BOOK XVIII
CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS
1. CHAPTER I.
A farewell to the reader
We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey.
As we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages let us
behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who
have passed several days in the company of each other; and who,
notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have
occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for
the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour;
since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a
little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good
company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well
known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside;
whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake
personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is
usually plain and serious.
In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this
work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here
lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged
to cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous
observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes
perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning
to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only;
and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this
book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it
scarce sufficient to tell the story.
And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no
other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining
companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in
anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some
things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do
most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I
question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me,
that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever
told thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises
scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none
hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I
have had some of the abusive writings of those very men fathered
upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves
with the utmost virulence.
All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long
before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however
short the period may be of my own performances, they will most
probably outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions
of his abusive contemporaries.
2. CHAPTER II.
Containing a very tragical incident
While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
standing on end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he
would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
spectre himself.
Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being
somewhat shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself
change colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him,
What was the matter?
"I hope, sir," said Partridge, "you will not be angry with me.
Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward
room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than
have heard what I have heard." "Why, what is the matter?" said
Jones. "The matter, sir? O good Heaven!" answered Partridge, "was that
woman who is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?"
"She was, Partridge," cried Jones. "And did you really, sir, go to bed
with that woman?" said he, trembling.- "I am afraid what past between
us is no secret," said Jones.- "Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's
sake, sir, answer me," cries Partridge. "You know I did," cries Jones.
"Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you," cries
Partridge; "but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed
with your own mother."
Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of
horror than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck
dumb with amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At
last his words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, "How!
how! what's this you tell me?" "Nay, sir," cries Partridge, "I have
not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.- That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at
that time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have
contrived to bring about this wickedness."
"Sure," cried Jones, "Fortune will never have done with me till
she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am
myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which
have befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice.
What thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my
senses! And was Mrs. Waters, then- but why do I ask? for thou must
certainly know her-- If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou
hast any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman
back again to me. O good Heavens! incest-- with a mother! To what am I
reserved!" He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of
grief and despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him;
but at last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a
little to himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would
find this wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman
was lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the
scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many
strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview
between Partridge and Mrs. Waters, when she spent a whole day there
with Mr. Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in
life, where the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little
circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered
by the accurate eye, in this our history.
After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned
back to his master, without having seen Mrs. Waters. Jones, who was in
a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he
brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition
before he received the following letter:
"SIR,
"Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O,
Mr. Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton,
the reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life,
who it was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be
ever sincerely your unfortunate
"J. WATERS"
"P.S.- I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for
Mr. Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not among
the number."
Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold
it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).
Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read
it likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil,
and not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both
their countenances. While they both remained speechless, the turnkey
entered the room, and, without taking any notice of what
sufficiently discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted
Jones that a man without desired to speak with him. This person was
presently introduced, and was other than Black George.
As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to
the turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the
face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,
which was reported in the very worst light in Mr. Western's family; he
concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr.
Jones was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which
gave him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate
disposition, and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he
had been over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of
the obligations he had formerly received from Mr. Jones.
The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the
present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his
misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner
of service. "Perhaps, sir," said he, "you may want a little matter
of money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is
heartily at your service."
Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many
thanks for the kind offer he had made; but answered, "He had not the
least want of that kind." Upon which George began to press his
services more eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with
assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the power of any living
man to give. "Come, come, my good master," answered George, "do not
take the matter so much to heart. Things may end better than you
imagine; to be sure you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a
man, and yet come off." "You are wide of the matter, George," said
Partridge, "the gentleman is not dead, nor like to die. Don't
disturb my master, at present, for he is troubled about a matter in
which it is not in your power to do him any good." You don't know what
I may be able to do, Mr. Partridge," answered George; "if his
concern is about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master."
"What do you say, Mr. George?" cried Jones. "Hath anything lately
happened in which my Sophia is concerned? Sophia! how dares such a
wretch as I mention her so profanely!" "I hope she will be yours yet,"
answered George. "Why yes, sir, I have something to tell you about
her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home, and there hath
been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very right of
it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, and so was Madam
Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her chair,
that she would never set foot in master's house again. I don't know
what's the matter, not I, but everything was very quiet when I came
out; but Robin, who waited at supper, said he had never seen the
squire for a long while in such good humour with young madam; that
he kissed her several times, and swore she should be her own mistress,
and he never would think of confining her any more. I thought this
news would please you, and so I slipped out, though it was so late, to
inform you of it." Mr. Jones assured George that it did greatly please
him; for though he should never more presume to lift his eyes toward
that incomparable creature, nothing could so much relieve his misery
as the satisfaction he should always have in hearing of her welfare.
The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not
important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore,
forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this
great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.
Mrs. Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began
to set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to
the family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had
absolutely refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of
his daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion,
and so irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience
nor his prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued
between them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the
regions of Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this
scolding Mrs. Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to
acquaint her brother with the letter which Sophia received, which
might have possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe
it never once occurred to her memory at this time.
When Mrs. Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as
well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the
compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against
her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the
first time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree
acceptable to the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr. Allworthy
had insisted on an entire relinquishment of all violent means; and,
indeed, as he made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not
in the least question succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he
now, therefore, once more gave a loose to his natural fondness for
her, which had such an effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and
affectionate heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and
something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed, I
much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a man
she did not like, to have obliged her father. She promised him she
would make it the whole business of her life to oblige him, and
would never marry any man against his consent; which brought the old
man so near to his highest happiness, that he was resolved to take the
other step, and went to bed completely drunk.
3. CHAPTER III.
Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange discovery that he
made on that occasion
The morning after these things had happened, Mr. Allworthy went,
according to his promise, to visit old Nightingale, with whom his
authority was so great, that, after having sat with him three hours,
he at last prevailed with him to consent to see his son.
Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed
of those strange chances whence very good and grave men have concluded
that Providence often interposes in the discovery of the most secret
villany, in order to caution men from quitting the paths of honesty,
however warily they tread in those of vice.
Mr. Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr. Nightingale's, saw Black
George; he took no notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he
had perceived him.
However, when their conversation on the principal point was over,
Allworthy asked Nightingale, Whether he knew one George Seagrim, and
upon what business he came to his house? "Yes," answered
Nightingale, "I know him very well, and a most extraordinary fellow he
is, who, in these days, hath been able to hoard up £500 from renting a
very small estate of £30 a year." "And this is the story which he hath
told you?" cries Allworthy. "Nay, it is true, I promise you," said
Nightingale, "for I have the money now in my own hands, in five
bank-bills, which I am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some
purchase in the north of England." The bank-bills were no sooner
produced at Allworthy's desire, than he blessed himself at the
strangeness of the discovery. He presently told Nightingale that these
bank-bills were formerly his, and then acquainted him with the whole
affair. As there are no men who complain more of the frauds of
business than highwaymen, gamesters, and other thieves of that kind,
so there are none who so bitterly exclaim against the frauds of
gamesters, etc., as usurers, brokers, and other thieves of this kind;
whether it be that the one way of cheating is a discountenance or
reflection upon the other, or that money, which is the common mistress
of all cheats, makes them regard each other in the light of rivals;
but Nightingale no sooner heard the story than he exclaimed against
the fellow in terms much severer than the justice and honesty of
Allworthy had bestowed on him.
Allworthy desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the
secret till he should hear farther from him; and, if he should in
the meantime see the fellow, that he would not take the least notice
to him of the discovery which he had made. He then returned to his
lodgings, where he found Mrs. Miller in a very dejected condition,
on account of the information she had received from her son-in-law.
