History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter ii.
1998 words | Chapter 344
Containing a very tragical incident.
While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
standing an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as
he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
spectre himself.
Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat
shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change
colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was
the matter?
“I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with me. Indeed
I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am
sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard
what I have heard.” “Why, what is the matter?” said Jones. “The
matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, “was that woman who
is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?” “She was,
Partridge,” cried Jones. “And did you really, sir, go to bed with that
woman?” said he, trembling.--“I am afraid what past between us is no
secret,” said Jones.--“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir,
answer me,” cries Partridge. “You know I did,” cries Jones. “Why then,
the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you,” cries Partridge;
“but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own
mother.”
Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror
than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with
amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his
words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, “How! how!
what's this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,” cries Partridge, “I have not
breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.--That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that
time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived
to bring about this wickedness.”
“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me till she
hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself
the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have
befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What
thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses!
And was Mrs Waters, then--but why do I ask? for thou must certainly
know her--If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any
pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to
me. O good Heavens! incest----with a mother! To what am I reserved!”
He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and
despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at
last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to
himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this
wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was
lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the
scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many
strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between
Partridge and Mrs Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr
Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in life, where
the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little
circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered by
the accurate eye, in this our history.
After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned
back to his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in
a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he
brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition
before he received the following letter:
“SIR,
“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr
Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the
reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it
was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever
sincerely your unfortunate
“J. WATERS.”
“P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr
Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not
among the number.”
Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold
it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).
Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read it
likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and
not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both their
countenances. While they both remained speechless the turnkey entered
the room, and, without taking any notice of what sufficiently
discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a
man without desired to speak with him. This person was presently
introduced, and was no other than Black George.
As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the
turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the
face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,
which was reported in the very worst light in Mr Western's family; he
concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr Jones
was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave
him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition,
and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been
over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the
obligations he had formerly received from Mr Jones.
The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the
present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his
misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner
of service. “Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may want a little matter of
money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is
heartily at your service.”
Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks
for the kind offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least
want of that kind.” Upon which George began to press his services more
eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he
wanted nothing which was in the power of any man living to give.
“Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not take the matter
so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be sure
you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.”
“You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the gentleman
is not dead, nor like to die. Don't disturb my master, at present, for
he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in your power to do
him any good.” “You don't know what I may be able to do, Mr
Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern is about my young lady, I
have some news to tell my master.” “What do you say, Mr George?” cried
Jones. “Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned?
My Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so profanely.” “I
hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have
something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam
Sophia home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not
possibly learn the very right of it; but my master he hath been in a
vast big passion, and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as
she went out of doors into her chair, that she would never set her
foot in master's house again. I don't know what's the matter, not I,
but everything was very quiet when I came out; but Robin, who waited
at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in such
good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and
swore she should be her own mistress, and he never would think of
confining her any more. I thought this news would please you, and so I
slipped out, though it was so late, to inform you of it.” Mr Jones
assured George that it did greatly please him; for though he should
never more presume to lift his eyes toward that incomparable creature,
nothing could so much relieve his misery as the satisfaction he should
always have in hearing of her welfare.
The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not
important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore,
forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this
great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.
Mrs Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began to
set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to the
family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely
refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of his
daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion, and so
irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience nor his
prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued between
them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of
Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs
Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to acquaint her
brother with the letter which Sophia received, which might have
possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe it never
once occurred to her memory at this time.
When Mrs Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as
well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the
compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against
her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the first
time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree acceptable to
the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr Allworthy had insisted on an
entire relinquishment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no
doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question
succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, once
more gave a loose to his natural fondness for her, which had such an
effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and affectionate heart of
Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and something else,
perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed, I much doubt whether
she would not have sacrificed herself to a man she did not like, to
have obliged her father. She promised him she would make it the whole
business of her life to oblige him, and would never marry any man
against his consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest
happiness, that he was resolved to take the other step, and went to
bed completely drunk.
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