Western had been long impatient for the Event of this Conference, and was just now arrived at the Door to listen; when having heard the last Sentiments of his Daughter’s Heart, he lost all Temper, and bursting open the Door in a Rage, cried out, —‘It is a Lie. It is a d—n’d Lie. It is all owing to that d—d’d Rascal Juones; and if she could get at un, she’d ha un any Hour of the Day.’ Here Allworthy interposed, and addressing himself to the Squire with some Anger in his Look, he said, ‘Mr. Western, you have not kept your Word with me. You promised to abstain from all Violence.’— ‘Why so I did,’ cries Western, ‘as long as it was possible; but to hear a Wench telling such confounded Lies.—Zounds! Doth she think if she can make Vools of other Volk, she can make one of me?—No, no, I know her better than thee dost.’ ‘I am sorry to tell you, Sir,’ answered Allworthy, ‘it doth not appear by your Behaviour to this young Lady, that you know her at all. I ask Pardon for what I say; but I think our Intimacy, your own Desires, and the Occasion justify me. She is your Daughter, Mr. Western, and I think she doth Honour to your Name. If I was capable of Envy, I should sooner envy you on this Account, than any other Man whatever.’—‘Odrabbit it,’ cries the Squire, ‘I wish she was thine with all my Heart—wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the Trouble o’her.’—‘Indeed, my good Friend,’ answered Allworthy, ‘you yourself are the Cause of all the Trouble you complain of. Place that Confidence in the young Lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will be the happiest Father on Earth.’—‘I Confidence in her!’ cries the Squire.—‘’Sblood! what Confidence can I place in her, when she won’t do as I wou’d ha her? Let her gi but her Consent to marry as I would ha her, and I’ll place as much Confidence in her as wouldst ha me.’—‘You have no Right, Neighbour,’ answered Allworthy, ‘to insist on any such Consent. A negative Voice your Daughter allows you, and God and Nature have thought proper to allow you no more.’ ‘A negative Voice?’ cries the Squire—‘Ay! ay! I’ll shew 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 every 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 then 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 Esteate as you, and am in the Commission of the Peace as well as yourself.’
CHAPTER X.
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 every Thing 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 Villainy, 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 Com
fort, that there is this great Difference between those Faults which Candour may construe into Imprudence, and those which can be deduced from Villainy 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 Villainy, 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. Where-ever 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 Persistance 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 Sollicitations which I 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,1 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.’
The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics) Page 108
