show you what a negative voice I ha.- Go along, go into your chamber,
go, you stubborn--." "Indeed, Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "indeed
you use her cruelly- I cannot bear to see this- you shall, you must
behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment."
"Yes, yes," said the squire, "I know what she deserves: now she's
gone, I'll shew you what she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter
from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me
to understand that the fellow is got out of prison again; and here she
advises me to take all the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers!
neighbour Allworthy, you don't know what it is to govern a daughter."
The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own
sagacity; and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him
with the whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with
his anger to Blifil, and with ever particular which hath been
disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters.
Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
changeable in them. No sooner than was Western informed of Mr.
Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined
heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and
became as eager for her marriage with Jones, as he had before been
to couple her to Blifil.
Here Mr. Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what
had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great
surprize.
The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at
this account.- At last he cried out, "Why, what can be the meaning of
this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o' un she was, that I'll be sworn
to.-- Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the
very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a
hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at
my cousin, my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that's
certain- but d--n me if he shall ha her- I'll ha no lords nor
courtiers in my vamily."
Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his
resolution to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly
recommended gentle methods to Mr. Western, as those by which he
might be assured of succeeding best with his daughter. He then took
his leave, and returned back to Mrs. Miller, but was forced to
comply with the earnest entreaties of the squire, in promising to
bring Mr. Jones to visit him that afternoon, that he might, as he
said, "make all matters up with the young gentleman." At Mr.
Allworthy's departure, Western promised to follow his advice in his
behaviour to Sophia, saying, "I don't know how 'tis, but d--n me,
Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please; and
yet I have as good an estate as you, and am in the commission of the
peace as well as yourself."
Chapter 10
Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion
When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr. Jones was just
arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty
chamber, whither he ordered Mr. Jones to be brought to him alone.
It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the
meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs. Waters, as the reader
may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret
of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both
sides are indeed, beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore
attempt it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he
had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, "O my
child!" he cried, "how have I been to blame! how have I injured you!
What amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust
suspicions which I have entertained, and for all the sufferings they
have occasioned to you?" "Am I not now made amends?" cries Jones.
"Would not my sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have
been now richly repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this
tenderness, overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the
transports which flow so fast upon me. To be again restored to your
presence, to your favour; to be once more thus kindly received by my
great, my noble, my generous benefactor."- "Indeed, child," cries
Allworthy, "I have used you cruelly."-- He then explained to him all
the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated expressions of the utmost
concern, for having been induced by that treachery to use him so
ill. "O, talk not so!" answered Jones; "indeed, sir, you have used
me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were; and, under
such a deception, the best must have acted just as you did. Your
goodness displayed itself in the midst of your anger, just as it
then seemed. I owe everything to that goodness, of which I have been
most unworthy. Do not put me on self-accusation, by carrying your
generous sentiments too far. Alas! sir, I have not been punished
more than I have deserved; and it shall be the whole business of my
future life to deserve that happiness you now bestow on me; for,
believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away
upon me: though I have been a great, I am not a hardened sinner; I
thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past life, where,
though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet I can
discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be ashamed
of; follies which have been attended with dreadful consequences to
myself, and have brought me to the brink of destruction." "I am
rejoiced, my dear child," answered Allworthy, "to hear you talk thus
sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good Heaven! how have I
been imposed on by it in others!) was never among your faults, so I
can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom, to what dangers
imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am now convinced,
you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the duty which we
owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to
neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in
discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of
his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it.
You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will reform them. I
firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from this moment,
you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them only yourself
so far as for the future to teach you the better to avoid them; but
still remember, for your comfort, that there is this great
difference between those faults which candor may construe into
imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The
former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he
reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the
world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him;
and he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the
dangers he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered, is
irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will
wash away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn
will abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he
will go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who
is afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone.
Here his murdered conscience will haunt him.- Repose, like a false
friend, will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents
itself; if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his
heels; if forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till,
like a condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his
present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which
is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that
this is not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath
suffered you to see your errors, before they have brought on you
that destruction to which a persistence in even those errors must have
led you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is
such, that happiness seems in your own power." At these words Jones
fetched a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said,
"Sir, I will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence
of my vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I
have lost a treasure." "You need say no more," answered Allworthy;
"I will be explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen
the young lady, and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I
must insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity in all you have
said, and of the stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me
in one instance. To abide intirely by the determination of the young
lady, whether it shall be in your favour or no. She hath already
suffered enough from solicitations which hate to think of; she shall
owe no further constraint to my family: I know her father will be as
ready to torment her now on your account as he hath formerly been on
another's; but I am determined she shall suffer no more confinement,
no more violence, no more uneasy hours." "O, my dear uncle!"
answered Jones, "lay, I beseech you, some command on me, in which I
shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance
in which I could disobey you would be to give an uneasy moment to my
Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her displeasure
beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful
reflection of causing her misery, will be sufficient to overpower
me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only additional
blessing which heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing which I must
owe to her alone." "I will not flatter you, child," cries Allworthy;
"I fear your case is desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an
unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in her vehement
declarations against receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you
can account better than myself." "Oh, sir! I can account too well,"
answered Jones; "I have sinned against her beyond all hope of
pardon; and guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately appears to her in
ten times blacker than the real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my
follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness cannot save me from
perdition."
A servant now acquainted them that Mr. Western was below stairs; for
his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon
which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to
entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself;
to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr. Western to be
shown into a parlour, went down to him.
Mrs. Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not
yet seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into
the room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his
new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, "I wish I
could give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything
so inexorable I never saw."
Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant.
"Why then," says she, "I have been with the young lady, and have
explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son
Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter; of
that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take
his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the
letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the
letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon
her account, and a plain proof that you was resolved to quit all
your profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a
single instance of infidelity to her since your seeing her in town:
I am afraid I went too far there; but Heaven forgive me! I hope your
future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I
can; but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she
had forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed such
detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely
silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you; but the justness of
her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman,
and one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I
could have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It
was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. 'I once fancied,
madam' said she, 'I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr.
Jones; and for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire
profligacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and
all which a good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix
some grains of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an
angelic creature, that is the truth on't." "O, Mrs. Miller!"
answered Jones, "can I bear to think I have lost such an angel?"
"Lost! no," cries Mrs. Miller; "I hope you have not lost her yet.
Resolve to leave such vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes;
nay, if she should remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a
sweet pretty young lady, and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely
dying for love of you. I heard of it this very morning, and I told
it to Miss Western; nay, I went a little beyond the truth again; for I
told her you had refused her; but indeed I knew you would refuse
her. And here I must give you a little comfort; when I mentioned the
young lady's name, who is no other than the pretty widow Hunt, I
thought she turned pale; but when I said you had refused her, I will
