BOOK XV.

IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.

Chapter i.

Too short to need a preface.

There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that

virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this

world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have

but one objection, namely, that it is not true.

Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal

virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the

business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point;

for so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I

could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages,

to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue;

for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser

than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to

constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites,

those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the abundant

gratification of every sensual appetite.

But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain

relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and

seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I

cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human happiness;

because I am afraid we must then include poverty and contempt, with

all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring

on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall

be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since many by

the above virtue have brought themselves thither.

I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation,

as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine

that lay in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous

part imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from

destruction, the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps

cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely

miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.

This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it

was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many

other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it

is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are

convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the

noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of

immortality.

But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and

hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.

Chapter ii.

In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.

I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When children are

doing nothing, they are doing mischief.” I will not enlarge this

quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;

but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy

do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may

suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and

attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.

This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all

the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much

indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young

lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she

resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was it long

before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented

itself to her.

The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown

into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a

set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him,

that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who

had very safely conducted her to her chair.

This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than

once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a

very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more

amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that

he might now, without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in

love with her.

It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an

occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now

offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have

prompted him to pay her a visit.

The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia,

with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm

from her last night's adventure.

As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a

flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now

flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in

company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had

made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have

alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at

present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of

her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make

any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions were

rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to complacence,

even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the very reverse

of which is well known to be the reigning mode at present.

Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his first

arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that things

went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time

she saw this young couple together. This business, she rightly I think

concluded, that she should by no means forward by mixing in the

company while they were together; she therefore ordered her servants,

that when my lord was going, they should tell him she desired to speak

with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating how best to

accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would

very readily embrace the execution of.

Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no

sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the

following strain: “Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my

servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see

you about an affair of some importance.”----“Indeed, Lady Bellaston,”

said he, “I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my

visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I had

staid above half-a-one.”----“What am I to conclude from thence, my

lord?” said she. “The company must be very agreeable which can make

time slide away so very deceitfully.”----“Upon my honour,” said he,

“the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is

this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a

sudden?”----“What blazing star, my lord?” said she, affecting a

surprize. “I mean,” said he, “the lady I saw here the other day, whom

I had last night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been

making that unreasonable visit.”----“O, my cousin Western!” said she;

“why, that blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby

squire, and hath been in town about a fortnight, for the first

time.”----“Upon my soul,” said he, “I should swear she had been bred

up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so

genteel, so sensible, so polite.”----“O brave!” cries the lady, “my

cousin hath you, I find.”----“Upon my honour,” answered he, “I wish

she had; for I am in love with her to distraction.”----“Nay, my

lord,” said she, “it is not wishing yourself very ill neither, for

she is a very great fortune: I assure you she is an only child, and

her father's estate is a good £3000 a-year.” “Then I can assure you,

madam,” answered the lord, “I think her the best match in England.”

“Indeed, my lord,” replied she, “if you like her, I heartily wish you

had her.” “If you think so kindly of me, madam,” said he, “as she is

a relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her

father?” “And are you really then in earnest?” cries the lady, with

an affected gravity. “I hope, madam,” answered he, “you have a better

opinion of me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an

affair of this kind.” “Indeed, then,” said the lady, “I will most

readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe,

assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a

bar, which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will

never be able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who,

though I blush to name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever

be able to conquer.” “Upon my word, Lady Bellaston,” cries he, “you

have struck a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of

being.” “Fie, my lord,” said she, “I should rather hope I had struck

fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I rather

imagined you would have asked your rival's name, that you might have

immediately entered the lists with him.” “I promise you, madam,”

answered he, “there are very few things I would not undertake for

your charming cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?”--“Why, he

is,” said she, “what I am sorry to say most happy men with us are,

one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard, a

foundling, a fellow in meaner circumstances than one of your

lordship's footmen.” “And is it possible,” cried he, “that a young

creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so

unworthily?” “Alas! my lord,” answered she, “consider the

country--the bane of all young women is the country. There they learn

a set of romantic notions of love, and I know not what folly, which

this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a whole winter.”

“Indeed, madam,” replied my lord, “your cousin is of too immense a

value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must be prevented.”

“Alas!” cries she, “my lord, how can it be prevented? The family have

already done all in their power; but the girl is, I think,

intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her. And to deal

more openly with you, I expect every day to hear she is run away with

him.” “What you tell me, Lady Bellaston,” answered his lordship,

“affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, instead of

lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means must be found to

preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your ladyship endeavoured to

reason with her?” Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, “My dear

lord, sure you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman

out of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as the

jewels they wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure

their folly; but this is a medicine which I am certain she will not

take; nay, I live in hourly horrors on her account. In short, nothing

but violent methods will do.” “What is to be done?” cries my lord;

“what methods are to be taken?--Is there any method upon earth?--Oh!

Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such

a reward.”----“I really know not,” answered the lady, after a pause;

and then pausing again, she cried out--“Upon my soul, I am at my

wit's end on this girl's account.--If she can be preserved, something

must be done immediately; and, as I say, nothing but violent methods

will do.----If your lordship hath really this attachment to my cousin

(and to do her justice, except in this silly inclination, of which

she will soon see her folly, she is every way deserving), I think

there may be one way, indeed, it is a very disagreeable one, and what

I am almost afraid to think of.--It requires a great spirit, I

promise you.” “I am not conscious, madam,” said he, “of any defect

there; nor am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an

egregious defect indeed, which could make me backward on this

occasion.” “Nay, my lord,” answered she, “I am so far from doubting

you, I am much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run

a monstrous risque. In short, I must place such a confidence in your

honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place in a man on any

consideration.” In this point likewise my lord very well satisfied

her; for his reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did him

no more than justice, in speaking well of him. “Well, then,” said

she, “my lord,--I--I vow, I can't bear the apprehension of it.--No,

it must not be.----At least every other method shall be tried. Can

you get rid of your engagements, and dine here to-day? Your lordship

will have an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss Western.--I

promise you we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady

Betty, and Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they

will all go soon--and I shall be at home to nobody. Then your

lordship may be a little more explicit. Nay, I will contrive some

method to convince you of her attachment to this fellow.” My lord

made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, and then they

parted to dress, it being now past three in the morning, or to reckon

by the old style, in the afternoon.

