A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

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




"D--n their figures," cries the squire; "a pretty civilised nation,
truly, where women are above the law. And what must I stand sending a
parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a
daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so
ignorant as you think me----I know you would have women above the law,
but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no one is
above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose."

"Mr Western," said she, "I think you daily improve in ignorance.----I
protest you are grown an arrant bear."

"No more a bear than yourself, sister Western," said the
squire.--"Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am sure
you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though
I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I
will show you I have got more good manners than some folks."

"Mr Western," answered the lady, "you may say what you please, _je
vous mesprise de tout mon coeur._ I shall not therefore be
angry.----Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly
says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my
family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I
have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed,
indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite
court.--Greenland--Greenland should always be the scene of the
tramontane negociation."

"I thank Heaven," cries the squire, "I don't understand you now. You
are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to
be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what
I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have
always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now
and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my
part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to
London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not
stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected
to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied
that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to dispute
that would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of a
pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me."--"Which I
promise you," says she, "I never will."--"Well, and I promise you,"
returned he, "that I never will dispute the t'other."

Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady)
between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the
horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to
follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.

But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they
both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be
dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in
the manner we have already seen.


Chapter vii.

In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.


Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs
Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have before
seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:--

"O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone,
sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone." "Hath anything
happened to Sophia?" cries Jones, staring like a madman. "All that is
bad," cries Honour: "Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh that
I should ever live to see this day!" At these words Jones turned pale
as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on--"O! Mr Jones, I
have lost my lady for ever." "How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me.
O, my dear Sophia!" "You may well call her so," said Honour; "she was
the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another
place."----"D--n your place!" cries Jones; "where is--what--what is
become of my Sophia?" "Ay, to be sure," cries she, "servants may be
d--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are
turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh
and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what
becomes of them." "If you have any pity, any compassion," cries Jones,
"I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?" "To
be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me," answered
Honour; "I don't d--n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in
the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to
be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress----"
"What hath happened?" cries Jones, in almost a raving fit.
"What?--What?" said Honour: "Why, the worst that could have happened
both for you and for me.--Her father is come to town, and hath carried
her away from us both." Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving
that it was no worse. "No worse!" repeated Honour; "what could be
worse for either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry
Mr Blifil; that's for your comfort; and, for poor me, I am turned out
of doors." "Indeed, Mrs Honour," answered Jones, "you frightened me
out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had
happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even seeing her
married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are
hopes, my dear Honour. Women in this land of liberty, cannot be
married by actual brutal force." "To be sure, sir," said she, "that's
true. There may be some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are
there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer
all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is
for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil." "Indeed, Mrs
Honour," answered he, "I am sensible of my obligations to you, and
will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends." "Alas!
sir," said she, "what can make a servant amends for the loss of one
place but the getting another altogether as good?" "Do not despair,
Mrs Honour," said Jones, "I hope to reinstate you again in the same."
"Alack-a-day, sir," said she, "how can I flatter myself with such
hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set
against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I
now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured
gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you
as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because
as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my lady, must
see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if two people
who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so? Happiness
don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough
for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the
pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am
convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is
to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all
the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be sure I
wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell the
squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter
contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the
squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good
sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the
squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face.
To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the
squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be
melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are
sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never will
be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed I am terribly
afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a
prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor lady
will be brought to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a
chicken. It is pity, methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If
I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to lock me up,
I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him; but then there's a great
fortune in the case, which it is in her father's power either to give
her or not; that, to be sure, may make some difference."

Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or
whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot
determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once
stop till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that
the great lady was upon the stairs.

Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour
knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady
Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to whom he
would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is
common enough) the worst course, and, instead of exposing her to the
lady, which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose
the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but
just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the curtains.

The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his
poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour,
and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of
Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head;
so that it never once occurred to his memory to act the part of a sick
man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness
of his countenance, would have at all supported.

He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires
than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster in
his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the
least disorder.

Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself
down on the bed: "So, my dear Jones," said she, "you find nothing can
detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that I
have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your
distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I suppose you
have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a fine lady to see
company after a lying-in; but, however, don't think I intend to scold
you; for I never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a
husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife."

"Nay, Lady Bellaston," said Jones, "I am sure your ladyship will not
upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who,
my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an appointment
last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and
languish?"

"Do not mention it, my dear Mr Jones," cried she. "If you knew the
occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to conceive
what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the impertinence of
fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I am glad, however,
all your languishing and wishing have done you no harm; for you never
looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at this
instant sit for the picture of Adonis."

There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can
properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there may
be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now the
compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this
kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in which the lady
conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her
tongue.

Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable
and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on the comparison
we made use of before, though the provocation was given by the lady,
Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it,
in the presence of a third person; seconds in this kind of duels not
being according to the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to
Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any other woman being there but
herself, she waited some time in great astonishment for an answer from
Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made, stood at a
distance, and, not daring to give the proper answer, gave none at all.
Nothing can be imagined more comic, nor yet more tragical, than this
scene would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady had
already changed colour two or three times; had got up from the bed and
sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground to sink under him,
or the house to fall on his head, when an odd accident freed him from
an embarrassment out of which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor
the politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter
disgrace.

