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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with
the same decorum which he had before maintained.



Chapter x.

A short chapter, which concludes the book.


The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet
in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as,
during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated
his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not
distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and
her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones himself.

When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible
alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their
last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now
changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed,
common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds,
from June to December.

This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for
as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and
to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be
spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms
of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter
remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit
satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one.

Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole
attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to
act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.

From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
payment.

Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off
his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
his engagements.

Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did
indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding
that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young
Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness
of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.

While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these
poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him
that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.----He went immediately
out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant
upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such
dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all
consideration for every other person; and his whole stock of
compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery,
and on that of his unfortunate angel.

What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
those will be the subject of the following book.




BOOK XV.

IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.



Chapter i.

Too short to need a preface.


There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that
virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this
world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have
but one objection, namely, that it is not true.

Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal
virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the
business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point;
for so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I
could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages,
to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue;
for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser
than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to
constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites,
those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the abundant
gratification of every sensual appetite.

But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain
relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and
seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I
cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human happiness;
because I am afraid we must then include poverty and contempt, with
all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring
on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall
be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since many by
the above virtue have brought themselves thither.

I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation,
as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine
that lay in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous
part imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from
destruction, the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps
cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely
miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.

This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it
was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many
other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it
is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are
convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the
noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of
immortality.

But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and
hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.



Chapter ii.

In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.


I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, "When children are
doing nothing, they are doing mischief." I will not enlarge this
quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;
but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy
do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may
suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and
attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.

This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all
the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much
indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young
lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she
resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was it long
before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented
itself to her.

The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown
into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a
set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him,
that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who
had very safely conducted her to her chair.

This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than
once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a
very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more
amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that
he might now, without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in
love with her.

It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an
occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now
offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have
prompted him to pay her a visit.

The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia,
with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm
from her last night's adventure.

As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a
flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now
flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in
company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had
made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have
alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at
present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of
her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make
any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions were
rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to complacence,
even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the very reverse
of which is well known to be the reigning mode at present.

Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his first
arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that things
went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time
she saw this young couple together. This business, she rightly I think
concluded, that she should by no means forward by mixing in the
company while they were together; she therefore ordered her servants,
that when my lord was going, they should tell him she desired to speak
with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating how best to
accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would
very readily embrace the execution of.

Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no
sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the
following strain: "Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my
servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see
you about an affair of some importance."----"Indeed, Lady Bellaston,"
said he, "I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my
visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I had
staid above half-a-one."----"What am I to conclude from thence, my
lord?" said she. "The company must be very agreeable which can make
time slide away so very deceitfully."----"Upon my honour," said he,
"the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is
this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a
sudden?"----"What blazing star, my lord?" said she, affecting a
surprize. "I mean," said he, "the lady I saw here the other day, whom
I had last night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been
making that unreasonable visit."----"O, my cousin Western!" said she;
"why, that blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby
squire, and hath been in town about a fortnight, for the first
time."----"Upon my soul," said he, "I should swear she had been bred
up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so
genteel, so sensible, so polite."----"O brave!" cries the lady, "my
cousin hath you, I find."----"Upon my honour," answered he, "I wish
she had; for I am in love with her to distraction."----"Nay, my
lord," said she, "it is not wishing yourself very ill neither, for
she is a very great fortune: I assure you she is an only child, and
her father's estate is a good £3000 a-year." "Then I can assure you,
madam," answered the lord, "I think her the best match in England."
"Indeed, my lord," replied she, "if you like her, I heartily wish you
had her." "If you think so kindly of me, madam," said he, "as she is
a relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her
father?" "And are you really then in earnest?" cries the lady, with
an affected gravity. "I hope, madam," answered he, "you have a better
opinion of me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an
affair of this kind." "Indeed, then," said the lady, "I will most
readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe,
assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a
bar, which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will
never be able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who,
though I blush to name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever
be able to conquer." "Upon my word, Lady Bellaston," cries he, "you
have struck a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of
being." "Fie, my lord," said she, "I should rather hope I had struck
fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I rather
imagined you would have asked your rival's name, that you might have
immediately entered the lists with him." "I promise you, madam,"
answered he, "there are very few things I would not undertake for
your charming cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?"--"Why, he
is," said she, "what I am sorry to say most happy men with us are,
one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard, a
foundling, a fellow in meaner circumstances than one of your
lordship's footmen." "And is it possible," cried he, "that a young
creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so
unworthily?" "Alas! my lord," answered she, "consider the
country--the bane of all young women is the country. There they learn
a set of romantic notions of love, and I know not what folly, which
this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a whole winter."
"Indeed, madam," replied my lord, "your cousin is of too immense a
value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must be prevented."
"Alas!" cries she, "my lord, how can it be prevented? The family have
already done all in their power; but the girl is, I think,
intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her. And to deal
more openly with you, I expect every day to hear she is run away with
him." "What you tell me, Lady Bellaston," answered his lordship,
"affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, instead of
lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means must be found to
preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your ladyship endeavoured to
reason with her?" Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, "My dear
lord, sure you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman
out of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as the
jewels they wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure
their folly; but this is a medicine which I am certain she will not
take; nay, I live in hourly horrors on her account. In short, nothing
but violent methods will do." "What is to be done?" cries my lord;
"what methods are to be taken?--Is there any method upon earth?--Oh!
Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such
a reward."----"I really know not," answered the lady, after a pause;
and then pausing again, she cried out--"Upon my soul, I am at my
wit's end on this girl's account.--If she can be preserved, something
must be done immediately; and, as I say, nothing but violent methods
will do.----If your lordship hath really this attachment to my cousin
(and to do her justice, except in this silly inclination, of which
she will soon see her folly, she is every way deserving), I think
there may be one way, indeed, it is a very disagreeable one, and what
I am almost afraid to think of.--It requires a great spirit, I
promise you." "I am not conscious, madam," said he, "of any defect
there; nor am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an
egregious defect indeed, which could make me backward on this
occasion." "Nay, my lord," answered she, "I am so far from doubting
you, I am much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run
a monstrous risque. In short, I must place such a confidence in your
honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place in a man on any
consideration." In this point likewise my lord very well satisfied
her; for his reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did him
no more than justice, in speaking well of him. "Well, then," said
she, "my lord,--I--I vow, I can't bear the apprehension of it.--No,
it must not be.----At least every other method shall be tried. Can
you get rid of your engagements, and dine here to-day? Your lordship
will have an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss Western.--I
promise you we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady
Betty, and Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they
will all go soon--and I shall be at home to nobody. Then your
lordship may be a little more explicit. Nay, I will contrive some
method to convince you of her attachment to this fellow." My lord
made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, and then they
parted to dress, it being now past three in the morning, or to reckon
by the old style, in the afternoon.