Chapter iii.

A further explanation of the foregoing design.

Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a

member (and no inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in

reality a very considerable member of the little world; by which

appellation was distinguished a very worthy and honourable society

which not long since flourished in this kingdom.

Among other good principles upon which this society was founded, there

was one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an honourable club

of heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the

members should every day fight once at least; so 'twas in this, that

every member should, within the twenty-four hours, tell at least one

merry fib, which was to be propagated by all the brethren and

sisterhood.

Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain

quality may be, perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the

society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that he

sat in person in an elbow-chair at the upper end of the table; but,

upon very strict enquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any

of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of

very good sort of people, and the fibs which they propagated were of a

harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good humour.

Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him

therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for her

purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever

the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to be till the evening,

when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were gone, and

while they were engaged in a rubber at whist.

To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening,

we will convey our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss

Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of

their rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, “I

protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable lately; you used to tell us

all the news of the town, and now you know no more of the world than

if you lived out of it.”

Mr Edwards then began as follows: “The fault is not mine, madam: it

lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing worth talking

of.----O la! though now I think on't there hath a terrible accident

befallen poor Colonel Wilcox.----Poor Ned.----You know him, my lord,

everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for him.”

“What is it, pray?” says Lady Bellaston.

“Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that's all.”

His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had

killed? To which Edwards answered, “A young fellow we none of us know;

a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is; a near

relation of one Mr Allworthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath

heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a coffee-house.--Upon my soul, he is

one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!”

Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was

killed, stopt her hand, and listened with attention (for all stories

of that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter

part of the story than she began to deal again; and having dealt three

cards to one, and seven to another, and ten to a third, at last dropt

the rest from her hand, and fell back in her chair.

The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual

disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at

last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at

her earnest desire, led to her own apartment; where, at my lord's

request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the truth, attempted to

carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with repeated

assurances, that neither his lordship nor Tom, though she had taught

him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.

There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how

justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and

now, at her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these two

noble persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous light to

his lordship (as he faithfully promised, and faithfully resolved too,

to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage),

yet many of our readers, we doubt not, will see with just detestation.

The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when

Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his lordship

should be introduced to her. The whole family were to be regulated for

the purpose, most of the servants despatched out of the house; and for

Mrs Honour, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be left with her

mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to

engage her in an apartment as distant as possible from the scene of

the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia.

Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her

ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, of which she

had no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so effectually

to remove Sophia from being any further obstruction to her amour with

Jones, by a means of which she should never appear to be guilty, even

if the fact appeared to the world; but this she made no doubt of

preventing by huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the

ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at which all

the rest of her family would rejoice.

But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other

conspirator; his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so nobly

described by Shakespear--

“Between the acting of a dreadful thing,

And the first motion, all the interim is

Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;

The genius and the mortal instruments

Are then in council; and the state of man,

Like to a little kingdom, suffers then

The nature of an insurrection.”----

Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the

first hint of this design, especially as it came from a relation of

the lady, yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had placed the

action itself in all its natural black colours before his eyes, with

all the consequences which must, and those which might probably attend

it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the

other side; and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night,

between honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he

determined to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the design.

Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia

sitting by her bed-side, when the servant acquainted her that Lord

Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him

to stay, and that she would see him presently; but the servant was no

sooner departed than poor Sophia began to intreat her cousin not to

encourage the visits of that odious lord (so she called him, though a

little unjustly) upon her account. “I see his design,” said she; “for

he made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I am resolved

never to admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together

any more, and to order the servants that, if he enquires for me, I may

be always denied to him.”

“La! child,” says Lady Bellaston, “you country girls have nothing but

sweethearts in your head; you fancy every man who is civil to you is

making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows about town,

and I am convinced means no more than a little gallantry. Make love to

you indeed! I wish with all my heart he would, and you must be an

arrant mad woman to refuse him.”

“But as I shall certainly be that mad woman,” cries Sophia, “I hope

his visits shall not be intruded upon me.”

“O child!” said Lady Bellaston, “you need not be so fearful; if you

resolve to run away with that Jones, I know no person who can hinder

you.”

“Upon my honour, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship injures me. I

will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry contrary to my

father's inclinations.”

“Well, Miss Western,” said the lady, “if you are not in a humour to

see company this morning, you may retire to your own apartment; for I

am not frightened at his lordship, and must send for him up into my

dressing-room.”

Sophia thanked her ladyship, and withdrew; and presently afterwards

Fellamar was admitted upstairs.

Chapter iv.

By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she

applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.

When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord's scruples, she treated them

with the same disdain with which one of those sages of the law, called

Newgate solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a young

witness. “My dear lord,” said she, “you certainly want a cordial. I

must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie upon it! have

more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape? Or are you

apprehensive----? Well! if the story of Helen was modern, I should

think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of Paris, not the fondness of

the lady; for all women love a man of spirit. There is another story

of the Sabine ladies--and that too, I thank heaven, is very antient.

Your lordship, perhaps, will admire my reading; but I think Mr Hook

tells us, they made tolerable good wives afterwards. I fancy few of my

married acquaintance were ravished by their husbands.” “Nay, dear Lady

Bellaston,” cried he, “don't ridicule me in this manner.” “Why, my

good lord,” answered she, “do you think any woman in England would not

laugh at you in her heart, whatever prudery she might wear in her

countenance?----You force me to use a strange kind of language, and to

betray my sex most abominably; but I am contented with knowing my

intentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to serve my cousin;

for I think you will make her a husband notwithstanding this; or, upon

my soul, I would not even persuade her to fling herself away upon an

empty title. She should not upbraid me hereafter with having lost a

man of spirit; for that his enemies allow this poor young fellow to

be.”

