TOM JONES
PART 43
When Mr
Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr Western, Mrs Miller set forwards to
her son-in-law’s lodgings, in order to acquaint him with the accident which had
befallen his friend Jones; but he had known it long before from Partridge (for
Jones, when he left Mrs Miller, had been furnished with a room in the same
house with Mr Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great
affliction on account of Mr Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could,
she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where Mr
Nightingale was arrived before her.
The
firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so extremely
delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the distress itself, if it
be only temporary, and admits of relief, is more than compensated by bringing
this comfort with it. Nor are instances of this kind so rare as some
superficial and inaccurate observers have reported. To say the truth, want of
compassion is not to be numbered among our general faults. The black ingredient
which fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid,
turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or happier
than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we commonly look
downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient benevolence and pity. In
fact, I have remarked, that most of the defects which have discovered
themselves in the friendships within my observation have arisen from envy only:
a hellish vice; and yet one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt.
But enough of a subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
Whether it
was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under the weight of
his adversity, and that she might thus lose any future opportunity of
tormenting him, or whether she really abated somewhat of her severity towards
him, she seemed a little to relax her persecution, by sending him the company
of two such faithful friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful
servant. For Partridge, though he had many imperfections, wanted not fidelity;
and though fear would not suffer him to be hanged for his master, yet the
world, I believe, could not have bribed him to desert his cause.
While
Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his friends,
Partridge brought an account that Mr Fitzpatrick was still alive, though the
surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon which, Jones fetching a
deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, “My dear Tom, why should you afflict
yourself so upon an accident, which, whatever be the consequence, can be
attended with no danger to you, and in which your conscience cannot accuse you
of having been the least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done
more than taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the
coroner’s inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily admitted to
bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial, yet it is a trial which
many men would stand for you for a shilling.” “Come, come, Mr Jones,” says Mrs
Miller, “chear yourself up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I
told Mr Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too, before I have done with
him.”
Jones
gravely answered, “That whatever might be his fate, he should always lament the
having shed the blood of one of his fellow-creatures, as one of the highest
misfortunes which could have befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the
tenderest kind——O! Mrs Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth.”
“That must be a mistress,” said Mrs Miller; “but come, come; I know more than
you imagine” (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); “and I have heard more
than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you think; and I would
not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which he hath of the lady.”
“Indeed,
my dear friend, indeed,” answered Jones, “you are an entire stranger to the
cause of my grief. If you was acquainted with the story, you would allow my
case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend no danger from Blifil. I have undone
myself.” “Don’t despair,” replied Mrs Miller; “you know not what a woman can
do; and if anything be in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It
is my duty. My son, my dear Mr Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath obligations
to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I go to the lady myself?
I will say anything to her you would have me say.”
“Thou best
of women,” cries Jones, taking her by the hand, “talk not of obligations to
me;—but as you have been so kind to mention it, there is a favour which,
perhaps, may be in your power. I see you are acquainted with the lady (how you
came by your information I know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If
you could contrive to deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I
shall for ever acknowledge your goodness.”
“Give it
me,” said Mrs Miller. “If I see it not in her own possession before I sleep,
may my next sleep be my last! Comfort yourself, my good young man! be wise
enough to take warning from past follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and
I shall yet see you happy with the most charming young lady in the world; for I
so hear from every one she is.”
“Believe
me, madam,” said he, “I do not speak the common cant of one in my unhappy
situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had resolved to quit a
life of which I was become sensible of the wickedness as well as folly. I do
assure you, notwithstanding the disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in
your house, for which I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned
profligate. Though I have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious
character, nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it.”
Mrs Miller
expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the sincerity of which
she averred she had an entire faith; and now the remainder of the conversation
past in the joint attempts of that good woman and Mr Nightingale to cheer the
dejected spirits of Mr Jones, in which they so far succeeded as to leave him
much better comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy
alteration nothing so much contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs Miller to
deliver his letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any means to
accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he informed
Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on pain of having it communicated
to her father, not to bring her any answer. He was, moreover, not a little
pleased to find he had so warm an advocate to Mr Allworthy himself in this good
woman, who was, in reality, one of the worthiest creatures in the world.
After
about an hour’s visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been with him much
longer), they both took their leave, promising to return to him soon; during
which Mrs Miller said she hoped to bring him some good news from his mistress,
and Mr Nightingale promised to enquire into the state of Mr Fitzpatrick’s
wound, and likewise to find out some of the persons who were present at the
rencounter.
Chapter vi. — In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
Access to
the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived now on a perfect
friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full liberty to receive what
visitants she pleased.
