty women; but so totally were they eclipsed by the beauty of
Sophia, that, had they not been two of the best-tempered girls in the world, it
would have raised some envy in their breasts; for neither of their husbands
could long keep his eyes from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen
receiving homage, or, rather, like a superior being receiving adoration from
all around her. But it was an adoration which they gave, not which she exacted;
for she was as much distinguished by her modesty and affability as by all her
other perfections.
The
evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but those the most who
had been most unhappy before. Their former sufferings and fears gave such a
relish to their felicity as even love and fortune, in their fullest flow, could
not have given without the advantage of such a comparison. Yet, as great joy,
especially after a sudden change and revolution of circumstances, is apt to be
silent, and dwells rather in the heart than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia
appeared the least merry of the whole company; which Western observed with great
impatience, often crying out to them, “Why dost not talk, boy? Why dost look so
grave? Hast lost thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine; sha’t drink
another glass.” And, the more to enliven her, he would sometimes sing a merry
song, which bore some relation to matrimony and the loss of a maidenhead. Nay,
he would have proceeded so far on that topic as to have driven her out of the
room, if Mr Allworthy had not checkt him, sometimes by looks, and once or twice
by a “Fie! Mr Western!” He began, indeed, once to debate the matter, and assert
his right to talk to his own daughter as he thought fit; but, as nobody
seconded him, he was soon reduced to order.
Notwithstanding
this little restraint, he was so pleased with the chearfulness and good-humour
of the company, that he insisted on their meeting the next day at his lodgings.
They all did so; and the lovely Sophia, who was now in private become a bride
too, officiated as the mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase,
did the honours of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in
the chapel at Doctors’-Commons, where Mr Allworthy, Mr Western, and Mrs Miller,
were the only persons present.
Sophia had
earnestly desired her father that no others of the company, who were that day
to dine with him, should be acquainted with her marriage. The same secrecy was
enjoined to Mrs Miller, and Jones undertook for Allworthy. This somewhat
reconciled the delicacy of Sophia to the public entertainment which, in
compliance with her father’s will, she was obliged to go to, greatly against
her own inclinations. In confidence of this secrecy she went through the day
pretty well, till the squire, who was now advanced into the second bottle,
could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper, drank a health to
the bride. The health was immediately pledged by all present, to the great
confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, and the great concern of Jones upon her
account. To say truth, there was not a person present made wiser by this discovery;
for Mrs Miller had whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband,
her husband to his sister, and she to all the rest.
Sophia now
took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies, and the squire sat
in to his cups, in which he was, by degrees, deserted by all the company except
the uncle of young Nightingale, who loved his bottle as well as Western
himself. These two, therefore, sat stoutly to it during the whole evening, and
long after that happy hour which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the
eager arms of her enraptured Jones.
Thus,
reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion, in which, to our
great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy expectation, Mr Jones appears
to be the happiest of all humankind; for what happiness this world affords
equal to the possession of such a woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never
yet discovered.
As to the
other persons who have made any considerable figure in this history, as some
may desire to know a little more concerning them, we will proceed, in as few
words as possible, to satisfy their curiosity.
Allworthy
hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he hath yielded to the
importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle £200 a-year upon him; to
which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this income he lives in one of
the northern counties, about 200 miles distant from London, and lays up £200
a-year out of it, in order to purchase a seat in the next parliament from a
neighbouring borough, which he has bargained for with an attourney there. He is
also lately turned Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that
sect, whose estate lies in that part of the kingdom.
Square
died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter; and as to Thwackum, he
continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless attempts to regain the
confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate himself with Jones, both of whom he
flatters to their faces, and abuses behind their backs. But in his stead, Mr
Allworthy hath lately taken Mr Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is
grown immoderately fond, and declares he shall have the tuition of her
children.
Mrs
Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little remains of
her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite end of the town, and is so
good an economist, that she spends three times the income of her fortune,
without running into debt. She maintains a perfect intimacy with the lady of
the Irish peer; and in acts of friendship to her repays all obligations she
owes her husband.
Mrs Western
was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent two months together
with her in the country. Lady Bellaston made the latter a formal visit at her
return to town, where she behaved to Jones as a perfect stranger, and, with
great civility, wished him joy on his marriage.
Mr
Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the neighbourhood of Jones,
where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs Miller, and her little daughter
reside, and the most agreeable intercourse subsists between the two families.
As to
those of lower account, Mrs Waters returned into the country, had a pension of
£60 a-year settled upon her by Mr Allworthy, and is married to Parson Supple,
on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western hath bestowed a considerable
living.
Black
George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away, and was never since
heard of; and Jones bestowed the money on his family, but not in equal
proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share.
As for
Partridge, Jones hath settled £50 a-year on him; and he hath again set up a
school, in which he meets with much better encouragement than formerly, and
there is now a treaty of marriage on foot between him and Miss Molly Seagrim,
which, through the mediation of Sophia, is likely to take effect.
We now
return to take leave of Mr Jones and Sophia, who, within two days after their
marriage, attended Mr Western and Mr Allworthy into the country. Western hath
resigned his family seat, and the greater part of his estate, to his
son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser house of his in another part of the
country, which is better for hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr
Jones, who, as well as his daughter, hath an infinite delight in doing
everything in their power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended
with such success, that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his
life till now. He hath here a parlour and ante-chamber to himself, where he
gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his daughter is still as ready as formerly
to play to him whenever he desires it; for Jones hath assured her that, as,
next to pleasing her, one of his highest satisfactions is to contribute to the
happiness of the old man; so, the great duty which she expresses and performs
to her father, renders her almost equally dear to him with the love which she
bestows on himself.
Sophia
hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a girl, of whom the old
gentleman is so fond, that he spends much of his time in the nursery, where he
declares the tattling of his little grand-daughter, who is above a year and a
half old, is sweeter music than the finest cry of dogs in England.
Allworthy
was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and hath omitted no
instance of shewing his affection to him and his lady, who love him as a
father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a tendency to vice, has been
corrected by continual conversation with this good man, and by his union with
the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by reflection on his past
follies, acquired a discretion and prudence very uncommon in one of his lively
parts.
To
conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman, than this fond
couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and
tenderest affection for each other, an affection daily encreased and confirmed
by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their
relations and friends less amiable than towards one another. And such is their
condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them,
that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant, who doth not most
gratefully bless the day when Mr Jones was married to his Sophia.
