Chapter xi.

In which the reader will be surprized.

Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than

the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the

place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very

vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown

into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the

door opened, and in came----no other than Sophia herself, who had left

the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already

said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to

damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement

between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was

glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who

safely conveyed her to her chair.

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home

till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily

in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without

once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of

Jones now stood motionless.---In this glass it was, after

contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said

statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of

the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved

herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support

her in his arms.

To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my

power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged

to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed

that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few

of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts

what past at this time in theirs.

After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said--“I see,

madam, you are surprized.”--“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens!

Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you

seem.”--“Indeed,” cries he, “my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this

once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,

after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.

Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in

this long, fruitless pursuit.”--“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a

little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.--“Can you be

so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of you?” “Of

me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important

business with me?”--“To some, madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an

important business” (giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you

will find it of the same value as when it was lost.” Sophia took the

pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her

thus:--“Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments

which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of

a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”--“My

pardon!” cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,

after what I have heard.”--“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones.

“By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!

henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any

remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to

that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance

of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”

Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow,

and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of

Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had

scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He

understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: “O my Sophia!

my only love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened

there than I do myself; but yet do me the justice to think that my

heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I

was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired

of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still

on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if

my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I accidently

fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe

me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never

intend or desire to see her again.” Sophia, in her heart, was very

glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness

than she had yet assumed, “Why,” said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the

trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it

worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature

indeed.”--“What is it, for heaven's sake?” answered Jones, trembling

and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,”

said she, “how is it possible! can everything noble and everything

base be lodged together in the same bosom?” Lady Bellaston, and the

ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind,

and stopt his mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,” proceeded

Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any

man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the

meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may

have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to

hear that you had been forced to fly from my love!”

Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but

yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend

himself than if she had touched that tender string at which his

conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found,

that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his

love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at

the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it

was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great

difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an

offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to

hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death,

which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared

up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that

Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to

give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear

to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were aware

they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded

like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That, did not her

duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin

with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune

with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he started, let

drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his

breast with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No;

by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia,

whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will

tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real

good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall

be at a distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from

whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb

your ears. And when I am dead”--He would have gone on, but was stopt

by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she

leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off,

which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance;

but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and,

to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found

she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she

never had time to put to him before, “How he came into that room?” He

began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her

suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door

opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.

Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she

suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting

herself with admirable presence of mind, she said--though with

sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance--“I

thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”

Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he

had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the

real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she

was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all

their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against

her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through

the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and the cause

of her hasty return.

The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of

rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as

the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed

her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, “I should not have

broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had

company.”

Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words.

To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes

and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I

shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company----” “I hope,

at least,” cries Lady Bellaston, “I interrupt no business.”--“No,

madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at an end. Your ladyship

may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my

pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so

kind to return it to me with the bill in it.”

Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to

sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers,

and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby

squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began,

however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour

of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance

with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part.

He said, “Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had

used great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in

it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.”

Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady

Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once

hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one

syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme

quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The reason of

Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though

she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she

was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.

With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western,

you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it

fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to

discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it

advertised.--It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to

whom the note belonged.”

“Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in which

the young lady's name was written.”

“That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:--“And it was no

less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is very

little known.”

Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he

conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the

question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he

proceeded thus: “Why, madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest

chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had

found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the

masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss

Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would

inform me, I went according to her appointment, but she was not at

home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she

directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did

myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I

had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room;

where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the

play.”

Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady

Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was

visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a

little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the

agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of

relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he

said, “I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these

occasions;--I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;--it is,

madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit

here.”

“Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a gentleman,

and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.”

Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own

satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed

lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too

well.

Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who,

notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to

behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky

circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged,

with which Sophia was unacquainted.