family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap."
"Oh, sir!" cries the man, "I wish you could this instant see my
house. If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I
am convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you
with the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly
removed, and chiefly by your goodness.-- My children have now a bed to
lie on-- and they have-- they have-- eternal blessings reward you for
it!-- they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is
out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my
cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you
at my house.- Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you.- My children
too must express their gratitude.-- Indeed, sir, they are not without
a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling, when I reflect to
whom I owe that they are now capable of expressing their
gratitude.-- Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now
been cold as ice without your assistance."
Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but
indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped
his words. And now Mrs. Miller likewise began to pour forth
thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that of her cousin,
and concluded with saying, "She doubted not but such goodness would
meet a glorious reward."
Jones answered, "He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your
cousin's account, madam," said he, "hath given me a sensation more
pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at
hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of
having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot
feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them,
as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater
honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure, than the ambitious,
the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain."
The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a
hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the
hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that
he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own
house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady
Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured
to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without
horror, on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them,
had he listened rather to the voice of strict justice, than to that of
mercy, when he was attacked on the high road.
Mrs. Miller sung forth the praise of Jones during the whole evening,
in which Mr. Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied
her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the
circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected
himself, and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the
greater, as he knew Mrs. Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her
principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this
lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the
better both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which
would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any
circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.
Chapter 11
In which the reader will be surprized
Mr. Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier
than the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of
the place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very
vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown
into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the
door opened, and in came-- no other than Sophia herself, who had left
the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already
said, being a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement
between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was
glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman, who
safely conveyed her to her chair.
As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at
home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came
hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her,
without once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the
statue of Jones now stood motionless.- In this glass it was, after
contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the
said statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the
reality of the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and
scarce preserved herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to
her, and support her in his arms.
To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is
beyond my power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may
be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be
supposed that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is,
that few of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own
hearts what past at this time in theirs.
After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said- "I see,
madam, you are surprized."- "Surprized!" answered she; "Oh heavens!
Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person
you seem."- "Indeed," cries she, "my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for
this once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,
after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.
Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in
this long, fruitless pursuit."- "Pursuit of whom?" said Sophia, a
little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserve air.- "Can you be
so cruel to ask that question?" cries Jones; "Need I say, of you?" "Of
me! answered Sophia: "Hath Mr. Jones, then, any such important
business with me?"- "To some, madam," cries Jones, "this might seem
an important business" (giving her the pocket-book), "I hope, madam,
you will find it of the same value as when it was lost." Sophia took
the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her
thus:- "Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments
which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of
a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon."- "My
pardon!" cries she; "Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,
after what I have heard."- "I scarce know what I say," answered Jones.
"By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!
henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any
remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to
that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance
of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind."
Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than
snow, and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But at the
mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which
before she had scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a
glance of disdain. He understood this silent reproach, and replied
to it thus: "O my Sophia! my only love! you cannot hate or despise
me more for what happened there, than I do myself; but yet do me the
justice to think, that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That
had no share in the folly I was guilty of; it was even then
unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, almost
of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming idea, and
could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not been
engaged, she, into company I accidently fell at that cursed place, was
not an object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen
her from that day to this; and never intend or desire to see her
again." Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but
forcing into her face an air of more coldness than she had yet
assumed, "Why," said she, "Mr. Jones, do you take the trouble to
make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it worth
while to accuse you, I have a charge of an unpardonable nature
indeed."- "What is it, for heaven's sake?" answered Jones, trembling
and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. "Oh,"
said she, "how is it possible! can everything noble, and everything
base, be lodged together in the same bosom?" Lady Bellaston, and the
ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his
mind, and stopt his mouth from any reply. "Could I have expected,"
proceeded Sophia, "such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman,
from any man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns,
among the meanest vulgar! to have any little favours, that my
unguarded heart may have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted
of there! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from my
love!"
Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but
yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend
himself, than if she had touched that tender string at which his
conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found,
that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his
love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at
the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it
was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great
difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an
offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to
hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to
death, which he more than once swore he would do. This point being
cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each
other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with
conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a
temper to have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for
before they were aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall
some words that sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she
replied, "That, did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow
her own inclinations, ruin with him would be more welcome to her
than the most affluent fortune with another man." At the mention of
the word ruin, he started, let drop her hand, which he had held for
some time, and striking his breast with his own, cried out, "Oh,
Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No; by heavens, no! I never will act
so base a part. Dearest Sophia, whatever it costs me, I will
renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all such hopes from my
heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I will ever
retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a distance from
you; it shall be in some foreign land; from whence no voice, no sigh
of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb your ears. And when I am
dead"- He would have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears which
Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she leaned, without being
able to speak one word. He kissed them off, which, for some moments,
she allowed him to do without any resistance; but then recollecting
herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and, to turn the discourse
from a subject too tender, and which she found she could not
support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time to
put to him before, "How he came into that room?" He began to
stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her suspicions
by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door opened,
and in came Lady Bellaston.
Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together,
she suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting
herself with admirable presence of mind, she said- though with
sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance- "I
thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?"
Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what
means he had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion
of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted,
so she was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in
all their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side
against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went
through the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and
the cause of her hasty return.
The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of
rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as
the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed
her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, "I should not have
broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had
company."
Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these
words. To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread
with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, "I am
sure, madam, I shall always think the honour of your ladyship's
company--" "I hope, at least," cries Lady Bellaston, "I interrupt no
business."- "No, madam," answered Sophia, "our business was at an
end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned
the loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very
luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with the bill in it."
Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to
sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers,
