History of Tom Jones, a Foundling - 65

me to." Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said--"Is it then,
madam, that I am so unhappy to be the object of your dislike and
scorn; or will you pardon me if I suspect there is some other?" Here
he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some spirit, "My lord, I shall
not be accountable to you for the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged
to your lordship for the generous offer you have made; I own it is
beyond either my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you
will not insist on my reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it."
Lord Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not perfectly
understand, and perhaps it could not all be strictly reconciled either
to sense or grammar; but he concluded his ranting speech with saying,
"That if she had pre-engaged herself to any gentleman, however unhappy
it would make him, he should think himself bound in honour to desist."
Perhaps my lord laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we
cannot else well account for the indignation with which he inspired
Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he
had given her.

While she was speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs
Western came into the room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the
flames bursting from her eyes. "I am ashamed," says she, "my lord, of
the reception which you have met with. I assure your lordship we are
all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss Western,
the family expect a different behaviour from you." Here my lord
interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to no purpose; the aunt
proceeded till Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, threw herself into
a chair, and burst into a violent fit of tears.

The remainder of the conversation between Mrs Western and his
lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations
on his side, and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece
should and would consent to all he wished. "Indeed, my lord," says
she, "the girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted to her
fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame
for everything. The girl hath silly country notions of bashfulness.
Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a good
understanding at the bottom, and will be brought to reason."

This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some
time before left the room, with more appearance of passion than she
had ever shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many
expressions of thanks to Mrs Western, many ardent professions of
passion which nothing could conquer, and many assurances of
perseverance, which Mrs Western highly encouraged, took his leave for
this time.

Before we relate what now passed between Mrs Western and Sophia, it
may be proper to mention an unfortunate accident which had happened,
and which had occasioned the return of Mrs Western with so much fury,
as we have seen.

The reader then must know that the maid who at present attended on
Sophia was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for
some time in the capacity of a comb-brush: she was a very sensible
girl, and had received the strictest instructions to watch her young
lady very carefully. These instructions, we are sorry to say, were
communicated to her by Mrs Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston
had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the
good waiting-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely
obliterated by that great attachment which she had to her new
mistress.

Now, when Mrs Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name of the
girl), returning to her young lady, found her very attentively engaged
in reading a long letter, and the visible emotions which she betrayed
on that occasion might have well accounted for some suspicions which
the girl entertained; but indeed they had yet a stronger foundation,
for she had overheard the whole scene which passed between Sophia and
Mrs Miller.

Mrs Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after
receiving many commendations and some rewards for her fidelity, was
ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter came again, she
should introduce her to Mrs Western herself.

Unluckily, Mrs Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was
engaged with his lordship. Betty, according to order, sent her
directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances
relating to what had past the day before, easily imposed upon the poor
woman to believe that Sophia had communicated the whole affair; and so
pumped everything out of her which she knew relating to the letter and
relating to Jones.

This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was
one of that order of mortals who are apt to believe everything which
is said to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the offensive
nor defensive weapons of deceit, and who are consequently liable to be
imposed upon by any one who will only be at the expense of a little
falshood for that purpose. Mrs Western, having drained Mrs Miller of
all she knew, which, indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient
to make the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her with assurances
that Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the
letter, nor ever receive another; nor did she suffer her to depart
without a handsome lecture on the merits of an office to which she
could afford no better name than that of procuress.--This discovery
had greatly discomposed her temper, when, coming into the apartment
next to that in which the lovers were, she overheard Sophia very
warmly protesting against his lordship's addresses. At which the rage
already kindled burst forth, and she rushed in upon her niece in a
most furious manner, as we have already described, together with what
past at that time till his lordship's departure.

No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs Western returned to Sophia,
whom she upbraided in the most bitter terms for the ill use she had
made of the confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery in
conversing with a man with whom she had offered but the day before to
bind herself in the most solemn oath never more to have any
conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such
conversation. "How, how! Miss Western," said the aunt; "will you deny
your receiving a letter from him yesterday?" "A letter, madam!"
answered Sophia, somewhat surprized. "It is not very well bred, miss,"
replies the aunt, "to repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist
upon your showing it me immediately." "I scorn a lie, madam," said
Sophia; "I did receive a letter, but it was without my desire, and,
indeed, I may say, against my consent." "Indeed, indeed, miss," cries
the aunt, "you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received it at
all; but where is the letter? for I will see it."

