Chapter xii.

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,

shews 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 shew

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 trial.

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. O! 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

flimflam. 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

governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to

disoblige and contradict me.” “What would my papa have me do?” cries

Sophia. “What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi' un thy hand this

moment.”--“Well, sir,” says Sophia, “I will obey you.--There is my

hand, Mr Jones.” “Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow

morning?” says Western.--“I will be obedient to you, sir,” cries

she.--“Why then to-morrow morning be the day,” cries he. “Why then

to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so,”

says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an

agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room,

presently crying out--“Where the devil is Allworthy? He is without

now, a talking with that d--d lawyer Dowling, when he should be

minding other matters.” He then sallied out in quest of him, and very

opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.

But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won't believe me,

you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be

married to-morrow?” “Such are your commands, sir,” cries Sophia, “and

I dare not be guilty of disobedience.” “I hope, madam,” cries

Allworthy, “my nephew will merit so much goodness, and will be always

as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my family. An

alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed

be an honour to the greatest in England.” “Yes,” cries Western, “but

if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly dally, you might

not have had that honour yet a while; I was forced to use a little

fatherly authority to bring her to.” “I hope not, sir,” cries

Allworthy, “I hope there is not the least constraint.” “Why, there,”

cries Western, “you may bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost

repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?” “Indeed, papa,”

cries she, “I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any

promise in favour of Mr Jones.” “Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I

felicitate you most heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men.

And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful

occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who

will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least use his

best endeavours to deserve it.” “His best endeavours!” cries Western,

“that he will, I warrant un.----Harkee, Allworthy, I'll bet thee five

pounds to a crown we have a boy to-morrow nine months; but prithee

tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for, please

Jupiter, we'll make a night on't.” “Indeed, sir,” said Allworthy, “you

must excuse me; both my nephew and I were engaged before I suspected

this near approach of his happiness.”--“Engaged!” quoth the squire,

“never tell me.--I won't part with thee to-night upon any occasion.

Shalt sup here, please the lord Harry.” “You must pardon me, my dear

neighbour!” answered Allworthy; “I have given a solemn promise, and

that you know I never break.” “Why, prithee, who art engaged to?”

cries the squire.----Allworthy then informed him, as likewise of the

company.----“Odzookers!” answered the squire, “I will go with thee,

and so shall Sophy! for I won't part with thee to-night; and it would

be barbarous to part Tom and the girl.” This offer was presently

embraced by Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a

private promise from her father that he would not mention a syllable

concerning her marriage.

Chapter the last.

In which the history is concluded.

Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait on

his father, who received him much more kindly than he expected. There

likewise he met his uncle, who was returned to town in quest of his

new-married daughter.

This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to

the young gentleman; for these brothers lived in a constant state of

contention about the government of their children, both heartily

despising the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now

endeavoured, as much as he could, to palliate the offence which his

own child had committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This

desire of triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments

which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on the old gentleman

that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed to

sup with him that evening at Mrs Miller's.

As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most

immoderate affection, there was little difficulty in inclining him to

a reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his

daughter and her husband were, than he declared he would instantly go

to her. And when he arrived there he scarce suffered her to fall upon

her knees before he took her up, and embraced her with a tenderness

which affected all who saw him; and in less than a quarter of an hour

was as well reconciled to both her and her husband as if he had

himself joined their hands.

In this situation were affairs when Mr Allworthy and his company

arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs Miller, who no sooner saw

Sophia than she guessed everything that had happened; and so great was

her friendship to Jones, that it added not a few transports to those

she felt on the happiness of her own daughter.

There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people

met together, where every one was so perfectly happy as in this

company. Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the

least perfect content; for, notwithstanding his affection for his son,

notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of Allworthy, together

with the other motive mentioned before, he could not so entirely be

satisfied with his son's choice; and, perhaps, the presence of Sophia

herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his concern, as a

thought now and then suggested itself that his son might have had that

lady, or some other such. Not that any of the charms which adorned

either the person or mind of Sophia created the uneasiness; it was the

contents of her father's coffers which set his heart a longing. These

were the charms which he could not bear to think his son had

sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs Miller.

The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally were they

eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia, that, had they not been two of the

best-tempered girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in

their breasts; for neither of their husbands could long keep his eyes

from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving homage, or,

rather, like a superior being receiving adoration from all around her.

But it was an adoration which they gave, not which she exacted; for

she was as much distinguished by her modesty and affability as by all

her other perfections.

The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but those

the most who had been most unhappy before. Their former sufferings and

fears gave such a relish to their felicity as even love and fortune,

in their fullest flow, could not have given without the advantage of

such a comparison. Yet, as great joy, especially after a sudden change

and revolution of circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells

rather in the heart than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the

least merry of the whole company; which Western observed with great

impatience, often crying out to them, “Why dost not talk, boy? Why

dost look so grave? Hast lost thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of

wine; sha't drink another glass.” And, the more to enliven her, he

would sometimes sing a merry song, which bore some relation to

matrimony and the loss of a maidenhead. Nay, he would have proceeded

so far on that topic as to have driven her out of the room, if Mr

Allworthy had not checkt him, sometimes by looks, and once or twice by

a “Fie! Mr Western!” He began, indeed, once to debate the matter, and

assert his right to talk to his own daughter as he thought fit; but,

as nobody seconded him, he was soon reduced to order.

Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the

chearfulness and good-humour of the company, that he insisted on their

meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so; and the lovely

Sophia, who was now in private become a bride too, officiated as the

mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase, did the honours

of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in the

chapel at Doctors'-Commons, where Mr Allworthy, Mr Western, and Mrs

Miller, were the only persons present.

Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the company,

who were that day to dine with him, should be acquainted with her

marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs Miller, and Jones

undertook for Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy of

Sophia to the public entertainment which, in compliance with her

father's will, she was obliged to go to, greatly against her own

inclinations. In confidence of this secrecy she went through the day

pretty well, till the squire, who was now advanced into the second

bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper,

drank a health to the bride. The health was immediately pledged by all

present, to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, and the

great concern of Jones upon her account. To say truth, there was not a

person present made wiser by this discovery; for Mrs Miller had

whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband, her husband

to his sister, and she to all the rest.

Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies,

and the squire sat in to his cups, in which he was, by degrees,

deserted by all the company except the uncle of young Nightingale, who

loved his bottle as well as Western himself. These two, therefore, sat

stoutly to it during the whole evening, and long after that happy hour

which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her

enraptured Jones.

Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion,

in which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy

expectation, Mr Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind; for

what happiness this world affords equal to the possession of such a

woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never yet discovered.

As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in this

history, as some may desire to know a little more concerning them, we

will proceed, in as few words as possible, to satisfy their curiosity.

Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he

hath yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle

£200 a-year upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a third.

Upon this income he lives in one of the northern counties, about 200

miles distant from London, and lays up £200 a-year out of it, in order

to purchase a seat in the next parliament from a neighbouring borough,

which he has bargained for with an attourney there. He is also lately

turned Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect,

whose estate lies in that part of the kingdom.

Square died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter; and as to

Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless

attempts to regain the confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate

himself with Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces, and

abuses behind their backs. But in his stead, Mr Allworthy hath lately

taken Mr Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown

immoderately fond, and declares he shall have the tuition of her

children.

Mrs Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little

remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite end of

the town, and is so good an economist, that she spends three times

the income of her fortune, without running into debt. She maintains a

perfect intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and in acts of

friendship to her repays all obligations she owes her husband.

Mrs Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent

two months together with her in the country. Lady Bellaston made the

latter a formal visit at her return to town, where she behaved to

Jones as a perfect stranger, and, with great civility, wished him joy

on his marriage.

Mr Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the

neighbourhood of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs

Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agreeable

intercourse subsists between the two families.

As to those of lower account, Mrs Waters returned into the country,

had a pension of £60 a-year settled upon her by Mr Allworthy, and is

married to Parson Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western

hath bestowed a considerable living.

Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away, and

was never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the money on his family,

but not in equal proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share.

As for Partridge, Jones hath settled £50 a-year on him; and he hath

again set up a school, in which he meets with much better

encouragement than formerly, and there is now a treaty of marriage on

foot between him and Miss Molly Seagrim, which, through the mediation

of Sophia, is likely to take effect.

We now return to take leave of Mr Jones and Sophia, who, within two

days after their marriage, attended Mr Western and Mr Allworthy into

the country. Western hath resigned his family seat, and the greater

part of his estate, to his son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser

house of his in another part of the country, which is better for

hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr Jones, who, as well

as his daughter, hath an infinite delight in doing everything in their

power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended with such

success, that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his

life till now. He hath here a parlour and ante-chamber to himself,

where he gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his daughter is still as

ready as formerly to play to him whenever he desires it; for Jones

hath assured her that, as, next to pleasing her, one of his highest

satisfactions is to contribute to the happiness of the old man; so,

the great duty which she expresses and performs to her father, renders

her almost equally dear to him with the love which she bestows on

himself.

Sophia hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a girl,

of whom the old gentleman is so fond, that he spends much of his time

in the nursery, where he declares the tattling of his little

grand-daughter, who is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music

than the finest cry of dogs in England.

Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and

hath omitted no instance of shewing his affection to him and his lady,

who love him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a

tendency to vice, has been corrected by continual conversation with

this good man, and by his union with the lovely and virtuous Sophia.

He hath also, by reflection on his past follies, acquired a discretion

and prudence very uncommon in one of his lively parts.

To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman,

than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They

preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an

affection daily encreased and confirmed by mutual endearments and

mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their relations and

friends less amiable than towards one another. And such is their

condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below

them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant, who doth

not most gratefully bless the day when Mr Jones was married to his

Sophia.

_FINIS_.