History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter x.
2287 words | Chapter 352
Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones was just
arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty
chamber, whither he ordered Mr Jones to be brought to him alone.
It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the
meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs Waters, as the reader
may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret
of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides
are indeed beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore attempt
it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had
prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, “O my child!” he
cried, “how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What amends
can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I
have entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to
you?” “Am I not now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not my
sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly
repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this tenderness overpowers,
unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast
upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be
once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous
benefactor.”--“Indeed, child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you
cruelly.”----He then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and
again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having been
induced by that treachery to use him so ill. “O, talk not so!”
answered Jones; “indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man
might be deceived as you were; and, under such a deception, the best
must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the
midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that
goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on
self-accusation, by carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas!
sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved; and it shall
be the whole business of my future life to deserve that happiness you
now bestow on me; for, believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath
not been thrown away upon me: though I have been a great, I am not a
hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past
life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet
I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be
ashamed of; follies which have been attended with dreadful
consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of
destruction.” “I am rejoiced, my dear child,” answered Allworthy, “to
hear you talk thus sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good
Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it in others!) was never among
your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom,
to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am
now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the
duty which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own
enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is
deficient in discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the
foundation of his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to
build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will
reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from
this moment, you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them
only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to
avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort, that there is this
great difference between those faults which candor may construe into
imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The
former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he
reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the
world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him; and
he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers
he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered is
irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash
away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will
abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he will
go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who is
afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here
his murdered conscience will haunt him.--Repose, like a false friend,
will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself;
if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his heels; if
forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till, like a
condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present
condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to
relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is
not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath suffered
you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that
destruction to which a persistance in even those errors must have led
you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is such,
that happiness seems in your own power.” At these words Jones fetched
a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said, “Sir, I
will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence of my
vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost
a treasure.” “You need say no more,” answered Allworthy; “I will be
explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen the young lady,
and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as
an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of the
stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To
abide intirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it
shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from
solicitations which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further
constraint to my family: I know her father will be as ready to torment
her now on your account as he hath formerly been on another's; but I
am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence,
no more uneasy hours.” “O, my dear uncle!” answered Jones, “lay, I
beseech you, some command on me, in which I shall have some merit in
obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey
you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am
so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of
forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her
misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the
greatest, and now the only additional blessing which heaven can
bestow; but it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone.” “I will
not flatter you, child,” cries Allworthy; “I fear your case is
desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in
any person than appeared in her vehement declarations against
receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you can account better
than myself.” “Oh, sir! I can account too well,” answered Jones; “I
have sinned against her beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am,
my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the
real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable;
and all your goodness cannot save me from perdition.”
A servant now acquainted them that Mr Western was below-stairs; for
his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon
which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to
entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself;
to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr Western to be
shewn into a parlour, went down to him.
Mrs Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet
seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into the
room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his
new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, “I wish I could
give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything so
inexorable I never saw.”
Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant.
“Why then,” says she, “I have been with your young lady, and have
explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son
Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter; of
that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take
his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the
letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the
letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her
account, and a plain proof that you was resolved to quit all your
profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a single
instance of infidelity to her since your seeing her in town: I am
afraid I went too far there; but Heaven forgive me! I hope your future
behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I can;
but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she had
forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed such
detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely
silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you; but the justness of her
accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman, and
one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could
have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It was a
sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. `I once fancied madam.'
and she, `I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr Jones; and
for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire profligacy of
manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and all which a
good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix some grains
of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an angelic creature,
that is the truth on't.” “O, Mrs Miller!” answered Jones, “can I bear
to think that I have lost such an angel?” “Lost! no,” cries Mrs
Miller; “I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to leave such
vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes, nay, if she would remain
inexorable, there is another young lady, a sweet pretty young lady,
and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I
heard of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I
went a little beyond the truth again; for I told her you had refused
her; but indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you
a little comfort; when I mentioned the young lady's name, who is no
other than the pretty widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale; but when
I said you had refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over
scarlet in an instant; and these were her very words: `I will not deny
but that I believe he has some affection for me.'”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who
could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of
Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful
power over him.
Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My old friend Tom,
I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten; I
could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here
knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person; and
where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One
Christian must forget and forgive another.” “I hope, sir,” said Jones,
“I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as
for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger.” “A't,”
says Western, “then give me thy fist; a't as hearty an honest cock as
any in the kingdom. Come along with me; I'll carry thee to thy
mistress this moment.” Here Allworthy interposed; and the squire being
unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some
litigation, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia
till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as well in compassion to
Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of Western, was
prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table.
The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which,
had it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our
reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very
material, it shall suffice to say that matters being entirely adjusted
as to the afternoon visit Mr Western again returned home.
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