to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing myself to my
father's pleasure." "Then my pleasure, I find," said the aunt, "hath
very little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me.
I act from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of
ennobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of
ambition? Are there no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on
your coach?" "None, upon my honour," said Sophia. "A pincushion upon
my coach would please me just as well." "Never mention honour,"
cries the aunt. "It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am
sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear
your groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in
you. But, however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no
imputation on mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that
I encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England; a
match which, besides its advantage in fortune, would do honour to
almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the advantage of ours."
"Surely," says Sophia, "I am born deficient, and have not the senses
with which other people are blessed; there must be certainly some
sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I have
not; for surely mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so
much for the obtaining, nor would they be so elate and proud with
possessing, what appeared to them, as it doth to me, the most
insignificant of all trifles."
"No, no, miss," cries the aunt; "you are born with as many senses as
other people; but I assure you, you are not born with a sufficient
understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the
world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I
believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his
lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you
to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere
with you, nor see your face again." Sophia stood a few moments
silent after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and
peremptory tone; and then, bursting into tears, she cryed, "Do with
me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most miserable undone
wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt forsakes me, where shall I look for
a protector?" "My dear niece," cries she, "you will have a very good
protector in his lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering
after that vile fellow Jones can make you decline." "Indeed, madam,"
said Sophia, "you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have
shewn me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish
them for ever? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament
upon it never to see his face again." "But, child, dear child," said
the aunt, "be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?" "I
have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection answered
Sophia. "What?" cries the aunt; "I remember none." "Sure, madam," said
Sophia, "I told you he had used me in the rudest and vilest manner."
"Indeed, child," answered she, "I never heard you, or did not
understand you:- but what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?"
"Indeed, madam, said Sophia, "I am almost ashamed to tell you. He
caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust
his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have
the mark upon my left breast at this moment." "Indeed!" said Mrs.
Western. "Yes, indeed, madam," answered Sophia; "my father luckily
came in at that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended
to have proceeded to." "I am astonished and confounded," cries the
aunt. "No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since
we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he
had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! sure, Sophia,
you must invent this to raise my indignation against him." "I hope,
madam," said Sophia, "you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me
capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true." "I should
have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present," returned the aunt.
"Yet surely he could have no dishonourable design; it is impossible!
he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he hath not; for they are
not only honourable, but generous. I don't know; the age allows too
great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have allowed before
the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither;
several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I
never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I
never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as
much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and,
indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I
should not have soon been brought to endure so much." "You will pardon
me, dear madam," said Sophia, "if I make one observation: you own
you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should
deny it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at
least among them." "You say true, dear Sophy," answered she; "I had
once the offer of a title." "Why, then," said Sophia, "will you not
suffer me to refuse this once?" "It is true, child, said she, "I
have refused the offer of a title; but it was not so good an offer;
that is, not so very, very good an offer."- "Yes, madam," said
Sophia; "but you have had very great proposals from men of vast
fortunes. It was not the first, nor the second, nor the third
advantageous match that offered itself." "I own it was not," said she.
"Well, madam," continued Sophia, "and why may not I expect to have a
second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman,
and I am convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of
fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I
need not despair." "Well, my dear, dear Sophy," cries the aunt,
"what would you have me say?" "Why, I only beg that I may not be
left alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit,
if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company."
"Well, I will grant it," cries the aunt. "Sophy, you know I love
you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my nature; I
have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought cruel; by
the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many
a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy,
I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something you
formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully
Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the
human form." Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and
her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who,
after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs. Western never once
offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the
aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had brought her aunt into so
excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her
niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be
improper to so forward a lover.
Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely
none will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at
least, put off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a
better situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will
look a little after Mr. Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable
situation that can be well imagined.
Chapter 5
Mrs. Miller and Mr. Nightingale visit Jones in the prison
When Mr. Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr. Western, Mrs.
Miller set forwards to her son-in-law's lodgings, in order to acquaint
him with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he
had known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left
Mrs. Miller, had been furnished with a room in the same house with Mr.
Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great affliction
on account of Mr. Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could,
she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where
Mr. Nightingale was arrived before her.
The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so
extremely delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the
distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is
more than compensated by bringing this comfort with it. Nor are
instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate
observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not
to be numbered among our general faults. The black ingredient which
fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid,
turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or
happier than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we
commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient
benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the
defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships within
my observation, have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet
one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough
of a subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should
sink under the weight of his adversity, and that she might thus lose
any future opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated
somewhat of her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her
persecution, by sending him the company of two such faithful
friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. For
Partridge, though he had many imperfections, wanted not fidelity;
and though fear would not suffer him to be hanged for his master,
yet the world, I believe, could not have bribed him to desert his
cause.
While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his
friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr. Fitzpatrick was still
alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon
which, Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, "My dear
Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which,
whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you,
and in which your conscience cannot accuse you of having been the
least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done more than
taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the
coroner's inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily
admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial,
yet it is a trial which many men would stand for you for a
shilling." "Come, come, Mr. Jones," says Mrs. Miller, "chear
yourself up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I told
Mr. Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too, before I have done
with him."
Jones gravely answered, "That whatever might be his fate, he
should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his
fellow-creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could have
befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the tenderest kind-- O!
Mrs. Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth." "That must
be a mistress," said Mrs. Miller; "but come, come; I know more than
you imagine" (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); "and I have heard
more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you
think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which
he hath of the lady."
"Indeed, my dear friend, indeed," answered Jones, "you are an entire
stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was acquainted with the
story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend
no danger from Blifil. I have undone myself." "Don't despair," replied
Mrs. Miller; "you know not what a woman can do; and if anything be
in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty.
My son, my dear Mr. Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath
obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I
go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me
say."
"Thou best of women," cries Jones, taking her by the hand, "talk not
of obligations to me;-- but as you have been so kind to mention it,
there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you
are acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I
know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive
to deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever
acknowledge your goodness."
"Give it me," said Mrs. Miller. "If I see it not in her own
possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort
yourself, my good young man! be wise enough to take warning from
past follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you
happy with the most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear
from every one she is."
"Believe me, madam," said he, "I do not speak the common cant of one
in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had
resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the
wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the
disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for
which I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate.
Though I have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious
