Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding

by Henry Fielding

  We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to convey a lie in the words of truth; this was the case at present; for Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In reality, the promises which Blifil had made to Dowling were the motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very plainly saw Blifil would not be able to keep them, he thought proper now to make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness, joined to the threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries he had made before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares, and had no time to consider of evasions.

  Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, conducted that gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was returned to his chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his last deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed below-stairs.

  As Allworthy was returning to his room he met Mrs Miller in the entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him, “O! sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do not on this account abandon the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own mother; and the discovery itself will most probably break his heart, without your unkindness.”

  “Madam,” says Allworthy, “I am under such an astonishment at what I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you; but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I have made surprizing discoveries, and you shall soon know them.”

  The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up to Mrs Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs Miller, said, “What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for the services she hath done me? — O! Mrs Miller, you have a thousand times heard me call the young man to whom you are so faithful a friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at all. — Your friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my bosom. — She will herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused; abused by one whom you too justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in truth, the worst of villains.”

  The joy which Mrs Miller now felt bereft her of the power of speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At length, recovering so far from her transport as to be able to speak, she cried, “And is my dear Mr Jones then your nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I live to see him as happy as he deserves?” “He certainly is my nephew,” says Allworthy, “and I hope all the rest.”— “And is this the dear good woman, the person,” cries she, “to whom all this discovery is owing?”— “She is indeed,” says Allworthy.— “Why, then,” cried Mrs Miller, upon her knees, “may Heaven shower down its choicest blessings upon her head, and for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many!”

  Mrs Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very shortly be released; for that the surgeon was gone, in company with a nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his prisoner his liberty.

  Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his return home; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and presently left the two ladies together.

  Mr Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend upon his uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man whither he is going: to which the other making no answer, he again desired to know when he would be pleased to return? — Allworthy made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair, and then, turning about, he said— “Harkee, sir, do you find out, before my return, the letter which your mother sent me on her death-bed.” Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is just going to be hanged.

  CHAPTER IX.

  A further continuation.

  Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him; and there were some expressions in it concerning himself which drew tears from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr Western’s, and was introduced to Sophia.

  When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; during which the latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her countenance and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a little disconcerted, began thus: “I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath been the occasion of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be assured, madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals had been, I should not have suffered you to have been so long persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this visit is to trouble you with any further solicitations of that kind, but entirely to relieve you from them.”

  “Sir,” said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, “this behaviour is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you will pardon me for saying it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness, and hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from a father who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our own power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his favour.” “I assure you, most amiable young lady,” said Allworthy, “I am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son, and had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly, madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much less can they be directed by another.” “Oh! sir,” answered Sophia, “every word you speak proves you deserve that good, that great, that benevolent character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist the commands of my father.” “I sincerely believe you, madam,” replied Allworthy, “and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight, since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery indeed!” “You speak now, Mr Allworthy,” cries she, “with a delicacy which few men are capable of feeling! but surely, in my opinion, to lead our lives with one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of wretchedness. —— Perhaps that wretchedness would be even increased by a sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot give our affections. If I had married Mr Blifil— “ “Pardon my interrupting you, madam,” answered Allworthy, “but I cannot bear the supposition. — Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your escape. — I have discovered the wretch for whom you have suffered all this cruel violence from your father to be a villain.” “How, sir!” cries Sophia— “you must believe this surprizes me.”— “It hath surprized me, madam,” answered Allworthy, “and so it will the world. —— But I have acquainted you with the real truth.” “Nothing but truth,” says Sophia, “can, I am convinced, come from the lips of Mr Allworthy. —— Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news. —— Discovered, you say —— may villany be ever so!”— “You will soon enough hear the story,” cries Allworthy;— “at present let us not mention so detested a name. — I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose. — O! Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being allied to it. — I have a near relation, madam, a young man whose character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to that of this
wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you would admit a visit from him?” Sophia, after a minute’s silence, answered, “I will deal with the utmost sincerity with Mr Allworthy. His character, and the obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I have determined at present to listen to no such proposals from any person. My only desire is to be restored to the affection of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your good offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the goodness which I, and all who know you, have experienced, do not, the very moment when you have released me from one persecution, do not engage me in another as miserable and as fruitless.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” replied Allworthy, “I am capable of no such conduct; and if this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may suffer under it.” “I must smile now, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “when you mention the torments of a man whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me.” “Pardon me, dear young lady,” cries Allworthy, “I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the repose of his future days; since, if ever man was capable of a sincere, violent, and noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my unhappy nephew’s for Miss Western.” “A nephew of your’s, Mr Allworthy!” answered Sophia. “It is surely strange. I never heard of him before.” “Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it is only the circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and which, till this day, was a secret to me. — Mr Jones, who has long loved you, he! he is my nephew!” “Mr Jones your nephew, sir!” cries Sophia, “can it be possible?”— “He is, indeed, madam,” answered Allworthy; “he is my own sister’s son — as such I shall always own him; nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past behaviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly —— Indeed I have.” — Here the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded— “I never shall be able to reward him for his sufferings without your assistance. —— Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a great esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults; but there is great goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, madam, there is.” Here he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from the hurry of spirits into which so strange and sudden information had thrown her: “I sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction. I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can promise yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities, which makes it impossible he should not behave well to such an uncle.”— “I hope, madam,” said Allworthy, “he hath those good qualities which must make him a good husband. — He must, I am sure, be of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit should condescend— “ “You must pardon me, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia; “I cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit; but I shall never receive Mr Jones as one who is to be my husband — Upon my honour I never will.”— “Pardon me, madam,” cries Allworthy, “if I am a little surprized, after what I have heard from Mr Western — I hope the unhappy young man hath done nothing to forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it. — Perhaps, he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The same villany may have injured him everywhere. — He is no murderer, I assure you; as he hath been called.”— “Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “I have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you; but, whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I know my heart, I have given no occasion for them; since it hath always been a fixed principle with me, never to have married without his consent. This is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent; and this, I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do not indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father’s house, and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story; and if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own conscience will acquit me.” “I hear you, Miss Western,” cries Allworthy, “with admiration. I admire the justness of your sentiments; but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you, young lady; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely indifferent?” “I beg, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “you will not insist on my reasons; — yes, I have suffered indeed; I will not, Mr Allworthy, conceal —— I will be very sincere with you — I own I had a great opinion of Mr Jones — I believe — I know I have suffered for my opinion — I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my father; but that is now past — I beg I may not be farther pressed; for, whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many virtues — he hath great virtues, Mr Allworthy. I question not but he will do you honour in the world, and make you happy.”— “I wish I could make him so, madam,” replied Allworthy; “but that I am convinced is only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his favour.” “You are deceived indeed, sir; you are deceived,” said Sophia. “I hope not by him. It is sufficient to have deceived me. Mr Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no farther on this subject. I should be sorry — nay, I will not injure him in your favour. I wish Mr Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well; and I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to me, I am certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former thoughts; but nothing can ever recal them. At present there is not a man upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr Jones; nor would the addresses of Mr Blifil himself be less agreeable to me.”

  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 — n’d rascal Jones; 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 would 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 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.”