History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
whatever I like.” “Pardon, me, sir,” said Nightingale, “I have not the
least design to reflect on my cousin, for whom I have the greatest
esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will never put her to so severe
a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as you would do on me.--But,
dear sir, let us return to the company; for they will begin to be
uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of my dear uncle,
which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor girl or her
mother.” “Oh! you need not fear me,” answered he, “I understand myself
too well to affront women; so I will readily grant you that favour;
and in return I must expect another of you.” “There are but few of
your commands, sir,” said Nightingale, “which I shall not very
chearfully obey.” “Nay, sir, I ask nothing,” said the uncle, “but the
honour of your company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case
a little more fully with you; for I would, if possible, have the
satisfaction of preserving my family, notwithstanding the headstrong
folly of my brother, who, in his own opinion, is the wisest man in the
world.”
Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with
the same decorum which he had before maintained.
Chapter x.
A short chapter, which concludes the book.
The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet
in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as,
during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated
his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not
distinguish what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and
her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones himself.
When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible
alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their
last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now
changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed,
common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds,
from June to December.
This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for
as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and
to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be
spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms
of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter
remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit
satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young one.
Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole
attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to
act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.
From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
payment.
Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off
his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
his engagements.
Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did
indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding
that it could be accounted for only by imagining that young
Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness
of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.
While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these
poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him
that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.----He went immediately
out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant
upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such
dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all
consideration for every other person; and his whole stock of
compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery,
and on that of his unfortunate angel.
What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
those will be the subject of the following book.
BOOK XV.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i.
Too short to need a preface.
There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that
virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this
world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have
but one objection, namely, that it is not true.
Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal
virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the
business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point;
for so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I
could almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages,
to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue;
for, with regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser
than that of the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to
constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of their opposites,
those modern epicures, who place all felicity in the abundant
gratification of every sensual appetite.
But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain
relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and
seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I
cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human happiness;
because I am afraid we must then include poverty and contempt, with
all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring
on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall
be obliged to wait upon the said happiness to a jail; since many by
the above virtue have brought themselves thither.
I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation,
as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine
that lay in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous
part imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from
destruction, the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps
cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to make him completely
miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.
This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it
was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many
other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it
is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which we are
convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the
noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the belief of
immortality.
But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and
hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.
Chapter ii.
In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When children are
doing nothing, they are doing mischief.” I will not enlarge this
quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;
but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy
do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may
suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and
attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all
the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much
indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young
lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she
resolved to get rid of her by some means or other; nor was it long
before a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented
itself to her.
The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown
into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a
set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him,
that she had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who
had very safely conducted her to her chair.
This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than
once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a
very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more
amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that
he might now, without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in
love with her.
It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an
occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now
offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have
prompted him to pay her a visit.
The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia,
with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm
from her last night's adventure.
As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a
flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now
flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in
company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had
made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have
alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at
present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of
her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make
any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions were
rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to complacence,
even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the very reverse
of which is well known to be the reigning mode at present.
Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his first
arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that things
went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time
she saw this young couple together. This business, she rightly I think
concluded, that she should by no means forward by mixing in the
company while they were together; she therefore ordered her servants,
that when my lord was going, they should tell him she desired to speak
with him; and employed the intermediate time in meditating how best to
accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lordship would
very readily embrace the execution of.
Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no
sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the
following strain: “Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my
servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see
you about an affair of some importance.”----“Indeed, Lady Bellaston,”
said he, “I don't wonder you are astonished at the length of my
visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I had
staid above half-a-one.”----“What am I to conclude from thence, my
lord?” said she. “The company must be very agreeable which can make
time slide away so very deceitfully.”----“Upon my honour,” said he,
“the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is
this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a