History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter ix.
2312 words | Chapter 341
What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
Mr Jones passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless
when relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr Nightingale
returned; not that this worthy young man had deserted or forgot his
friend; for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part of the time
employed in his service.
He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the
beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a
man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went
in search of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought
after were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place,
till at last he found two of them drinking together, with a third
person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.
Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was
in the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale,
taking Jones by the hand, cried, “Come, my brave friend, be not too
much dejected at what I am going to tell you----I am sorry I am the
messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell you.” “I guess
already what that bad news is,” cries Jones. “The poor gentleman then
is dead.”--“I hope not,” answered Nightingale. “He was alive this
morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the accounts I
could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as
you told it, your own remorse would be all you would have reason to
apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I
entreat you to make the worst of your story to your friends. If you
disguise anything to us, you will only be an enemy to yourself.”
“What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said Jones, “to
stab me with so cruel a suspicion?” “Have patience,” cries
Nightingale, “and I will tell you all. After the most diligent enquiry
I could make, I at last met with two of the fellows who were present
at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say, they do not relate
the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told it.” “Why,
what do they say?” cries Jones. “Indeed what I am sorry to repeat, as
I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were
at too great a distance to overhear any words that passed between you:
but they both agree that the first blow was given by you.” “Then, upon
my soul,” answered Jones, “they injure me. He not only struck me
first, but struck me without the least provocation. What should induce
those villains to accuse me falsely?” “Nay, that I cannot guess,” said
Nightingale, “and if you yourself, and I, who am so heartily your
friend, cannot conceive a reason why they should belie you, what
reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they
should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several
times, and so did another gentleman who was present, who, I believe,
is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very friendly part by you;
for he begged them often to consider that there was the life of a man
in the case; and asked them over and over, if they were certain; to
which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by their
evidence upon oath. For heaven's sake, my dear friend, recollect
yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your
business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would
not shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law,
whatever verbal provocations may have been given you.” “Alas! my
friend,” cries Jones, “what interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides,
do you think I would even wish to live with the reputation of a
murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have
the confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a man
condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have
no such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly
superior; which will, I am certain, afford me all the protection I
merit.”
He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the
truth of what he had at first asserted.
The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline
to credit his friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful
report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he
cried out most heroically, “Well, my friend, I am now indifferent as
to what shall happen, at least with regard to my life; and if it be
the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the
blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my
honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least,
will be believed, so far as to justify his character.”
A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends,
at which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so
few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We will,
therefore, pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquainted
Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak with him when
he was at leisure.
Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, “He knew no lady
in the world whom he could possibly expect to see there.” However, as
he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs Miller and Mr
Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the
lady admitted.
If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly
was he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs
Waters! In this astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order
to cure the surprize of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a
little wonder at the arrival of this lady.
Who this Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was,
he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to
remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr
Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company
travelled to Bath.
Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick at that
time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled
that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr
Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly examined Mrs Waters on the
road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their arrival
at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any scruple
accepted. As husband and wife this gentleman and lady continued
together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife
they arrived together in town.
Whether Mr Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good
thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a
prospect of regaining; or whether Mrs Waters had so well discharged
her office, that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to
make his wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say;
but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never
communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once
hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever
mention the name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him
wherever he met him, he did not imitate those prudent persons who
think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the
safest seconds on these occasions. The first account therefore which
she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was
brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.
As Mr Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a
story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than
usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who
had given him this wound was the very same person from whom her heart
had received a wound, which, though not of a mortal kind, was yet so
deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was
she acquainted that Mr Jones himself was the man who had been
committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she took the
first opportunity of committing Mr Fitzpatrick to the care of his
nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror.
She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an
immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who started
and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, “Nay, I do
not wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect to see me;
for few gentlemen are troubled here with visits from any lady, unless
a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr Jones. Indeed, I little
thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have
been in such a place.” “Indeed, madam,” says Jones, “I must look upon
this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such
dismal habitations.” “I protest, Mr Jones,” says she, “I can hardly
persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why,
your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can
be the matter with you?” “I thought, madam,” said Jones, “as you knew
of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason.” “Pugh!” says she, “you
have pinked a man in a duel, that's all.” Jones exprest some
indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for
what had happened. To which she answered, “Well, then, sir, if you
take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not
dead, and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The
surgeon, indeed, who first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed
desirous of representing his case to be as bad as possible, that he
might have the more honour from curing him: but the king's surgeon
hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever, of which there are
at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger of life.”
Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report;
upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, “By the most
extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and
have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and
says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor,
and that you was not in the least to blame.”
Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs
Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well
knew before, as who Mr Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his
resentment, &c. He likewise told her several facts of which she was
ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars,
concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and
vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had
been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be
unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious
courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his
resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to him.
Mrs Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of
low spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the
devil when he was sick, and told him, “She doubted not but shortly to
see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then,” says
she, “I don't question but your conscience will be safely delivered of
all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding.”
Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do
her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor
are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be
treated with ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest
of this conversation, and only observe that it ended at last with
perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of
the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news she had
brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the
penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview,
conceived a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of
him.
Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr Nightingale was
pretty well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs Miller had
thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with
the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least
doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken
a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him
were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in
store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of
the ensuing book.
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