Let those who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of this

kind from a wife or a mistress, declare whether they are at all

sweetened by coming from a female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk

deeper into his lordship than anything which Demosthenes or Cicero

could have said on the occasion.

Lady Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord's pride, began

now, like a true orator, to rouse other passions to its assistance.

“My lord,” says she, in a graver voice, “you will be pleased to

remember, you mentioned this matter to me first; for I would not

appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring to put off my

cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need of an

advocate to recommend them.” “Nor doth Miss Western,” said he,

“require any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my opinion, no

woman ever had half her charms.” “Yes, yes, my lord,” replied the

lady, looking in the glass, “there have been women with more than half

her charms, I assure you; not that I need lessen her on that account:

she is a most delicious girl, that's certain; and within these few

hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth not deserve her,

though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a man of

spirit.”

“I hope so, madam,” said my lord; “though I must own he doth not

deserve her; for, unless heaven or your ladyship disappoint me, she

shall within that time be in mine.”

“Well spoken, my lord,” answered the lady; “I promise you no

disappointment shall happen from my side; and within this week I am

convinced I shall call your lordship my cousin in public.”

The remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses,

and compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the parties; but

rather dull when related at second hand. Here, therefore, we shall put

an end to this dialogue, and hasten to the fatal hour when everything

was prepared for the destruction of poor Sophia.

But this being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we shall

treat it in a chapter by itself.

Chapter v.

Containing some matters which may affect, and others which may

surprize, the reader.

The clock had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and melancholy,

sat reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and she was now come

to that part where the poor distrest Isabella disposes of her

wedding-ring.

Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down into

her bosom. In this situation she had continued a minute, when the door

opened, and in came Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her chair at

his entrance; and his lordship advancing forwards, and making a low

bow, said, “I am afraid, Miss Western, I break in upon you abruptly.”

“Indeed, my lord,” says she, “I must own myself a little surprized at

this unexpected visit.” “If this visit be unexpected, madam,” answered

Lord Fellamar, “my eyes must have been very faithless interpreters of

my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for surely you

could not otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your possession,

without receiving a visit from its owner.” Sophia, confused as she

was, answered this bombast (and very properly I think) with a look of

inconceivable disdain. My lord then made another and a longer speech

of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling, said, “Am I really to

conceive your lordship to be out of your senses? Sure, my lord, there

is no other excuse for such behaviour.” “I am, indeed, madam, in the

situation you suppose,” cries his lordship; “and sure you will pardon

the effects of a frenzy which you yourself have occasioned; for love

hath so totally deprived me of reason, that I am scarce accountable

for any of my actions.” “Upon my word, my lord,” said Sophia, “I

neither understand your words nor your behaviour.” “Suffer me then,

madam,” cries he, “at your feet to explain both, by laying open my

soul to you, and declaring that I doat on you to the highest degree of

distraction. O most adorable, most divine creature! what language can

express the sentiments of my heart?” “I do assure you, my lord,” said

Sophia, “I shall not stay to hear any more of this.” “Do not,” cries

he, “think of leaving me thus cruelly; could you know half the

torments which I feel, that tender bosom must pity what those eyes

have caused.” Then fetching a deep sigh, and laying hold of her hand,

he ran on for some minutes in a strain which would be little more

pleasing to the reader than it was to the lady; and at last concluded

with a declaration, “That if he was master of the world, he would lay

it at her feet.” Sophia then, forcibly pulling away her hand from his,

answered with much spirit, “I promise you, sir, your world and its

master I should spurn from me with equal contempt.” She then offered

to go; and Lord Fellamar, again laying hold of her hand, said, “Pardon

me, my beloved angel, freedoms which nothing but despair could have

tempted me to take.----Believe me, could I have had any hope that my

title and fortune, neither of them inconsiderable, unless when

compared with your worth, would have been accepted, I had, in the

humblest manner, presented them to your acceptance.----But I cannot

lose you.--By heaven, I will sooner part with my soul!--You are, you

must, you shall be only mine.” “My lord,” says she, “I intreat you to

desist from a vain pursuit; for, upon my honour, I will never hear you

on this subject. Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from

you this moment; nor will I ever see you more.” “Then, madam,” cries

his lordship, “I must make the best use of this moment; for I cannot

live, nor will I live without you.”----“What do you mean, my lord?”

said Sophia; “I will raise the family.” “I have no fear, madam,”

answered he, “but of losing you, and that I am resolved to prevent,

the only way which despair points to me.”--He then caught her in his

arms: upon which she screamed so loud, that she must have alarmed some

one to her assistance, had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all

ears.

But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another noise

now broke forth, which almost drowned her cries; for now the whole

house rang with, “Where is she? D--n me, I'll unkennel her this

instant. Show me her chamber, I say. Where is my daughter? I know

she's in the house, and I'll see her if she's above-ground. Show me

where she is.”--At which last words the door flew open, and in came

Squire Western, with his parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels.

How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when the

enraged voice of her father was welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it

was, and luckily did he come; for it was the only accident upon earth

which could have preserved the peace of her mind from being for ever

destroyed.

Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father's voice;

and his lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the voice of

reason, which peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for the

perpetration of his villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice approach,

and hearing likewise whose it was (for as the squire more than once

roared forth the word daughter, so Sophia, in the midst of her

struggling, cried out upon her father), he thought proper to

relinquish his prey, having only disordered her handkerchief, and with

his rude lips committed violence on her lovely neck.

If the reader's imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able

to describe the situation of these two persons when Western came into

the room. Sophia tottered into a chair, where she sat disordered,

pale, breathless, bursting with indignation at Lord Fellamar;

affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, at the arrival of her father.