Mr. Allworthy, with great chearfulness, told her that he had much good
news to communicate; and, with little further preface, acquainted
her that he had brought Mr. Nightingale to consent to see his son, and
did not in the least doubt to effect a perfect reconciliation
between them; though he found the father more sowered by another
accident of the same kind which had happened in his family. He then
mentioned the running away of the uncle's daughter, which he had
been told by the old gentleman, and which Mrs. Miller and her
son-in-law did not yet know.
The reader may suppose Mrs. Miller received this account with
great thankfulness, and no less pleasure; but so uncommon was her
friendship to Jones, that I am not certain whether the uneasiness
she suffered for his sake did not overbalance her satisfaction at
hearing a piece of news tending so much to the happiness of her own
family; nor whether even this very news, as it reminded her of the
obligations she had to Jones, did not hurt as well as please her; when
her grateful heart said to her, "While my own family is happy, how
miserable is the poor creature to whose generosity we owe the
beginning of all this happiness!"
Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I
may use that expression) on these first tidings, told her he had still
something more to impart, which he believed would give her pleasure.
"I think," said he, "I have discovered a pretty considerable
treasure belonging to the young gentleman, your friend; but perhaps,
indeed, his present situation may be such that it will be of no
service to him." The latter part of the speech gave Mrs. Miller to
understand who was meant, and she answered with a sigh, "I hope not,
sir." "I hope so too," cries Allworthy, "with all my heart; but my
nephew told me this morning he had heard a very bad account of the
affair."-- "Good Heaven! sir," said she- "Well, I must not speak, and
yet it is certainly very hard to be obliged to hold one's tongue when
one hears."-- "Madam," said Allworthy, "you may say whatever you
please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against any
one; and as for that young man, I assure you I should be heartily
pleased to find he could acquit himself of everything, and
particularly of this sad affair. You can testify the affection I have
formerly borne him. The world, I know, censured me for loving him so
much. I did not withdraw that affection from him without thinking I
had the justest cause. Believe me, Mrs. Miller, I should be glad to
find I have been mistaken." Mrs. Miller was going eagerly to reply,
when a servant acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to
speak with her immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his nephew,
and was told that he had been for some time in his room with the
gentleman who used to come to him, and whom Mr. Allworthy guessing
rightly to be Mr. Dowling, he desired presently to speak with him.
When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the banknotes to
him, without mentioning any name, and asked in what manner such a
person might be punished. To which Dowling answered, "He thought he
might be indicted on the Black Act; but said, as it was a matter of
some nicety, it would be proper to go to counsel. He said he was to
attend counsel presently upon an affair of Mr. Western's, and if Mr.
Allworthy pleased he would lay the case before them." This was
agreed to; and then Mrs. Miller, opening the door, cried, "I ask
pardon, I did not know you had company;" but Allworthy desired her to
come in, saying he had finished his business. Upon which Mr. Dowling
withdrew, and Mrs. Miller introduced Mr. Nightingale the younger, to
return thanks for the great kindness done him by Allworthy: but she
had scarce patience to let the young gentleman finish his speech
before she interrupted him, saying, "O sir! Mr. Nightingale brings
great news about poor Mr. Jones: he hath been to see the wounded
gentleman, who is out of all danger of death, and, what is more,
declares he fell upon poor Mr. Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure,
sir, you would not have Mr. Jones be a coward. If I was a man
myself, I am sure, if any man was to strike me, I should draw my
sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr. Allworthy, tell him all yourself."
Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs. Miller had said; and concluded
with many handsome things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the
best-natured fellows in the world, and not in the least inclined to be
quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was going to cease, when Mrs. Miller
again begged him to relate all the many dutiful expressions he had
heard him make use of towards Mr. Allworthy. "To say the utmost good
of Mr. Allworthy," cries Nightingale, "is doing no more than strict
justice, and can have no merit in it: but indeed, I must say, no man
can be more sensible of the obligations he hath to so good a man
than is poor Jones. Indeed, sir, I am convinced the weight of your
displeasure is the heaviest burthen he lies under. He hath often
lamented it to me, and hath as often protested in the most solemn
manner he hath never been intentionally guilty of any offence
towards you; nay, he hath sworn he would rather die a thousand
deaths than he would have his conscience upbraid him with one
disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards you. But I ask
pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to intermeddle too far in so tender
a point." "You have spoke no more than what a Christian ought,"
cries Mrs. Miller. "Indeed, Mr. Nightingale," answered Allworthy, "I
applaud your generous friendship, and I wish he may merit it of you. I
confess I am glad to hear the report you bring from this unfortunate
gentleman; and, if that matter should turn out to be as you
represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what you say), I may,
perhaps, in time, be brought to think better than lately I have of
this young man; for this good gentlewoman here, nay, all who know
me, can witness that I loved him as dearly as if he had been my own
son. Indeed, I have considered him as a child sent by fortune to my
care. I still remember the innocent, the helpless situation in which I
found him. I feel the tender pressure of his little hands at this
moment. He was my darling, indeed he was." At which words he ceased,
and the tears stood in his eyes.
As the answer which Mrs. Miller made may lead us into fresh matters,
we will here stop to account for the visible alteration in Mr.
Allworthy's mind, and the abatement of his anger to Jones. Revolutions
of this kind, it is true, frequently occur in histories and dramatic
writers, for no other reason than because the history or play draws to
a conclusion, and are justified by authority of authors; yet, though
we insist upon as much authority as any author whatever, we shall
use this power very sparingly, and never but when we are driven to
it by necessity, which we do not at present foresee will happen in
this work.
This alteration then in the mind of Mr. Allworthy was occasioned
by a letter he had just received from Mr. Square, and which we shall
give the reader in the beginning of the next chapter.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Containing two letters in very different stiles
"MY WORTHY FRIEND,-
"I informed you in my last that I was forbidden
the use of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to
increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now acquaint
you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my friends
more than it hath afflicted me. Dr. Harrington and Dr. Brewster have
informed me that there is no hopes of my recovery.
"I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to
learn to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine, as to show
any surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have
so long studied. Yet, to say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches
this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern
philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much
stronger support to a good mind, than all the consolations that are
drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our
enjoyments here, or any other topic of those declamations which are
sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn patience in
bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real
contempt of it, and much less of making us think it is a real good.
I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of atheism,
or even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are called
philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient as modern, have, from
the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future state; but in
reality, that light was so faint and glimmering, and the hopes were so
incertain and precarious, that it may be justly doubted on which
side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes his Phaedon with
declaring, that his best arguments amount only to raise a probability;
and Cicero himself seems rather to profess an inclination to
believe, than any actual belief in the doctrines of immortality. As to
myself, to be very sincere with you, I never was much in earnest in
this faith till I was in earnest a Christian.
"You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you
it hath not been till very lately that I could, with truth, call
myself so. The pride of philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and
the sublimest of all wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks of
old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious to show me
my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth, before I sunk
into utter darkness for ever.
"I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to
the main purpose of this letter.
"When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing
which sits heavier upon my conscience than the injustice I have been
guilty of to that poor wretch, your adopted son. I have, indeed, not
only connived at the villany of others, but been myself active in
injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell you, on
the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the
principal fact, upon the misrepresentation of which you discarded him,
I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your
supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified
any real concern; and what happened afterwards arose from the wildness
of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it, from the
baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify the
innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this young man
hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity for
friendship, the highest integrity, and indeed every virtue which can
ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be
numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the
contrary, I am satisfied, when you dismissed him from your house,
his heart bled for you more than for himself.
"Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing
this from you so long: to reveal it now I can have no inducement but
the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the
innocent, and of making all the amends in my Power for a past offence.
I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect desired,
and will restore this deserving young man to your favour; the
hearing of which, while I am yet alive, will afford the utmost
consolation to,
Sir,
Your most obliged,
obedient humble servant,
"THOMAS SQUARE"
The reader will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so
visibly appearing in Mr. Allworthy, notwithstanding he received from
Thwackum, by the same post, another letter of a very different kind,
which we shall here add, as it may possibly be the last time we
shall have occasion to mention the name of that gentleman.
"SIR,
"I am not at all surprized at hearing form your worthy nephew a fresh
instance of the villany of Mr. Square the atheist's young pupil. I
shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and I heartily pray
that your own blood may not seal up his final commitment to the
place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
"Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many
unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in your behaviour to this wretch,
so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of your
character, I say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to prick
and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet be wanting to my
duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order to bring you to
a due sense of your errors. I therefore pray you seriously to consider
the judgment which is likely to overtake this wicked villain; and
let it serve at least as a warning to you, that you may not for the
future despise the advice of one who is so indefatigable in his
prayers for your welfare.
"Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged
much of this diabolical spirit out of a boy, of whom, from his
infancy, I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession.
But reflections of this kind now come too late.
"I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily. I
should have applied on that occasion earlier, had I thought you
would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition.-- Your
objection to pluralities is being righteous over-much. If there were
any crime in the practice, so many godly men would not agree to it. If
the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a declining
way), I hope you will think of me, since I am certain you must be
convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest welfare- a
welfare to which all worldly considerations are as trifling as the
small tithes mentioned in Scripture are, when compared to the
weighty matters of the law.
"I am, sir,
Your faithful humble servant,
"ROGER THWACKUM"
This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative
stile to Allworthy, and of this he had afterwards sufficient reason to
repent, as in the case of those who mistake the highest degree of
goodness for the lowest degree of weakness. Allworthy had indeed never
liked this man. He knew him to be proud and ill-natured; he also
knew that his divinity itself was tinctured with his temper, and
such as in many respects he himself did by no means approve; but he
was at the same time an excellent scholar, and most indefatigable in
teaching the two lads. Add to this, the strict severity of his life
and manners, an unimpeached honesty, and a most devout attachment to
religion. So that, upon the whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor
love the man, yet he could never bring himself to part with a tutor to
the boys, who was, both by learning and industry, extremely well
qualified for his office; and he hoped, that as they were bred up in
his own house, and under his own eye, he should be able to correct
whatever was wrong in Thwackum's instructions.
5. CHAPTER V.
In which the history is continued
Mr. Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender ideas
concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good man's eyes.
This Mrs. Miller observing, said, "Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to
this poor young man is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal
it; but there is not a single syllable of truth in what those villains
said. Mr. Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems
these fellows were employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr.
Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship.-- I assure them I don't
know who they will press next. Mr. Nightingale here hath seen the
officer himself, who is a very pretty gentleman, and hath told him
all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he would never
have done, had he known Mr. Jones to have been a gentleman; but he was
told that he was a common strolling vagabond."
Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to
every word she said, "Yes, sir," answered she, "I believe you
are.-- It is a very different story, I believe, from what those
fellows told the lawyer."
"What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?" said Allworthy. "Nay,
nay," said she, "this is so like you to deny your own goodness: but
Mr. Nightingale here saw him." "Saw whom, madam?" answered he. "Why,
your lawyer, sir," said she, "that you so kindly sent to inquire
into the affair." "I am still in the dark, upon my honour," said
Allworthy. "Why then do you tell him, my dear sir," cries she.
"Indeed, sir," said Nightingale, "I did see that very lawyer who
went from you when I came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate,
in company with two of the fellows who were employed by Lord
Fellamar to press Mr. Jones, and who were by that means present at the
unhappy rencounter between him and Mr. Fitzpatrick." "I own, sir,"
said Mrs. Miller, "when I saw this gentleman come into the room to
you, I told Mr. Nightingale that I apprehended you had sent him
thither to inquire into the affair." Allworthy showed marks of
astonishment in his countenance at this news, and was indeed for two
or three minutes struck dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr.
Nightingale, he said, "I must confess myself, sir, more surprized at
what you tell me than I have ever been before at anything in my
whole life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?" "I am most
certain," answered Nightingale. "At Aldersgate?" cries Allworthy. "And
was you in company with this lawyer and the two fellows?"- "I was,
sir," said the other, "very near half an hour." "Well, sir," said
Allworthy, "and in what manner did the lawyer behave? did you hear all
that past between him and the fellows?" "No, sir," answered
Nightingale, "they had been together before I came.- In my presence
the lawyer said little; but, after I had several times examined the
fellows, who persisted in a story directly contrary to what I had
heard from Mr. Jones, and which I find by Mr. Fitzpatrick was a rank
falshood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to say nothing but
what was the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour of Mr.
Jones, that, when I saw the same person with you, I concluded your
goodness had prompted you to send him thither."- "And did you not
send him thither?" says Mrs. Miller.- "Indeed I did not," answered
Allworthy; "nor did I know he had gone on such errand till this
moment."- "I see it all!" said Mrs. Miller, "upon my soul, I see it
all! No wonder they have been closeted so close lately. Son
Nightingale, let me beg you run for these fellows immediately-- find
them out if they are above-ground. I will go myself"-- "Dear madam,"
said Allworthy, "be patient, and do me the favour to send a servant
upstairs to call Mr. Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if
not, Mr. Blifil." Mrs. Miller went out muttering something to herself,
and presently returned with an answer, "That Mr. Dowling was gone; but
that the t'other," as she called him, "was coming."
Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose
spirits were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. He was not
however without some suspicions which were near akin to hers. When
Blifil came into the room, he asked him with a very serious
countenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever before
given him, "Whether he knew anything of Mr. Dowling's having seen
any of the persons who were present at the duel between Jones and
another gentleman?"
There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by
surprize on a man whose business it is to conceal truth, or to
defend falshood. For which reason those worthy personages, whose noble
office it is to save the lives of their fellow-creatures at the Old
Bailey, take the utmost care, by frequent previous examination, to
divine every question which may be asked their clients on the day of
tryal, that they may be supplyed with proper and ready answers,
which the most fertile invention cannot supply in an instant. Besides,
the sudden and violent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these
surprizes, causes frequently such an alteration in the countenance,
that the man is obliged to give evidence against himself. And such
indeed were the alterations which the countenance of Blifil
underwent from this sudden question, that we can scarce blame the
eagerness of Mrs. Miller, who immediately cryed out, "Guilty, upon
my honour! guilty, upon my soul!"
Mr. Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then
turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, "Why do
you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have
employed him; for he would not, of his own accord, I believe, have
undertaken such an errand, and especially without acquainting me."
Blifil then answered, "I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence,
yet may I hope your pardon?"-- "My pardon," said Allworthy, very
angrily.-- "Nay, sir," answered Blifil, "I knew you would be offended;
yet surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most
amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who do not deserve
it, I own is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which you yourself
are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than
one instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr.
Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless inquiry, but to discover the
witnesses, and to endeavour to soften their evidence. This, sir, is
the truth; which, though I intended to conceal from you, I will not
deny."
"I confess," said Nightingale, "this is the light in which it
appeared to me from the gentleman's behaviour."
"Now, madam," said Allworthy, "I believe you will once in your
life own you have entertained a wrong suspicion, and are not so
angry with my nephew as you was."
Mrs. Miller was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be
pleased with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the ruin of
Jones, yet in this particular instance he had imposed upon her as well
as upon the rest; so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And,
indeed, I look upon the vulgar observation, "That the devil often
deserts his friends, and leaves them in the lurch," to be a great
abuse on that gentleman's character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert
those who are only his cup acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half
his; but he generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants,
and helps them off in all extremities, till their bargain expires.
As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is
more perfectly established by recovery from some diseases; so anger,
when removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case
of Mr. Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion,
the lesser, which had been raised by Square's letter, sunk of
course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly
offended, bore alone all the reflections which Square had cast on
the enemies of Jones.
As for that young man, the resentment of Mr. Allworthy began more
and more to abate towards him. He told Blifil, "He did not only
forgive the extraordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would give
him the pleasure of following his example." Then, turning to Mrs.
Miller with a smile which would have become an angel, he cryed,
"What say you, madam? shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us
together pay a visit to your friend? I promise you it is not the first
visit I have made in a prison."
Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy
woman; but they must have a great deal of good-nature, and be well
acquainted with friendship, who can feel what she felt on this
occasion. Few, I hope, are capable of feeling what now passed in the
mind of Blifil; but those who are, will acknowledge, that it was
impossible for him to raise any objection to this visit. Fortune,
however, or the gentleman lately mentioned above, stood his friend,
and prevented his undergoing so great a shock; for at the very instant
when the coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and, having called
Mrs. Miller from the company, acquainted her with the dreadful
accident lately come to light; and hearing Mr. Allworthy's
intention, begged her to find some means of stopping him: "For,"
says he, "the matter must at all hazards be kept a secret from him;
and if he should now go, he will find Mr. Jones and his mother, who
arrived just as I left him, lamenting over one another the horrid
crime they have ignorantly committed."
The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his
dreadful news, was never less capable of invention than at present.
However, as women are much readier at this than men, she bethought
herself of an excuse, and, returning to Allworthy, said, "I am sure,
sir, you will be surprized at hearing any objection from me to the
kind proposal you just now made; and yet I am afraid of the
consequence of it, if carried immediately into execution. You must
imagine, sir, that all the calamities which have lately befallen
this poor young fellow must have thrown him into the lowest
dejection of spirits; and now, sir, should we all of a sudden fling
him into such a violent fit of joy, as I know your presence will
occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some fatal mischief, especially
as his servant, who is without, tells me he is very far from being
well."
"Is his servant without?" cries Allworthy; "pray call him hither.
I will ask him some questions concerning his master."
Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr. Allworthy; but
was at length persuaded, after Mrs. Miller, who had often heard his
whole story from his own mouth, had promised to introduce him.
Allworthy recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room,
though many years had passed since he had seen him. Mrs. Miller,
therefore, might have spared here a formal oration, in which,
indeed, she was something prolix; for the reader, I believe, may
have observed already that the good woman, among other things, had a
tongue always ready for the service of her friends.
"And are you," said Allworthy to Partridge, "the servant of Mr.
Jones?" "I can't say, sir," answered he, "that I am regularly a
servant, but I live with him, an't please your honour, at present. Non
sum qualis eram; as your honour very well knows."
Mr. Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as
to his health, and other matters; to all which Partridge answered,
without having the least regard to what was, but considered only
what he would have things appear; for a strict adherence to truth
was not among the articles of this honest fellow's morality, or his
religion.
During this dialogue Mr. Nightingale took his leave, and presently
after Mrs. Miller left the room, when Allworthy likewise dispatched
Blifil; for he imagined that Partridge, when alone with him, would
be more explicit than before company. They were no sooner left in
private together than Allworthy began, as in the following chapter.
6. CHAPTER VI.
In which the history is farther continued
"Sure, friend," said the good man, "you are the strangest of all
human beings. Not only to have suffered as you have formerly, for
obstinately persisting in a falsehood, but to persist in it thus to
the last, and to pass thus upon the world for a servant of your own
son! What interest can you have in all this? What can be your motive?"
"I see, sir," said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, "that
your honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not to believe
anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations? but
yet there is One above who knows that I am not the father of this
young man."
"How!" said Allworthy, "will you yet deny what you was formerly
convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay, what
a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all
which twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left
the country! nay, I thought you had been long since dead.- In what
manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet
with him, unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not
deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your son in my
opinion, to find that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately
to support his father for so many years."
"If your honour will have patience to hear me," said Partridge, "I
will tell you all.-" Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: "When your
honour conceived that displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon
after; for I lost my little school; and the minister, thinking, I
suppose, it would be agreeable to your honour, turned me out from
the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the
barber's shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor
livelihood; and when my wife died (for till that time I received a
pension of £12 a year from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was
your honour's own, for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things
besides)- but, as I was saying, when she died, this pension forsook
me; so that now, as I owed two or three small debts, which began to be
troublesome to me, particularly one [23]
which an attorney brought up by
law-charges from 15s. to near £30, and as I found all my usual means
of living had forsook me, I packed up my little all as well as I
could, and went off.
"The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the
service of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best
gentlemen that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know
a thousand good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with
him; and I have known him often refuse business because it was paultry
and oppressive." "You need not be so particular," said Allworthy; "I
know this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his
profession."-- "Well, sir," continued Partridge, "from hence I removed
to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of
another lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to
be sure one of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the
end of the three years I set up a little school, and was likely to
do well again, had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I
kept a pig; and one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig
broke out, and did a trespass, I think they call it, in a garden
belonging to one of my neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man,
and employed a lawyer, one- one- I can't think of his name; but he
sent for a writ against me, and had me to size. When I came there,
Lord have mercy upon me- to hear what the counsellors said! There was
one that told my lord a parcel of the confoundedest lies about me;
he said that I used to drive my hogs into other folk's gardens, and
a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped I had at last brought
my hogs to a fair market. To be sure, one would have thought that,
instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had been the
greatest hog-merchant in England. Well-" "Pray," said Allworthy, "do
not be so particular, I have heard nothing of your son yet." "O it was
a great many years," answered Partridge, "before I saw my son, as
you are pleased to call him.- I went over to Ireland after this, and
taught school at Cork (for that one suit ruined me again, and I lay
seven years in Winchester jail)."-- "Well," said Allworthy, "pass that
over till your return to England."- "Then, sir," said he, "it was
about half a year ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some
time, and not finding it do there, and hearing of a place between that
and Gloucester where the barber was just dead, I went thither, and
there I had been about two months when Mr. Jones came thither." He
then gave Allworthy a very particular account of their first meeting,
and of everything, as well as he could remember, which had happened
from that day to this; frequently interlarding his story with
panegyrics on Jones, and not forgetting to insinuate the great love
and respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded with saying,
"Now, sir, I have told your honour the whole truth." And then repeated
a most solemn protestation, "That he was no more the father of Jones
than the Pope of Rome;" and imprecated the most bitter curses on his
head, if he did not speak truth.
"What am I to think of this matter?" cries Allworthy. "For what
purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be
rather your interest to own?" "Nay, sir," answered Partridge (for he
could hold no longer), "if your honour will not believe me, you are
like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the
mother of this young man, as well as you have his father."- And now
being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in
his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he
had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs. Miller to conceal
from him.
Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as
Partridge himself had been while he related it. "Good heavens!" says
he, "in what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve
men! How much beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness
sometimes carried!" He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs.
Waters came hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner
saw her than he cried, "Here, sir, here is the very woman herself.
