History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter iii.
2247 words | Chapter 250
A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chamber-maid, proper to
be read by all inn-keepers and their servants; with the arrival, and
affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which may teach persons
of condition how they may acquire the love of the whole world.
The landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only person out of
bed when the door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to
enquire into the first occasion of the disturbance, as well as who the
strange gentleman was, and when and how he arrived.
Susan related the whole story which the reader knows already, varying
the truth only in some circumstances, as she saw convenient, and
totally concealing the money which she had received. But whereas her
mistress had, in the preface to her enquiry, spoken much in compassion
for the fright which the lady had been in concerning any intended
depredations on her virtue, Susan could not help endeavouring to quiet
the concern which her mistress seemed to be under on that account, by
swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her bed.
The landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. “A likely story,
truly,” cried she, “that a woman should cry out, and endeavour to
expose herself, if that was the case! I desire to know what better
proof any lady can give of her virtue than her crying out, which, I
believe, twenty people can witness for her she did? I beg, madam, you
would spread no such scandal of any of my guests; for it will not only
reflect on them, but upon the house; and I am sure no vagabonds, nor
wicked beggarly people, come here.”
“Well,” says Susan, “then I must not believe my own eyes.” “No,
indeed, must you not always,” answered her mistress; “I would not have
believed my own eyes against such good gentlefolks. I have not had a
better supper ordered this half-year than they ordered last night; and
so easy and good-humoured were they, that they found no fault with my
Worcestershire perry, which I sold them for champagne; and to be sure
it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the best champagne in the
kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it 'em; and they drank me two
bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm of such sober good sort
of people.”
Susan being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other matters.
“And so you tell me,” continued she, “that the strange gentleman came
post, and there is a footman without with the horses; why, then, he is
certainly some of your great gentlefolks too. Why did not you ask him
whether he'd have any supper? I think he is in the other gentleman's
room; go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps he'll order something
when he finds anybody stirring in the house to dress it. Now don't
commit any of your usual blunders, by telling him the fire's out, and
the fowls alive. And if he should order mutton, don't blab out that we
have none. The butcher, I know, killed a sheep just before I went to
bed, and he never refuses to cut it up warm when I desire it. Go,
remember there's all sorts of mutton and fowls; go, open the door
with, Gentlemen, d'ye call? and if they say nothing, ask what his
honour will be pleased to have for supper? Don't forget his honour.
Go; if you don't mind all these matters better, you'll never come to
anything.”
Susan departed, and soon returned with an account that the two
gentlemen were got both into the same bed. “Two gentlemen,” says the
landlady, “in the same bed! that's impossible; they are two arrant
scrubs, I warrant them; and I believe young Squire Allworthy guessed
right, that the fellow intended to rob her ladyship; for, if he had
broke open the lady's door with any of the wicked designs of a
gentleman, he would never have sneaked away to another room to save
the expense of a supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly
thieves, and their searching after a wife is nothing but a pretence.”
In these censures my landlady did Mr Fitzpatrick great injustice; for
he was really born a gentleman, though not worth a groat; and though,
perhaps, he had some few blemishes in his heart as well as in his
head, yet being a sneaking or a niggardly fellow was not one of them.
In reality, he was so generous a man, that, whereas he had received a
very handsome fortune with his wife, he had now spent every penny of
it, except some little pittance which was settled upon her; and, in
order to possess himself of this, he had used her with such cruelty,
that, together with his jealousy, which was of the bitterest kind, it
had forced the poor woman to run away from him.
This gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from
Chester in one day, with which, and some good dry blows he had
received in the scuffle, his bones were so sore, that, added to the
soreness of his mind, it had quite deprived him of any appetite for
eating. And being now so violently disappointed in the woman whom, at
the maid's instance, he had mistaken for his wife, it never once
entered into his head that she might nevertheless be in the house,
though he had erred in the first person he had attacked. He therefore
yielded to the dissuasions of his friend from searching any farther
after her that night, and accepted the kind offer of part of his bed.
The footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. They were
more ready to order than the landlady was to provide; however, after
being pretty well satisfied by them of the real truth of the case, and
that Mr Fitzpatrick was no thief, she was at length prevailed on to
set some cold meat before them, which they were devouring with great
greediness, when Partridge came into the kitchen. He had been first
awaked by the hurry which we have before seen; and while he was
endeavouring to compose himself again on his pillow, a screech-owl had
given him such a serenade at his window, that he leapt in a most
horrible affright from his bed, and, huddling on his cloaths with
great expedition, ran down to the protection of the company, whom he
heard talking below in the kitchen.
His arrival detained my landlady from returning to her rest; for she
was just about to leave the other two guests to the care of Susan; but
the friend of young Squire Allworthy was not to be so neglected,
especially as he called for a pint of wine to be mulled. She
immediately obeyed, by putting the same quantity of perry to the fire;
for this readily answered to the name of every kind of wine.