His lordship sat down near her, with the bag of his wig hanging over

one of his shoulders, the rest of his dress being somewhat disordered,

and rather a greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at

his bosom. As to the rest, he was amazed, affrighted, vexed, and

ashamed.

As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an

enemy, which very frequently pursues, and seldom fails to overtake,

most of the country gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally

speaking, drunk; which circumstance, together with his natural

impetuosity, could produce no other effect than his running

immediately up to his daughter, upon whom he fell foul with his tongue

in the most inveterate manner; nay, he had probably committed violence

with his hands, had not the parson interposed, saying, “For heaven's

sake, sir, animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let

me beg you to mitigate your wrath; it should minister a fulness of

satisfaction that you have found your daughter; for as to revenge, it

belongeth not unto us. I discern great contrition in the countenance

of the young lady. I stand assured, if you will forgive her, she will

repent her of all past offences, and return unto her duty.”

The strength of the parson's arms had at first been of more service

than the strength of his rhetoric. However, his last words wrought

some effect, and the squire answered, “I'll forgee her if she wull ha

un. If wot ha un, Sophy, I'll forgee thee all. Why dost unt speak?

Shat ha un! d--n me, shat ha un! Why dost unt answer? Was ever such a

stubborn tuoad?”

“Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate,” said the

parson; “you frighten the young lady so, that you deprive her of all

power of utterance.”

“Power of mine a--,” answered the squire. “You take her part then,

you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side with an undutiful child! Yes,

yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I'll gee un to the devil

sooner.”

“I humbly crave your pardon,” said the parson; “I assure your worship

I meant no such matter.”

My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire, who

no sooner saw her, than, resolving to follow the instructions of his

sister, he made her a very civil bow, in the rural manner, and paid

her some of his best compliments. He then immediately proceeded to his

complaints, and said, “There, my lady cousin; there stands the most

undutiful child in the world; she hankers after a beggarly rascal, and

won't marry one of the greatest matches in all England, that we have

provided for her.”

“Indeed, cousin Western,” answered the lady, “I am persuaded you wrong

my cousin. I am sure she hath a better understanding. I am convinced

she will not refuse what she must be sensible is so much to her

advantage.”

This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew whom Mr

Western meant; though perhaps she thought he would easily be

reconciled to his lordship's proposals.

“Do you hear there,” quoth the squire, “what her ladyship says? All

your family are for the match. Come, Sophy, be a good girl, and be

dutiful, and make your father happy.”

“If my death will make you happy, sir,” answered Sophia, “you will

shortly be so.”

“It's a lye, Sophy; it's a d--n'd lye, and you know it,” said the

squire.

“Indeed, Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you injure your father;

he hath nothing in view but your interest in this match; and I and all

your friends must acknowledge the highest honour done to your family

in the proposal.”

“Ay, all of us,” quoth the squire; “nay, it was no proposal of mine.

She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first.--Come, Sophy, once

more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me your consent before

your cousin.”

“Let me give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It is the fashion

now-a-days to dispense with time and long courtships.”

“Pugh!” said the squire, “what signifies time; won't they have time

enough to court afterwards? People may court very well after they have

been a-bed together.”

As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady

Bellaston, so, never having heard nor suspected a word of Blifil, he

made no doubt of his being meant by the father. Coming up, therefore,

to the squire, he said, “Though I have not the honour, sir, of being

personally known to you, yet, as I find I have the happiness to have

my proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in behalf of the young

lady, that she may not be more solicited at this time.”

“You intercede, sir!” said the squire; “why, who the devil are you?”

“Sir, I am Lord Fellamar,” answered he, “and am the happy man whom I

hope you have done the honour of accepting for a son-in-law.”

“You are a son of a b----,” replied the squire, “for all your laced

coat. You my son-in-law, and be d--n'd to you!”

“I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man,” answered the

lord; “but I must inform you that I am not used to hear such language

without resentment.”

“Resent my a--,” quoth the squire. “Don't think I am afraid of such a

fellow as thee art! because hast got a spit there dangling at thy

side. Lay by your spit, and I'll give thee enough of meddling with

what doth not belong to thee. I'll teach you to father-in-law me. I'll

lick thy jacket.”

“It's very well, sir,” said my lord, “I shall make no disturbance

before the ladies. I am very well satisfied. Your humble servant, sir;

Lady Bellaston, your most obedient.”

His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to Mr

Western, said, “Bless me, sir, what have you done? You know not whom

you have affronted; he is a nobleman of the first rank and fortune,

and yesterday made proposals to your daughter; and such as I am sure

you must accept with the highest pleasure.”

“Answer for yourself, lady cousin,” said the squire, “I will have

nothing to do with any of your lords. My daughter shall have an honest

country gentleman; I have pitched upon one for her--and she shall ha'

un.--I am sorry for the trouble she hath given your ladyship with all

my heart.” Lady Bellaston made a civil speech upon the word trouble;

to which the squire answered--“Why, that's kind--and I would do as

much for your ladyship. To be sure relations should do for one

another. So I wish your ladyship a good night.--Come, madam, you must

go along with me by fair means, or I'll have you carried down to the

coach.”

Sophia said she would attend him without force; but begged to go in a

chair, for she said she should not be able to ride any other way.

“Prithee,” cries the squire, “wout unt persuade me canst not ride in a

coach, wouldst? That's a pretty thing surely! No, no, I'll never let

thee out of my sight any more till art married, that I promise thee.”

Sophia told him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart. “O break

thy heart and be d--n'd,” quoth he, “if a good husband will break it.

I don't value a brass varden, not a halfpenny, of any undutiful b--

upon earth.” He then took violent hold of her hand; upon which the

parson once more interfered, begging him to use gentle methods. At

that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson hold his

tongue, saying, “At'nt in pulpit now? when art a got up there I never

mind what dost say; but I won't be priest-ridden, nor taught how to

behave myself by thee. I wish your ladyship a good-night. Come along,

Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be well. Shat ha' un, d--n me,

shat ha' un!”