Sophia was
dressing when she was acquainted that there was a gentlewoman below to wait on
her. As she was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs
Miller was immediately admitted.
Curtsies
and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to each other, being
past, Sophia said, “I have not the pleasure to know you, madam.” “No, madam,”
answered Mrs Miller, “and I must beg pardon for intruding upon you. But when
you know what has induced me to give you this trouble, I hope——” “Pray, what is
your business, madam?” said Sophia, with a little emotion. “Madam, we are not
alone,” replied Mrs Miller, in a low voice. “Go out, Betty,” said Sophia.
When Betty
was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, madam, by a very unhappy young
gentleman, to deliver you this letter.” Sophia changed colour when she saw the
direction, well knowing the hand, and after some hesitation, said—“I could not
conceive, madam, from your appearance, that your business had been of such a
nature.—Whomever you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be
sorry to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter
stranger to me.”
“If you
will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “I will acquaint you who I am,
and how I came by that letter.” “I have no curiosity, madam, to know anything,”
cries Sophia; “but I must insist on your delivering that letter back to the
person who gave it you.”
Mrs Miller
then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms implored her
compassion; to which Sophia answered: “Sure, madam, it is surprizing you should
be so very strongly interested in the behalf of this person. I would not think,
madam”—“No, madam,” says Mrs Miller, “you shall not think anything but the
truth. I will tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is
the best-natured creature that ever was born.”—She then began and related the
story of Mr Anderson.—After this she cried, “This, madam, this is his goodness;
but I have much more tender obligations to him. He hath preserved my
child.”—Here, after shedding some tears, she related everything concerning that
fact, suppressing only those circumstances which would have most reflected on
her daughter, and concluded with saying, “Now, madam, you shall judge whether I
can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he
is the best and worthiest of all human beings.”
The
alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly to her
disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great paleness; but she
now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and cried, “I know not what to
say; certainly what arises from gratitude cannot be blamed—But what service can
my reading this letter do your friend, since I am resolved never——” Mrs Miller
fell again to her entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she
said, carry it back. “Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot help it, if you will
force it upon me.—Certainly you may leave it whether I will or no.” What Sophia
meant, or whether she meant anything, I will not presume to determine; but Mrs
Miller actually understood this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down
on the table, took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on
Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial.
The letter
lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller was out of sight; for then
Sophia opened and read it.
This
letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of little more
than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter lamentations of despair,
together with the most solemn protestations of his unalterable fidelity to
Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to convince her, if he had ever more the
honour of being admitted to her presence; and that he could account for the
letter to Lady Bellaston in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle
him to her forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And
concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts than to marry
Lady Bellaston.
Though
Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his meaning still
remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention suggest to her any means to
excuse Jones. She certainly remained very angry with him, though indeed Lady
Bellaston took up so much of her resentment, that her gentle mind had but
little left to bestow on any other person.
That lady
was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt Western, and in the
afternoon they were all three, by appointment, to go together to the opera, and
thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet’s drum. Sophia would have gladly been excused
from all, but would not disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of
counterfeiting illness, she was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never
once entered into her head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went,
resolved to encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most disagreeable one
it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every opportunity very civilly and slily to
insult her; to all which her dejection of spirits disabled her from making any
return; and, indeed, to confess the truth, she was at the very best but an
indifferent mistress of repartee.
Another
misfortune which befel poor Sophia was the company of Lord Fellamar, whom she
met at the opera, and who attended her to the drum. And though both places were
too publick to admit of any particularities, and she was farther relieved by
the musick at the one place, and by the cards at the other, she could not,
however, enjoy herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in
women, which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man whom
they know to have pretensions to them which they are disinclined to favour.
Having in
this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our posterity, it is hoped,
will not understand in the sense it is here applied, we shall, notwithstanding
our present haste, stop a moment to describe the entertainment here meant, and
the rather as we can in a moment describe it.
A drum,
then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes, most of whom play
at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the mistress of the house
performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and like the landlady of an inn
prides herself in the number of her guests, though she doth not always, like
her, get anything by it.
No wonder
then, as so much spirits must be required to support any vivacity in these
scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion eternally complaining of the
want of them; a complaint confined entirely to upper life. How insupportable
must we imagine this round of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time;
how difficult must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her
looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and when every
thought was charged with tormenting ideas!
Night,
however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will leave her to soothe
her melancholy at least, though incapable we fear of rest, and shall pursue our
history, which, something whispers us, is now arrived at the eve of some great
event.
Chapter vii. — A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.