This is the unfortunate mother of Mr. Jones. I am sure she will acquit
me before your honour. Pray, madam--"
Mrs. Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and
almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr. Allworthy. "I
believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that
you do not recollect me." "Indeed," answered Allworthy, "you are so
very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already
acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to
my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which
brings you to me?" Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the
reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct
of this lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what
Partridge had now delivered.
Mrs. Waters answered- "Indeed, sir, I have very particular business
with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must
desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure
you what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance."
Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he
begged the lady to satisfy Mr. Allworthy that he was perfectly
innocent. To which she answered, "You need be under no apprehension,
sir; I shall satisfy Mr. Allworthy very perfectly of that matter."
Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr. Allworthy and
Mrs. Waters which is written in the next chapter.
[[23]]
This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in
Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with the exorbitant
costs to which the poor man was put by a single action, brought afterwards another
action on the judgment, as it was called. A method frequently used to oppress the
poor, and bring money into the pockets of attorneys to the great scandal of the law,
of the nation, of Christanity, and even of human nature itself.
7. CHAPTER VII.
Continuation of the history
Mrs. Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr. Allworthy could
not refrain from saying, "I am sorry, madam, to perceive by what I
have since heard, that you have made so very ill a use--" "Mr.
Allworthy," says she, interrupting him, "I know I have faults, but
ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget
your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased
to wave all upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair
to communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you have
given my maiden name of Jones."
"Have I then," said Allworthy, "ignorantly punished an innocent man,
in the person of him who hath just left us? Was he not the father of
the child?" "Indeed he was not," said Mrs. Waters. "You may be pleased
to remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one day know; and
I acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a cruel neglect, in not
having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew how
necessary it was." "Well, madam" said Allworthy, "be pleased to
proceed." "You must remember, sir," said she, "a young fellow, whose
name was Summer." "Very well," cries Allworthy, "he was the son of a
clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest
friendship." "So it appeared, sir," answered she; "for I believe you
bred the young man up, and maintained him at the university; where,
I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at your
house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for, besides
the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much
wit and good breeding." "Poor gentleman," said Allworthy, "he was
indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any
sins of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are
going to tell me he was the father of your child."
"Indeed, sir," answered she, "he was not." "How!" said Allworthy,
"to what then tends all this preface?" "To a story," said she,
"which I am concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. O, sir!
prepare to hear something which will surprize you, will grieve you."
"Speak," said Allworthy, "I am conscious of no crime, and cannot be
afraid to hear." "Sir," said she, "that Mr. Summer, the son of your
friend, educated at your expense, who, after living a year in the
house as if he had been your own son, died there of the small-pox, was
tenderly lamented by you, and buried as if he had been your own;
that Summer, sir, was the father of this child." "How!" said
Allworthy; "you contradict yourself." "That I do not," answered she;
"he was indeed the father of this child, but not by me." "Take care,
madam," said Allworthy, "do not, to shun the imputation of any
crime, be guilty of falshood. Remember there is One from whom you
can conceal nothing, and before whose tribunal falshood will only
aggravate your guilt." "Indeed, sir," says she, "I am not his
mother; nor would I now think myself so for the world." "I know your
reason," said Allworthy "and shall rejoice as much as you to find it
otherwise; yet you must remember, you yourself confest it before
me." "So far what I confest," said she, "was true, that these hands
conveyed the infant to your bed; conveyed it thither at the command of
its mother; at her commands I afterwards owned it, and thought myself,
by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both for my secrecy and my
shame." "Who could this woman be?" said Allworthy. "Indeed, I
tremble to name her," answered Mrs. Waters. "By all this preparation I
am to guess that she was a relation of mine," cried he. "Indeed she
was a near one." At which words Allworthy started, and she
continued- "You had a sister, sir." "A sister!" repeated he, looking
aghast.- "As there is truth in heaven," cries she, "your sister was
the mother of that child you found between your sheets." "Can it be
possible?" cries he. "Good heavens!" "Have patience, sir," said Mrs.
Waters, "and I will unfold to you the whole story. Just after your
departure for London, Miss Bridget came one day to the house of my
mother. She was pleased to say, she had heard an extraordinary
character of me, for my learning and superior understanding to all the
young women there, so she was pleased to say. She then bid me come
to her to the great house; where, when I attended, she employed me
to read to her. She expressed great satisfaction in my reading, shewed
great kindness to me, and made me many presents. At last she began
to catechise me on the subject of secrecy, to which I gave her such
satisfactory answers, that, at last, having locked the door of her
room, she took me into her closet, and then locking that door
likewise, she said 'she should convince me of the vast reliance she
had on my integrity, by communicating a secret in which her honour,
and consequently her life, was concerned.' She then stopt, and after a
silence of a few minutes, during which she often wiped her eyes, she
inquired of me if I thought my mother might safely be confided in. I
answered, I would stake my life on her fidelity. She then imparted
to me the great secret which laboured in her breast, and which, I
believe, was delivered with more pains than she afterwards suffered in
childbirth. It was then contrived that my mother and myself only
should attend at the time, and that Mrs. Wilkins should be sent out of
the way, as she accordingly was, to the very furthest part of
Dorsetshire, to inquire the character of a servant; for the lady had
turned away her own maid near three months before; during all which
time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she said, though, as
she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy for the place.
This, and many other such things which she used to say of me, were all
thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins might hereafter
have, when I was to own the child; for she thought it could never be
believed she would venture to hurt a young woman with whom she had
intrusted such a secret. You may be assured, sir, I was well paid
for all these affronts, which, together with being informed with the
occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed, the lady had a
greater suspicion of Mrs. Wilkins than of any other person; not that
she had the least aversion to the gentlewoman, but she thought her
incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have
often heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs. Wilkins had committed a
murder, she believed she would acquaint you with it. At last the
expected day came, and Mrs. Wilkins, who had been kept a week in
readiness, and put off from time to time, upon some pretence or other,
that she might not return too soon, was dispatched. Then the child was
born, in the presence only of myself and my mother, and was by my
mother conveyed to her own house, where it was privately kept by her
till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of Miss
Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you found it. And all
suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the artful conduct of your
sister, in pretending ill-will to the boy, and that any regard she
shewed him was out of mere complacence to you."
Mrs. Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story,
and concluded by saying, "Thus, sir, you have at last discovered
your nephew; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I
question not but he will be both an honour and a comfort to you
under that appellation."
"I need not, madam," said Allworthy, "express my astonishment at
what you have told me; and yet surely you would not, and could not,
have put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth. I
confess I recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which
formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had some liking to him. I
mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well
on his own account as on his father's, that I should willingly have
consented to a match between them; but she exprest the highest disdain
of my unkind suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more
on the subject. Good heavens! Well! the Lord disposeth all things.--
Yet sure it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry
this secret with her out of the world." "I promise you, sir," said
Mrs. Waters, "she always profest a contrary intention, and frequently
told me she intended one day to communicate it to you. She said,
indeed, she was highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well,
and that you had of your own accord taken such a fancy to the child,
that it was yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh!
sir, had that lady lived to have seen this poor young man turned
like a vagabond from your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to
hear that you had yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a
murder of which he was not guilty-- Forgive me, Mr. Allworthy, I must
say it was unkind. Indeed, you have been abused, he never deserved
it of you." "Indeed, madam," said Allworthy, "I have been abused by
the person, whoever he was, that told you so." "Nay, sir," said she,
"I would not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty
of any wrong. The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he
only said, taking me for Mr. Fitzpatrick's wife, that, if Mr. Jones
had murdered my husband, I should be assisted with any money I
wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who,
he said, was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. It was
by this man I found out who Mr. Jones was; and this man, whose name is
Dowling, Mr. Jones tells me is your steward. I discovered his name
by a very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but
Partridge, who met him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew
him formerly at Salisbury."
