History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great
understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely
informing you of the matter of fact.
“I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the
good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of a lady
who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true
interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to
your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and
is so necessary to my future happiness.
“I am,
with the utmost respect,
honoured madam,
your most dutiful obliged niece,
and most obedient humble
servant,
HARRIET FITZPATRICK.”
Mrs Western was now at her brother's house, where she had resided ever
since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the poor
squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to him
in daily portions, we have formerly given a specimen.
She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of
snuff in her hand, was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort
to the squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received
the above letter; which she had no sooner read than she delivered it
to him, saying, “There, sir, there is an account of your lost sheep.
Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by
my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve her.”
The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his
chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He
then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the
Chevalier and several other horses to be saddled, and that parson
Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned to
his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace,
saying, “Zounds! you don't seem pleased; one would imagine you was
sorry I have found the girl.”
“Brother,” answered she, “the deepest politicians, who see to the
bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from what
swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less
desperate than they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth
was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a delicacy required in
this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want.
There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady
Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior,
I am afraid, to yours.”
“Sister,” cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion of my parts;
but I'll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I
have not been in the country so long without having some knowledge of
warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own wherever I
can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if I don't know how to come
at her, I'll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There be
justices of peace in London, as well as in other places.”
“I protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the event of this
matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may bring to so
good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a
woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of
the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As soon as you arrive in
town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed, brother,
you have none at present fit to appear in), you must send your
compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her. When
you are admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and have
told her your story, and have made proper use of my name (for I think
you just know one another only by sight, though you are relations), I
am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, who hath
certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method.--Justices of
peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of
figure in a civilised nation?”
“D--n their figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty civilised nation,
truly, where women are above the law. And what must I stand sending a
parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a
daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not so
ignorant as you think me----I know you would have women above the law,
but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no one is
above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.”
“Mr Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in ignorance.----I
protest you are grown an arrant bear.”
“No more a bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the
squire.--“Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am sure
you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though
I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I
will show you I have got more good manners than some folks.”
“Mr Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you please, _je
vous mesprise de tout mon coeur._ I shall not therefore be
angry.----Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly
says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my
family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I
have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed,
indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite
court.--Greenland--Greenland should always be the scene of the
tramontane negociation.”
“I thank Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don't understand you now. You
are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to
be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for what
I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have
always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now
and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my
part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to
London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not
stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be expected
to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied
that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me to dispute
that would be all as one as for you to dispute the management of a
pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with me.”--“Which I
promise you,” says she, “I never will.”--“Well, and I promise you,”
returned he, “that I never will dispute the t'other.”
Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady)
between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the
horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to
follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.
But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they
both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be
dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in
the manner we have already seen.
Chapter vii.
In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs
Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have before
seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:--
“O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are undone,
sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone.” “Hath anything
happened to Sophia?” cries Jones, staring like a madman. “All that is
bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall never get such another lady! Oh that
I should ever live to see this day!” At these words Jones turned pale
as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went on--“O! Mr Jones, I
have lost my lady for ever.” “How? what! for Heaven's sake, tell me.
O, my dear Sophia!” “You may well call her so,” said Honour; “she was
the dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another
place.”----“D--n your place!” cries Jones; “where is--what--what is
become of my Sophia?” “Ay, to be sure,” cries she, “servants may be
d--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are
turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh
and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing what
becomes of them.” “If you have any pity, any compassion,” cries Jones,
“I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” “To
be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me,” answered
Honour; “I don't d--n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in
the world. To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to
be pitied too: for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress----”
“What hath happened?” cries Jones, in almost a raving fit.
“What?--What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that could have happened
both for you and for me.--Her father is come to town, and hath carried
her away from us both.” Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving
that it was no worse. “No worse!” repeated Honour; “what could be
worse for either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry
Mr Blifil; that's for your comfort; and, for poor me, I am turned out
of doors.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered Jones, “you frightened me
out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had
happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even seeing her
married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there is life there are
hopes, my dear Honour. Women in this land of liberty, cannot be
married by actual brutal force.” “To be sure, sir,” said she, “that's
true. There may be some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are
there for poor me? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer
all this upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is
for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil.” “Indeed, Mrs
Honour,” answered he, “I am sensible of my obligations to you, and
will leave nothing in my power undone to make you amends.” “Alas!
sir,” said she, “what can make a servant amends for the loss of one
place but the getting another altogether as good?” “Do not despair,
Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope to reinstate you again in the same.”
“Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I flatter myself with such
hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set
against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I
now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured
gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you
as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it; because
as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my lady, must
see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if two people
who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so? Happiness
don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough
for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the
pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am
convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if it is
to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all
the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be sure I
wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell the
squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter
contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the
squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious good
sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the
squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face.
To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard the