The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble
safe and unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter
doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they suffered to enjoy
their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be discovered to have
escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in some field or grove, the
whole parish is presently alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs
after her; and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it
is only that he may secure her for his own eating.
I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and fashion,
when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be in pretty
much the same situation with this doe. The town is immediately in an
uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from court to assembly, from
assembly to her own chamber, and rarely escapes a single season from the
jaws of some devourer or other; for, if her friends protect her from some,
it is only to deliver her over to one of their own chusing, often more
disagreeable to her than any of the rest; while whole herds or flocks of
other women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play,
the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they
are at last devoured, yet for a long time do they wanton in liberty,
without disturbance or controul.
Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than poor
Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had suffered on
account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who seemed likely
to torment her no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was
less violent, she was no less assiduous in teizing her, than her father
had been before.
The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs Western, who
had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, “That she expected
his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first
opportunity of leaving her alone with him.” “If you do, madam,”
answered Sophia, with some spirit, “I shall take the first
opportunity of leaving him by himself.” “How! madam!”
cries the aunt; “is this the return you make me for my kindness in
relieving you from your confinement at your father's?” “You
know, madam,” said Sophia, “the cause of that confinement was
a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I detested; and will
my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in
another equally bad?” “And do you think then, madam,”
answered Mrs Western, “that there is no difference between my Lord
Fellamar and Mr Blifil?” “Very little, in my opinion,”
cries Sophia; “and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly
have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father's pleasure.”
“Then my pleasure, I find,” said the aunt, “hath very
little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act
from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of ennobling
yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there
no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?”
“None, upon my honour,” said Sophia. “A pincushion upon
my coach would please me just as well.” “Never mention honour,”
cries the aunt. “It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am
sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear your
groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But,
however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on
mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I encouraged you in
refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its
advantage in fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath,
indeed, in title, the advantage of ours.” “Surely,” says
Sophia, “I am born deficient, and have not the senses with which
other people are blessed; there must be certainly some sense which can
relish the delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely
mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining,
nor would they be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared to
them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles.”
“No, no, miss,” cries the aunt; “you are born with as
many senses as other people; but I assure you you are not born with a
sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to
the world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I
believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his
lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you to-morrow
morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere with you, nor
see your face again.” Sophia stood a few moments silent after this
speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then,
bursting into tears, she cryed, “Do with me, madam, whatever you
please; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt
forsakes me where shall I look for a protector?” “My dear
niece,” cries she, “you will have a very good protector in his
lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile fellow
Jones can make you decline.” “Indeed, madam,” said
Sophia, “you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have
shewn me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish them
for ever? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it
never to see his face again.” “But, child, dear child,”
said the aunt, “be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?”
“I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection,”
answered Sophia. “What?” cries the aunt; “I remember
none.” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “I told you he
had used me in the rudest and vilest manner.” “Indeed, child,”
answered she, “I never heard you, or did not understand you:—but
what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?” “Indeed, madam,”
said Sophia, “I am almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his
arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust his hand into my bosom,
and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast
at this moment.” “Indeed!” said Mrs Western. “Yes,
indeed, madam,” answered Sophia; “my father luckily came in at
that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended to have proceeded
to.” “I am astonished and confounded,” cries the aunt.
“No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since we
were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he had
attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! sure, Sophia, you must
invent this to raise my indignation against him.” “I hope,
madam,” said Sophia, “you have too good an opinion of me to
imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true.”
“I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present,”
returned the aunt. “Yet surely he could have no dishonourable
design; it is impossible! he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he
hath not; for they are not only honourable, but generous. I don't know;
the age allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have
allowed before the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago
neither; several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I
never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I
never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as
much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and, indeed,
could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I should not have
soon been brought to endure so much.” “You will pardon me,
dear madam,” said Sophia, “if I make one observation: you own
you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny
it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among
them.” “You say true, dear Sophy,” answered she; “I
had once the offer of a title.” “Why, then,” said
Sophia, “will you not suffer me to refuse this once?” “It
is true, child,” said she, “I have refused the offer of a
title; but it was not so good an offer; that is, not so very, very good an
offer.”—“Yes, madam,” said Sophia; “but you
have had very great proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the
first, nor the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered
itself.” “I own it was not,” said she. “Well,
madam,” continued Sophia, “and why may not I expect to have a
second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman, and I am
convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of fortune, nay,
or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I need not despair.”
“Well, my dear, dear Sophy,” cries the aunt, “what would
you have me say?” “Why, I only beg that I may not be left
alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you
think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company.”
“Well, I will grant it,” cries the aunt. “Sophy, you
know I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my
nature; I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought
cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have
broke many a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it.
Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something of you
formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says
in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the human form.”
Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and her conquests, and
her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, after a most tedious visit,
during which Mrs Western never once offered to leave the room, retired,
not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had
brought her aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost
everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour
might not be improper to so forward a lover.
Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none
will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put off
the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better situation than
she hath been for a long time before, we will look a little after Mr
Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable situation that can be well
imagined.