"And did this Mr. Dowling," says Allworthy, with great
astonishment in his countenance, "tell you that I would assist in
the prosecution?"-- "No, sir," answered she, "I will not charge him
wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned no name.
Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it
could be no other."-- "Indeed, madam," says Allworthy, "from
circumstances I am too well convinced it was another. Good Heaven! by
what wonderful means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes
discovered!- Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you have
mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute? nay, he may be,
perhaps, already in the house."
Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when
in came, not Mr. Dowling, but the gentleman who will be seen in the
next chapter.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Further continuation
The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr. Western. He no
sooner saw Allworthy, than, without considering in the least the
presence of Mrs. Waters, he began to vociferate in the following
manner: "Fine doings at my house! A rare kettle of fish I have
discovered at last! who the devil would be plagued with a daughter?"
"What's the matter, neighbour?" said Allworthy. "Matter enough,"
answered Western: "when I thought she was just a coming to; nay,
when she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and when
I was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the
lawyer, and finished all; what do you think I have found out? that the
little b-- hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying
on a correspondence that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have
quarrelled with upon her account, sent me word o't, and I ordered
her pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un
signed with the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience
to read half o't, for 'tis longer than one of parson Supple's sermons;
but I find plainly it is all about love; and indeed what should it
be else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and to-morrow morning
down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be married
directly, and there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water
all her days; and the sooner such a b-- breaks her heart the better,
though, d--n her, that I believe is too tough. She will live long
enough to plague me." "Mr. Western," answered Allworthy, "you know I
have always protested against force, and you yourself consented that
none should be used." "Ay," cries he, "that was only upon condition
that she would consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus!
shan't I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I desire
nothing but her own good?" "Well, neighbour," answered Allworthy,
"if you will give me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the
young lady." "Will you?" said Western; "why that is kind now, and
neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do
with her; for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you."
"Well, sir," said Allworthy, "if you will go home, and release the
young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within his
half-hour." "But suppose," said Western, "she should run away with
un in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of
hanging the fellow at last; for that the man is alive, and like to
do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again
presently." "How!" said Allworthy; "what, did you employ him then to
inquire or to do anything in that matter?" "Not I," answered
Western, "he mentioned it to me just now of his own accord." "Just
now!" cries Allworthy, "why, where did you see him then? I want much
to see Mr. Dowling." "Why, you may see un an you will presently at
my lodgings; for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this
morning about a mortgage. 'Icod! I shall lose two or dree thousand
pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr. Nightingale."
"Well, sir," said Allworthy, "I will be with you within the
half-hour." "And do for once," cries the squire, "take a fool's
advice; never think of dealing with her by gentle methods, take my
word for it, those will never do. I have tried 'um long enough. She
must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her I'm her
father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful
punishment of it in t'other world, and then tell her about being
locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on
bread and water." "I will do all I can," said Allworthy; "for I
promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with
this amiable creature." "Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o'
that," cries the squire; "a man may go farther and meet with worse
meat; that I may declare o' her, thof she be my own daughter. And if
she will but be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a
hundred miles o' the place, that loves a daughter better than I do;
but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go huome and
expect you; and so your humble servant."
As soon as Mr. Western was gone, Mrs. Waters said, "I see, sir,
the squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I believe, Mr.
Allworthy, you would not have known me either. I am very
considerably altered since that day when you so kindly gave me that
advice, which I had been happy had I followed." "Indeed, madam," cries
Allworthy, "it gave me great concern when I first heard the contrary."
"Indeed, sir," says she, "I was ruined by a very deep scheme of
villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it would
justify me in your opinion, it would at least mitigate my offence, and
induce you to pity me: you are not now at leisure to hear my whole
story; but this I assure you, I was betrayed by the most solemn
promises of marriage; nay, in the eye of heaven I was married to
him; for, after much reading on the subject, I am convinced that
particular ceremonies are only requisite to give a legal sanction to
marriage, and have only a worldly use in giving a woman the privileges
of a wife; but that she who lives constant to one man, after a
solemn private affiance, whatever the world may call her, hath
little to charge on her own conscience." "I am sorry, madam," said
Allworthy, "you made so ill a use of your learning. Indeed, it would
have been well that you had been possessed of much more, or had
remained in a state of ignorance. And yet, madam, I am afraid you have
more than this sin to answer for." "During his life," answered she,
"which was above a dozen years, I most solemnly assure you I had
not. And consider, sir, on my behalf, what is in the power of a
woman stript of her reputation and left destitute; whether the
good-natured world will suffer such a stray sheep to return to the
road of virtue, even if she was never so desirous. I protest, then,
I would have chose it had it been in my power; but necessity drove
me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though still unmarried,
I lived as a wife for many years, and went by his name. I parted
with this gentleman at Worcester, on his march against the rebels, and
it was then I accidentally met with Mr. Jones, who rescued me from the
hands of a villain. Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young
gentleman of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have
the twentieth part of his virtues; nay, whatever vices he hath had,
I am firmly persuaded he hath now taken a resolution to abandon them."
"I hope he hath," cries Allworthy, "and I hope we will preserve that
resolution. I must say, I have still the same hopes with regard to
yourself. The world, I do agree, are apt to be too unmerciful on these
occasions; yet time and perseverance will get the better of this their
disinclination, as I may call it, to pity; for though they are not,
like heaven, ready to receive a penitent sinner; yet a continued
repentance will at length obtain mercy even with the world. This you
may be assured of, Mrs. Waters, that whenever I find you are sincere
in such good intentions, you shall want no assistance in my power to
make them effectual."
Mrs. Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of
tears, made him many most passionate acknowledgments of his
goodness, which, as she truly said, savoured more of the divine than
human nature.
Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making
use of every expression which his invention could suggest to comfort
her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Dowling, who,
upon his first entrance, seeing Mrs. Waters, started, and appeared
in some confusion; from which he soon recovered himself as well as
he could, and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel
at Mr. Western's lodgings; but, however, thought it his duty to call
and acquaint him with the opinion of counsel upon the case which he
had before told him, which was that the conversion of the moneys in
that case could not be questioned in a criminal cause, but that an
action of trover might be brought, and if it appeared to the jury to
be the moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for
the value.
Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and
then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, "Whatever be
your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions.
Do you know this lady?"-- "That lady, sir!" answered Dowling, with
great hesitation. Allworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said,
"Look you, Mr. Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a
moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but
answer faithfully and truly to every question I ask.-- Do you know
this lady?"-- "Yes, sir," said Dowling, "I have seen the lady."
"Where, sir?" "At her own lodgings."- "Upon what business did you go
thither, sir; and who sent you?" "I went, sir, to inquire, sir, about
Mr. Jones." "And who sent you to inquire about him?" "Who, sir? why,
sir, Mr. Blifil sent me." "And what did you say to the lady concerning
that matter?" "Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word."
