 CHAPTER VII The interview between Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale. The good or evil we confer on others very often, I believe, recoils on ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own acts of beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are scarce any natures so entirely diabolical as to be capable of doing injuries without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin which they bring on their fellow creatures. Mr. Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary, Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily to meet him, and after much congratulation said, nothing could be more opportune than this kind visit, for I was never more in the spleen in my life. I am sorry, answered Jones, that I bring news very unlikely to leave you. Nay, what I am convinced must of all other shock you the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further preface then I come to you, Mr. Nightingale, from a worthy family which you have involved in misery and ruin. Mr. Nightingale changed colour at these words, but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded in the liveliest manner to paint the tragical story with which the reader was acquainted in the last chapter. Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, What you tell me, my friend, affects me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret. And then the girl might have gone off never the worse, for many such things happen in this town, and if the husband should suspect a little when it is too late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his wife and the world. Indeed, my friend, answered Jones, this could not have been the case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her affections, that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation which afflicts her, and will end in the destruction of her and her family. Nay, for that matter I promise you, cries Nightingale, she hath my affections so absolutely that my wife, whoever she is to be, will have very little share in them. And is it possible, then, said Jones, you can think of deserting her? Why, what can I do? answered the other. Ask Miss Nancy, replied Jones warmly. In the condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less, cries Jones, than fulfill the expectations of her family and her own. Nay, I sincerely tell you they were mine, too, ever since I first saw you together. You will pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have favoured me with, moved as I am with compassion for those poor creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you whether you have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into an opinion that you designed honorably. And if so, though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I will leave to your own good understanding how far you are bound to proceed. Hey, I must not only confess what you have hinted, said Nightingale, but I am afraid even that very promise you mentioned I have given. And can you, after owning that, said Jones, hesitate a moment? Consider, my friend, answered the other. I know you are a man of honor, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules. But there were no other objection. Can I, after this publication of her disgrace, think of such an alliance with honor? Undoubtedly, replied Jones, and the very best and truest honor, which is goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind, you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honor be guilty of having under false pretenses deceived a young woman and her family, and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her innocence? Can you with honor be the knowing, the willful occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being? Can you with honor destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably both the life and soul too of this creature? Can honor bear the thought that this creature is a tender, helpless, defenseless young woman, a young woman who loves, who dotes on you, who dies for you, who hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises, and to that confidence hath sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honor support such contemplations as these a moment? Common sense indeed, said Nightingale, warrants all you say, but yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it that was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever showing my face again. High upon it, Mr. Nightingale, said Jones, do not call her by so ungenerous a name. When you promised to marry her, she became your wife, and she hath sent more against prudence than virtue. And what is this world which you would be ashamed to face but the vile, the foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a shame must proceed from false modesty, which always attends false honor as its shadow. But I am well assured there is not a man of real sense and goodness in the world who would not honor and applaud the action. But admit no other would, would it not your own heart, my friend applauded? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations which we feel from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous, benevolent action convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl in the arms of her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking heart in agonies, sighing out your name, and lamenting, rather than accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to your imagination the circumstances of her fond, despairing parrot, driven to madness, or perhaps to death by the loss of her lovely daughter. Do the poor, helpless, orphan infant. And when your mind hath dwelt a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause of all the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenseless family. On the other side, consider yourself as relieving them from their temporary sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that lovely creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to her pale cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her tortured breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness of all. Think of this little family made by one act of yours completely happy. Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in my friend if it requires any long deliberation whether he will sink these wretches down forever, or by one generous noble resolution raise them all from the brink of misery and despair to the highest pitch of human happiness. Add to this but one consideration more. The consideration that it is your duty so to do, that the misery from which you will relieve these poor people is the misery which you yourself have willfully brought upon them. Oh, my dear friend, cries Nightingale, I want it not your eloquence to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed between us. Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion before I could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which hath caused all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no inclinations to consult but my own, I would marry her tomorrow morning. I would by heaven. But you will easily imagine how impossible it would be to prevail on my father to consent as such a match. Besides he hath provided another for me, and tomorrow by his express command I am to wait on the lady. I have not the honour to know your father, said Jones, but suppose he could be persuaded. Would you yourself consent to the only means of preserving these poor people? As eagerly as I would presume my happiness, answered Nightingale, for I never shall find it in any other woman. Oh, my dear friend, could you imagine what I have felt within these twelve hours from my poor girl? I am convinced she would not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her, and if I had any foolish scruples of honour you have fully satisfied them. Could my father be induced to comply with my desires? Nothing would be wanting to complete my own happiness or that of my Nancy. Then I am resolved to undertake it, said Jones. You must not be angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this affair, which you may depend on it, could not otherwise belong hid from him. For things of this nature make a quick progress when once they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a manner which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If you will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not lose a moment in the business, which while I pursue you cannot do a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor girl. You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given of the wretchedness of the family. Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal, and now having acquainted Jones with his father's lodging and the coffee-house where he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said, My dear Tom, you were going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew my father you would never think of obtaining his consent. Stay, there is one way. Suppose you told him I was already married. It might be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done, and upon my honour I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my Nancy so passionately. I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the consequence. Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They then separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of the old gentleman. CHAPTER VIII. What passed between Jones and old Mr. Nightingale? With the arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history. Whatwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies the divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same purpose, Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man in either of them, expressly holds the contrary, and certain it is there are some incidents in life so very strange and unaccountable that it seems to require more than human skill and foresight in producing them. Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr. Nightingale the Elder in so critical a minute that fortune, if she was really worthy of all the worship she received at Rome, could not have contrived such another. In short the old gentleman, and the father of the young lady whom he intended for his son, had been hard at it for many hours, and the latter was just now gone, and had left the former delighted with the thoughts that he had succeeded in a long contention which had been between the two fathers of the future bride and bridegroom, in which both endeavored to overreach the other, and, as it not rarely happens in such cases, both had retreated fully satisfied of having obtained the victory. This gentleman, whom Mr. Jones now visited, was what they call a man of the world, that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this world as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to make the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to trade, but having acquired a very good fortune he had lately declined his business, or to speak more properly, had changed it from dealing in goods to dealing only in money, of which he had always a plentiful fund, a command, and of which he knew very well how to make a very plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of private men, and sometimes of those of the public. He had indeed conversed so entirely with money that it may be almost doubted whether he imagined there was any other thing really existing in the world, this at least may be certainly avert, that he firmly believed nothing else to have any real value. The reader-will, I fancy, allow that fortune could not have cold out a more improper person for Mr. Jones to attack with any probability of success, nor could the whimsical lady have directed this attack at a more unseasonable time. As money, then, was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts, so the moment he saw a stranger within his doors it immediately occurred to his imagination that such stranger was either come to bring him money, or to fetch it from him, and according as one or other of these thoughts prevailed he conceived a favourable or unfavourable idea of the person who approached him. Probably for Jones the latter of these was the ascendant at present, for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with a bill from his son for a play debt, he apprehended at the first sight of Jones that he was come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no sooner told him that he was come on his son's account than the old gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an exclamation that he would lose his labour. Is it then possible, sir, answer Jones, that you can guess my business? If I do guess it, replied the other, I repeat again to you, you will lose your labour. Watch, I suppose you are one of those sparks who lead my son into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be his destruction. But I shall pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had imagined otherwise I should not have provided a wife for him, for I would be instrumental in the ruin of nobody. How, sir, said Jones, and what's this lady of your providing? Pray, sir, answered the old gentleman, how comes it to be any concern of yours? Nay, dear sir, replied Jones, be not offended that I interest myself in what regards your son's happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was upon that very account I came to wait upon you. I can't express the satisfaction you have given me by what you say, for I do assure you your son is a person for whom I have the highest honour. Nay, sir, it is not easy to express the esteem I have for you, who could be so generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide such a match for your son. A woman who, I dareswear, will make him one of the happiest men upon earth. There's scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good-liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance. When once those apprehensions begin to vanish we soon forget the fears which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears. Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no demand on him, as he suspected, then he began to be pleased with his presence. Pray, good sir, said he, be pleased to sit down. I do not remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before, but if you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say concerning this young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making him happy, it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my duty in taking care of the main article. She will bring him a fortune capable of making any reasonable, prudent sober-man happy. Undoubtedly, cries Jones, for she is in herself a fortune, so beautiful, so gentile, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated, she is indeed a most accomplished young lady, sings admirably well, and has the most delicate hand at the harpsichord. I did not know any of these matters, answered the old gentleman, for I never saw the old lady. But I do not like her the worse, for what you tell me, and I am the better pleased with her father for not laying any stress on these qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof of his understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these articles as an addition to her fortune. But to give him his due he never mentioned any such matter, though to be sure they are no disparagements to a woman. I do assure you, sir, cries Jones, she hath them all in most eminent degree. For my part, I own I was afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less inclined to the match, for your son told me you had never seen the lady. Therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you, as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse to his match with a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have mentioned, but many more. If that was your business, sir, said the old gentleman, we are both obliged to you, and you may be perfectly easy, for I give you my word, I was very well satisfied with her fortune. Sir, answered Jones, I honour you every moment more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that account, is a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as well as the nobleness of your mind. Not so very moderate, young gentleman, not so very moderate, answered the father. Little more and more noble, replied Jones, and give me lead to add, sensible. For sure it is little less than madness to consider money as the sole foundation of happiness. Such a woman as this, with her little, her nothing of a fortune, I find, cries the old gentleman, you have a pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better acquainted with the person of the lady than with her circumstances. I pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to have? What fortune, cried Jones, why too contemptible a one to be named for your son? Well, well, well, said the other, perhaps he might have done better. That I deny, said Jones, for she is one of the best of women. I, I, but in point of fortune, I mean, answered the other. And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine your friend is to have? How much, cries Jones, how much, why at the utmost, perhaps two hundred pounds? Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman, said the father a little angry? No, upon my soul, answered Jones. I am an earnest, nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do the lady an injury, I ask her pardon. Indeed you do, cries the father. I am certain she have fifty times that sum, and she shall produce fifty to that before I consent that she shall marry my son. Nay, said Jones, it is too late to talk of consent now. If she had not fifty farthings, your son is married. My son married, answered the old gentleman with surprise. Nay, said Jones, I thought you was unacquainted with it. My son married to Miss Harris, answered he again. To Miss Harris, said Jones, no, sir, to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter of Mrs. Miller, at whose house he lodged, a young lady, who though her mother is reduced to let lodgings, are you bantering, or are you an earnest, cries the father with a most solemn voice. Indeed, sir, answered Jones, I scorn the character of a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as I find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune, though the reputation of the lady will suffer it no longer to remain a secret. While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a gentleman came into the room and saluted him by the name of brother. But though these two were in consanguity so nearly related, they were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he no sooner saw himself worth six thousand pounds, than he purchased a small estate with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country, where he married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman, a young lady, who though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself to his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a very large share. Like this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life more resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the Golden Age than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times. By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity, except only one daughter, whom in vulgar language he and his wife had spoiled, that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness and fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had actually refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a little turned of forty, because she could not bring herself to part with her parents. The young lady, whom Mr. Nightingale had intended for his son, was a near-neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece, and in reality it was upon the account of his projected match that he was now come to town, not indeed to forward, but to dissuade his brother from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew, for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris, notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person nor mind seemed to him to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity, for she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and very ill-natured. His brother therefore no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew with Miss Miller that he expressed the utmost satisfaction, and when the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the following manner. If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you love your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose, and so I suppose you think, for his sake, and doubtless it is his happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him. Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this very tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know, but it is, nevertheless, an error, and if this be absurd in other things it is mostly so in the affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends entirely on the affection which subsists between the parties. I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to desire to choose for their children on this occasion. Since de force affection is an impossible attempt, nay, so much doth love abhor force, that I know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness in our natures, it may not be even impatient of persuasion. It is, however, true that, though apparent will not, I think, wisely prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion, and in strictness perhaps should at least have a negative voice. My nephew, therefore, I own in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been guilty of a fault. But honestly speaking, brother, have you not a little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where there was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present anger arise solely from that deficiency. And if he hath failed in his duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority when you absolutely bargained with him for a woman without his knowledge, whom