Mrs Miller
had a long discourse with Mr Allworthy, at his return from dinner, in which she
acquainted him with Jones’s having unfortunately lost all which he was pleased
to bestow on him at their separation; and with the distresses to which that
loss had subjected him; of all which she had received a full account from the
faithful retailer Partridge. She then explained the obligations she had to
Jones; not that she was entirely explicit with regard to her daughter; for
though she had the utmost confidence in Mr Allworthy, and though there could be
no hopes of keeping an affair secret which was unhappily known to more than
half a dozen, yet she could not prevail with herself to mention those
circumstances which reflected most on the chastity of poor Nancy, but smothered
that part of her evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and
the girl was now on her trial for the murder of a bastard.
Allworthy
said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as not to have the least
mixture of good in them. “However,” says he, “I cannot deny but that you have
some obligations to the fellow, bad as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what
hath past already, but must insist you never mention his name to me more; for,
I promise you, it was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to
take the measures I have taken.” “Well, sir,” says she, “I make not the least
doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and natural colours, and
that you will be convinced this poor young man deserves better of you than some
other folks that shall be nameless.”
“Madam,”
cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, “I will not hear any reflections on my
nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that kind, I will depart from your
house that instant. He is the worthiest and best of men; and I once more repeat
it to you, he hath carried his friendship to this man to a blameable length, by
too long concealing facts of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the wretch to
this good young man is what I most resent; for, madam, I have the greatest
reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant my nephew in my favour, and to
have disinherited him.”
“I am
sure, sir,” answered Mrs Miller, a little frightened (for, though Mr Allworthy
had the utmost sweetness and benevolence in his smiles, he had great terror in
his frowns), “I shall never speak against any gentleman you are pleased to
think well of. I am sure, sir, such behaviour would very little become me,
especially when the gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not
be angry with me, you must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor wretch.
Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been angry with me if I
had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How often have I heard you call him
your son? How often have you prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a
parent? Nay, sir, I cannot forget the many tender expressions, the many good
things you have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his virtues; of his
good-nature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them, for I find
them all true. I have experienced them in my own cause. They have preserved my
family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed you must. When I consider the
cruel reverse of fortune which this poor youth, to whom I am so much obliged,
hath suffered; when I consider the loss of your favour, which I know he valued
more than his life, I must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your
hand, ready to plunge into my heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you
have loved, and I shall ever love.”
Allworthy
was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed not to be with anger;
for, after a short silence, taking Mrs Miller by the hand, he said very
affectionately to her, “Come, madam, let us consider a little about your
daughter. I cannot blame you for rejoicing in a match which promises to be
advantageous to her, but you know this advantage, in a great measure, depends
on the father’s reconciliation. I know Mr Nightingale very well, and have
formerly had concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to serve
you in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an only son,
and the thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in time be brought to
reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you.”
Many were
the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy for this kind and
generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking this occasion again to
express her gratitude towards Jones, “to whom,” said she, “I owe the
opportunity of giving you, sir, this present trouble.” Allworthy gently stopped
her; but he was too good a man to be really offended with the effects of so
noble a principle as now actuated Mrs Miller; and indeed, had not this new
affair inflamed his former anger against Jones, it is possible he might have
been a little softened towards him, by the report of an action which malice
itself could not have derived from an evil motive.
Mr
Allworthy and Mrs Miller had been above an hour together, when their
conversation was put an end to by the arrival of Blifil and another person,
which other person was no less than Mr Dowling, the attorney, who was now
become a great favourite with Mr Blifil, and whom Mr Allworthy, at the desire
of his nephew, had made his steward; and had likewise recommended him to Mr
Western, from whom the attorney received a promise of being promoted to the
same office upon the first vacancy; and, in the meantime, was employed in
transacting some affairs which the squire then had in London in relation to a
mortgage.
This was
the principal affair which then brought Mr Dowling to town; therefore he took
the same opportunity to charge himself with some money for Mr Allworthy, and to
make a report to him of some other business; in all which, as it was of much
too dull a nature to find any place in this history, we will leave the uncle,
nephew, and their lawyer concerned, and resort to other matters.
Chapter viii. — Containing various matters.
Before we
return to Mr Jones, we will take one more view of Sophia.
Though
that young lady had brought her aunt into great good humour by those soothing
methods which we have before related, she had not brought her in the least to
abate of her zeal for the match with Lord Fellamar. This zeal was now inflamed
by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the preceding evening, that she was well
satisfied from the conduct of Sophia, and from her carriage to his lordship,
that all delays would be dangerous, and that the only way to succeed was to
press the match forward with such rapidity that the young lady should have no
time to reflect, and be obliged to consent while she scarce knew what she did;
in which manner, she said, one-half of the marriages among people of condition
were brought about. A fact very probably true, and to which, I suppose, is
owing the mutual tenderness which afterwards exists among so many happy
couples.
