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 lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no
one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose."
"Mr. Western," said she, "I think you daily improve in
ignorance.-- I protest you are grown an arrant bear."
"No more a bear than yourself, sister Western," said the
squire.- "Pox! you may talk of your civility an 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
vous mesprise 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 honour 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 a
polite court.- Greenland- Greenland should always be the scene of the
tramontane negociation."
*I despise you with all my heart.
"I thank Heaven," cries the squire, "I don't understand you now. You
are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to
be behindhand 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 a 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 know'd 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 t'other."
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.
Chapter 7
In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones
Affairs were in the aforesaid situation, when Mrs. Honour arrived at
Mrs. Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have
before seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as
follows:-
"O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are
undone, sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone." "Hath
anything happened to Sophia?" cries Jones, staring like a madman. "All
that is bad," cries Honour: "Oh, I shall never get such another
lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!" At these words
Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went
on- "O! Mr. Jones, I have lost my lady for ever." "How? what! for
Heaven's sake, tell me. O, my dear Sophia!" "You may well call her
so," said Honour; "she was the dearest lady to me. I shall never
have such another place."-- "D--n your place!" cries Jones; "where
is- what- what is become of my Sophia?" "Ay, to be sure," cries she,
"servants may be d--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them,
though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure
they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it
signifies nothing what becomes of them." "If you have any pity, and
compassion," cries Jones, "I beg you will instantly tell me what
hath happened to Sophia?" "To be sure, I have more pity for you than
you have for me," answered Honour; "I don't d--n you because you have
lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure, you are worthy to
be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too: for, to be sure, if
ever there was a good mistress--" "What hath happened?" cries Jones,
in almost a raving fit. "What?- What?" said Honour: "Why, the worst
that could have happened both for you and for me.- Her father is come
to town, and hath carried ied away from us both." Here Jones fell on
his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. "No worse!" repeated
Honour; "what could be worse for either of us? He carried her off,
swearing she should marry Mr. Blifil; that's for your comfort; and,
for poor me, I am turned out of doors." "Indeed, Mrs. Honour,"
answered Jones, "you frightened me out of my wits. I imagined some
most dreadful sudden accident had happened to Sophia; something,
compared to which, even seeing her married to Blifil would be a
trifle; but while there is life there are hopes, my dear Honour.
Women, in this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal
force." "To be sure, sir," said she, that's true. There may be some
hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor me?
And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this upon
your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is for taking your
part, as I have done, against Mr. Blifil." "Indeed, Mrs. Honour,"
answered he, "I am sensible of my obligations to you, and will leave
nothing in my power undone to make you amends." "Alas! sir," said she,
"what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place but the
getting another altogether as good?" "Do not despair, Mrs. Honour,"
said Jones, "I hope to reinstate you again in the same."
"Alack-a-day, sir," said she, "how can I flatter myself with such
hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set
against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I
now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured
gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you
as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it;
because as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my
lady, must see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if
two people who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so?
Happiness don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady
has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would
be all the pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay,
I am convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if
it is to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in
heaven, all the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be
sure I wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell
the squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter
contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the
squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious
good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the
squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face.
To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard
the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be
melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are
sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never
will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed, I am
terribly afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for
he is a prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor
lady will be brought to break her heart, for she is as
tender-hearted as a chicken. It is pity, methinks, she had not a
little of my courage. If I was in love with a young man, and my father
offered to lock me up, I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him;
but then there's a great fortune in the case, which it is in her
father's power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make
some difference."
Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue,
or whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot
determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once
stop till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him
that the great lady was upon the stairs.
Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced.
Honour knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and
Lady Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to
whom he would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he
took (as is common enough) the worst course, and, instead of
exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little consequence,
he chose to expose the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide
Honour, whom he had but just time to convey behind the bed, and to
draw the curtains.
The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of
his poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs.
Honour, and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden
arrival of Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out
of his head; so that it never once occurred to his memory to act the
part of a sick man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress,
nor the freshness of his countenance, would have at all supported.
He received her ladyship, therefore, rather agreeably to her desires
than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster
in his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the
least disorder.
Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself
down on the bed: "So, my dear Jones," said she, "you find nothing
can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you,
that I have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive
your distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I
suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a
fine lady to see company after a lying-in; but, however, don't think I
intend to scold you; for I never will give you an excuse for the
cold behaviour of a husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife."
"Nay, Lady Bellaston," said Jones, "I am sure your ladyship will not
upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who,
my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an
appointment, last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and
wish, and sigh, and languish?"
"Do not mention it, my dear Mr. Jones," cried she. "If you knew
the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to
conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the
impertinence of fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I
am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done you no
harm; for you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith!
Jones, you might at this instant sit for the picture of Adonis."
There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold
can properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there
may be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now
the compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this
kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in which the lady
conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her
tongue.
Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most
disagreeable and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on
the comparison we made use of before, though the provocation was given
by the lady, Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as
offer to ask it, in the presence of a third person; seconds in this
kind of duels not being according to the law of arms. As this
objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any
other woman being there but herself, she waited some time in great
astonishment for an answer from Jones, who, conscious of the
ridiculous figure he made, stood at a distance, and, not daring to
give the proper answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined more
comic, nor yet more tragical, than this scene would have been if it
had lasted much longer. The lady had already changed colour two or
three times; had got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones
was wishing the ground to sink under him, or the house to fall on
his head, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment, out of
which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor the politics of a
Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter disgrace.
This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk;
or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use
of their reason, without depriving them of the use of their limbs.
Mrs. Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was
smoaking his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr.
Jones's chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst open, and
was entering without any ceremony, when Jones started from his scat
and ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that Nightingale
