character, nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it."
Mrs. Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in
the sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now
the remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that
good woman and Mr. Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr.
Jones, in which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better
comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration
nothing so much contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs. Miller
to deliver his letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any
means to accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from
Sophia, he informed Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on
pain of having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any
answer. He was, moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so
warm an advocate to Mr. Allworthy himself in this good woman, who was,
in reality, one of the worthiest creatures in the world.
After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had
been with him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to
return to him soon; during which Mrs. Miller said she hoped to bring
him some good news from his mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised
to enquire into the state of Mr. Fitzpatrick's wound, and likewise
to find out some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.
The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we
likewise shall now attend her.
Chapter 6
In which Mrs. Miller pays a visit to Sophia
Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she
lived now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full
liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.
Sophia was dressing, when she was acquainted that there was a
gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor
ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs. Miller was immediately
admitted.
Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers
to each other, being past, Sophia said, "I have not the pleasure to
know you, madam." "No, madam," answered Mrs. Miller, "and I must beg
pardon for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me
to give you this trouble, I hope--" "Pray, what is your business,
madam?" said Sophia, with a little emotion. "Madam, we are not alone,"
replied Mrs. Miller, in a low voice. "Go out, Betty," said Sophia.
When Betty was departed, Mrs. Miller said, "I was desired, madam, by
a very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter." Sophia
changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand,
and after some hesitation, said- "I could not conceive, madam, from
your appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.-
Whomever you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should
be sorry to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an
utter stranger to me."
"If you will have patience, madam, " answered Mrs. Miller, "I will
acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter." "I have no
curiosity, madam, to know anything," cries Sophia; "but I must
insist on your delivering that letter back to the person who gave it
you."
Mrs. Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate
terms implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: "Sure, madam,
it is surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the
behalf of this person. I would not think, madam"- "No, madam." says
Mrs. Miller, "you shall not think anything but the truth. I will
tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is
the best-natured creature that ever was born."-- She then began and
related the story of Mr. Anderson.-- After this she cried, "This
madam, this is his goodness; but I have much more tender obligations
to him. He hath preserved my child."-- Here, after shedding some
tears, she related everything concerning that fact, suppressing only
those circumstances which would have most reflected on her daughter,
and concluded with saying, "Now, madam, you shall judge whether I
can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man;
and sure he is the best and worthiest of all human beings."
The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been
chiefly to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too
great paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion,
and cried, "I know not what to say; certainly what arises from
gratitude cannot be blamed-- But what service can my reading this
letter do your friend, since I am resolved never--" Mrs. Miller fell
again to her entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not,
she said, carry it back. "Well, madam," says Sophia, "I cannot help
it, if you will force it upon me.- Certainly you may leave it, whether
I will or no." What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I
will not presume to determine; but Mrs. Miller actually understood
this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table,
took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on
Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial.
The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs. Miller was
out of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.
This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted
of little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter
lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations
of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped
to convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to
her presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady
Bellaston in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to
her forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And
concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts
than to marry Lady Bellaston.
Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his
meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention
suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained
very angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of
her resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to bestow
on any other person.
That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt
Western, and in the afternoon they were all three, by appointment,
to go together to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum.
Sophia would have gladly been excused from all, but would not
disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counterfeiting illness,
she was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered
into her head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went,
resolved to encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most
disagreeable one it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every
opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her
dejection of spirits disabled her from making any return; and, indeed,
to confess the truth, she was at the very best but an indifferent
mistress of repartee.
Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia, was the company of
Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to
the drum. And though both places were too publick to admit of any
particularities, and she was farther relieved by the musick at the one
place, and by the cards at the other, she could not, however, enjoy
herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women,
which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man
whom they know to have pretensions to them, which they are disinclined
to favour.
Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our
posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here
applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to
describe the entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a
moment describe it.
A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both
sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all;
while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at
an inn, and like the landlady of an inn prides herself in the number
of her guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by
it.
No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any
vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion
eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined
entirely to upper life. How insupportable must we imagine this round
of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how difficult
must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her
looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and
when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!
Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will
leave her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable, we
fear, of rest, and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers
us, is now arrived at the eve of some great event.
Chapter 7
A pathetic scene between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller
Mrs. Miller had a long discourse with Mr. Allworthy, at his return
from dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones's having
unfortunately lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at
their separation; and with the distresses to which that loss had
subjected him; of all which she had received a full account from the
faithful retailer Partridge. She then explained the obligations she
had to Jones; not that she was entirely explicit with regard to her
daughter; for though she had the utmost confidence in Mr. Allworthy,
and though there could be no hopes of keeping an affair secret which
was unhappily known to more than half a dozen, yet she could not
prevail with herself to mention those circumstances which reflected
most on the chastity of poor Nancy, but smothered that part of her
evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and the girl
was now on her trial for the murder of a bastard.
Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as
not to have the least mixture of good in them. "However," says he,
"I cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad
as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but
must insist you never mention his name to me more; for, I promise you,
it was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to
take the measures I have taken." "Well, sir," says she, "I make not
the least doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and
natural colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young man
deserves better of you than some other folks that shall be nameless."
"Madam," cries Allworthy, a little ruffied, "I will not hear any
reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that
kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the
worthiest and best of men; and I once more repeat it to you, he hath
carried his friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too
long concealing facts of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the
wretch to this good young man is what I most resent; for, madam, I
have the greatest reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant
my nephew in my favour, and to have disinherited him."
"I am sure, sir," answered Mrs. Miller, a little frightened (for,
though Mr. Allworthy had the utmost sweetness and benevolence in his
smiles, he had great terror in his frowns), "I shall never speak
against any gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure,
sir, such behaviour would very little become me, especially when the
gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry
with me, you must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor
wretch. Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been
angry with me if I had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How
often have I heard you call him your son? How often have you
prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a parent? Nay, sir, I
cannot forget the many tender expressions, the many good things you
have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his virtues; of his
good-nature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them,
for I find them all true. I have experienced them in my own cause.
They have preserved my family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed
you must. When I consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this poor
youth, to whom I am so much obliged, hath suffered; when I consider
the loss of your favour, which I know he valued more than his life,
I must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready
to plunge into my heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you have
loved, and I shall ever love."
Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed
not to be with anger; for, after a short silence, taking Mrs. Miller
by the hand, he said very affectionately to her, "Come, madam, let
us consider a little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for
rejoicing in a match which promises to be advantageous to her, but you
know this advantage, in a great measure, depends on the father's
reconciliation. I know Mr. Nightingale very well, and have formerly
had concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to serve
you in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an
only son, and the thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in time
be brought to reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you."
Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy
for this kind and generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking
this occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, "to whom,"
said she, "I owe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present
