History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with
the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single
action, brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was
called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring
money into the pockets of attorneys, to the great scandal of the
law, of the nation, of Christianity, and even of human nature
itself.
“The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the service
of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best gentlemen
that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know a
thousand good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with him;
and I have known him often refuse business because it was paultry and
oppressive.” “You need not be so particular,” said Allworthy; “I know
this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his
profession.”--“Well, sir,” continued Partridge, “from hence I removed
to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of another
lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to be sure one
of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the end of the
three years I set up a little school, and was likely to do well again,
had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I kept a pig; and
one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig broke out, and did a
trespass, I think they call it, in a garden belonging to one of my
neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and employed a lawyer,
one--one--I can't think of his name; but he sent for a writ against
me, and had me to size. When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me--to
hear what the counsellors said! There was one that told my lord a
parcel of the confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to
drive my hogs into other folk's gardens, and a great deal more; and at
last he said, he hoped I had at last brought my hogs to a fair market.
To be sure, one would have thought that, instead of being owner only
of one poor little pig, I had been the greatest hog-merchant in
England. Well--” “Pray,” said Allworthy, “do not be so particular, I
have heard nothing of your son yet.” “O it was a great many years,”
answered Partridge, “before I saw my son, as you are pleased to call
him.----I went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork
(for that one suit ruined me again, and I lay seven years in
Winchester jail).”--“Well,” said Allworthy, “pass that over till your
return to England.”--“Then, sir,” said he, “it was about half a year
ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some time, and not finding
it do there, and hearing of a place between that and Gloucester where
the barber was just dead, I went thither, and there I had been about
two months when Mr Jones came thither.” He then gave Allworthy a very
particular account of their first meeting, and of everything, as well
as he could remember, which had happened from that day to this;
frequently interlarding his story with panegyrics on Jones, and not
forgetting to insinuate the great love and respect which he had for
Allworthy. He concluded with saying, “Now, sir, I have told your
honour the whole truth.” And then repeated a most solemn protestation,
“That he was no more the father of Jones than of the Pope of Rome;”
and imprecated the most bitter curses on his head, if he did not speak
truth.
“What am I to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. “For what
purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be
rather your interest to own?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge (for he
could hold no longer), “if your honour will not believe me, you are
like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the
mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.”--And now
being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in
his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he
had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs Miller to conceal
from him.
Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge
himself had been while he related it. “Good heavens!” says he, “in
what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve men! How much
beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes carried!”
He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs Waters came hastily and
abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her than he cried,
“Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the unfortunate
mother of Mr Jones. I am sure she will acquit me before your honour.
Pray, madam----”
Mrs Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and
almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr Allworthy. “I
believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that
you do not recollect me.” “Indeed,” answered Allworthy, “you are so
very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already
acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to
my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which brings
you to me?” Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the reader
may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct of this
lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what Partridge
had now delivered.
Mrs Waters answered--“Indeed, sir, I have very particular business
with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must
desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure
you what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.”
Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged
the lady to satisfy Mr Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To
which she answered, “You need be under no apprehension, sir; I shall
satisfy Mr Allworthy very perfectly of that matter.”
Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr Allworthy and Mrs
Waters which is written in the next chapter.
Chapter vii.
Continuation of the history.
Mrs Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr Allworthy could not
refrain from saying, “I am sorry, madam, to perceive, by what I have
since heard, that you have made so very ill a use----” “Mr Allworthy,”
says she, interrupting him, “I know I have faults, but ingratitude to
you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget your goodness,
which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased to wave all
upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair to
communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you have given
my maiden name of Jones.”
“Have I then,” said Allworthy, “ignorantly punished an innocent man,
in the person of him who hath just left us? Was he not the father of
the child?” “Indeed he was not,” said Mrs Waters. “You may be pleased
to remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one day know; and I
acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a cruel neglect, in not
having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew how
necessary it was.” “Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “be pleased to
proceed.” “You must remember, sir,” said she, “a young fellow, whose
name was Summer.” “Very well,” cries Allworthy, “he was the son of a
clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest
friendship.” “So it appeared, sir,” answered she; “for I believe you
bred the young man up, and maintained him at the university; where, I
think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at your
house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for, besides
the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much
wit and good breeding.” “Poor gentleman,” said Allworthy, “he was
indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any sins
of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to
tell me he was the father of your child.”
“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “he was not.” “How!” said Allworthy, “to
what then tends all this preface?” “To a story,” said she, “which I am
concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear
something which will surprize you, will grieve you.” “Speak,” said
Allworthy, “I am conscious of no crime, and cannot be afraid to hear.”
“Sir,” said she, “that Mr Summer, the son of your friend, educated at
your expense, who, after living a year in the house as if he had been
your own son, died there of the small-pox, was tenderly lamented by
you, and buried as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the
father of this child.” “How!” said Allworthy; “you contradict
yourself.” “That I do not,” answered she; “he was indeed the father of
this child, but not by me.” “Take care, madam,” said Allworthy, “do
not, to shun the imputation of any crime, be guilty of falshood.
Remember there is One from whom you can conceal nothing, and before
whose tribunal falshood will only aggravate your guilt.” “Indeed,
sir,” says she, “I am not his mother; nor would I now think myself so
for the world.” “I know your reason,” said Allworthy, “and shall
rejoice as much as you to find it otherwise; yet you must remember,
you yourself confest it before me.” “So far what I confest,” said she,
“was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed; conveyed
it thither at the command of its mother; at her commands I afterwards
owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both
for my secrecy and my shame.” “Who could this woman be?” said
Allworthy. “Indeed, I tremble to name her,” answered Mrs Waters. “By
all this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation of mine,”
cried he. “Indeed she was a near one.” At which words Allworthy
started, and she continued--“You had a sister, sir.” “A sister!”
repeated he, looking aghast.--“As there is truth in heaven,” cries
she, “your sister was the mother of that child you found between your
sheets.” “Can it be possible?” cries he, “Good heavens!” “Have
patience, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “and I will unfold to you the whole
story. Just after your departure for London, Miss Bridget came one day
to the house of my mother. She was pleased to say she had heard an
extraordinary character of me, for my learning and superior
understanding to all the young women there, so she was pleased to say.
She then bid me come to her to the great house; where, when I
attended, she employed me to read to her. She expressed great
satisfaction in my reading, shewed great kindness to me, and made me
many presents. At last she began to catechise me on the subject of
secrecy, to which I gave her such satisfactory answers, that, at last,
having locked the door of her room, she took me into her closet, and
then locking that door likewise, she said she should convince me of
the vast reliance she had on my integrity, by communicating a secret
in which her honour, and consequently her life, was concerned. She
then stopt, and after a silence of a few minutes, during which she
often wiped her eyes, she enquired of me if I thought my mother might
safely be confided in. I answered, I would stake my life on her
fidelity. She then imparted to me the great secret which laboured in
her breast, and which, I believe, was delivered with more pains than
she afterwards suffered in child-birth. It was then contrived that my
mother and myself only should attend at the time, and that Mrs Wilkins
should be sent out of the way, as she accordingly was, to the very
furthest part of Dorsetshire, to enquire the character of a servant;
for the lady had turned away her own maid near three months before;
during all which time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she
said, though, as she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy
for the place. This, and many other such things which she used to say
of me, were all thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins
might hereafter have, when I was to own the child; for she thought it