wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such
bitter distress, it must be, to have a sum in his possession which
must put him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering
the like."
"Child," cries Allworthy, "you carry this forgiving temper too
far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on
injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice.
The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but
never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any
temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and
merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I
have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the
grand jury; and have more than once applied to the judge on the behalf
of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case; but
when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty,
murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then
become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be
punished; at least as far as I can punish him."
This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think
proper to make any reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr. Western
now drew so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself.
Here therefore ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to
another room, where Partridge attended, according to order, with his
cloaths.
Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery.
The poor fellow was unable to contain or express his transports. He
behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he
was dressing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing
himself on the stage.
His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He
recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of
which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered;
nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his
meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, "I always told your
honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other
have it in your power to make my fortune." Jones assured him that this
boding should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the
other omens had been to himself; which did not a little add to all the
raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his
master.
Chapter 12
Approaching still nearer to the end
Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr.
Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld,
and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind;
but we hope it hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when
she formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this
merit only, to recommend her work.
Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best
advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so
extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not
forbear whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest
creature in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper,
overheard by all present, "So much the better for Tom;- for d--n me if
he shan't ha the tousling her." Sophia was all over scarlet at these
words, while Tom's countenance was altogether as pale, and he was
almost ready to sink from his chair.
The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out
of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and
must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.
The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear
strange to many readers, that those who had so much to say to one
another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and
who seemed so eager to rush into each other's arms when so many bars
lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say
or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent
and motionless; insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might
have well concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was,
however strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards
on the ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence.
Mr. Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but
was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out,
some broken words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him,
and partly to turn the discourse from the subject which she knew
well enough he was endeavouring to open, said-
"Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this
discovery." "And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate," said
Jones, sighing, "while I have incurred your displeasure?"- "Nay,
sir," says she, "as to that, you best know whether you have deserved
it." "Indeed, madam," answered he, "you yourself are as well
apprized of all my demerits. Mrs. Miller hath acquainted you with
the whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness?"-
"I think, Mr. Jones," said she, "I may almost depend on your own
justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own
conduct."- "Alas! madam," answered he, "it is mercy, and not justice,
which I implore at your hands. Justice, I know, must condemn me.- Yet
not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly
declare you have had a true account." He then insisted much on the
security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off,
if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted
his offer; but confest that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion
to put such a letter as that into her power, "which," said he, "I have
dearly paid for, in the effect it has upon you." "I do not, I cannot,"
says she, "believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My
conduct, I think, shows you clearly I do not believe there is much
in that. And yet, Mr. Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what
past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman,
while I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me?
Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have
profest to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure
myself of with a man capable of so much inconstancy?" "O! my
Sophia," cries he, "do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion
that ever inflamed a human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of
my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia, have
flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted
to throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now, it would not have
been in the power of any other woman to have inspired a thought
which the severest chastity could have condemned. Inconstancy to
you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is past,
do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against
me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it reconcile me to
my heaven in this dear bosom." "Sincere repentance, Mr. Jones,"
answered she, "will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from
one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be
imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must
expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to
pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its
sincerity." "Name any proof in my power," answered Jones eagerly.
"Time," replied she; "time alone, Mr. Jones, can convince me that
you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious
courses, which I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of
persevering in them." "Do not imagine it," cries Jones. "On my knees I
intreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the
business of my life to deserve." "Let it then," said she, "be the
business of some part of your life to show me you deserve it. I
think I have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when I see
you merit my confidence, you will obtain it. After what is past,
sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word?"
He replied, "Don't believe me upon my word; I have a better
security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and
to doubt." "What is that?" said Sophia, a little surprized. "I will
show you, my charming angel," cried Jones, seizing her hand and
carrying her to the glass. "There, behold it there in that lovely
figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines
through these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these be
inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord
Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with
any eyes but your own." Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing
again her brow into a frown- "If I am to judge," said she, "of the
future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when
I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of
the room." "By heaven, by all that is sacred!" said Jones, "it never
was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the
grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the
heart." "I will never marry a man," replied Sophia, very gravely, "who
shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am myself of
making such a distinction." "I will learn it," said Jones. "I have
learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my
wife, taught it me at once; and all the rest of her sex from that
moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of
passion to my heart." "Well," says Sophia, "the proof of this must
be from time. Your situation, Mr. Jones, is now altered, and I
assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now
want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your mind
is altered too." "O! my angel," cries Jones, "how shall I thank thy
goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in
my prosperity?-- Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone have
given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope--
O! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one.- I will be all obedience to
your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you
permit me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short tryal. O! tell me
when I may expect you will be convinced of what is most solemnly
true." "When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr. Jones," said she,
"I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not."- "O! don't look
unkindly thus, my Sophia," cries he. "I do not, I dare not press you.-
Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. Of
consider the impatience of love."-- "A twelvemonth, perhaps," said
she. "O! my Sophia," cries he, "you have named an eternity."- "Perhaps
it may be something sooner," says she; "I will not be teazed. If your
passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy."-
"Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold
a name.-- O! transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed
day will come, when I shall call you mine; when fears shall be no
more; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic
delight of making my Sophia happy?"-- "Indeed, sir," said she, "that
day is in your own power."-- "O! my dear, my divine angel," cried he,
"these words have made me mad with joy.-- But I must, I will thank
those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss." He then
caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never
ventured before.
At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst
into the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out,
"To her, boy, to her, go to her.-- That's it, little honeys, O that's
it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What,
shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute
longer than next day, I am resolved." "Let me beseech you, sir,"
says Jones, "don't let me be the occasion"-- "Beseech mine a --,"
cries Western. "I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle
than to give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks.-- I tell thee 'tis
all flim-flam. Zoodikers! she'd have the wedding to-night with all her
heart. Would'st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for
once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?" "Why should I confess,
sir," says Sophia, "since it seems you are so well acquainted with
my thoughts?"-- "That's a good girl," cries he, "and dost consent
then?" "No, indeed, sir," says Sophia, "I have given no such
consent."-- "And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?" says
Western.-"Indeed, sir," says she, "I have no such intention." "But I
can tell thee," replied he, "why hast nut; only because thou dost love
to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father." "Pray, sir,"
said Jones, interfering-- "I tell thee thou art a puppy," cries he.
"When I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining,
and languishing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee.
All the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and