"Will you please, madam, to assist the gentleman's memory?" "He told
me, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "that if Mr. Jones had murdered my
husband, I should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the
prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who was well apprized what
a villain I had to deal with. These, I can safely swear, were the very
words he spoke."- "Were these the words, sir?" said Allworthy. "I
cannot charge my memory exactly," cries Dowling, "but I believe I
did speak to that purpose."- "And did Mr. Blifil order you to say
so?" "I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor
have willingly exceeded my authority in matters of this kind. If I
said so, I must have so understood Mr. Blifil's instructions." "Look
you, Mr. Dowling," said Allworthy; "I promise you before this lady,
that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr. Blifil's order I
will forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth; for I
believe what you say, that you would not have acted of your own
accord, and without authority in this matter.-- Mr. Blifil then
likewise sent you to examine the two fellows at Aldersgate?"- "He did,
sir." "Well, and what instructions did he then give you? Recollect as
well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he
used."-- "Why, sir, Mr. Blifil sent me to find out the persons who
were eye-witnesses of this fight. He said, he feared they might be
tampered with by Mr. Jones, or some of his friends. He said, blood
required blood; and that not only all who concealed a murderer, but
those who omitted anything in their power to bring him to justice,
were sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you was very desirous
of having the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper you
should appear in it." "He did so?" says Allworthy.- "Yes, sir," cries
Dowling; "I should not, I am sure, have proceeded such lengths for the
sake of any other person living but your worship."- "What lengths,
sir?" said Allworthy.- "Nay, sir," cries Dowling, "I would not have
your worship think I would, on any account, be guilty of subornation
of perjury; but there are two ways of delivering evidence. I told
them, therefore, that if any offers should be made them on the other
side, they should refuse them, and that they might be assured they
should lose nothing by being honest men, and telling the truth. I
said, we were told that Mr. Jones had assaulted the gentleman first,
and that, if that was the truth, they should declare it; and I did
give them some hints that they should be no losers."- "I think you
went lengths indeed," cries Allworthy.-- "Nay, sir," answered Dowling,
"I am sure I did not desire them to tell an untruth;-- nor should I
have said what I did, unless it had been to oblige you."-- "You would
not have thought, I believe," says Allworthy, "to have obliged me, had
you known that this Mr. Jones was my own nephew."-- "I am sure, sir,"
answered he, "it did not become me to take any notice of what I
thought you desired to conceal."- "How!" cries Allworthy, "and did
you know it then?"- "Nay, sir," answered Dowling, "if your worship
bids me speak the truth, I am sure I shall do it.- Indeed, sir, I did
know it; for they were almost the last words which Madam Blifil ever
spoke, which she mentioned to me as I stood alone by her bedside, when
she delivered me the letter I brought your worship from her."- "What
letter?" cries Allworthy.- "The letter, sir," answered Dowling,
"which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the
hands of Mr. Blifil."-- "O heavens!" cries Allworthy: "Well, and what
were the words? What did my sister say to you?"- "She took me by the
hand," answered he, "and, as she delivered me the letter, said, 'I
scarce know what I have written. Tell my brother, Mr. Jones is his
nephew- He is my son.- Bless him,' says she, and then fell backward,
as if dying away. I presently called in the people, and she never
spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes afterwards."-
Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and then,
turning to Dowling, said, "How came you, sir, not to deliver me this
message?" "Your worship," answered he, "must remember that you was at
that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed I
always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr. Blifil, who told
me he would carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he
did, and that your worship, partly out of friendship to Mr. Jones, and
partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it mentioned,
and did intend to conceal it from the world; and therefore, sir, if
you had not mentioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have
thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to
your worship or any other person."
We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to
convey a lie in the words of truth; this was the case at present;
for Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not
imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In
reality, the promises which Blifil had made to Dowling, were the
motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very
plainly saw Blifil would not be able to keep them, he thought proper
now to make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness, joined
to the threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries
he had made before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares,
and had no time to consider of evasions.
Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having
enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, conducted that
gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was
returned to his chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his
last deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed
below-stairs.
As Allworthy was returning to his room, he met Mrs. Miller in the
entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him,
"Of sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know
all; yet do not on this account abandon the poor young man.
Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own mother; and the
discovery itself will most probably break his heart, without your
unkindness."
"Madam," says Allworthy, "I am under such an astonishment at what
I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you; but come with me
into my room. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I have made surprizing discoveries,
and you shall soon know them."
The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up
to Mrs. Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs.
Miller, said, "What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for
the services she hath done me?- O! Mrs. Miller, you have a thousand
times heard me call the young man to whom you are so faithful a
friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at
all.- Your friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that
wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my bosom.-- She will
herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for
her son. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am convinced that he hath been
wronged, and that I have been abused; abused by one whom you too
justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in truth, the worst of
villains."
The joy which Mrs. Miller now felt, bereft her of the power of
speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of
life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her
relief. At length, recovering so far from her transport as to be
able to speak, she cried, "And is my dear Mr. Jones then your
nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to
him at last? And shall I live to see him as happy as he deserves?" "He
certainly is my nephew," says Allworthy, "and I hope all the
rest."- "And is this the dear good woman, the person," cries she, "to
whom all this discovery is owing?"- "She is indeed," says Allworthy.-
"Why, then," cried Mrs. Miller, upon her knees, "may Heaven shower
down its choicest blessings upon her head, and for this one good
action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many!"
Mrs. Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very
shortly be released; for that the surgeon was gone, in company with
a nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that
Mr. Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his
prisoner his liberty.
Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his
return home; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of
consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and
presently left the two ladies together.
Mr. Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend
upon his uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He
asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking
a man whither he is going: to which the other making no answer, he
again desired to know when he would be pleased to return?- Allworthy
made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair,
and then, turning about, he said- "Harkee, sir, do you find out,
before my return, the letter which your mother sent me on her
death-bed." Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to
be envied only by a man who is just going to be hanged.
9. CHAPTER IX.
A further continuation
Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of
reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered
him; and there were some expressions in it concerning himself which
drew tears from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr. Western's, and
was introduced to Sophia.
When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady
had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; during which
the latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat
playing with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her
countenance and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a
little disconcerted, began thus: "I am afraid, Miss Western, my family
hath been the occasion of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I
fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be
assured, madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals
had been, I should not have suffered you to have been so long
persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this
visit is to trouble you with any further solicitations of that kind,
but entirely to relieve you from them."
"Sir," said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, "this behaviour
is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr.
Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you
will pardon me for saying, it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness,
and hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from a
father, who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest
of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous
to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our
own power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his
favour." "I assure you, most amiable young lady," said Allworthy, "I
am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son, and
had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly,
madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much less can they be
directed by another." "Oh! sir," answered Sophia, "every word you
speak proves you deserve that good, that great, that benevolent
character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less
than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist
the commands of my father." "I sincerely believe you, madam," replied
Allworthy, "and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight,
since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery indeed!"
"You speak now, Mr. Allworthy," cries she, "with a delicacy which few
men are capable of feeling! but surely, in my opinion, to lead our
lives with one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of
wretchedness.- Perhaps that wretchedness would be even increased by a
sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot give our
affections. If I had married Mr. Blifil--" "Pardon my interrupting
you, madam," answered Allworthy, "but I cannot bear the supposition.-
Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your
escape.-- I have discovered the wretch for whom you have suffered all
this cruel violence from your father to be a villain." "How, sir!"
cries Sophia- "you must believe this surprizes me."-- "It hath
surprized me, madam," answered Allworthy, "and so it will the world.-
But I have acquainted you with the real truth." "Nothing but truth,"
says Sophia, "can, I am convinced, come from the lips of Mr.
