goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a
letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never
delivered.- What must he think of my suffering a week to pass before
he heard of me?"
It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it
was ended he took Mrs. Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of L50, desired her
to send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people.
The look which Mrs. Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy
to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and
cryed out- "Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?"- But
recollecting herself, she said, "Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?" "I hope, madam," cries Jones, "there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distress in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more." Mrs. Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, "She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;"
adding, "that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them."
They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed
much concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom
indeed he knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs.
Miller's. He inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable
for the debts of others; vented many bitter execrations against the
brother; and concluded with wishing something could be done for the
unfortunate family. "Suppose, madam," said he, "you should recommend
them to Mr. Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will
give them a guinea with all my heart."
Mrs. Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had
whispered the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion;
though, if either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely
without reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was
not an example which he had any obligation to follow, and there are
thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed
he did not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and
therefore, as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his
money in his pocket.
I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better
opportunity than at present to communicate my observation, that the
world are in general divided into two opinions concerning charity,
which are the very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold,
that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and,
however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you
acquire a great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the
contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded that beneficence is a
positive duty, and that whenever the rich fall greatly short of
their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their pitiful
largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only
performed their duty by halves, and are in some sense more
contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.
To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall
only add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and
the receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
Chapter 9
Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the
preceding chapter
In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation
again ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same
ordinary occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars,
which we despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is
one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to
their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am
so far from desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I
would wish to draw a curtain over those that have been lately set
forth in certain French novels; very bungling copies of which have
been presented us here under the name of translations.
Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding,
after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of
obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to
treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he
resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady
Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely
that some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret.
Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those
servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.
Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his
poor master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he
met with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having
disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston
of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her
having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient
reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to
combat, which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove,
however kind her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of
her to be disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost
inevitable consequence of their coming together without a consent,
which he had no hopes of ever obtaining.
Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose
violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so
that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men
about town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses
we have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of
affluence beyond what he had ever known.
Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to
their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a
woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the
proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I
believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only;
especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such
was the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to
Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman,
had been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able
to have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady,
who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at
least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of
youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out
of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with
which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She
had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers,
though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a
wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable
to the breath of love.
Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he
felt his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less
plainly discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded,
the extreme violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew
the lady would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have
thought himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her
favours were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept
them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This
therefore he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to
devote himself to her, from that great principle of justice, by
which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor, who is no
otherwise capable of discharging his debt, to become the slave of
his creditor.
While he was meditating on these matters, he received the
following note from the lady:-
A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since our
last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more , if
possible, contrive at the usual place. I will some other place by
to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.
This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very
great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an
hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which
contained as follows:-
I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are
no stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder
at. I am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house,
whatever may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine
abroad, but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.
If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them show
you into the drawing-room.
To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last
epistle than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it
from complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr. Nightingale, with
whom he had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These
entreaties were to go with that young gentleman and his company to a
new play, which was to be acted that evening, and which a very large
party had agreed to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the
author, who was a friend to one of Mr. Nightingale's acquaintance. And
this sort of fun, our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would
willingly have preferred to the above kind appointment; but his honour
got the better of his inclination.
Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we
think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader
may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady
Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was
lodged.
First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had
hitherto met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that
lady, was now become a methodist, and had that very morning waited
upon her ladyship, and after rebuking her very severely for her past
life, had positively declared that she would, on no account, be
instrumental in carrying on any of her affairs for the future.
The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady, made
her despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones
that evening; bit as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness
at the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it
came into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was
immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her
companion. Mrs. Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs. Etoff on
the same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free
for the safe reception of Mr. Jones, with whom she promised herself
two or three hours of uninterrupted conversation, after her return
from the place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a
pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation,
where she had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the
revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late
confidante.
Chapter 10
A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes
Mr. Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs.
Miller rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired
his company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.
Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person
to him, saying, "This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly
beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his
sincerest thanks."
The man had scarce entered upon that speech, which Mrs. Miller had
so kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each
other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of
the latter began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his
speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, "It is so, I am convinced
it is so!"
"Bless me! what's the meaning of this?" cries Mrs. Miller; "you
are not ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant."
"Be not frighted, madam," cries Jones, "I have almost as much need
of a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this
unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs.
Miller."
"An acquaintance!" cries the man.-- "Oh, heaven!"
"Ay, an acquaintance," repeated Jones, "and an honoured acquaintance
too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture
everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction,
may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!"
"Oh, you are an excellent young man," cries Mrs. Miller:- "Yes,
indeed, poor creature! he hath ventured everything.- If he had not
had one of the best of constitutions, it must have killed him."
"Cousin," cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered
himself, "this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to
whom, before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was
to whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured
for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest, of
all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of
such a nature!"
"Mention nothing of obligations," cries Jones eagerly; "not a
word, I insist upon it, not a word" (meaning, I suppose, that he would
not have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). "If,
by the trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a whole
