CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER IV.
What happened after their journey to London.
No sooner was young Andrews arrived at London than he began
to scrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to
make him despise his former course of life. His hair was cut after the newest
fashion, and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the morning in
papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach him
to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. He
applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly improved
himself; and became so perfect a connoisseur in that art, that he led the
opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or
applauded a single song contrary to his approbation or dislike. He was a little
too forward in riots at the play-houses and assemblies; and when he attended
his lady at church (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion
than formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals
remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter and
genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either in or out of livery.
His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the
handsomest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he
wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she was
frequently heard to cry out, "Ay, there is some life in this fellow."
She plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberest
constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde Park in a morning, and
when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean on his arm, and converse
with him in great familiarity. Whenever she stept out of her coach, she would
take him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stumbling, press it very hard;
she admitted him to deliver messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him
at table, and indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure
may permit without the least sully of their virtue.
But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then
some small arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it
fell out to Lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one
morning in Hyde Park, when Lady Tittle and Lady Tattle came accidentally by in
their coach. "Bless me," says Lady Tittle, "can I believe my
eyes? Is that Lady Booby?"—"Surely," says Tattle. "But what
makes you surprized?"—"Why, is not that her footman?" replied
Tittle. At which Tattle laughed, and cried, "An old business, I assure
you: is it possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this
half-year." The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a
hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies 3 the same
afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not been stopt by
two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards, and engrossed
the whole talk of the town.
But, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous
inclination of defamers might entertain of Lady Booby's innocent freedoms, it
is certain they made no impression on young Andrews, who never offered to encroach
beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him,—a behaviour which she imputed
to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which served only to heighten
a something she began to conceive, and which the next chapter will open a
little farther.
Footnote 3: It may seem an absurdity that Tattle should
visit, as she actually did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may
reconcile this by supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding what she says, this
was her first acquaintance with it. (return)
CHAPTER V.
The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affectionate and
mournful behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews.
At this time an accident happened which put a stop to those
agreeable walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of Fame,
and caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no
other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who, departing this life, left his
disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she herself had been
attacked by some violent disease. During the first six days the poor lady
admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party at
cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom, for a good reason, we shall
hereafter call JOSEPH, to bring up her tea-kettle. The lady being in bed,
called Joseph to her, bade him sit down, and, having accidentally laid her hand
on his, she asked him if he had ever been in love. Joseph answered, with some
confusion, it was time enough for one so young as himself to think on such
things. "As young as you are," replied the lady, "I am convinced
you are no stranger to that passion. Come, Joey," says she, "tell me
truly, who is the happy girl whose eyes have made a conquest of you?"
Joseph returned, that all the women he had ever seen were equally indifferent
to him. "Oh then," said the lady, "you are a general lover.
Indeed, you handsome fellows, like handsome women, are very long and difficult
in fixing; but yet you shall never persuade me that your heart is so
insusceptible of affection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a
very commendable quality, and what I am far from being angry with you for.
Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any intimacies with
the ladies." "Ladies! madam," said Joseph, "I am sure I
never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name."
"Don't pretend to too much modesty," said she, "for that
sometimes may be impertinent: but pray answer me this question. Suppose a lady
should happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and
admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if you had been
born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to discover her?
Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more sense and so much more virtue
than you handsome young fellows generally have, who make no scruple of
sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, without considering the great
obligation we lay on you by our condescension and confidence? Can you keep a
secret, my Joey?" "Madam," says he, "I hope your ladyship
can't tax me with ever betraying the secrets of the family; and I hope, if you
was to turn me away, I might have that character of you." "I don't
intend to turn you away, Joey," said she, and sighed; "I am afraid it
is not in my power." She then raised herself a little in her bed, and
discovered one of the whitest necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph
blushed. "La!" says she, in an affected surprize, "what am I
doing? I have trusted myself with a man alone, naked in bed; suppose you should
have any wicked intentions upon my honour, how should I defend myself?"
Joseph protested that he never had the least evil design against her.
"No," says she, "perhaps you may not call your designs wicked;
and perhaps they are not so."—He swore they were not. "You
misunderstand me," says she; "I mean if they were against my honour,
they may not be wicked; but the world calls them so. But then, say you, the
world will never know anything of the matter; yet would not that be trusting to
your secrecy? Must not my reputation be then in your power? Would you not then
be my master?" Joseph begged her ladyship to be comforted; for that he
would never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that he had rather
die a thousand deaths than give her any reason to suspect him. "Yes,"
said she, "I must have reason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and,
without vanity, I may pretend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should
prosecute you; indeed I hope you do; and yet Heaven knows I should never have
the confidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I am of
a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgive
you?"—"Indeed, madam," says Joseph, "I will never do anything
to disoblige your ladyship."—"How," says she, "do you think
it would not disoblige me then? Do you think I would willingly suffer
you?"—"I don't understand you, madam," says Joseph.—"Don't
you?" said she, "then you are either a fool, or pretend to be so; I
find I was mistaken in you. So get you downstairs, and never let me see your
face again; your pretended innocence cannot impose on
me."—"Madam," said Joseph, "I would not have your ladyship
think any evil of me. I have always endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to
you and my master."—"O thou villain!" answered my lady;
"why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to torment me,
to bring his precious memory to my mind?" (and then she burst into a fit
of tears.) "Get thee from my sight! I shall never endure thee more."
At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph retreated from the room in
a most disconsolate condition, and writ that letter which the reader will find
in the next chapter.