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 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 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

solicitations 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 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

shewn 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 your 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.'

and 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 that 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 would 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 be sworn her face was all over

scarlet in an instant; and these were her very words: `I will not deny

but that I believe he has some affection for me.'”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who

could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of

Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful

power over him.

Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My old friend Tom,

I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten; I

could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here

knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person; and

where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One

Christian must forget and forgive another.” “I hope, sir,” said Jones,

“I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as

for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger.” “A't,”

says Western, “then give me thy fist; a't as hearty an honest cock as

any in the kingdom. Come along with me; I'll carry thee to thy

mistress this moment.” Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire being

unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some

litigation, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia

till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as well in compassion to

Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of Western, was

prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table.

The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which,

had it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our

reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very

material, it shall suffice to say that matters being entirely adjusted

as to the afternoon visit Mr Western again returned home.