History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Allworthy--the blessed Mr Allworthy, came to pay me a visit, when he
placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of
money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50 a-year upon me,
which I have constantly received ever since. Judge, then, Mr Jones, in
what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation
of my life, and of those dear children, for whose sake alone my life
is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me impertinent, Mr Jones (since
I must esteem one for whom I know Mr Allworthy hath so much value), if
I beg you not to converse with these wicked women. You are a young
gentleman, and do not know half their artful wiles. Do not be angry
with me, sir, for what I said upon account of my house; you must be
sensible it would be the ruin of my poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you
cannot but be acquainted that Mr Allworthy himself would never forgive
my conniving at such matters, and particularly with you.”
“Upon my word, madam,” said Jones, “you need make no farther apology;
nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but give me
leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr Allworthy, to
deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be altogether
for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of his.”
“Alas! sir,” answered she, “I know you are not, I know very well who
you are; for Mr Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you, had
you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more regard
for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not be
ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person will
esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr Jones, the words
`dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to
say, unless the word `dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for
the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they
are intirely innocent.”
Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, “Since I perceive,
madam, you really do know me, and Mr Allworthy hath thought proper to
mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as
to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances
concerning myself.” And these Mrs Miller having expressed great desire
and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole history,
without once mentioning the name of Sophia.
There is a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they
give an easy credit to each other. Mrs Miller believed all which Jones
told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She
was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for,
as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he began to stipulate for a
second interview with the lady that evening, which he promised should
be the last at her house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one
of great distinction, and that nothing but what was intirely innocent
was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep
his word.
Mrs Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his
chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston
appeared.
As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as
it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may perhaps
wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him
to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to
require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the lady, may, by
some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our
business is only to record truth.
Chapter vi.
Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers.
Mr Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night;
not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being disappointed
by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking
hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of
dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the
best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is called
compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character from that
noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were, within himself,
and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through the world without
being once stopped by the calamities which happen to others. He could
not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of poor Nancy,
whose love for Mr Nightingale seemed to him so apparent, that he was
astonished at the blindness of her mother, who had more than once, the
preceding evening, remarked to him the great change in the temper of
her daughter, “who from being,” she said, “one of the liveliest,
merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden, become all gloom and
melancholy.”
Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now,
as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and an
offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.--To
speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr Jones slept till eleven the
next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet
situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.
Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
answered, “That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that
Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother,
were both crying and lamenting over her.” Jones expressed much
concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by
saying, with a smile, “he fancied the young lady was in no danger of
death; for that Susan” (which was the name of the maid) “had given
him to understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In
short,” said he, “Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her
mother; that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat
down to dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming
for the Foundling Hospital.”----“Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,”
cries Jones. “Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of
mirth? Go immediately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave--Stay,
you will make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to
breakfast with her.” He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he
could; and while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many
severe rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of
brutality, commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no
sooner dressed than he walked downstairs, and knocking at the door,
was presently admitted by the maid, into the outward parlour, which
was as empty of company as it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs
Miller was in the inner room with her daughter, whence the maid
presently brought a message to Mr Jones, “That her mistress hoped he
would excuse the disappointment, but an accident had happened, which
made it impossible for her to have the pleasure of his company at
breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him up
notice sooner.” Jones desired, “She would give herself no trouble
about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was
heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any
service to her, she might command him.”
He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who heard them all,
suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood of
tears, said, “O Mr Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men
alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your
service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my poor
girl.--O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined for ever!”
“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “no villain”----“O Mr Jones!” said she,
“that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath betrayed my poor
girl; hath destroyed her.--I know you are a man of honour. You have a
good--a noble heart, Mr Jones. The actions to which I have been myself
a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell you all: nay,
indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to keep it a
secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath undone my
daughter. She is--she is--oh! Mr Jones, my girl is with child by him;
and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is his
cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such another monster
lives.”
The letter was as follows:
“DEAR NANCY,
“As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this
method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately
paying my addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath
provided for my--I need not write the detested word. Your own good
understanding will make you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to
an obedience, by which I shall be for ever excluded from your dear
arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her
with the unhappy consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a
secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, as
I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I have
suffered; but summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and
forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain
ruin could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I
mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in
your faithful, though unhappy,
“J. N.”
When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a
minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: “I cannot
express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me
beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider the
reputation of your daughter.”----“It is gone, it is lost, Mr Jones,”
cryed she, “as well as her innocence. She received the letter in a
room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening it,
the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her
reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath
been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I
myself outlive any accident of that nature.--What then will become of
my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little wretch
will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees
her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause.
O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The
barbarous, cruel----hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this
the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?
Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?
Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?
Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the
conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to
lose one or both in such a manner?” “Indeed, madam,” said Jones, with
tears in his eyes, “I pity you from my soul.”--“O! Mr Jones,” answered
she, “even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no
idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of
children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my
eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those
foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin.
Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had for her.
I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my foolish vanity
with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so much her superior.
And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often in yours, he hath