History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will
be the happiest father on earth.”--“I confidence in her?” cries the
squire. “'Sblood! what confidence can I place in her, when she won't
do as I would ha' her? Let her gi' but her consent to marry as I would
ha' her, and I'll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha'
me.”--“You have no right, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “to insist
on any such consent. A negative voice your daughter allows you, and
God and nature have thought proper to allow you no more.”--“A negative
voice!” cries the squire, “Ay! ay! I'll show you what a negative voice
I ha.--Go along, go into your chamber, go, you stubborn----.” “Indeed,
Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “indeed you use her cruelly--I cannot
bear to see this--you shall, you must behave to her in a kinder
manner. She deserves the best of treatment.” “Yes, yes,” said the
squire, “I know what she deserves: now she's gone, I'll shew you what
she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady
Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me to understand that the
fellow is got out of prison again; and here she advises me to take all
the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don't
know what it is to govern a daughter.”
The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own sagacity;
and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him with the
whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to
Blifil, and with every particular which hath been disclosed to the
reader in the preceding chapters.
Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
changeable in them. No sooner then was Western informed of Mr
Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily
with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and became as
eager for her marriage with Jones as he had before been to couple her
to Blifil.
Here Mr Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what
had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great
surprize.
The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at
this account.--At last he cried out, “Why, what can be the meaning of
this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o'un she was, that I'll be sworn
to.----Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the
very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a
hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at
my cousin my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that's
certain--but d--n me if he shall ha her--I'll ha no lords nor
courtiers in my vamily.”
Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his resolution
to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly recommended gentle
methods to Mr Western, as those by which he might be assured of
succeeding best with his daughter. He then took his leave, and
returned back to Mrs Miller, but was forced to comply with the earnest
entreaties of the squire, in promising to bring Mr Jones to visit him
that afternoon, that he might, as he said, “make all matters up with
the young gentleman.” At Mr Allworthy's departure, Western promised to
follow his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, “I don't know
how 'tis, but d--n me, Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just
as you please; and yet I have as good an estate as you, and am in the
commission of the peace as well as yourself.”
Chapter x.
Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones was just
arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty
chamber, whither he ordered Mr Jones to be brought to him alone.
It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the
meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs Waters, as the reader
may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret
of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides
are indeed beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore attempt
it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had
prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, “O my child!” he
cried, “how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What amends
can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I
have entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to
you?” “Am I not now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not my
sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly
repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this tenderness overpowers,
unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast
upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be
once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous
benefactor.”--“Indeed, child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you
cruelly.”----He then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and
again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having been
induced by that treachery to use him so ill. “O, talk not so!”
answered Jones; “indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man
might be deceived as you were; and, under such a deception, the best
must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the
midst of your anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that
goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on
self-accusation, by carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas!
sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved; and it shall
be the whole business of my future life to deserve that happiness you
now bestow on me; for, believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath
not been thrown away upon me: though I have been a great, I am not a
hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past
life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet
I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be
ashamed of; follies which have been attended with dreadful
consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of
destruction.” “I am rejoiced, my dear child,” answered Allworthy, “to
hear you talk thus sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good
Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it in others!) was never among
your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom,
to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am
now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the
duty which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own
enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is
deficient in discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the
foundation of his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to
build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will
reform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from
this moment, you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them
only yourself so far as for the future to teach you the better to
avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort, that there is this
great difference between those faults which candor may construe into
imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The
former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he
reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the
world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him; and
he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers
he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered is
irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash
away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will
abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he will
go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who is
afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here
his murdered conscience will haunt him.--Repose, like a false friend,
will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself;
if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his heels; if
forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till, like a
condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present
condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to
relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is
not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath suffered
you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that
destruction to which a persistance in even those errors must have led
you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is such,
that happiness seems in your own power.” At these words Jones fetched
a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said, “Sir, I
will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence of my
vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost
a treasure.” “You need say no more,” answered Allworthy; “I will be
explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen the young lady,
and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as
an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of the
stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To
abide intirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it
shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from
solicitations which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further
constraint to my family: I know her father will be as ready to torment
her now on your account as he hath formerly been on another's; but I
am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence,
no more uneasy hours.” “O, my dear uncle!” answered Jones, “lay, I
beseech you, some command on me, in which I shall have some merit in
obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey
you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am
so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of
forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful reflection of causing her
misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the
greatest, and now the only additional blessing which heaven can
bestow; but it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone.” “I will
not flatter you, child,” cries Allworthy; “I fear your case is
desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in
any person than appeared in her vehement declarations against
receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you can account better
than myself.” “Oh, sir! I can account too well,” answered Jones; “I
have sinned against her beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am,
my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the
real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable;
and all your goodness cannot save me from perdition.”
A servant now acquainted them that Mr Western was below-stairs; for
his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon
which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to
entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself;
to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr Western to be
shewn into a parlour, went down to him.
Mrs Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet
seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into the
room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his
new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, “I wish I could
give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything so
inexorable I never saw.”
Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant.
“Why then,” says she, “I have been with your young lady, and have