Chapter iii.

A further explanation of the foregoing design.


Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a
member (and no inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in
reality a very considerable member of the little world; by which
appellation was distinguished a very worthy and honourable society
which not long since flourished in this kingdom.

Among other good principles upon which this society was founded, there
was one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an honourable club
of heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the
members should every day fight once at least; so 'twas in this, that
every member should, within the twenty-four hours, tell at least one
merry fib, which was to be propagated by all the brethren and
sisterhood.

Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain
quality may be, perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the
society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that he
sat in person in an elbow-chair at the upper end of the table; but,
upon very strict enquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any
of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of
very good sort of people, and the fibs which they propagated were of a
harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good humour.

Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him
therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for her
purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever
the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to be till the evening,
when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were gone, and
while they were engaged in a rubber at whist.

To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening,
we will convey our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss
Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of
their rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, "I
protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable lately; you used to tell us
all the news of the town, and now you know no more of the world than
if you lived out of it."

Mr Edwards then began as follows: "The fault is not mine, madam: it
lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing worth talking
of.----O la! though now I think on't there hath a terrible accident
befallen poor Colonel Wilcox.----Poor Ned.----You know him, my lord,
everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for him."

"What is it, pray?" says Lady Bellaston.

"Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that's all."

His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had
killed? To which Edwards answered, "A young fellow we none of us know;
a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is; a near
relation of one Mr Allworthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath
heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a coffee-house.--Upon my soul, he is
one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!"

Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was
killed, stopt her hand, and listened with attention (for all stories
of that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter
part of the story than she began to deal again; and having dealt three
cards to one, and seven to another, and ten to a third, at last dropt
the rest from her hand, and fell back in her chair.

The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual
disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at
last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at
her earnest desire, led to her own apartment; where, at my lord's
request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the truth, attempted to
carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with repeated
assurances, that neither his lordship nor Tom, though she had taught
him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.

There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how
justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and
now, at her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these two
noble persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous light to
his lordship (as he faithfully promised, and faithfully resolved too,
to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage),
yet many of our readers, we doubt not, will see with just detestation.

The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when
Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his lordship
should be introduced to her. The whole family were to be regulated for
the purpose, most of the servants despatched out of the house; and for
Mrs Honour, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be left with her
mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to
engage her in an apartment as distant as possible from the scene of
the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia.

Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her
ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, of which she
had no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so effectually
to remove Sophia from being any further obstruction to her amour with
Jones, by a means of which she should never appear to be guilty, even
if the fact appeared to the world; but this she made no doubt of
preventing by huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the
ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at which all
the rest of her family would rejoice.

But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other
conspirator; his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so nobly
described by Shakespear--

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection."----

Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the
first hint of this design, especially as it came from a relation of
the lady, yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had placed the
action itself in all its natural black colours before his eyes, with
all the consequences which must, and those which might probably attend
it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the
other side; and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night,
between honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he
determined to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the design.

Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia
sitting by her bed-side, when the servant acquainted her that Lord
Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him
to stay, and that she would see him presently; but the servant was no
sooner departed than poor Sophia began to intreat her cousin not to
encourage the visits of that odious lord (so she called him, though a
little unjustly) upon her account. "I see his design," said she; "for
he made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I am resolved
never to admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together
any more, and to order the servants that, if he enquires for me, I may
be always denied to him."

"La! child," says Lady Bellaston, "you country girls have nothing but
sweethearts in your head; you fancy every man who is civil to you is
making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows about town,
and I am convinced means no more than a little gallantry. Make love to
you indeed! I wish with all my heart he would, and you must be an
arrant mad woman to refuse him."

"But as I shall certainly be that mad woman," cries Sophia, "I hope
his visits shall not be intruded upon me."

"O child!" said Lady Bellaston, "you need not be so fearful; if you
resolve to run away with that Jones, I know no person who can hinder
you."

"Upon my honour, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship injures me. I
will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry contrary to my
father's inclinations."

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