History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied with
the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the least
doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken
a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought gave him
were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had yet in
store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of
the ensuing book.
BOOK XVIII.
CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
Chapter i.
A farewel to the reader.
We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As
we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us
behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who
have passed several days in the company of each other; and who,
notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have
occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for
the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour;
since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a
little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good
company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known
that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever
characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake personated on
the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is usually plain and
serious.
In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this
work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay
it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to
cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous
observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes,
perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning
to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only;
and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this
book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it
scarce sufficient to tell the story.
And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other)
of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining
companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in
anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some
things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do
most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I
question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that
thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told
thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more
than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none hath ever been
treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I have had some of
the abusive writings of those very men fathered upon me, who, in other
of their works, have abused me themselves with the utmost virulence.
All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long
before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short
the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably
outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions of his
abusive contemporaries.
Chapter ii.
Containing a very tragical incident.
While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
standing an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as
he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
spectre himself.
Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat
shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change
colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was
the matter?
“I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with me. Indeed
I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am
sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard
what I have heard.” “Why, what is the matter?” said Jones. “The
matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, “was that woman who
is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?” “She was,
Partridge,” cried Jones. “And did you really, sir, go to bed with that
woman?” said he, trembling.--“I am afraid what past between us is no
secret,” said Jones.--“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir,
answer me,” cries Partridge. “You know I did,” cries Jones. “Why then,
the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you,” cries Partridge;
“but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own
mother.”
Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror
than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with
amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his
words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, “How! how!
what's this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,” cries Partridge, “I have not
breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.--That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that
time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived
to bring about this wickedness.”
“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me till she
hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself
the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have
befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What
thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses!
And was Mrs Waters, then--but why do I ask? for thou must certainly
know her--If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any
pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to
me. O good Heavens! incest----with a mother! To what am I reserved!”
He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and
despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at
last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to
himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this
wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was
lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the
scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many
strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between
Partridge and Mrs Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr
Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in life, where
the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little
circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered by
the accurate eye, in this our history.
After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned
back to his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in
a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he
brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition
before he received the following letter:
“SIR,
“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr
Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the
reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it
was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever
sincerely your unfortunate
“J. WATERS.”
“P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr
Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not
among the number.”
Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold
it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).
Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read it
likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and
not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both their
countenances. While they both remained speechless the turnkey entered
the room, and, without taking any notice of what sufficiently
discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a
man without desired to speak with him. This person was presently
introduced, and was no other than Black George.
As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the
turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the
face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,
which was reported in the very worst light in Mr Western's family; he
concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr Jones
was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave
him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition,
and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been
over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the
obligations he had formerly received from Mr Jones.
The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the
present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his
misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner
of service. “Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may want a little matter of
money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is
heartily at your service.”
Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks
for the kind offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least
want of that kind.” Upon which George began to press his services more
eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he
wanted nothing which was in the power of any man living to give.
“Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not take the matter
so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be sure
you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.”
“You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the gentleman
is not dead, nor like to die. Don't disturb my master, at present, for
he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in your power to do
him any good.” “You don't know what I may be able to do, Mr
Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern is about my young lady, I
have some news to tell my master.” “What do you say, Mr George?” cried
Jones. “Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned?
My Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so profanely.” “I
hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have
something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam
Sophia home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not
possibly learn the very right of it; but my master he hath been in a
vast big passion, and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as
she went out of doors into her chair, that she would never set her
foot in master's house again. I don't know what's the matter, not I,
but everything was very quiet when I came out; but Robin, who waited
at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in such
good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and