To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she returned
an answer; and at last only excused herself by declaring she had not
the letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon which her
aunt, losing all manner of patience, asked her niece this short
question, whether she would resolve to marry Lord Fellamar, or no? to
which she received the strongest negative. Mrs Western then replied
with an oath, or something very like one, that she would early the
next morning deliver her back into her father's hand.

Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following
manner:--"Why, madam, must I of necessity be forced to marry at all?
Consider how cruel you would have thought it in your own case, and how
much kinder your parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What
have I done to forfeit this liberty? I will never marry contrary to my
father's consent, nor without asking yours----And when I ask the
consent of either improperly, it will be then time enough to force
some other marriage upon me." "Can I bear to hear this," cries Mrs
Western, "from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her
pocket?" "I have no such letter, I promise you," answered Sophia;
"and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give you
any further disturbance." "How, Miss Western!" said the aunt, "have
you the assurance to speak of him in this manner; to own your
affection for such a villain to my face?" "Sure, madam," said Sophia,
"you put a very strange construction on my words." "Indeed, Miss
Western," cries the lady, "I shall not bear this usage; you have
learnt of your father this manner of treating me; he hath taught you
to give me the lie. He hath totally ruined you by this false system of
education; and, please heaven, he shall have the comfort of its
fruits; for once more I declare to you, that to-morrow morning I will
carry you back. I will withdraw all my forces from the field, and
remain henceforth, like the wise king of Prussia, in a state of
perfect neutrality. You are both too wise to be regulated by my
measures; so prepare yourself, for to-morrow morning you shall
evacuate this house."

Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all she
said. In this resolution therefore we must at present leave her, as
there seems to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.



Chapter ix.

What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.


Mr Jones passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless
when relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr Nightingale
returned; not that this worthy young man had deserted or forgot his
friend; for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part of the time
employed in his service.

He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the
beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a
man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went
in search of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought
after were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place,
till at last he found two of them drinking together, with a third
person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.

Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was
in the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale,
taking Jones by the hand, cried, "Come, my brave friend, be not too
much dejected at what I am going to tell you----I am sorry I am the
messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell you." "I guess
already what that bad news is," cries Jones. "The poor gentleman then
is dead."--"I hope not," answered Nightingale. "He was alive this
morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the accounts I
could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as
you told it, your own remorse would be all you would have reason to
apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I
entreat you to make the worst of your story to your friends. If you
disguise anything to us, you will only be an enemy to yourself."

"What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you," said Jones, "to
stab me with so cruel a suspicion?" "Have patience," cries
Nightingale, "and I will tell you all. After the most diligent enquiry
I could make, I at last met with two of the fellows who were present
at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say, they do not relate
the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told it." "Why,
what do they say?" cries Jones. "Indeed what I am sorry to repeat, as
I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were
at too great a distance to overhear any words that passed between you:
but they both agree that the first blow was given by you." "Then, upon
my soul," answered Jones, "they injure me. He not only struck me
first, but struck me without the least provocation. What should induce
those villains to accuse me falsely?" "Nay, that I cannot guess," said
Nightingale, "and if you yourself, and I, who am so heartily your
friend, cannot conceive a reason why they should belie you, what
reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they
should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several
times, and so did another gentleman who was present, who, I believe,
is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very friendly part by you;
for he begged them often to consider that there was the life of a man
in the case; and asked them over and over, if they were certain; to
which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by their
evidence upon oath. For heaven's sake, my dear friend, recollect
yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your
business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would
not shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law,
whatever verbal provocations may have been given you." "Alas! my
friend," cries Jones, "what interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides,
do you think I would even wish to live with the reputation of a
murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have
the confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a man
condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have
no such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly
superior; which will, I am certain, afford me all the protection I
merit."

He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the
truth of what he had at first asserted.

The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline
to credit his friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful
report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he
cried out most heroically, "Well, my friend, I am now indifferent as
to what shall happen, at least with regard to my life; and if it be
the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the
blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my
honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least,
will be believed, so far as to justify his character."

A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends,
at which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so
few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We will,
therefore, pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquainted
Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak with him when
he was at leisure.

Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, "He knew no lady
in the world whom he could possibly expect to see there." However, as
he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs Miller and Mr
Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the
lady admitted.

If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly
was he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs
Waters! In this astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order
to cure the surprize of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a
little wonder at the arrival of this lady.

