History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be improper
to so forward a lover.
Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none
will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put
off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better
situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will look a
little after Mr Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable situation
that can be well imagined.
Chapter v.
Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the prison.
When Mr Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr Western, Mrs Miller
set forwards to her son-in-law's lodgings, in order to acquaint him
with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he had
known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left Mrs
Miller, had been furnished with a room in the same house with Mr
Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great affliction
on account of Mr Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could,
she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where
Mr Nightingale was arrived before her.
The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so
extremely delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the
distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is
more than compensated by bringing this comfort with it. Nor are
instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate
observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not
to be numbered among our general faults. The black ingredient which
fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid,
turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or
happier than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we
commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient
benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the
defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships within my
observation have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet one
from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough of a
subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink
under the weight of his adversity, and that she might thus lose any
future opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated
somewhat of her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her
persecution, by sending him the company of two such faithful friends,
and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. For Partridge,
though he had many imperfections, wanted not fidelity; and though fear
would not suffer him to be hanged for his master, yet the world, I
believe, could not have bribed him to desert his cause.
While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his
friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr Fitzpatrick was still
alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon
which, Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, “My dear
Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which,
whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you,
and in which your conscience cannot accuse you of having been the
least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done more than
taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the
coroner's inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily
admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial,
yet it is a trial which many men would stand for you for a shilling.”
“Come, come, Mr Jones,” says Mrs Miller, “chear yourself up. I knew
you could not be the aggressor, and so I told Mr Allworthy, and so he
shall acknowledge too, before I have done with him.”
Jones gravely answered, “That whatever might be his fate, he
should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his
fellow-creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could
have befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the tenderest
kind----O! Mrs Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth.”
“That must be a mistress,” said Mrs Miller; “but come, come; I know
more than you imagine” (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); “and I
have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than
you think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance
which he hath of the lady.”
“Indeed, my dear friend, indeed,” answered Jones, “you are an entire
stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was acquainted with the
story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend no
danger from Blifil. I have undone myself.” “Don't despair,” replied
Mrs Miller; “you know not what a woman can do; and if anything be in
my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty. My
son, my dear Mr Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath
obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I
go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me
say.”
“Thou best of women,” cries Jones, taking her by the hand, “talk not
of obligations to me;--but as you have been so kind to mention it,
there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you are
acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I know
not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive to
deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever
acknowledge your goodness.”
“Give it me,” said Mrs Miller. “If I see it not in her own possession
before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort yourself, my
good young man! be wise enough to take warning from past follies, and
I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy with the
most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear from every one
she is.”
“Believe me, madam,” said he, “I do not speak the common cant of one
in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had
resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the
wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the
disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for which
I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate. Though I
have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious character,
nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it.”
Mrs Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the
sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now the
remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that good
woman and Mr Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr Jones, in
which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better comforted and
satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration nothing so
much contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs Miller to deliver his
letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any means to
accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he
informed Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on pain of
having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any answer. He
was, moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so warm an advocate
to Mr Allworthy himself in this good woman, who was, in reality, one
of the worthiest creatures in the world.
After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been
with him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to return
to him soon; during which Mrs Miller said she hoped to bring him some
good news from his mistress, and Mr Nightingale promised to enquire
into the state of Mr Fitzpatrick's wound, and likewise to find out
some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.
The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we
likewise shall now attend her.
Chapter vi.
In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived
now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full
liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.
Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was a
gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor
ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs Miller was immediately
admitted.
Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to
each other, being past, Sophia said, “I have not the pleasure to know
you, madam.” “No, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “and I must beg pardon
for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give
you this trouble, I hope----” “Pray, what is your business, madam?”
said Sophia, with a little emotion. “Madam, we are not alone,” replied
Mrs Miller, in a low voice. “Go out, Betty,” said Sophia.
When Betty was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, madam, by a
very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter.” Sophia
changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and
after some hesitation, said--“I could not conceive, madam, from your
appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.--Whomever
you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry
to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter
stranger to me.”
“If you will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “I will
acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter.” “I have no
curiosity, madam, to know anything,” cries Sophia; “but I must insist
on your delivering that letter back to the person who gave it you.”
Mrs Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms
implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: “Sure, madam, it is
surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of
this person. I would not think, madam”--“No, madam,” says Mrs Miller,
“you shall not think anything but the truth. I will tell you all, and
you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the best-natured
creature that ever was born.”--She then began and related the story of
Mr Anderson.--After this she cried, “This, madam, this is his
goodness; but I have much more tender obligations to him. He hath
preserved my child.”--Here, after shedding some tears, she related
everything concerning that fact, suppressing only those circumstances
which would have most reflected on her daughter, and concluded with
saying, “Now, madam, you shall judge whether I can ever do enough for
so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he is the best and
worthiest of all human beings.”
The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly
to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great
paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and
cried, “I know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude
cannot be blamed--But what service can my reading this letter do your
friend, since I am resolved never----” Mrs Miller fell again to her
entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said,
carry it back. “Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot help it, if you
will force it upon me.--Certainly you may leave it whether I will or
no.” What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I will not
presume to determine; but Mrs Miller actually understood this as a
hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, took her
leave, having first begged permission to wait again on Sophia; which
request had neither assent nor denial.
The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller was out
of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.
This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of
little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter
lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations
of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to