History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter xi.
2535 words | Chapter 294
In which the reader will be surprized.
Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than
the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the
place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very
vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown
into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the
door opened, and in came----no other than Sophia herself, who had left
the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already
said, being, a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement
between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was
glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman who
safely conveyed her to her chair.
As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home
till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily
in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without
once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of
Jones now stood motionless.---In this glass it was, after
contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said
statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of
the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved
herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her, and support
her in his arms.
To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my
power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged
to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed
that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few
of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts
what past at this time in theirs.
After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said--“I see,
madam, you are surprized.”--“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens!
Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you
seem.”--“Indeed,” cries he, “my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this
once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,
after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.
Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in
this long, fruitless pursuit.”--“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a
little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.--“Can you be
so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of you?” “Of
me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any such important
business with me?”--“To some, madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an
important business” (giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you
will find it of the same value as when it was lost.” Sophia took the
pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her
thus:--“Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments
which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of
a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”--“My
pardon!” cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,
after what I have heard.”--“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones.
“By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!
henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any
remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to
that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance
of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”
Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow,
and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of
Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had
scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He
understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: “O my Sophia!
my only love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened
there than I do myself; but yet do me the justice to think that my
heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I
was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired
of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still
on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if
my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I accidently
fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe
me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never
intend or desire to see her again.” Sophia, in her heart, was very
glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness
than she had yet assumed, “Why,” said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the
trouble to make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it
worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature
indeed.”--“What is it, for heaven's sake?” answered Jones, trembling
and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,”
said she, “how is it possible! can everything noble and everything
base be lodged together in the same bosom?” Lady Bellaston, and the
ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind,
and stopt his mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,” proceeded
Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any
man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the
meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may
have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to
hear that you had been forced to fly from my love!”
Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but
yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend
himself than if she had touched that tender string at which his
conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found,
that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his
love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at
the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it
was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great
difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an
offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to
hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death,
which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared
up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that
Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to
give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear
to a petition of a very different nature; for before they were aware
they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded
like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That, did not her
duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin
with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune
with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he started, let
drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his
breast with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No;
by heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia,
whatever it costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will
tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real
good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall
be at a distance from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from
whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb
your ears. And when I am dead”--He would have gone on, but was stopt
by a flood of tears which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she
leaned, without being able to speak one word. He kissed them off,
which, for some moments, she allowed him to do without any resistance;
but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and,
to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and which she found
she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a question she
never had time to put to him before, “How he came into that room?” He
began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her
suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door
opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.
Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she
suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting
herself with admirable presence of mind, she said--though with
sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance--“I
thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”
Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he
had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the
real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she
was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all
their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side against
her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went through
the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and the cause
of her hasty return.
The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of
rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as
the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed
her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, “I should not have
broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had
company.”
Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words.
To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes
and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I
shall always think the honour of your ladyship's company----” “I hope,
at least,” cries Lady Bellaston, “I interrupt no business.”--“No,
madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at an end. Your ladyship
may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned the loss of my
pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very luckily found, was so
kind to return it to me with the bill in it.”
Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to
sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers,
and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby
squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He began,
however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour
of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance
with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part.
He said, “Ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had
used great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in
it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover her.”
Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady
Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once
hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one
syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme
quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The reason of
Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit; and though
she could not account for the meeting between these two lovers, she
was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western,
you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it
fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to
discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it
advertised.--It was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to
whom the note belonged.”
“Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in which
the young lady's name was written.”
“That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:--“And it was no
less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is very
little known.”
Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he
conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the
question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he
proceeded thus: “Why, madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest
chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had
found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the
masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss
Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would
inform me, I went according to her appointment, but she was not at
home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she
directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did
myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that I
had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room;
where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the
play.”
Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady
Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was
visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a
little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the
agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of
relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he
said, “I believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these
occasions;--I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;--it is,
madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit
here.”
“Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a gentleman,
and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.”
Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed
lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too
well.
Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who,
notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to
behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky
circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged,
with which Sophia was unacquainted.
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