Mrs Honour appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy to the squire

offered to attend her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying, “Hold,

madam, hold, you come no more near my house.” “And will you take my

maid away from me?” said Sophia. “Yes, indeed, madam, will I,” cries

the squire: “you need not fear being without a servant; I will get you

another maid, and a better maid than this, who, I'd lay five pounds to

a crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no, Sophy, she shall

contrive no more escapes, I promise you.” He then packed up his

daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which he mounted

himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the way thither

he suffered Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself with reading a

lecture to the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to his

betters.

It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter

from Lady Bellaston, had that good lady desired to have detained her;

but, in reality, she was not a little pleased with the confinement

into which Sophia was going; and as her project with Lord Fellamar had

failed of success, she was well contented that other violent methods

were now going to be used in favour of another man.

Chapter vi.

By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.

Though the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more

unaccountable appearances than this of Mr Western, without any

satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love to oblige him whenever it

is in our power, we shall now proceed to shew by what method the

squire discovered where his daughter was.

In the third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint (for

it is not our custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary for

the occasion) that Mrs Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of

reconciling her uncle and aunt Western, thought she had a probable

opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia from committing the

same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her family. After

much deliberation, therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt Western

where her cousin was, and accordingly she writ the following letter,

which we shall give the reader at length, for more reasons than one.

“HONOURED MADAM,

“The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine

agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though

I have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of

another.

“Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at

your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the world, my cousin

Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself,

though, alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy

me, that unless she is immediately prevented, she is in danger of

running into the same fatal mischief, which, by foolishly and

ignorantly refusing your most wise and prudent advice, I have

unfortunately brought on myself.

“In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most part of yesterday in

his company, and a charming young fellow I promise you he is. By

what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you

now; but I have this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest

he should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth not yet know

where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath

secured her.----No time therefore is to be lost; and I need only

inform you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen,

and who hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family.

You know, madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome

me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great

understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely

informing you of the matter of fact.

“I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the

good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of a lady

who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true

interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to

your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and

is so necessary to my future happiness.

“I am,

with the utmost respect,

honoured madam,

your most dutiful obliged niece,

and most obedient humble

servant,

HARRIET FITZPATRICK.”

Mrs Western was now at her brother's house, where she had resided ever

since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the poor

squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to him

in daily portions, we have formerly given a specimen.

She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of

snuff in her hand, was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort

to the squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received

the above letter; which she had no sooner read than she delivered it

to him, saying, “There, sir, there is an account of your lost sheep.

Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by

my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve her.”

The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his

chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He

then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the

Chevalier and several other horses to be saddled, and that parson

Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned to

his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace,

saying, “Zounds! you don't seem pleased; one would imagine you was

sorry I have found the girl.”

“Brother,” answered she, “the deepest politicians, who see to the

bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from what

swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less

desperate than they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth

was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a delicacy required in

this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want.

There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady

Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior,

I am afraid, to yours.”

“Sister,” cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion of my parts;

but I'll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I

have not been in the country so long without having some knowledge of

warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own wherever I

can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if I don't know how to come

at her, I'll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There be

justices of peace in London, as well as in other places.”

“I protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the event of this

matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may bring to so

good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a

woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of

the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As soon as you arrive in

town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed, brother,

you have none at present fit to appear in), you must send your

compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her. When

you are admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and have

told her your story, and have made proper use of my name (for I think

you just know one another only by sight, though you are relations), I

am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath

certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method.--Justices of

peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of

figure in a civilised nation?”

“D--n their figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty civilised nation,

truly, where women are above the law. And what must I stand sending a

parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a

daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so

ignorant as you think me----I know you would have women above the law,

but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no one is

above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.”

“Mr Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in ignorance.----I

protest you are grown an arrant bear.”

“No more a bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the

squire.--“Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am sure

you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though

I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I

will show you I have got more good manners than some folks.”

“Mr Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you please, _je

vous mesprise de tout mon coeur._ I shall not therefore be

angry.----Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly

says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my

family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I

have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed,

indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite

court.--Greenland--Greenland should always be the scene of the

tramontane negociation.”

“I thank Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don't understand you now. You

are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to

be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what

I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have

always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now

and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my

part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to

London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not

stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected

to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied

that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to dispute

that would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of a

pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me.”--“Which I

promise you,” says she, “I never will.”--“Well, and I promise you,”

returned he, “that I never will dispute the t'other.”

Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady)

between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the

horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to

follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.

But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they

both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be

dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in

the manner we have already seen.

Chapter vii.

In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.

Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs

Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have before

seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:--

“O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone,

sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone.” “Hath anything

happened to Sophia?” cries Jones, staring like a madman. “All that is

bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh that

I should ever live to see this day!” At these words Jones turned pale

as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on--“O! Mr Jones, I

have lost my lady for ever.” “How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me.

O, my dear Sophia!” “You may well call her so,” said Honour; “she was

the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another

place.”----“D--n your place!” cries Jones; “where is--what--what is

become of my Sophia?” “Ay, to be sure,” cries she, “servants may be

d--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are

turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh

and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what

becomes of them.” “If you have any pity, any compassion,” cries Jones,

“I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” “To

be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me,” answered

Honour; “I don't d--n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in

the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to

be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress----”

“What hath happened?” cries Jones, in almost a raving fit.

“What?--What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that could have happened

both for you and for me.--Her father is come to town, and hath carried

her away from us both.” Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving

that it was no worse. “No worse!” repeated Honour; “what could be

worse for either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry

Mr Blifil; that's for your comfort; and, for poor me, I am turned out

of doors.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered Jones, “you frightened me

out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had

happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even seeing her

married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are

hopes, my dear Honour. Women in this land of liberty, cannot be

married by actual brutal force.” “To be sure, sir,” said she, “that's

true. There may be some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are

there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer

all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is

for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil.” “Indeed, Mrs

Honour,” answered he, “I am sensible of my obligations to you, and

will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends.” “Alas!

sir,” said she, “what can make a servant amends for the loss of one

place but the getting another altogether as good?” “Do not despair,

Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope to reinstate you again in the same.”

“Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I flatter myself with such

hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set

against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I

now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured

gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you

as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because

as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my lady, must

see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if two people

who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so? Happiness

don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough

for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the

pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am

convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is

to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all

the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be sure I

wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell the

squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter

contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the

squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good

sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the

squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face.

To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the

squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be

melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are

sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never will

be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed I am terribly

afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a

prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor lady

will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a

chicken. It is pity, methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If

I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to lock me up,

I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him; but then there's a great

fortune in the case, which it is in her father's power either to give

her or not; that, to be sure, may make some difference.”

Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or

whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot

determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once

stop till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that

the great lady was upon the stairs.

Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour

knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady

Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to whom he

would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is

common enough) the worst course, and, instead of exposing her to the

lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose

the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but

just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the curtains.

The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his

poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour,

and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of

Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head;

so that it never once occurred to his memory to act the part of a sick

man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness

of his countenance, would have at all supported.

He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires

than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster in

his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the

least disorder.

Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself

down on the bed: “So, my dear Jones,” said she, “you find nothing can

detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I

have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your

distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I suppose you

have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a fine lady to see

company after a lying-in; but, however, don't think I intend to scold

you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a

husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife.”

“Nay, Lady Bellaston,” said Jones, “I am sure your ladyship will not

upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who,

my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an appointment

last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and

languish?”

“Do not mention it, my dear Mr Jones,” cried she. “If you knew the

occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to conceive

what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the impertinence of

fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I am glad, however,

all your languishing and wishing have done you no harm; for you never

looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at this

instant sit for the picture of Adonis.”

There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can

properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there may

be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now the

compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this

kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in which the lady

conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her

tongue.

Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable

and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on the comparison

we made use of before, though the provocation was given by the lady,

Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it,

in the presence of a third person; seconds in this kind of duels not

being according to the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to

Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any other woman being there but

herself, she waited some time in great astonishment for an answer from

Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, stood at a

distance, and, not daring to give the proper answer, gave none at all.

Nothing can be imagined more comic, nor yet more tragical, than this

scene would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had

already changed colour two or three times; had got up from the bed and

sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground to sink under him,

or the house to fall on his head, when an odd accident freed him from

an embarrassment out of which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor

the politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter

disgrace.

This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk;

or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use

of their reason without depriving them of the use of their limbs.

Mrs Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking

his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr Jones's

chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst open, and was

entering without any ceremony, when Jones started from his seat and

ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that Nightingale never

came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the bed.

Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones's apartment for that in

which himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in,

often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones,

however, prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of

Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his master's

assistance.

And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment,

where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady Bellaston

venting an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same

time saw her flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which

in a lady of a tender constitution would have been an hysteric fit.

In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men,

of which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard

Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted

to retire to her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion

she found already occupied by another.

“Is this usage to be borne, Mr Jones?” cries the lady.--“Basest of

men?----What wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?” “Wretch!”

cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her place of

concealment--“Marry come up!----Wretch forsooth?----as poor a wretch

as I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks who are richer can

say.”

Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of

Mrs Honour's resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have

done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the most

unfortunate man in the world; and presently after, addressing himself

to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very absurd protestations of

innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the use of her

reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially

on such occasions, calmly replied: “Sir, you need make no apologies, I

see now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs Honour: but now

I do, I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you; and I am sure

she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong constructions upon

my visit to you; I have been always her friend, and it may be in my

power to be much more hereafter.”

Mrs Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing,

therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she likewise softened

hers.----“I'm sure, madam,” says she, “I have been always ready to

acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me; sure I never had so

good a friend as your ladyship----and to be sure, now I see it is your

ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue off for very

mad.--I constructions upon your ladyship--to be sure it doth not

become a servant as I am to think about such a great lady--I mean I

was a servant: for indeed I am nobody's servant now, the more

miserable wretch is me.--I have lost the best mistress----” Here

Honour thought fit to produce a shower of tears.--“Don't cry, child,”

says the good lady; “ways perhaps may be found to make you amends.

Come to me to-morrow morning.” She then took up her fan which lay on

the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very majestically

out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of

women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in

circumstances of this nature.

Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she

absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking any

notice of him as he stood bowing before her.

At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs

Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had

undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady;

on which she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found

means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of

most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour

to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings

of the squire.

Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs

Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge

from experience) is often a very valuable possession: and that not

only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper

it about till it come to the ears of every one except the ignorant

person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is publickly

known.

Chapter viii.

Short and sweet.

Notwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs

Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle remonstrances for

the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber.

These were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed

truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones himself,

that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition

of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had past, excused

it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same

disturbances into the house.

But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in

private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned

downstairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind, being

indeed to perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give

her in wedlock to Mr Nightingale, who was now ready drest, and full as

sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives

a wife in so imprudent a manner.

And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this

young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the

condition in which we have seen him the night before.

Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly

to indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly loved his bottle), and

partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his

purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so

briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not

much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of

disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely

finished.

Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed

for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so

entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all

consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken

up with his own concerns.

This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had

taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and

had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though

her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth

nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amour

even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had

never been once suspected by any, till now that it was consummated.

Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost

confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and,

having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly

left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.

The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to

bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible

that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices

tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant,

who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied;

and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had

staggered up to Mr Jones's chamber, as hath been before recounted.

This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew

not as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the

mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stept into a

hackney-coach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss

Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor

mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of

all human beings.

And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and

her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to

his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his

folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest

some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he

did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from

being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very

considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.

To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly

say with him in Terence, _Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto_.

