7. CHAPTER VII.
The interview between Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale
The good or evil we confer on others, very often, I believe, recoils
on ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own
acts of beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there
are scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of
doing injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin
which they bring on their fellow creatures.
Mr. Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary,
Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire,
and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed
poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear, than he arose
hastily to meet him; and after much congratulation said, "Nothing
could be more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more
in the spleen in my life."
"I am sorry," answered Jones, "that I bring news very unlikely to
relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you
the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further
preface, then, I come to you, Mr. Nightingale, from a worthy family,
which you have involved in misery and ruin." Mr. Nightingale changed
colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded,
in the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the
reader was acquainted in the last chapter.
Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he
discovered violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was
concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, "What you tell me,
my friend, affects me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so
cursed an accident as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her
reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the affair might have
remained a profound secret; and then the girl might have gone off
never the worse; for many such things happen in this town: and if
the husband should suspect a little, when it is too late, it will be
his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his wife and
the world."
"Indeed, my friend," answered Jones, "this could not have been the
case with your poor Nancy. You have so intirely gained her affections,
that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which
afflicts her, and will end in the destruction of her and her
family." "Nay, for that matter, I promise you," cries Nightingale,
"she hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to
be, will have very little share in them." "And is it possible,
then," said Jones, "you can think of deserting her?" "Why, what can
I do?" answered the other. "Ask Miss Nancy," replied Jones warmly. "In
the condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she
ought to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest
alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if
you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less," cries Jones,
"than fulfil the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I
sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you
together. You will pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have
favoured me with, moved as I am with compassion for those poor
creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you, whether you
have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as
well as the daughter, into an opinion, that you designed honourably:
and if so, though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in
the case, I will leave to your own good understanding, how far you are
bound to proceed."
"Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted," said
Nightingale; "but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I
have given." "And can you, after owning that," said Jones, "hesitate a
moment?" "Consider, my friend," answered the other; "I know you are
a man of honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules;
if there were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her
disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?" "Undoubtedly,"
replied Jones, "and the very best and truest honour, which is
goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind,
you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of
having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family,
and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her
innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful
occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being?
Can you, with honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both
the life and soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the
thought, that this creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless,
young woman? A young woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies
for you; who hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises; and
to that confidence hath sacrificed everything which is dear to her?
Can honour support such contemplations as these a moment?"
"Common sense, indeed," said Nightingale, "warrants all you say; but
yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it, that,
was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever
showing my face again."
"Fie upon it, Mr. Nightingale!" said Jones, "do not call her by so
ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her, she became your
wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And
what is this world, which you would be ashamed to face, but the
vile, the foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a
shame must proceed from false modesty, which always attends false
honour as its shadow.- But I am well assured there is not a man of
real sense and goodness in the world, who would not honour and applaud
the action. But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my
friend, applaud it? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which
we feel from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous,
benevolent action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved
praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On
the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the
arms of her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking
heart in agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather than
accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to
your imagination the circumstance of her fond despairing parent,
driven to madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely
daughter. View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind
hath dwelt a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause
of all the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On
the other side, consider yourself, as relieving them from their
temporary sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that
lovely creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to
her pale cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her
tortured breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness
of all. Think of this little family made by one act of yours
completely happy. Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in
my friend, if it requires any long deliberation, whether he will
sink these wretches down for ever, or, by one generous, noble
resolution, raise them all from the brink of misery and despair to the
highest pitch of human happiness. Add to this but one consideration
more; the consideration that it is your duty so to do- That the
misery from which you will relieve these poor people, is the misery
which you yourself have wilfully brought upon them."
"O, my dear friend!" cries Nightingale, "I wanted not your eloquence
to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly
give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed
between us. Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion
before I could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which
hath caused all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no
inclinations to consult but my own, I would marry her to-morrow
morning: I would, by heaven! but you will easily imagine how
impossible it would be to prevail on my father to consent to such a
match; besides, he hath provided another for me; and to-morrow, by his
express command, I am to wait on the lady."
"I have not the honour to know your father," said Jones; "but,
suppose he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to the
only means of preserving these poor people?" "As eagerly as I would
pursue my happiness," answered Nightingale: "for I never shall find it
in any other woman.- O, my dear friend! could you imagine what I have
felt within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she
would not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if
I had any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully satisfied them:
could my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be
wanting to compleat my own happiness, or that of my Nancy."
"Then I am resolved to undertake it," said Jones. "You must not be
angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this
affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid
from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once
they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any
fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless
immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a
manner which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If
you will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I
will not lose a moment in the business; which, while I pursue, you
cannot do a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor
girl. You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given
of the wretchedness of the family."
Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having
acquainted Jones with his father's lodging, and the coffee-house where
he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,
"My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew
my father, you would never think of obtaining his consent.-- Stay,
there is one way- suppose you told him I was already married, it might
be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my
honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my
Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be
the consequence."
Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They
then separated, Nightingale, to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of
the old gentleman.