Who this Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was,
he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to
remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr
Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company
travelled to Bath.

Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick at that
time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled
that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr
Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly examined Mrs Waters on the
road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their arrival
at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any scruple
accepted. As husband and wife this gentleman and lady continued
together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife
they arrived together in town.

Whether Mr Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good
thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a
prospect of regaining; or whether Mrs Waters had so well discharged
her office, that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to
make his wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say;
but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never
communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once
hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever
mention the name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him
wherever he met him, he did not imitate those prudent persons who
think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the
safest seconds on these occasions. The first account therefore which
she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was
brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.

As Mr Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a
story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than
usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who
had given him this wound was the very same person from whom her heart
had received a wound, which, though not of a mortal kind, was yet so
deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was
she acquainted that Mr Jones himself was the man who had been
committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she took the
first opportunity of committing Mr Fitzpatrick to the care of his
nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror.

She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an
immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who started
and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, "Nay, I do
not wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect to see me;
for few gentlemen are troubled here with visits from any lady, unless
a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr Jones. Indeed, I little
thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have
been in such a place." "Indeed, madam," says Jones, "I must look upon
this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such
dismal habitations." "I protest, Mr Jones," says she, "I can hardly
persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why,
your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can
be the matter with you?" "I thought, madam," said Jones, "as you knew
of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason." "Pugh!" says she, "you
have pinked a man in a duel, that's all." Jones exprest some
indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for
what had happened. To which she answered, "Well, then, sir, if you
take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not
dead, and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The
surgeon, indeed, who first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed
desirous of representing his case to be as bad as possible, that he
might have the more honour from curing him: but the king's surgeon
hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of which there are
at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger of life."
Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report;
upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, "By the most
extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and
have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and
says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor,
and that you was not in the least to blame."

Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs
Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well
knew before, as who Mr Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his
resentment, &c. He likewise told her several facts of which she was
ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars,
concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and
vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had
been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be
unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious
courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his
resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to him.

Mrs Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of
low spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the
devil when he was sick, and told him, "She doubted not but shortly to
see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then," says
she, "I don't question but your conscience will be safely delivered of
all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding."

Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do
her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor
are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be
treated with ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest
of this conversation, and only observe that it ended at last with
perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of
the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news she had
brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the
penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview,
conceived a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of
him.

Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr Nightingale was
pretty well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs Miller had
thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with
the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least
doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken
a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him
were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in
store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of
the ensuing book.




BOOK XVIII.

CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.



Chapter i.

A farewel to the reader.


We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As
we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us
behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who
have passed several days in the company of each other; and who,
notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have
occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for
the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour;
since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.

As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a
little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good
company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known
that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever
characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake personated on
the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and
serious.

In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this
work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay
it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to
cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous
observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes,
perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning
to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only;
and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this
book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it
scarce sufficient to tell the story.

And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other)
of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining
companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in
anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some
things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do
most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I
question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that
thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told
thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more
than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none hath ever been
treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of
the abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other
of their works, have abused me themselves with the utmost virulence.

All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long
before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short
the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably
outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions of his
abusive contemporaries.



Chapter ii.

Containing a very tragical incident.


While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
standing an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as
he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
spectre himself.

Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat
shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change
colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was
the matter?

"I hope, sir," said Partridge, "you will not be angry with me. Indeed
I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am
sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard
what I have heard." "Why, what is the matter?" said Jones. "The
matter, sir? O good Heaven!" answered Partridge, "was that woman who
is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?" "She was,
Partridge," cried Jones. "And did you really, sir, go to bed with that
woman?" said he, trembling.--"I am afraid what past between us is no
secret," said Jones.--"Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir,
answer me," cries Partridge. "You know I did," cries Jones. "Why then,
the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you," cries Partridge;
"but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own
mother."

Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror
than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with
amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his
words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, "How! how!
what's this you tell me?" "Nay, sir," cries Partridge, "I have not
breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.--That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that
time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived
to bring about this wickedness."

"Sure," cries Jones, "Fortune will never have done with me till she
hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself
the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have
befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What
thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses!
And was Mrs Waters, then--but why do I ask? for thou must certainly
know her--If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any
pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to
me. O good Heavens! incest----with a mother! To what am I reserved!"
He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and
despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at
last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to
himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this
wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was
lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.

If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the