you yourself never saw, and whom if you had seen, and known as well as I, it must have been madness in you to have ever thought of bringing her into your family? Still I own my nephew in a fault, but surely it is not an unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in which his interest is principally concerned. You yourself must and will acknowledge that you consulted his interest only, and if he unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion of happiness, will you brother, if you love your son, carry him still wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences of his simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain misery to him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother, because he hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances as affluent as you would, will you distress them as much as you can? By the force of the true Catholic faith, St. Anthony won upon the fishes. Orpheus and Antheon went a little further, and by the charms of music enchanted things merely inanimate, wonderful both, but neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance of anyone who by force of argument and reason hath triumphed over habitual avarice. Mr. Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his brother, contented himself with only observing that they had always differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their children. I wish, said he, brother, you would have confined your care to your own daughter, and never hath troubled yourself with my son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts as by your example. For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had lived more with him than with his father, so that the uncle had often declared he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child. Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman, and when after much persuasion they found the father grew still more and more irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his nephew at the house of Mrs. Miller. Chapter 9 Containing Strange Matters At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure. The mother, the two daughters, and young Mr. Nightingale, were now sat down to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he was well known, for he had several times visited his nephew at that house. The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other sister, and lastly he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the same good humour and courtesy as if his nephew had married his equal or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first performed. Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked rather foolish than otherwise upon the occasion. But Mrs. Miller took the first opportunity of withdrawing, and having sent for Jones into the dining room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most passionate flood of tears called him her good angel, the preserver of her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing appellations, and made him every acknowledgement which the highest benefit can extract from the most grateful heart. After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded to inform Mr. Jones that all matters were settled between Mr. Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the next morning, at which Mr. Jones, having expressed much pleasure, the poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he at length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return with him back to the company, whom they found in the same good humour in which they had left them. This little society now passed two or three very agreeable hours together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his bottle, had so well plied his nephew, that this latter, though not drunk, began to be somewhat flustered, and now Mr. Nightingale, taking the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately occupied, unbosomed himself as follows. As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and as you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this match, which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything. He then confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair. How, Jack, said the old gentleman, are you really then not married to this young woman? No, upon my honour, answered Nightingale, I have told you the simple truth. My dear boy, cries the uncle, kissing him, I am heartily glad to hear it. I never was better pleased in my life. If you had been married, I should have assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best of a bad matter. But there is a great difference between considering a thing which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet to do. Let your reason hath fair play, Jack, and you will see this match in so foolish and preposterous alight that there will be no need of any dissuasive arguments. Oh, sir, replies young Nightingale, is there this difference between having already done an act and being in honour engaged to do it? Pull, said the uncle, honour is a creature of the world's making, and the world hath the power of a creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are thought, even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day. Is there a man who afterwards will be more backward in giving you his sister or daughter? Or is there any sister or daughter who would be more backward to receive you? Honour is not concern in these engagements. Pardon me, dear sir, cries Nightingale. I can never think so. It's not only honour, but conscience and humanity are concerned. I am well satisfied that was I now to disappoint the young creature. Her death would be the consequence, and I should look upon myself as her murderer, nay, as her murderer by the cruelest of all methods, by breaking her heart. Break her heart, indeed. No, no, Jack, cries the uncle. The hearts of women are not so soon broke. They are tough, boy, they are tough. But, sir, answered Nightingale, my own affections are engaged, and I never could be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say that children should be always suffered to choose for themselves, and that you would let my cousin, Harriet, do so? Why, I replied the old gentleman, so I would have them, but then I would have them choose wisely. Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl. Indeed, uncle, cries the other. I must and will have her. You will, young gentleman, said the uncle. I did not expect such a word from you. I should not wonder if you had used such language to your father, who had always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance which a tyrant preserves over his subjects, but I, who have lived with you upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage. But I know how to account for it all. It is all owing to your preposterous education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it to her. You have never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind, said Nightingale, for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she would be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning her inclinations. Don't abuse my girl, answered the old gentleman with some emotion. Don't abuse my herit. I have brought her up to have no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering her to do whatever she pleases, I even nerd her to a habit of being pleased to do whatever I like. Pardon me, sir, said Nightingale. I have not the least design to reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest esteem. And indeed I am convinced you will never put her to so severe a trial or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me. But, dear sir, let us return to the company, for they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle, which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her mother. Oh, you need not fear me, answered he. I understand myself too well to affront women, so I will readily grant you that favour, and in return I must expect another of you. There are but few of your commands, sir, said Nightingale, which I shall not very cheerfully obey. Nay, sir, I ask nothing, said the uncle, but the honour of your company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully with you, for I would, if possible, have the satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who in his opinion is the wisest man in the world. Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with the same decorum which he had before maintained. Chapter 10 A short chapter which concludes the book The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet in the minds of all whom they had left behind them, and the more, as during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated his voice so as to be heard downstairs, which, though they could not distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and her mother, and indeed, even in Jones himself. When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible alteration in all their faces, and the good humour which, at their last meeting, universally shown forth in every countenance, was now changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed, common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds, from June to December. This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present, for as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and to act apart, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms of suspicion in the mother or daughter, nor did the mother or daughter remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one. Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to act in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the arts practised against himself, and thus the thrust of both, to borrow no improper metaphor on the occasion, alike takes place. For the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater loser, as was he who sold a blind horse and received a bad note in payment. Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off his nephew, but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy in a whisper that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all his engagements. Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did indeed suspect the very fact, for besides observing the great alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed and his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy, the carrying off of a bridegroom from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness of his temper and his being flustered with liquor made too probable. While he was reasoning with himself whether he should acquaint these poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him. He went immediately out, and taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant upstairs, who in the person of Mrs. Honor, acquainted him with such dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all consideration for every other person, and his whole stock of compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery, and on that of his unfortunate angel. What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and those will be the subject of the following book. End of Section 51. Recording by Charlene V. Smith. Section 52 of Book 15, in which the history advances about two days. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sheila Morton in Jefferson City, Tennessee. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Chapter one. 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 ancient 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 ancient Epicureans who held this wisdom to constitute the chief good, nor foolisher than that of their opposites, those modern Epicureans 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 laboring to preserve his fellow creatures from destruction, the devil or some other evil spirit, one perhaps clothed 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 choose 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 2, in which is open to 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 colors 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 Belliston, 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 favorable 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 humor of a set of young gentlemen who called 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 Belliston, 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 increased 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 completed 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 amistrous of computation at present, she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of her lover of what passed 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 Belliston had been apprised 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 Philomar, 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 Belliston said he, I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my visit, for I have stayed above two hours, and I did not think I had stayed 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 Belliston, who is this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a sudden? What blazing star, my lord? Said she, affecting a surprise. I mean, said he, the lady I saw here the other day whom I had last night in my arms at the playhouse, and whom I have been making that unreasonable visit. Oh, my cousin Western, said she, why, that blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire and had been in town above 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 gentile, so sensible, so polite. Oh, brave, cries the lady, my cousin Hathue, 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 three thousand pound 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 Belliston, cries he, you have struck a damp to my heart, which had almost deprived me of being. Fie, my lord, said she, I should rather hope I had struck fire into you, a lover in 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 could 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, cried 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 has run away with him. But you tell me, lady Belliston, 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 endeavored to reason with her? Here the lady effected a laugh and cried, Ha, ha, my dear lord, sure you know it's 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 Belliston, 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 a 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 would 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 risk. In short, I must place such a confidence in your honor 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 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 dying here today? 