The Irish footman was retired to bed, and the post-boy was going to
follow; but Partridge invited him to stay and partake of his wine,
which the lad very thankfully accepted. The schoolmaster was indeed
afraid to return to bed by himself; and as he did not know how soon he
might lose the company of my landlady, he was resolved to secure that
of the boy, in whose presence he apprehended no danger from the devil
or any of his adherents.
And now arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which Susan, being
ordered out, returned, introducing two young women in riding habits,
one of which was so very richly laced, that Partridge and the post-boy
instantly started from their chairs, and my landlady fell to her
courtsies, and her ladyships, with great eagerness.
The lady in the rich habit said, with a smile of great condescension,
“If you will give me leave, madam, I will warm myself a few minutes at
your kitchen fire, for it is really very cold; but I must insist on
disturbing no one from his seat.” This was spoken on account of
Partridge, who had retreated to the other end of the room, struck with
the utmost awe and astonishment at the splendor of the lady's dress.
Indeed, she had a much better title to respect than this; for she was
one of the most beautiful creatures in the world.
The lady earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; but could
not prevail. She then pulled off her gloves, and displayed to the fire
two hands, which had every property of snow in them, except that of
melting. Her companion, who was indeed her maid, likewise pulled off
her gloves, and discovered what bore an exact resemblance, in cold and
colour, to a piece of frozen beef.
“I wish, madam,” quoth the latter, “your ladyship would not think of
going any farther to-night. I am terribly afraid your ladyship will
not be able to bear the fatigue.”
“Why sure,” cries the landlady, “her ladyship's honour can never
intend it. O, bless me! farther to-night, indeed! let me beseech your
ladyship not to think on't----But, to be sure, your ladyship can't.
What will your honour be pleased to have for supper? I have mutton of
all kinds, and some nice chicken.”
“I think, madam,” said the lady, “it would be rather breakfast than
supper; but I can't eat anything; and, if I stay, shall only lie down
for an hour or two. However, if you please, madam, you may get me a
little sack whey, made very small and thin.”
“Yes, madam,” cries the mistress of the house, “I have some excellent
white wine.”--“You have no sack, then?” says the lady. “Yes, an't
please your honour, I have; I may challenge the country for that--but
let me beg your ladyship to eat something.”
“Upon my word, I can't eat a morsel,” answered the lady; “and I shall
be much obliged to you if you will please to get my apartment ready as
soon as possible; for I am resolved to be on horseback again in three
hours.”
“Why, Susan,” cries the landlady, “is there a fire lit yet in the
Wild-goose? I am sorry, madam, all my best rooms are full. Several
people of the first quality are now in bed. Here's a great young
squire, and many other great gentlefolks of quality.” Susan answered,
“That the Irish gentlemen were got into the Wild-goose.”
“Was ever anything like it?” says the mistress; “why the devil would
you not keep some of the best rooms for the quality, when you know
scarce a day passes without some calling here?----If they be
gentlemen, I am certain, when they know it is for her ladyship, they
will get up again.”
“Not upon my account,” says the lady; “I will have no person disturbed
for me. If you have a room that is commonly decent, it will serve me
very well, though it be never so plain. I beg, madam, you will not
give yourself so much trouble on my account.” “O, madam!” cries the
other, “I have several very good rooms for that matter, but none good
enough for your honour's ladyship. However, as you are so
condescending to take up with the best I have, do, Susan, get a fire
in the Rose this minute. Will your ladyship be pleased to go up now,
or stay till the fire is lighted?” “I think I have sufficiently warmed
myself,” answered the lady; “so, if you please, I will go now; I am
afraid I have kept people, and particularly that gentleman (meaning
Partridge), too long in the cold already. Indeed, I cannot bear to
think of keeping any person from the fire this dreadful weather.”--She
then departed with her maid, the landlady marching with two lighted
candles before her.
When that good woman returned, the conversation in the kitchen was all
upon the charms of the young lady. There is indeed in perfect beauty a
power which none almost can withstand; for my landlady, though she was
not pleased at the negative given to the supper, declared she had
never seen so lovely a creature. Partridge ran out into the most
extravagant encomiums on her face, though he could not refrain from
paying some compliments to the gold lace on her habit; the post-boy
sung forth the praises of her goodness, which were likewise echoed by
the other post-boy, who was now come in. “She's a true good lady, I
warrant her,” says he; “for she hath mercy upon dumb creatures; for
she asked me every now and tan upon the journey, if I did not think
she should hurt the horses by riding too fast? and when she came in
she charged me to give them as much corn as ever they would eat.”
Such charms are there in affability, and so sure is it to attract the
praises of all kinds of people. It may indeed be compared to the
celebrated Mrs Hussey.[*] It is equally sure to set off every female
perfection to the highest advantage, and to palliate and conceal every
defect. A short reflection, which we could not forbear making in this
place, where my reader hath seen the loveliness of an affable
deportment; and truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by showing
the reverse.
[*] A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off
the shapes of women.
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