History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
triumphed over each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the
absence of Sophia, to leave her father's house, and to see her no
more; and as often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and
determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the
forfeiture of what was much dearer to him.
This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects:
for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and
became not only melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in
company; nay, if ever he put on a forced mirth, to comply with Mr
Western's humour, the constraint appeared so plain, that he seemed to
have been giving the strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to
conceal by such ostentation.
It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to
conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature employed to
reveal it, betrayed him most: for while art made him more than ever
reserved to Sophia, and forbad him to address any of his discourse to
her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost caution; nature
was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the
young lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes
accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his
countenance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged
him to speak to her, as to drink her health at table, his tongue was
sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole frame,
trembled. And if any discourse tended, however remotely, to raise the
idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to steal from his
bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully industrious to
throw daily in his way.
All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of
Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was
at no loss to discover the cause; for indeed she recognized it in her
own breast. And this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which
hath been so often noted in lovers, and which will sufficiently
account for her being so much quicker-sighted than her father.
But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of
accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration which we
must observe in some men over the rest of the human species, and one
which will serve not only in the case of lovers, but of all others.
From whence is it that the knave is generally so quick-sighted to
those symptoms and operations of knavery, which often dupe an honest
man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general
sympathy among knaves; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign
of communication. In reality, it is only because they have the same
thing in their heads, and their thoughts are turned the same way.
Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not see, the plain
symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we consider that the
idea of love never entered into the head of the father, whereas the
daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.
When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented
poor Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its object, she
had not the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his
present behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, and raised in her
mind two of the best affections which any lover can wish to raise in a
mistress--these were, esteem and pity--for sure the most outrageously
rigid among her sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw
miserable on her own account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one
who visibly, from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother
a flame in his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, was
preying upon and consuming his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his
shunning her, his coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the
most diligent, the warmest, and most eloquent advocates; and wrought
so violently on her sensible and tender heart, that she soon felt for
him all those gentle sensations which are consistent with a virtuous
and elevated female mind. In short, all which esteem, gratitude, and
pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable man--indeed, all which
the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with him to
distraction.
One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end
of the two walks which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones
had formerly risqued drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia
had there lost.
This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used
to ruminate, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident
which, however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds
of that affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart.
Here then this young couple met. They were almost close together
before either of them knew anything of the other's approach. A
bystander would have discovered sufficient marks of confusion in the
countenance of each; but they felt too much themselves to make any
observation. As soon as Jones had a little recovered his first
surprize, he accosted the young lady with some of the ordinary forms
of salutation, which she in the same manner returned; and their
conversation began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning.
Hence they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched
forth very high encomiums. When they came to the tree whence he had
formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia could not help reminding him
of that accident, and said, “I fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little
shuddering when you see that water.”--“I assure you, madam,” answered
Jones, “the concern you felt at the loss of your little bird will
always appear to me the highest circumstance in that adventure. Poor
little Tommy! there is the branch he stood upon. How could the little
wretch have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in
which I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment
for his ingratitude.”--“Upon my word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your
gallantry very narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance
must affect you.”--“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason
to reflect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not
been a little deeper, by which I might have escaped many bitter
heart-aches that Fortune seems to have in store for me.”--“Fie, Mr
Jones!” replied Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in earnest now. This
affected contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me.
You would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured
it for my sake. Beware the third time.” She spoke these last words
with a smile, and a softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a
sigh, “He feared it was already too late for caution:” and then
looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he cried, “Oh, Miss Western!
can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?” Sophia, looking
down on the ground, answered with some hesitation, “Indeed, Mr Jones,
I do not wish you ill.”--“Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,”
cries Jones, “that divine goodness, which is beyond every other
charm.”--“Nay, now,” answered she, “I understand you not. I can stay
no longer.”--“I--I would not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can't
be understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so
unexpectedly, I have been unguarded: for Heaven's sake pardon me, if I
have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I would
rather have died--nay, the very thought would kill me.”--“You surprize
me,” answered she. “How can you possibly think you have offended
me?”--“Fear, madam,” says he, “easily runs into madness; and there is
no degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. How can I
speak then? Nay, don't look angrily at me: one frown will destroy me.
I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. What am I
saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. My heart overflowed. I have
struggled with my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal
a fever which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it
impossible for me ever to offend you more.”
Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of
an ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very different from his,
answered in these words: “Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand
you; indeed, I understand you too well; but, for Heaven's sake, if you
have any affection for me, let me make the best of my way into the
house. I wish I may be able to support myself thither.”
Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm,
which she condescended to accept, but begged he would not mention a
word more to her of this nature at present. He promised he would not;
insisting only on her forgiveness of what love, without the leave of
his will, had forced from him: this, she told him, he knew how to
obtain by his future behaviour; and thus this young pair tottered and
trembled along, the lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his
mistress, though it was locked in his.
Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the
hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only
relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which,
as it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader
hath lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next
chapter.
Chapter vii.
In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
Mr Western was become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part
with him, though his arm had been long since cured; and Jones, either
from the love of sport, or from some other reason, was easily
persuaded to continue at his house, which he did sometimes for a
fortnight together without paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy's;
nay, without ever hearing from thence.
Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, which had
been attended with a little fever. This he had, however, neglected; as
it was usual with him to do all manner of disorders which did not
confine him to his bed, or prevent his several faculties from
performing their ordinary functions;--a conduct which we would by no
means be thought to approve or recommend to imitation; for surely the
gentlemen of the Aesculapian art are in the right in advising, that
the moment the disease has entered at one door, the physician should
be introduced at the other: what else is meant by that old adage,
_Venienti occurrite morbo?_ “Oppose a distemper at its first
approach.” Thus the doctor and the disease meet in fair and equal
conflict; whereas, by giving time to the latter, we often suffer him
to fortify and entrench himself, like a French army; so that the
learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and sometimes impossible,
to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes by gaining time the disease
applies to the French military politics, and corrupts nature over to
his side, and then all the powers of physic must arrive too late.
Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the
great Doctor Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late
applications which were made to his skill, saying, “Bygar, me believe
my pation take me for de undertaker, for dey never send for me till de
physicion have kill dem.”
Mr Allworthy's distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such
ground, that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for
assistance, the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he
had been sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very
imminent danger. Mr Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this
world, and was as well prepared as it is possible for human nature to