A hint of
the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar; and both these so
readily embraced the advice that the very next day was, at his lordship’s
request, appointed by Mrs Western for a private interview between the young
parties. This was communicated to Sophia by her aunt, and insisted upon in such
high terms, that, after having urged everything she possibly could invent
against it without the least effect, she at last agreed to give the highest
instance of complacence which any young lady can give, and consented to see his
lordship.
As
conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, we shall be excused
from reciting the whole that past at this interview; in which, after his
lordship had made many declarations of the most pure and ardent passion to the
silent blushing Sophia, she at last collected all the spirits she could raise,
and with a trembling low voice said, “My lord, you must be yourself conscious
whether your former behaviour to me hath been consistent with the professions
you now make.” “Is there,” answered he, “no way by which I can atone for
madness? what I did I am afraid must have too plainly convinced you, that the
violence of love had deprived me of my senses.” “Indeed, my lord,” said she,
“it is in your power to give me a proof of an affection which I much rather
wish to encourage, and to which I should think myself more beholden.” “Name it,
madam,” said my lord, very warmly. “My lord,” says she, looking down upon her
fan, “I know you must be sensible how uneasy this pretended passion of yours
hath made me.” “Can you be so cruel to call it pretended?” says he. “Yes, my
lord,” answered Sophia, “all professions of love to those whom we persecute are
most insulting pretences. This pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel persecution:
nay, it is taking a most ungenerous advantage of my unhappy situation.” “Most
lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse me,” cries he, “of taking an
ungenerous advantage, while I have no thoughts but what are directed to your
honour and interest, and while I have no view, no hope, no ambition, but to
throw myself, honour, fortune, everything at your feet.” “My lord,” says she,
“it is that fortune and those honours which gave you the advantage of which I
complain. These are the charms which have seduced my relations, but to me they
are things indifferent. If your lordship will merit my gratitude, there is but
one way.” “Pardon me, divine creature,” said he, “there can be none. All I can
do for you is so much your due, and will give me so much pleasure, that there
is no room for your gratitude.” “Indeed, my lord,” answered she, “you may
obtain my gratitude, my good opinion, every kind thought and wish which it is
in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease, for sure to a
generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. Let me beseech you, then, to
cease a pursuit in which you can never have any success. For your own sake as
well as mine I entreat this favour; for sure you are too noble to have any
pleasure in tormenting an unhappy creature. What can your lordship propose but
uneasiness to yourself, by a perseverance, which, upon my honour, upon my soul,
cannot, shall not prevail with me, whatever distresses you may drive me to.”
Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said—“Is it then, madam, that I am
so unhappy to be the object of your dislike and scorn; or will you pardon me if
I suspect there is some other?” Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered with
some spirit, “My lord, I shall not be accountable to you for the reasons of my
conduct. I am obliged to your lordship for the generous offer you have made; I
own it is beyond either my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you
will not insist on my reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it.” Lord
Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not perfectly understand, and
perhaps it could not all be strictly reconciled either to sense or grammar; but
he concluded his ranting speech with saying, “That if she had pre-engaged
herself to any gentleman, however unhappy it would make him, he should think
himself bound in honour to desist.” Perhaps my lord laid too much emphasis on
the word gentleman; for we cannot else well account for the indignation with
which he inspired Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront
he had given her.
While she
was speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs Western came into the
room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the flames bursting from her eyes. “I
am ashamed,” says she, “my lord, of the reception which you have met with. I
assure your lordship we are all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell
you, Miss Western, the family expect a different behaviour from you.” Here my
lord interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to no purpose; the aunt proceeded
till Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, threw herself into a chair, and burst
into a violent fit of tears.
The
remainder of the conversation between Mrs Western and his lordship, till the
latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations on his side, and on hers of
the strongest assurances that her niece should and would consent to all he
wished. “Indeed, my lord,” says she, “the girl hath had a foolish education,
neither adapted to her fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say
it, is to blame for everything. The girl hath silly country notions of
bashfulness. Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a
good understanding at the bottom, and will be brought to reason.”
This last
speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some time before left the
room, with more appearance of passion than she had ever shown on any occasion;
and now his lordship, after many expressions of thanks to Mrs Western, many
ardent professions of passion which nothing could conquer, and many assurances
of perseverance, which Mrs Western highly encouraged, took his leave for this
time.
Before we
relate what now passed between Mrs Western and Sophia, it may be proper to
mention an unfortunate accident which had happened, and which had occasioned
the return of Mrs Western with so much fury, as we have seen.