This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk;
or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use
of their reason without depriving them of the use of their limbs.

Mrs Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking
his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr Jones's
chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst open, and was
entering without any ceremony, when Jones started from his seat and
ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that Nightingale never
came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the bed.

Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones's apartment for that in
which himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in,
often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones,
however, prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of
Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his master's
assistance.

And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment,
where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady Bellaston
venting an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same
time saw her flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which
in a lady of a tender constitution would have been an hysteric fit.

In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men,
of which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard
Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted
to retire to her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion
she found already occupied by another.

"Is this usage to be borne, Mr Jones?" cries the lady.--"Basest of
men?----What wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?" "Wretch!"
cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her place of
concealment--"Marry come up!----Wretch forsooth?----as poor a wretch
as I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks who are richer can
say."

Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of
Mrs Honour's resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have
done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the most
unfortunate man in the world; and presently after, addressing himself
to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very absurd protestations of
innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the use of her
reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially
on such occasions, calmly replied: "Sir, you need make no apologies, I
see now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs Honour: but now
I do, I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you; and I am sure
she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong constructions upon
my visit to you; I have been always her friend, and it may be in my
power to be much more hereafter."

Mrs Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing,
therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she likewise softened
hers.----"I'm sure, madam," says she, "I have been always ready to
acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me; sure I never had so
good a friend as your ladyship----and to be sure, now I see it is your
ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue off for very
mad.--I constructions upon your ladyship--to be sure it doth not
become a servant as I am to think about such a great lady--I mean I
was a servant: for indeed I am nobody's servant now, the more
miserable wretch is me.--I have lost the best mistress----" Here
Honour thought fit to produce a shower of tears.--"Don't cry, child,"
says the good lady; "ways perhaps may be found to make you amends.
Come to me to-morrow morning." She then took up her fan which lay on
the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very majestically
out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of
women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in
circumstances of this nature.

Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she
absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking any
notice of him as he stood bowing before her.

At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs
Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had
undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady;
on which she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found
means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of
most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour
to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings
of the squire.

Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs
Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge
from experience) is often a very valuable possession: and that not
only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper
it about till it come to the ears of every one except the ignorant
person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is publickly
known.



Chapter viii.

Short and sweet.


Notwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs
Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle remonstrances for
the hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber.
These were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed
truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones himself,
that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition
of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had past, excused
it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring the same
disturbances into the house.

But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in
private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned
downstairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind, being
indeed to perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give
her in wedlock to Mr Nightingale, who was now ready drest, and full as
sober as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives
a wife in so imprudent a manner.

And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this
young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the
condition in which we have seen him the night before.

Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly
to indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly loved his bottle), and
partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his
purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so
briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not
much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be guilty of
disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon completely
finished.

Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed
for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so
entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all
consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken
up with his own concerns.

This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had
taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and
had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though
her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth
nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her amour
even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it had
never been once suspected by any, till now that it was consummated.

Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost
confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and,
having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly
left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.

The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to
bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible
that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices
tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant,
who had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied;
and, thus being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had
staggered up to Mr Jones's chamber, as hath been before recounted.

This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew
not as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the
mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stept into a
hackney-coach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where Miss
Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor
mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of
all human beings.

And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and
her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to
his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his
folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest
some few should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he
did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from
being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a very
considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.

To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly
say with him in Terence, _Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto_.
He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of
any one; and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion
as he himself contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the
instrument of raising a whole family from the lowest state of
wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without conveying great
felicity to himself; more perhaps than worldly men often purchase to
themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and often by wading
through the deepest iniquity.

Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps
think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others
may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as
impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to
bring Mr Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable
catastrophe.



Chapter ix.

Containing love-letters of several sorts.


Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his
table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.

LETTER I.

"Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know
that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you
can invent.----Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come
to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an
excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too----I will
think no more.----Come to me directly.----This is the third letter I
have writ, the two former are burnt----I am almost inclined to burn
this too----I wish I may preserve my senses.----Come to me
presently."

LETTER II.

"If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my
doors, come to me this instant."

LETTER III.

"I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
The moment you receive this let me see you;--I shall not stir out;
nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
you long."

Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came
into the room. "Well, Tom," said he, "any news from Lady Bellaston,
after last night's adventure?" (for it was now no secret to any one in
that house who the lady was). "The Lady Bellaston?" answered Jones
very gravely.----"Nay, dear Tom," cries Nightingale, "don't be so
reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last
night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the
queen of the fairies is?" "And did you really then know the lady at
the masquerade?" said Jones. "Yes, upon my soul, did I," said
Nightingale, "and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you
seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly.
I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not
so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person.
Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young
fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe
me."

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.