disappointed by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of
his waking hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present
cause of dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the
best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is
called compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character
from that noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were,
within himself, and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through
the world without being once stopped by the calamities which happen to
others. He could not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of
poor Nancy, whose love for Mr. Nightingale seemed to him so
apparent, that he was astonished at the blindness of her mother, who
had more than once, the preceding evening, remarked to him the great
change in the temper of her daughter, "who from being," she said, "one
of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden,
become all gloom and melancholy."
Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and
now as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and
an offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.- To
speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr. Jones slept till eleven
the next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet
situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.
Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
answered, "That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that Miss
Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, were
both crying and lamenting over her." Jones expressed much concern at
this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by saying, with a
smile, "He fancied the young lady was in no danger of death; for
that Susan" (which was the name of the maid) "had given him to
understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In short,"
said he, "Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her mother;
that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat down to
dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming for the
Foundling Hospital."-- "Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting," cries
Jones. "Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of mirth? Go
immediately to Mrs. Miller, and tell her I beg leave- Stay, you will
make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to breakfast
with her." He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he could; and
while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many severe rebukes,
could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of brutality, commonly
called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no sooner dressed than he
walked downstairs, and knocking at the door, was presently admitted by
the maid, into the outward parlour, which was as empty of company as
it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs. Miller was in the inner
room with her daughter, whence the maid presently brought a message to
Mr. Jones, "That her mistress hoped he would excuse the
disappointment, but an accident had happened, which made it impossible
for her to have the pleasure of his company at breakfast that day; and
begged his pardon for not sending him up notice sooner." Jones
desired, "She would give herself no trouble about anything so trifling
as his disappointment; that he was heartily sorry for the occasion;
and that if he could be of any service to her, she might command him."
He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs. Miller, who heard them
all, suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood
of tears, said, "O Mr. Jones! you are certainly one of the best
young men alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of
your service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my
poor girl.-O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined
forever!" "I hope, madam," said Jones, "no villain"-- "O Mr. Jones!"
said she, "that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath
betrayed my poor girl; hath destroyed her.- I know you are a man of
honour. You have a good-a noble heart, Mr. Jones. The actions to which
I have been myself a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell
you all: nay, indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to
keep it a secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath
undone my daughter. She is- she is is- oh! Mr. Jones, my girl is with
child by him; and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here!
here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr. Jones, and tell me if
such another monster lives."
The letter was as follows:
DEAR NANCY,
As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this method
to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately paying my
addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath provided for my-I
need not write the detested word. Your own good understanding will
make you sensible, how intirely I am obliged to an obedience, by which
I shall be forever excluded from your dear arms. The fondness of
your mother may encourage you to trust her with the unhappy
consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a secret from the
world, and for which I will take care to provide, as I will for you. I
wish you may feel less on this account than I nave suffered; but
summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and forgive and forget
the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain ruin could have
forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I mean only as a
lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in your faithful,
though unhappy,
J. N.
When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a
minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: "I cannot
express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let
me beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider
the reputation of your daughter."-- "It is gone, it is lost, Mr.
Jones," cryed she, "as well as her innocence. She received the letter
in a room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening
it, the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her
reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath
been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I
myself outlive any accident of that nature.- What then will become of
my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little
wretch will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she
sees her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the
cause. O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The
barbarous, cruel-- hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this
the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?
Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?
Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?
Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the
conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to
lose one or both in such a manner?" "Indeed, madam," said Jones,
with tears in his eyes, "I pity you from my soul."- "O! Mr. Jones,"
answered she, "even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can
have no idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful
of children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of
my eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to
those foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her
ruin. Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had
for her. I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my
foolish vanity with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so
much her superior. And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often
in yours, he hath endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by
the most generous expressions of disinterested love, which he hath
always directed to my poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed
to be real. Could I have believed that these were only snares laid
to betray the innocence of my child, and for the ruin of us all?"- At
these words little Betsy came running into the room, crying, "Dear
mamma, for heaven's sake come to my sister; for she is in another fit,
and my cousin can't hold her." Mrs. Miller immediately obeyed the
summons; but first ordered Betsy to stay with Mr. Jones, and begged
him to entertain her a few minutes, saying, in the most pathetic
voice, "Good heaven! let me preserve one of my children at least."
Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to
comfort the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very
highly affected with Mrs. Miller's story. He told her "Her sister
would be soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she
would not only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too."
"Indeed, sir," says she, "I would not do anything to hurt them for the
world. I would burst my heart rather than they should see me
cry.- But my poor sister can't see me cry.- I am afraid she will never
be able to see me cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her;
indeed I can't.- And then poor mamma too, what will become of
her?- She says she will die too, and leave me: but I am resolved I
won't be left behind." "And are you not afraid to die, my little
Betsy?" said Jones. "Yes," answered she, "I was always afraid to
die; because I must have left my mamma, and my sister; but I am not
afraid of going anywhere with those I love."
Jones was so pleased with this answer' that he eagerly kissed the
child; and soon after Mrs. Miller returned, saying, "She thanked
heaven, Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy," says she, "you
may go in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you." She
then turned to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having
disappointed him of his breakfast.
"I hope, madam," said Jones, "I shall have a more exquisite repast
than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be
the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But
whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt
it. I am very much deceived in Mr. Nightingale, if, notwithstanding
what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the
bottom, as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this
be the case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will
affect him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy,
as well as you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr. Nightingale;
and I hope to bring you good news."
Mrs. Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of
heaven upon Mr. Jones; to which she afterwards added the most
passionate expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr.
Nightingale, and the good woman returned to comfort her daughter,
who was somewhat cheared at what her mother told her; and both
joined in resounding the praises of Mr. Jones.
Chapter 7
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
relieve 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 intirely 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,