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 Hempstead 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 three, a further explanation of the foregoing design. Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Belliston 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 Appalachian was distinguished a very worthy and honorable society, which not long since flourished in this kingdom. Among other good principles, upon which the society was founded, there was one very remarkable. Four, as it was a rule of an honorable club of heroes who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the members should every day fight once at least. So it was in this that every member should, within the 24 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 a table. But upon very strict inquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any of those tells, 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 intended only to produce mirth and good humor. Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him, therefore, Lady Belliston 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 Felomar and himself were gone, and while they were engaged in a rubber at Wist. To this time, then, which was between seven and eight in the evening, we will convey our reader. When Lady Belliston, Lord Felomar, Miss Western, and Tom being engaged at Wist and in the last game of their rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Belliston, 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 dullness of the age that does nothing worth talking of. Oh, la! There now I think on it there how the terrible accident befallen poor Cornel 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 Belliston. Why, he have killed a man this morning in a duel, that's all. His lordship, who is not in the secret, asked gravely whom he had killed. To which Edwards answered, a young fellow we none of us know, a Somerset char lad, just come 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, stopped 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 dropped 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 Belliston 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 further evidence necessary to convince Lord Felamar how justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Belliston, 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 Belliston 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 dispatched out of the house, and for Mrs. Honor, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be left with her mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Belliston 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 tossed in all the distracting anxiety so nobly described by Shakespeare. Between the acting of a dreadful thing in 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 colors 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 honor and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he determined to wait on Lady Belliston and to relinquish the design. Lady Belliston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia sitting by her bedside when the servant acquainted her that Lord Felamar was below in the parlor, 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 entreat 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 "'anymore, and to order the servants "'that if he inquires for me, "'I may be always denied to him.'" "'Lah, child,' says Lady Belliston, "'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 errant madwoman to refuse him.' "'But as I shall certainly be that madwoman,' cries Sophia, "'I hope his visits shall not be intruded upon me.' "'Oh, child,' said Lady Belliston, "'you need not be so fearful. "'If he resolves to run away with that Jones, "'I know no person who can hinder you.' "'Upon my honor, 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 humor 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.'" End of Section 52. Section 53 of Tom Jones. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sheila Morton. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Book 15, Chapter 4. By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose. When Lady Belliston 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 Edgley 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 behavior 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 think heaven is very ancient. "'Your lordship, perhaps, will admire my reading, "'but I think Mr. Hook tells us "'they made tolerable good wives afterward. "'I fancy few of my married acquaintance "'were ravished by their husbands.' "'Nay, dear Lady Belliston,' cried he, "'don't ridicule me in this matter. "'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 forced 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 abrade 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. "'Certainly it is they sunk deeper into his lordship "'than anything which DeMosthenes or Cicero "'could have said on the occasion.' "'Lady Belliston, perceiving she had fired "'the young lord's pride, began now, like a true orator, "'to raise 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. "'Four score 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, would relate it 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 tragic matter "'in our whole history, we shall treat it "'in a chapter by itself. "'Chapter five, containing some matters "'which may affect and others which may surprise the reader.' "'The clock had now struck seven, "'and poor Sophia, alone in melancholy, "'sat reading a tragedy. "'It was the fatal marriage, "'and she was now come to that part "'where the poor distressed Isabella "'disposes of her wedding-ring. "'Here the book dropped from her hand "'and a shower of tears ran down onto her bosom. "'In this situation she had continued a minute "'when the door opened and in came Lord Felamar. "'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 on myself a little surprised "'at this unexpected visit. "'If this visit be unexpected, madam,' answered Lord Felamar, "'my eyes must have been very faithless interpreters "'of my heart when last I had the honor 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 behavior.' "'I am, indeed, madam, in the situation you suppose,' "'crisis, lordship, and sure you will pardon the effects "'of a frenzy which you yourself have occasioned, "'for love has 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 behavior.' "'Suffer me then, madam,' cries he, "'at your feet to explain both "'by laying open my soul to you "'and declaring that I dot on you "'to the highest degree of distraction. "'Oh, 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 could 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 Felimar, "'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 entreat you to desist from a vain pursuit, "'for upon my honor 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 someone of her assistance, "'had not Lady Belliston taking 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? "'Damn me, I'll uncaddle 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 mermidans at his heels.' "'How miserable must have been the condition "'of poor Sophia when the enraged voice "'of her father was welcomed 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 forever 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 villainy.' "'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 those two persons "'when Western came into the room. "'Sophia