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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

H >> Henry Fielding >> The History of Tom Jones, a foundling




Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he thought, as
he had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took the most
prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very glad to
lodge in the same house with him; and it was accordingly agreed
between them, that Nightingale should procure him either the ground
floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman himself was
to occupy that which was between them.

This Nightingale, of whom we shall be presently obliged to say a
little more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of strict
honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the town, one
of strict honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was somewhat loose in
his morals; not that he was even here as void of principle as
gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it is certain
he had been guilty of some indefensible treachery to women, and had,
in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many deceits,
which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted the
greatest villain upon earth.

But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this
treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his
iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often
boast of his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their
hearts, for which he had before this time received some rebukes from
Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to
the fair part of the species, who, if considered, he said, as they
ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be
cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and
tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a conquest of which a
man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.



Chapter v.

A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.


Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to
say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon he
received an invitation from Mrs Miller to drink tea; for that good
woman, having learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other
means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr
Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an
angry manner.

Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the tea-kettle
removed, and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without
much preface, began as follows: "Well, there are very surprizing
things happen in this world; but certainly it is a wonderful business
that I should have a relation of Mr Allworthy in my house, and never
know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine what a
friend that best of gentlemen hath been to me and mine. Yes, sir, I am
not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I did not long
since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches, two
destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the care, or rather to the
cruelty, of the world.

"You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by
letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was an
officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he lived up
to his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his death,
became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good luck to
die soon after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take the
second out of charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother of
this lady had been a servant to my grand-mother; and, having inherited
a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by pawnbroking, was
married to a gentleman of great estate and fashion. She used my sister
so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth and poverty,
calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she at length
broke the heart of the poor girl. In short, she likewise died within a
twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to provide better
for me, and within a month from his decease I was married to a
clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before, and who had been
very ill used by my father on that account: for though my poor father
could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred us up as delicately,
considered us, and would have had us consider ourselves, as highly as
if we had been the richest heiresses. But my dear husband forgot all
this usage, and the moment we were become fatherless he immediately
renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that I, who always liked, and
now more than ever esteemed him, soon complied. Five years did I live
in a state of perfect happiness with that best of men, till at
last--Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever separated us, that deprived
me of the kindest of husbands and my poor girls of the tenderest
parent.--O my poor girls! you never knew the blessing which ye
lost.--I am ashamed, Mr Jones, of this womanish weakness; but I shall
never mention him without tears." "I ought rather, madam," said Jones,
"to be ashamed that I do not accompany you." "Well, sir," continued
she, "I was now left a second time in a much worse condition than
before; besides the terrible affliction I was to encounter, I had now
two children to provide for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than
ever; when that great, that good, that glorious man, Mr Allworthy, who
had some little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally heard of my
distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it
is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I
must and will read it to you.

"'Madam,

"'I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which your
own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt from
the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any advice
which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you, whom I
have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any
immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your
duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your
tenderness.

"`However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of
much worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a
person to wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg
you will accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe
me to be, madam, &c.'

"This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the irreparable
loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight afterwards, Mr
Allworthy--the blessed Mr Allworthy, came to pay me a visit, when he
placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of
money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50 a-year upon me,
which I have constantly received ever since. Judge, then, Mr Jones, in
what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation
of my life, and of those dear children, for whose sake alone my life
is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me impertinent, Mr Jones (since
I must esteem one for whom I know Mr Allworthy hath so much value), if
I beg you not to converse with these wicked women. You are a young
gentleman, and do not know half their artful wiles. Do not be angry
with me, sir, for what I said upon account of my house; you must be
sensible it would be the ruin of my poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you
cannot but be acquainted that Mr Allworthy himself would never forgive
my conniving at such matters, and particularly with you."

"Upon my word, madam," said Jones, "you need make no farther apology;
nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but give me
leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr Allworthy, to
deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be altogether
for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of his."

"Alas! sir," answered she, "I know you are not, I know very well who
you are; for Mr Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you, had
you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more regard
for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not be
ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person will
esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr Jones, the words
`dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to
say, unless the word `dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for
the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they
are intirely innocent."

Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, "Since I perceive,
madam, you really do know me, and Mr Allworthy hath thought proper to
mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as
to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances
concerning myself." And these Mrs Miller having expressed great desire
and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole history,
without once mentioning the name of Sophia.

There is a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they
give an easy credit to each other. Mrs Miller believed all which Jones
told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She
was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for,
as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he began to stipulate for a
second interview with the lady that evening, which he promised should
be the last at her house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one
of great distinction, and that nothing but what was intirely innocent
was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep
his word.

Mrs Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his
chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston
appeared.

As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as
it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may perhaps
wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him
to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to
require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the lady, may, by
some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our
business is only to record truth.



Chapter vi.

Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers.


Mr Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night;
not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being disappointed
by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking
hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of
dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the
best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is called
compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character from that
noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were, within himself,
and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through the world without
being once stopped by the calamities which happen to others. He could
not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of poor Nancy,
whose love for Mr Nightingale seemed to him so apparent, that he was
astonished at the blindness of her mother, who had more than once, the
preceding evening, remarked to him the great change in the temper of
her daughter, "who from being," she said, "one of the liveliest,
merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden, become all gloom and
melancholy."

Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now,
as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and an
offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.--To
speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr Jones slept till eleven the
next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet
situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.

Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
answered, "That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that
Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother,
were both crying and lamenting over her." Jones expressed much
concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by
saying, with a smile, "he fancied the young lady was in no danger of
death; for that Susan" (which was the name of the maid) "had given
him to understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In
short," said he, "Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her
mother; that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat
down to dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming
for the Foundling Hospital."----"Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,"
cries Jones. "Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of
mirth? Go immediately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave--Stay,
you will make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to
breakfast with her." He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he
could; and while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many
severe rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of
brutality, commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no
sooner dressed than he walked downstairs, and knocking at the door,
was presently admitted by the maid, into the outward parlour, which
was as empty of company as it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs
Miller was in the inner room with her daughter, whence the maid
presently brought a message to Mr Jones, "That her mistress hoped he
would excuse the disappointment, but an accident had happened, which
made it impossible for her to have the pleasure of his company at
breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him up
notice sooner." Jones desired, "She would give herself no trouble
about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was
heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any
service to her, she might command him."

He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who heard them all,
suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood of
tears, said, "O Mr Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men
alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your
service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my poor
girl.--O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined for ever!"
"I hope, madam," said Jones, "no villain"----"O Mr Jones!" said she,
"that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath betrayed my poor
girl; hath destroyed her.--I know you are a man of honour. You have a
good--a noble heart, Mr Jones. The actions to which I have been myself
a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell you all: nay,
indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to keep it a
secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath undone my
daughter. She is--she is--oh! Mr Jones, my girl is with child by him;
and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is his
cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such another monster
lives."

The letter was as follows:

"DEAR NANCY,

"As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this
method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately
paying my addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath
provided for my--I need not write the detested word. Your own good
understanding will make you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to
an obedience, by which I shall be for ever excluded from your dear
arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her
with the unhappy consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a
secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, as
I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I have
suffered; but summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and
forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain
ruin could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I
mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in
your faithful, though unhappy,

"J. N."

When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a
minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: "I cannot
express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me
beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider the
reputation of your daughter."----"It is gone, it is lost, Mr Jones,"
cryed she, "as well as her innocence. She received the letter in a
room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening it,
the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her
reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath
been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I
myself outlive any accident of that nature.--What then will become of
my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little wretch
will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees
her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause.
O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The
barbarous, cruel----hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this
the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?
Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?
Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?
Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the
conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to
lose one or both in such a manner?" "Indeed, madam," said Jones, with
tears in his eyes, "I pity you from my soul."--"O! Mr Jones," answered
she, "even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no
idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of
children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my
eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those
foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin.
Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had for her.
I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my foolish vanity
with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so much her superior.
And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often in yours, he hath
endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by the most generous
expressions of disinterested love, which he hath always directed to my
poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed to be real. Could I
have believed that these were only snares laid to betray the innocence
of my child, and for the ruin of us all?"--At these words little Betsy
came running into the room, crying, "Dear mamma, for heaven's sake
come to my sister; for she is in another fit, and my cousin can't hold
her." Mrs Miller immediately obeyed the summons; but first ordered
Betsy to stay with Mr Jones, and begged him to entertain her a few
minutes, saying, in the most pathetic voice, "Good heaven! let me
preserve one of my children at least."

Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to comfort
the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very highly
affected with Mrs Miller's story. He told her "Her sister would be
soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she would not
only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too." "Indeed,
sir," says she, "I would not do anything to hurt them for the world. I
would burst my heart rather than they should see me cry.--But my poor
sister can't see me cry.--I am afraid she will never be able to see me
cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her; indeed, I can't.--And
then poor mamma too, what will become of her?--She says she will die
too, and leave me: but I am resolved I won't be left behind." "And are
you not afraid to die, my little Betsy?" said Jones. "Yes," answered
she, "I was always afraid to die; because I must have left my mamma,
and my sister; but I am not afraid of going anywhere with those I
love."

Jones was so pleased with this answer, that he eagerly kissed the
child; and soon after Mrs Miller returned, saying, "She thanked heaven
Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy," says she, "you may go
in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you." She then turned
to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having disappointed him
of his breakfast.

"I hope, madam," said Jones, "I shall have a more exquisite repast
than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be
the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But
whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt
it. I am very much deceived in Mr Nightingale, if, notwithstanding
what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom,
as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this be the
case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will affect
him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as
you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr Nightingale; and I hope to
bring you good news."

Mrs Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of heaven
upon Mr Jones; to which she afterwards added the most passionate
expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr Nightingale, and
the good woman returned to comfort her daughter, who was somewhat
cheared at what her mother told her; and both joined in resounding the
praises of Mr Jones.



Chapter vii.

The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.


The good or evil we confer on others very often, I believe, recoils on
ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own acts of
beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are
scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing
injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin which they
bring on their fellow-creatures.

Mr Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary,
Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire,
and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed
poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily
to meet him; and after much congratulation said, "Nothing could be
more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the
spleen in my life."

"I am sorry," answered Jones, "that I bring news very unlikely to
relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you
the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further
preface, then, I come to you, Mr Nightingale, from a worthy family,
which you have involved in misery and ruin." Mr Nightingale changed
colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded, in
the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the
reader was acquainted in the last chapter.

Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered
violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was concluded, after
fetching a deep sigh, he said, "What you tell me, my friend, affects
me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident
as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her reputation might otherwise
have been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret;
and then the girl might have gone off never the worse; for many such
things happen in this town: and if the husband should suspect a
little, when it is too late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal
his suspicion both from his wife and the world."

"Indeed, my friend," answered Jones, "this could not have been the
case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her affections,
that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which afflicts
her, and will end in the destruction of her and her family." "Nay, for
that matter, I promise you," cries Nightingale, "she hath my
affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to be, will
have very little share in them." "And is it possible then," said
Jones, "you can think of deserting her?" "Why, what can I do?"
answered the other. "Ask Miss Nancy," replied Jones warmly. "In the
condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought
to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest alone,
and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if you ask me
what you shall do, what can you do less," cries Jones, "than fulfil
the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I sincerely tell
you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you together. You will
pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have favoured me with,
moved as I am with compassion for those poor creatures. But your own
heart will best suggest to you, whether you have never intended, by
your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into an
opinion, that you designed honourably: and if so, though there may
have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I will leave to
your own good understanding, how far you are bound to proceed."

"Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted," said Nightingale;
"but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I have given."
"And can you, after owning that," said Jones, "hesitate a moment?"
"Consider, my friend," answered the other; "I know you are a man of
honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules; if there
were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her
disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?" "Undoubtedly,"
replied Jones, "and the very best and truest honour, which is
goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind,
you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of
having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family,
and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her
innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful occasion,
nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being? Can you, with
honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both the life and
soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the thought, that this
creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless, young woman? A young
woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies for you; who hath placed
the utmost confidence in your promises; and to that confidence hath
sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honour support such
contemplations as these a moment?"

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