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