He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of

any one; and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion

as he himself contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the

instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of

wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying great

felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to

themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading

through the deepest iniquity.

Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps

think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others

may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as

impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to

bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable

catastrophe.

Chapter ix.

Containing love-letters of several sorts.

Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his

table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.

LETTER I.

“Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my

resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last

night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to

hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know

that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you

can invent.----Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come

to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an

excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too----I will

think no more.----Come to me directly.----This is the third letter I

have writ, the two former are burnt----I am almost inclined to burn

this too----I wish I may preserve my senses.----Come to me

presently.”

LETTER II.

“If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my

doors, come to me this instant.”

LETTER III.

“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.

The moment you receive this let me see you;--I shall not stir out;

nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain

you long.”

Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came

into the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston,

after last night's adventure?” (for it was now no secret to any one in

that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones

very gravely.----“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don't be so

reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last

night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the

queen of the fairies is?” “And did you really then know the lady at

the masquerade?” said Jones. “Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said

Nightingale, “and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you

seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly.

I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not

so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person.

Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young

fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe

me.”

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the

vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant

of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no

knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that

is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the

name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies

will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole

town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted

with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy

as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion,

he gave a latitude to his friend's tongue, and desired him to speak

plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate

in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle.

He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from

Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady;

which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we

have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We

would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future

commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of

forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never

entered into our head.

Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say,

fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why,

thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have

affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.” “O my dear

friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this woman, that I know

not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am

under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much,

I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her,

that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I

possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty

of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me

than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which

few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.”

“And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Nightingale.

“Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet durst sully her

reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream not

clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body,

consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the

universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities,

that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her

beauty but when I see it.”--“And can you, my good friend,” cries

Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands,

hesitate a moment about quitting such a--” “Hold,” said Jones, “no

more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.” “Pooh!”

answered the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath

conferred obligations of this kind. She is remarkably liberal where

she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently

bestowed, that they should rather raise a man's vanity than his

gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and

told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the

truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast

of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he

began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than

benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own

conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust,

his mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue,

her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all

his thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still

more odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself

out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her,

would be the loss of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he

could but find a handsome pretence: which being communicated to his

friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my

boy! I have found out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I

would venture hanging upon the success.” “Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay,

propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will declare off in

a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the

offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”

Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,” said

he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than from

another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then?

caught, in my own trap, and undone for ever.” “No;” answered

Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at

any time get out of the trap.”----“What expedient can that be?”

replied Jones. “This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I

mentioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the

world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done

him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight

of her letters; upon which you may decently break with her; and

declare off before the knot is tyed, if she should really be willing

to tie it, which I am convinced she will not.”

After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance,

consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the

matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale

dictated:--

“MADAM,

“I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement

abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship's

commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer

of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this

misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in for fear

your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There

is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only

permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so

my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your

feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made

completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal right

of calling you mine for ever.--I am,

madam,

with most profound respect,

your ladyship's most obliged,

obedient, humble servant,

THOMAS JONES.”

To this she presently returned the following answer:

“SIR,

“When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness

and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you

mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous

animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or

do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my

senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in

order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are

these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for--?

but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your

profound respect.

“P.S. I am prevented from revising:----Perhaps I have said more than

I meant.----Come to me at eight this evening.”

Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:

“MADAM,

“It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion

you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a

man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she

treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine,

madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment,

overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think

of indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could

not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when

discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your

opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning

those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to

receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall

ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the very words with which he

had concluded the former letter.

The lady answered as follows:

“I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you

come here I shall not be at home.”

Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom

which those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to

be none of the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his

mind. There was in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one who

utterly detested every species of falshood or dishonesty: nor would

he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had he not been

involved in a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be guilty

of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the other; and surely the

reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as love, pleaded

strongly in favour of Sophia.

Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which

he received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He

answered, “Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on

each other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the

loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in

the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England.”

The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs Miller,

who performed herself the office of cook, had exerted her best talents

to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she

ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole

soul was fired with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words,

and actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and

even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of her

consideration.

Dinner was just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter; but as we

have had letters enow in this chapter, we shall communicate its

contents in our next.

Chapter x.

Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations upon them.

The letter then which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was

from Mr Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his intention to come

immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire to be

accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the first floor for

himself, and the second for his nephew.

The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance

of the poor woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did

indeed a good deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match

with her daughter, by presently turning her new son-in-law out of

doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the

other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr

Allworthy, after all the obligations received from him, for depriving

him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his due; for that

gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits on others, acted

by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practised by most generous

people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his beneficence, not

only from the world, but even from the object of it. He constantly

used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by every other

method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue the favours he

conferred, while he was heaping them with both his hands. When he

settled the annuity of £50 a year therefore on Mrs Miller, he told

her, “it was in consideration of always having her first-floor when he

was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that she might

let it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month's

warning.” He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he

had no opportunity of giving such notice; and this hurry probably

prevented him, when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were

then empty; for he would most certainly have been well satisfied to

have relinquished them, on a less sufficient excuse than what Mrs

Miller could now have made.

But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well

remarks, direct their conduct by something

Beyond the fix'd and settled rules

Of vice and virtue in the schools,

Beyond the letter of the law.

To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would

acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are not even contented,

though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them.

Nothing short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of

their minds; and if any of their actions fall short of this mark, they

mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a murderer, who is afraid

of a ghost, or of the hangman.

Mrs Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at

this letter; with the contents of which she had no sooner acquainted

the company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her

good angel, presently relieved her anxiety. “As for myself, madam,”

said he, “my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning; and Mr

Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to

receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whither

Mrs Nightingale will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal

both husband and wife instantly agreed.

The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Miller began

again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may

be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr Jones having in his last

speech called her daughter Mrs Nightingale (it being the first time

that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears), gave the fond mother

more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his

having dissipated her present anxiety.