Allworthy.-- Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news-- Discovered,
you say-- may villany be ever so!"-- "You will soon enough hear the
story," cries Allworthy;- "at present let us not mention so detested
a name.- I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose.-
O! Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with
the ambition of being allied to it.- I have a near relation, madam, a
young man whose character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to
that of this wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his
was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you would admit a visit from
him?" Sophia, after a minute's silence, answered, "I will deal with
the utmost sincerity with Mr. Allworthy. His character, and the
obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I have determined
at present to listen to no such proposals from any person. My only
desire is to be restored to the affection of my father, and to be
again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your
good offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the
goodness which I, and all who know you, have experienced, do not, the
very moment when you have released me from one persecution, do not
engage me in another as miserable and as fruitless." "Indeed, Miss
Western," replied Allworthy, "I am capable of no such conduct; and if
this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment,
whatever torments he may suffer under it." "I must smile now, Mr.
Allworthy," answered Sophia, "when you mention the torments of a man
whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little
acquaintance with me." "Pardon me, dear young lady," cries Allworthy,
"I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the
repose of his future days; since, if ever man was capable of a
sincere, violent, and noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my
unhappy nephew's for Miss Western." "A nephew of your's, Mr.
Allworthy!" answered Sophia. "It is surely strange. I never heard of
him before." "Indeed, madam," cries Allworthy, "it is only the
circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and
which, till this day, was a secret to me.- Mr. Jones, who has long
loved you, he! he is my nephew!" "Mr. Jones your nephew, sir!" cries
Sophia, "can it be possible?"- "He is, indeed, madam," answered
Allworthy; "he is my own sister's son- as such I shall always own him;
nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past
behaviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his merit as of his birth.
Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly-- Indeed I have."-- Here
the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded- "I
never shall be able to reward him for his sufferings without your
assistance.-- Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a great
esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath
been guilty of faults; but there is great goodness of heart at the
bottom. Believe me, madam, there is." Here he stopped, seeming to
expect an answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she
had a little recovered herself from the hurry of spirits into which so
strange and sudden information had thrown her: "I sincerely wish you
joy, sir, of a discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction.
I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can promise yourself
from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities,
which makes it impossible he should not behave well to such an
uncle."- "I hope, madam," said Allworthy, "he hath those good
qualities which must make him a good husband.- He must, I am sure, be
of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit should
condescend--" "You must pardon me, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia; "I
cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr. Jones, I am convinced,
hath much merit; but I shall never receive Mr. Jones as one who is to
be my husband- Upon my honour I never will."- "Pardon me, madam,"
cries Allworthy, "if I am a little surprized, after what I have heard
from Mr. Western-- I hope the unhappy young man hath done nothing to
forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it.
Perhaps, he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The
same villany may have injured him everywhere.- He is no murderer, I
assure you; as he hath been called." "Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia,
"I have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath
told you; but, whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I
know my heart, I have given no occasion for them; since it hath always
been a fixed principle with me, never to have married without his
consent. This is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent; and this,
I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do
not indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to
marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of
this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father's house,
and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story; and if
the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own
conscience will acquit me." "I hear you, Miss Western," cries
Allworthy, "with admiration. I admire the justness of your sentiments;
but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you,
young lady; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or
seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your
father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely
indifferent?" "I beg, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia, "you will not
insist on my reasons;- yes, I have suffered indeed; I will not, Mr.
Allworthy, conceal-- I will be very sincere with you-I own I had a
great opinion of Mr. Jones- I believe- I know I have suffered for my
opinion- I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my
father; but that is now past- I beg I may not be farther pressed; for,
whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath
many virtues- he hath great virtues, Mr. Allworthy. I question not but
he will do you honour in the world, and make you happy."- "I wish I
could make him so, madam," replied Allworthy; "but that I am convinced
is only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so
earnest a solicitor in his favour." "You are deceived; indeed, sir,
you are deceived," said Sophia. "I hope not by him. It is sufficient
to have deceived me. Mr. Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no
farther on this subject. I should be sorry- nay, I will not injure him
in your favour. I wish Mr. Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well;
and I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to me, I am
certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former
thoughts; but nothing can ever recal them. At present there is not a
man upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr. Jones; nor
would the addresses of Mr. Blifil himself be less agreeable to me."
Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference,
and was just now arrived at the door to listen; when, having heard the
last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and,
bursting open the door in a rage, cried out- "It is a lie! It is a
d--n'd lie! It is all owing to that d--n'd rascal Jones; and if she
could get at un, she'd ha un any hour of the day." Here Allworthy
interposed, and addressing himself to the squire with some anger in
his look, he said, "Mr. Western, you have not kept your word with
me. You promised to abstain from all violence."- "Why, so I did,"
cries Western, "as long as it was possible; but to hear a wench
telling such confounded lies-- Zounds! doth she think, if she can make
vools of other volk, she can make one of me?-- No, no, I know her
better than thee dost." "I am sorry to tell you, sir," answered
Allworthy, "it doth not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady,
that you know her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I think our
intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is your
daughter, Mr. Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I
was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you on this account than any
other man whatever."- "Odrabbit it!" cries the squire, "I wish she was
thine, with all my heart- wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the
trouble o' her." "Indeed, my good friend," answered Allworthy, "you
yourself are the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that
confidence in the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am
certain you will be the happiest father on earth."-- "I confidence in
her?" cries the squire. "'Sblood! what confidence can I place in
her, when she won't do as I would ha' her? Let her gi' but her consent
to marry as I would ha' her, and I'll place as much confidence in
her as wouldst ha' me."-- "You have no right, neighbour," answered
Allworthy, "to insist on any such consent. A negative voice your
daughter allows you, and God and nature have thought proper to allow
you no more."- "A negative voice!" cries the squire. "Ay! ay! I'll
show you what a negative voice I ha.- Go along, go into your chamber,
go, you stubborn--." "Indeed, Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "indeed
you use her cruelly- I cannot bear to see this- you shall, you must
behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment."
"Yes, yes," said the squire, "I know what she deserves: now she's
gone, I'll shew you what she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter
from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me
to understand that the fellow is got out of prison again; and here she
advises me to take all the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers!
neighbour Allworthy, you don't know what it is to govern a daughter."
The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own
sagacity; and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him
with the whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with
his anger to Blifil, and with every particular which hath been
disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters.
Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
changeable in them. No sooner than was Western informed of Mr.
Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined
heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and
became as eager for her marriage with Jones, as he had before been
to couple her to Blifil.
Here Mr. Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what
had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great
surprize.
The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at
this account.- At last he cried out, "Why, what can be the meaning of
this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o' un she was, that I'll be sworn
to.-- Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the
very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a
hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at
my cousin, my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that's
certain- but d--n me if he shall ha her- I'll ha no lords nor
courtiers in my vamily."
Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his
resolution to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly
recommended gentle methods to Mr. Western, as those by which he
might be assured of succeeding best with his daughter. He then took
his leave, and returned back to Mrs. Miller, but was forced to
comply with the earnest entreaties of the squire, in promising to
bring Mr. Jones to visit him that afternoon, that he might, as he
said, "make all matters up with the young gentleman." At Mr.
Allworthy's departure, Western promised to follow his advice in his
behaviour to Sophia, saying, "I don't know how 'tis, but d--n me,
Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please; and
yet I have as good an estate as you, and am in the commission of the
peace as well as yourself."
10. 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 persistence 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
shown 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 the 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' said 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 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 should 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.
11. 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 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 inquiry
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 had 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 banknotes. "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 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.
12. 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, shows 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 show 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 tryal. 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. Of
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 flim-flam. 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 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.
13. 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 attorney
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 in debt. She
maintains a perfect intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and in
acts of friendship to her repays all the obligations she owes to 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 to 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 showing 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, 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.
THE END.