tottered into a chair "'where she sat disordered, pale, breathless, "'bursting with indignation at Lord Felamar, "'afrighted 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 his usual appearing at his bosom. "'As to the rest, "'he was amazed, afrighted, 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, "'and a madvert that you are in the house "'of a great lady, let me beg you to mitigate your wrath. "'It should minister a fullness of satisfaction "'that you have found your daughter. "'For as to revenge, it be longeth 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 offenses "'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 "'in the squire answered, "'All forgive her if she will hawn. "'If what hawn, Sophie, all forgive y'all. "'Why dost not speak? "'Shout hawn? "'Dame shout hawn? "'Why dost not dance her? "'Was ever such a stubborn toad? "'Let me entreat 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,' answered the squire. "'You take her part, then, you do. "'A pretty parson, truly, "'side with an undutiful child. "'Yes, yes, I will gie you a living with a pox. "'I'll gie unto the devil sooner.' "'I humbly crave your pardon,' said the parson. "'I assure your worship I meant no such matter.' "'My Lady Belliston 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 willful mistake in Lady Belliston, 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,' quote the squire, "'what her ladyship says? "'All your family are for the match. "'Come, Sophie, be a good girl, "'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 lie, Sophie. "'It's a damned lie, and you know it,' said the squire. "'Indeed, Miss Western,' said Lady Belliston, "'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.'" "'I, all of us,' quote the squire, "'Nay, it was no proposal of mine. "'She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first. "'Come, Sophie, once more, "'let me beg you to be a good girl, "'and give me your consent before your cousin.' "'Let me give him your hand, cousin,' said the lady. "'It is the fashion nowadays "'to dispense with time and long courtships.'" "'Pfft,' said the squire, "'what signifies time? Won't they have time enough to court afterwards? "'People make court very well "'after they have been a-bed together.'" As Lord Felimar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady Belliston, so never having heard nor suspected a word of bliffle, he made no doubt of his being meant by her father. Coming up, therefore, to the squire, he said, "'Though I have not the honor, 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 Felimar,' answered he, "'and am the happy man, "'whom I hope you have done the honor 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 down 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 arse,' quote the squire, "'don't think I am afraid of such a fellow as the art, "'because hast got to spit their 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 Belliston, your most obedient.'" His lordship was no sooner gone than Lady Belliston, 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, gentlemen. I have pitched upon one for her, and she shall howen. I am sorry for the trouble she had given your ladieship with all my heart.'" Lady Belliston 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 ladieship, to be sure relations should do for one another. So I wish your ladieship 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. "'Pretty,' cries the squire, "'what would persuade me, Cous, not ride in a coach-woodst? That's a pretty thing, surely. No, no, I'll never let the out of my sight any more till I'm married. That, I promise thee.'" Sophia told him she saw he was resolved to break her heart. "'Oh, break thy heart and be damned,' quote he, "'if a good husband will break it, I don't value a brass varden, not a happening, or any undutiful bitch 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, "'Attened and pulp it now? When art a god up there, I never mind what dust 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, Sophie, be a good girl, and all shall be well. Shat ha-ooned, damn me, shat ha-ooned.'" Mrs. Honor appeared below stairs, and with a low curtsy 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 granum. "'No, no, Sophie. 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 bedders. It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter from Lady Belliston, 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 Felamar had failed of success, she was well contented that other violent methods were now going to be used in favour of another man. Chapter 6 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 show 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 is 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 leg, 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 Sophie, 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 did not yet know where she is, and it is advisable 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 Belliston, 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 shown on this occasion for the good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of 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 smoked his afternoon pipe. When she received the above letter, which she had no sooner read, then 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, then he leaped from his chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud hootsa 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's supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned to a 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 Louis XIV 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 Belliston, 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 show you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quota, 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. Show 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 Belliston, and desire leave to wait upon 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 know just one another only by sight, though you are relations. I am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who has certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method. Justice is a peace indeed. Do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of figure in a civilized nation? Damn their figures, cries the squire, a pretty civilized 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 lie. I heard his lordship say at size that no one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover lie, suppose. Mr. Western, said she, I think you daily improve in ignorance. I protest you are grown and errant bear. No more a bear than yourself, sister Western, said the squire. Pox, you may talk of your civility and you will. I am sure you never show 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 veux me prie 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 honor 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 Polite Court. Greenland, Greenland should always be the scene of the Tremontant Negossiation. I thank heaven, cries the squire, I don't understand you now. You are got to your Hanoverian lingo. However, I'll show 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 of 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 knowed 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 tether. 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.