The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married

couple, and of Mr Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the

same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was

again restored, and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness, all

except Jones, who, though he outwardly accompanied the rest in their

mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which

were not a little heightened by the news of Mr Blifil's coming to town

(for he clearly saw the intention of his journey); and what greatly

aggravated his concern was, that Mrs Honour, who had promised to

inquire after Sophia, and to make her report to him early the next

evening, had disappointed him.

In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there

were scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good

news; yet he was as impatient to see Mrs Honour as if he had expected

she would bring him a letter with an assignation in it from Sophia,

and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience arose from

that natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to

know the worst, and renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains;

or whether he still flattered himself with some secret hopes, we will

not determine. But that it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot

but know. For of all the powers exercised by this passion over our

minds, one of the most wonderful is that of supporting hope in the

midst of despair. Difficulties, improbabilities, nay, impossibilities,

are quite overlooked by it; so that to any man extremely in love, may

be applied what Addison says of Caesar,

“The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!”

Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make

mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but

these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper

Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact

information about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours

in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his

uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost made

him frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs

Honour, with which we shall present the reader _verbatim et

literatim._

“SIR,

“I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt

itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose

very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such

anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly

to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind

as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such

thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and

pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare

harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin

thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be

a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,

to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest

respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons

tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee

sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so

gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I

never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after

ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a

cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor

no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals

in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf

sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't

cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to

miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that

matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi

one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and

belive me to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,

“HONOUR BLACKMORE.”

Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of

Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to

secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she

chose should make no farther progress than it had made already; but

mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though

that young lady was almost the only one who would never have repeated

it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this; since, as

she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she conceived a

reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender breast of our

heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an entrance.

While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand

dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined

to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto

seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a

new method to put a final end to it, by throwing a temptation in his

way, which in his present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he

should be able to resist.

Chapter xi.

Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.

There was a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house

where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and

indeed a very great friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty,

for she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very good, only

inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married young by

her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great

fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without reproach, but

not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for about twelve

years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and leaving her very

rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at an end, and she had

past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing only a few particular

friends, and dividing her time between her devotions and novels, of

which she was always extremely fond. Very good health, a very warm

constitution, and a good deal of religion, made it absolutely

necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please herself

in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the first. From

her the following billet was brought to Jones:--

“SIR,

“From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too

plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue

nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the

family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and

told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you

are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have

also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,

understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a

fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me

so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur

the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear

the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops

me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a

woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to

the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and

let this remain an eternal secret between you and

“ARABELLA HUNT.”

At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His

fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which

hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady

Bellaston, not above five guineas remained; and that very morning he

had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable

mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes

ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense,

from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went much

against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This lady's

fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he could have

no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he liked her as

well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon Sophia, and

marry another, that was impossible; he could not think of it upon any

account, Yet why should he not, since it was plain she could not be

his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer

engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to do so in

friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had

almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour: but

that refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of

nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to

love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows

to Mrs Hunt:--

“MADAM,

“It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to

sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would

certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,

from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you

think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to

another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,

though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in

return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to

give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather

starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married

to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely

effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not

more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and

grateful humble servant,

“T. JONES.”

When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his

scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and

then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of

mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty

thousand pounds.

Chapter xii.

A discovery made by Partridge.

While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity,

Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when he

brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been

despatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavour, by

the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover

whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a

joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird. “I

have seen, sir,” says he, “Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one of

the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I knew him

presently, though I have not seen him these several years; but you

know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he

hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It

was some time, however, before Black George could recollect me.”

“Well, but what is your good news?” cries Jones; “what do you know of

my Sophia?” “You shall know presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I am

coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would

come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the imperative. As I

was saying, sir, it was some time before he recollected my

face.”--“Confound your face!” cries Jones, “what of my Sophia?” “Nay,

sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing more of Madam Sophia than

what I am going to tell you; and I should have told you all before

this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me you

will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out

of my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left

Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand

years.”--“Well, pray go on your own way,” said Jones: “you are

resolved to make me mad I find.” “Not for the world,” answered

Partridge, “I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said,

I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live.” “Well,

but Black George?” cries Jones. “Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a

long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much

altered since I saw him. _Non sum qualis eram._ I have had troubles in

the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it

will change the colour of a man's hair in a night. However, at last,

know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are both of an age, and

were at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no

matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world according to their

learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a

thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?--O--well, we no sooner

knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed

to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was

some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir,

I am coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and told him

that you and I came to town together, and had lived together ever

since, than he called for another pot, and swore he would drink to

your health; and indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was

overjoyed to see there was so much gratitude left in the world; and

after we had emptied that pot I said I would buy my pot too, and so we

drank another to your health; and then I made haste home to tell you

the news.”

“What news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word of my

Sophia!” “Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we

mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me

all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be married to her.

He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her before

he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a thousand pities

somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above all the

women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not

for her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of

that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune

than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes

after him day and night.”

Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said,

betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name:

“Besides, sir,” said he, “I can assure you George is sincerely your

friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once; nay, he said

he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you; and so I am

convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether you

have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one

that would go farther to serve you.”

“Well,” says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this fellow, who, I

believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the same

house with Sophia?”

“In the same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he is one of the

servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it

was not for his black beard you would hardly know him.”

“One service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure he can

certainly convey a letter to my Sophia.”

“You have hit the nail _ad unguem_” cries Partridge; “how came I not

to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first

mentioning.”

“Well, then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present, and I will

write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning; for

I suppose you know where to find him.”

“O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly find him again;

there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away

long. I make no doubt but he will be there every day he stays in

town.”

“So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?” cries

Jones.

“Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge.

“What is the name of the street?” cries Jones.

“The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, “not

above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for,

as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some

suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too

cunning for that, I promise you.”

“Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; “however,

I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough

to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.”

And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat

himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a

time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.