History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
resentment which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a different
motive from that from which her father had derived it. Her spirits
were at this time in a visible flutter; and she played so intolerably
ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he must have remarked
it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not without an
ear any more than without eyes, made some observations; which being
joined to all which the reader may remember to have passed formerly,
gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on the
whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia; an opinion
which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, extremely wonder at his
not having been well confirmed in long ago. To confess the truth, he
had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was not forward enough
in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune which can be
cured only by that early town education, which is at present so
generally in fashion.
When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they
occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less
pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a season, attended
with very dangerous consequences. He was truly sensible of the great
worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her
accomplishments, and tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he
had never once entertained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever
given the least voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a
much stronger passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His
heart now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it
assured him the adorable object returned his affection.
Chapter iii.
Which all who have no heart will think to contain much ado about
nothing.
The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in
Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend
to produce a chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those
dangerous effects which we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations of
this kind, however delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a
very tumultuous nature, and have very little of the opiate in them.
They were, moreover, in the present case, embittered with certain
circumstances, which being mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended
altogether to compose a draught that might be termed bitter-sweet;
than which, as nothing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so
nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind.
For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in
what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of
misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He
was far from a sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection
towards him, as might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if
they were encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to
require. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his happiness
from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meeting an effectual
bar in the father; who, though he was a country squire in his
diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in whatever regarded his
fortune; had the most violent affection for his only daughter, and had
often signified, in his cups, the pleasure he proposed in seeing her
married to one of the richest men in the county. Jones was not so vain
and senseless a coxcomb as to expect, from any regard which Western
had professed for him, that he would ever be induced to lay aside
these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew that fortune is
generally the principal, if not the sole, consideration, which
operates on the best of parents in these matters: for friendship makes
us warmly espouse the interest of others; but it is very cold to the
gratification of their passions. Indeed, to feel the happiness which
may result from this, it is necessary we should possess the passion
ourselves. As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father's
consent; so he thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such
means to frustrate the great point of Mr Western's life, was to make a
very ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the
many little favours received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw
such a consequence with horror and disdain, how much more was he
shocked with what regarded Mr Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than
filial obligations, so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew
the nature of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or
treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind would make the sight
of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a
detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such unsurmountable
difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with despair, however
ardent his wishes had been; but even these were contruoled by
compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded
itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, and she
had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw her
in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the
miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he
would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting
her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even
her own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her
to pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or
rather to the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her
for being a whore, while they envied her her lover, and her finery,
and would have been themselves glad to have purchased these at the
same rate. The ruin, therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw,
unavoidably attend his deserting her; and this thought stung him to
the soul. Poverty and distress seemed to him to give none a right of
aggravating those misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not
represent her misery as of little consequence in his eyes, nor did it
appear to justify, or even to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that
misery upon her. But why do I mention justification? His own heart
would not suffer him to destroy a human creature who, he thought,
loved him, and had to that love sacrificed her innocence. His own good
heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal advocate, but as one
interested in the event, and which must itself deeply share in all the
agonies its owner brought on another.
When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of Jones,
by painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of wretchedness; it
artfully called in the assistance of another passion, and represented
the girl in all the amiable colours of youth, health, and beauty; as
one greatly the object of desire, and much more so, at least to a good
mind, from being, at the same time, the object of compassion.
Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and
in the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to
think no more of Sophia.
In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the
evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his
thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all
his passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind,
that we think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.
Chapter iv.
A little chapter, in which is contained a little incident.
Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young
gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps,
when he reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from
her, may conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for
Mr Jones; but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome
young fellow; and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard;
but this was perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the
love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had basely
deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so securely kept
together the broken remains of her heart, that no man had ever since
been able to possess himself of any single fragment. She viewed all
handsome men with that equal regard and benevolence which a sober and
virtuous mind bears to all the good. She might indeed be called a
lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to
another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications; but never
carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the
philosophical serenity of her temper.
The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have
seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and
finding him alone, began in the following manner:--“La, sir, where do
you think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty
years; but if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you
neither.”--“Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me,” said
Jones, “I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not
be so barbarous to refuse me.”--“I don't know,” cries she, “why I
should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't
mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have
been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify
much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for
to be sure she is the best lady in the world.” Upon this, Jones began
to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised
not to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:--“Why, you must know, sir,
my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see
whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go,
methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.--How could you
undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?--So my lady bid me go and carry her
some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts
were sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady,
says I, madam, your la'ship is encouraging idleness.”--“And was my
Sophia so good?” says Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,”
answered Honour. “And yet if you knew all--indeed, if I was as Mr
Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly
Seagrim.” “What do you mean by these words,” replied Jones, “if I knew
all?” “I mean what I mean,” says Honour. “Don't you remember putting
your hands in my lady's muff once? I vow I could almost find in my
heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would never come to the
hearing on't.” Jones then made several solemn protestations. And
Honour proceeded--“Then to be sure, my lady gave me that muff; and
afterwards, upon hearing what you had done”--“Then you told her what I
had done?” interrupted Jones. “If I did, sir,” answered she, “you need
not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his head to have
had my lady told, if they had known,--for, to be sure, the biggest
lord in the land might be proud--but, I protest, I have a great mind
not to tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her
to go on thus. “You must know then, sir, that my lady had given this
muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told her the story, she
quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that
ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it is too big
for me, I can't wear it: till I can get another, you must let me have
my old one again, and you may have this in the room on't--for she's a
good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you
that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she