History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and generous
sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a charming
lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness
for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may seem, I
have seen many instances besides Mrs Fitzpatrick, to whom all this
really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr Jones,
the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor Sophia had
formerly done.
To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible
object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding some of us
are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to
repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more
solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the approach of
consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine with that
kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of the sun.
When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have
become the mouth of Oroöndates himself, Mrs Fitzpatrick heaved a
deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been
some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried, “Indeed,
Mr Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness to be
thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my cousin better
than you, Mr Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes no return to
such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both.”
“Sure, madam,” said Jones, “you can't mean----” “Mean!” cries Mrs
Fitzpatrick, “I know not what I mean; there is something, I think, in
true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet with it in men, and
fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such
truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force one
to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who
can overlook such merit.”
The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused a suspicion
into Jones which we don't care to convey in direct words to the
reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, “I am afraid, madam, I
have made too tiresome a visit;” and offered to take his leave.
“Not at all, sir,” answered Mrs Fitzpatrick.--“Indeed I pity you, Mr
Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I
have mentioned--I am convinced you will approve it--and let me see you
again as soon as you can.--To-morrow morning if you will, or at least
some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day.”
Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully
retired; nor could Mrs Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of a
look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have
had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it
confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as
he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now
so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could
have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.
Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to
give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and
accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in
sorrowful notes to record.
Chapter x.
The consequence of the preceding visit.
Mr Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs
Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which
his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day
after set forward to London.
The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of
this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion
which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the
room with Mrs Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards
appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so
handsome a character of Mr Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect
that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled
together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was
naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that
green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.
And now, as he was enquiring in the street after his wife, and had
just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr Jones was
issuing from it.
Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing a
young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to
him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? “for I am
sure,” said he, “you must have been in it, as I saw you come out of
it.”
Jones answered very modestly, “That he had been visiting a lady
there.” To which Fitzpatrick replied, “What business have you with the
lady?” Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice,
features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out----“Ha, my good
friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining
between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago.”
“Upon my soul, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don't know your name nor
your face.” “Indeed, sir,” said Jones, “neither have I the pleasure of
knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen
before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which,
if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle.”
“At Upton!” cried the other;----“Ha! upon my soul, I believe your name
is Jones?” “Indeed,” answered he, “it is.”--“O! upon my soul,” cries
Fitzpatrick, “you are the very man I wanted to meet.--Upon my soul I
will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a
great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul,
if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you
another.” And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of
defence, which was the only science he understood.
Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat
unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also drew, and
though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon
Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his
sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it
than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and leaning
upon it, cried, “I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man.”
“I hope not,” cries Jones, “but whatever be the consequence, you must
be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself.” At this instant a number
of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he should make no
resistance, and begged some of them at least would take care of the
wounded gentleman.
“Ay,” cries one of the fellows, “the wounded gentleman will be taken
care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for
you, sir, you have a month at least good yet.” “D--n me, Jack,” said
another, “he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port
now;” and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of
by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar,
and had dogged him into the house of Mrs Fitzpatrick, waiting for him
at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident happened.
The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded that his
business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil
magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a
public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to
his custody.
The constable, seeing Mr Jones very well drest, and hearing that the
accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great
civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to enquire after
the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's
hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly
mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable
informed Jones that he must go before a justice. He answered,
“Wherever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for
though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law,
yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind.”
Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who
dressed Mr Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the
wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the
Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for
Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till
seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly
frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a message
which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.
He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and
was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones than he lamented the
misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the
while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now
arrived that Mr Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended
every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered
him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from
Sophia by the hands of Black George.
Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having
eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:--
“You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to
Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am
convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that
it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was
under such concern on my account.--I leave you to comment on this
fact. All I desire is, that your name may never more be mentioned
to
“S. W.”
Of the present situation of Mr Jones's mind, and of the pangs with
which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea
than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost
have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in
it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. And
here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.
BOOK XVII.
CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i.
Containing a portion of introductory writing.
When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he
can, or when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch of
human misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and that
their work is come to a period.
Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we
were very nearly arrived at this period, since it would be difficult
for the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have
contrived much greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we
left him in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a good-natured woman
would hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at
present be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy
but a murder or two and a few moral sentences!
But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and distress,
and to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems a much
harder task; a task indeed so hard that we do not undertake to execute
it. In regard to Sophia, it is more than probable that we shall
somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the end--either
Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones, such are
the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to his
imprudence, by which if a man doth not become felon to the world, he