The reader
then must know that the maid who at present attended on Sophia was recommended
by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for some time in the capacity of a
comb-brush: she was a very sensible girl, and had received the strictest
instructions to watch her young lady very carefully. These instructions, we are
sorry to say, were communicated to her by Mrs Honour, into whose favour Lady
Bellaston had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the
good waiting-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely obliterated by
that great attachment which she had to her new mistress.
Now, when
Mrs Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name of the girl), returning to
her young lady, found her very attentively engaged in reading a long letter,
and the visible emotions which she betrayed on that occasion might have well
accounted for some suspicions which the girl entertained; but indeed they had
yet a stronger foundation, for she had overheard the whole scene which passed
between Sophia and Mrs Miller.
Mrs
Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after receiving many
commendations and some rewards for her fidelity, was ordered, that, if the
woman who brought the letter came again, she should introduce her to Mrs
Western herself.
Unluckily,
Mrs Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was engaged with his lordship.
Betty, according to order, sent her directly to the aunt; who, being mistress
of so many circumstances relating to what had past the day before, easily
imposed upon the poor woman to believe that Sophia had communicated the whole
affair; and so pumped everything out of her which she knew relating to the
letter and relating to Jones.
This poor
creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was one of that order
of mortals who are apt to believe everything which is said to them; to whom
nature hath neither indulged the offensive nor defensive weapons of deceit, and
who are consequently liable to be imposed upon by any one who will only be at
the expense of a little falshood for that purpose. Mrs Western, having drained
Mrs Miller of all she knew, which, indeed, was but little, but which was
sufficient to make the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her with assurances
that Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the letter, nor
ever receive another; nor did she suffer her to depart without a handsome
lecture on the merits of an office to which she could afford no better name
than that of procuress.—This discovery had greatly discomposed her temper,
when, coming into the apartment next to that in which the lovers were, she
overheard Sophia very warmly protesting against his lordship’s addresses. At
which the rage already kindled burst forth, and she rushed in upon her niece in
a most furious manner, as we have already described, together with what past at
that time till his lordship’s departure.
No sooner
was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs Western returned to Sophia, whom she upbraided
in the most bitter terms for the ill use she had made of the confidence reposed
in her; and for her treachery in conversing with a man with whom she had
offered but the day before to bind herself in the most solemn oath never more
to have any conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such
conversation. “How, how! Miss Western,” said the aunt; “will you deny your
receiving a letter from him yesterday?” “A letter, madam!” answered Sophia,
somewhat surprized. “It is not very well bred, miss,” replies the aunt, “to
repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist upon your showing it me
immediately.” “I scorn a lie, madam,” said Sophia; “I did receive a letter, but
it was without my desire, and, indeed, I may say, against my consent.” “Indeed,
indeed, miss,” cries the aunt, “you ought to be ashamed of owning you had
received it at all; but where is the letter? for I will see it.”
To this
peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she returned an answer; and
at last only excused herself by declaring she had not the letter in her pocket,
which was, indeed, true; upon which her aunt, losing all manner of patience,
asked her niece this short question, whether she would resolve to marry Lord
Fellamar, or no? to which she received the strongest negative. Mrs Western then
replied with an oath, or something very like one, that she would early the next
morning deliver her back into her father’s hand.
Sophia
then began to reason with her aunt in the following manner:—“Why, madam, must I
of necessity be forced to marry at all? Consider how cruel you would have
thought it in your own case, and how much kinder your parents were in leaving
you to your liberty. What have I done to forfeit this liberty? I will never
marry contrary to my father’s consent, nor without asking yours——And when I ask
the consent of either improperly, it will be then time enough to force some
other marriage upon me.” “Can I bear to hear this,” cries Mrs Western, “from a
girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her pocket?” “I have no such
letter, I promise you,” answered Sophia; “and, if he be a murderer, he will
soon be in no condition to give you any further disturbance.” “How, Miss
Western!” said the aunt, “have you the assurance to speak of him in this manner;
to own your affection for such a villain to my face?” “Sure, madam,” said
Sophia, “you put a very strange construction on my words.” “Indeed, Miss
Western,” cries the lady, “I shall not bear this usage; you have learnt of your
father this manner of treating me; he hath taught you to give me the lie. He
hath totally ruined you by this false system of education; and, please heaven,
he shall have the comfort of its fruits; for once more I declare to you, that
to-morrow morning I will carry you back. I will withdraw all my forces from the
field, and remain henceforth, like the wise king of Prussia, in a state of
perfect neutrality. You are both too wise to be regulated by my measures; so
prepare yourself, for to-morrow morning you shall evacuate this house.”
Sophia
remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all she said. In this
resolution therefore we must at present leave her, as there seems to be no
hopes of bringing her to change it.
To be continued
