Kitabı oku: «History of Tom Jones, a Foundling», sayfa 75

Chapter xi. – The history draws nearer to a conclusion

When Mr Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller that his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who, together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr Nightingale’s, had attended the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the surgeons’ oaths, that the wounded person was out of all manner of danger from his wound, he was discharged.

One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no more than once; but the other had greatly surprized him by asking his pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he said, entirely by his ignorance who he was.

Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till afterwards, was this: – The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had employed, according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his lordship the event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of the behaviour of Mr Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that lord that he must have mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a gentleman; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly a man of honour, and would by no means have been guilty of an action which the world in general would have condemned, began to be much concerned for the advice which he had taken.

Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine with the Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his company with the character of Fitzpatrick; to which, indeed, he did not do strict justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then declared an intention of going the next morning to Fitzpatrick’s lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation from his wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under the power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances of the duel; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the other nobleman, who depended much on the authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly contribute to awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance; and perhaps he was in the right; for the poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his wife than he submitted, and articles of separation were soon drawn up and signed between the parties.

Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs Waters concerning the innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps, from some other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter, that he spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a gentleman and a man of honour; and upon that lord’s further enquiry concerning Mr Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account he had just received from Mrs Waters after her interview with Dowling.

Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to make satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly injured, and without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over all thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr Jones’s liberty, being satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was confined, to whom he behaved as we have already related.

When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried Jones into his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well what he had heard from Mrs Waters as what he had discovered from Mr Dowling.

Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this account, but without making any comment or observation upon it. And now a message was brought from Mr Blifil, desiring to know if his uncle was at leisure that he might wait upon him. Allworthy started and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than I believe he had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him not. “Consider, dear sir,” cries Jones, in a trembling voice. “I have considered,” answered Allworthy, “and you yourself shall carry my message to the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as the man whose ruin he hath so villanously contrived.” “Pardon me, dear sir,” said Jones; “a moment’s reflection will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult; and to whom? – my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarously – indeed, that would have been more inexcusable than anything he hath done. Fortune may tempt men of no very bad dispositions to injustice; but insults proceed only from black and rancorous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard.” Allworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said, with tears gushing from his eyes, “O my child! to what goodness have I been so long blind!”

Mrs Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which was not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had happened; then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, crying, “My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blest day.” And next Mr Allworthy himself received the same congratulations. To which he answered, “Indeed, indeed, Mrs Miller, I am beyond expression happy.” Some few more raptures having passed on all sides, Mrs Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said there were a very happy set of people assembled – being indeed no other than Mr Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom.

Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment, for that they had much private business to discourse of; but would not resist promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part of her society at supper.

Mrs Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? “for indeed,” says she, “I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my house.” – Allworthy answered, “He was as uneasy as herself on the same account.” “Oh!” cries she, “if that be the case, leave the matter to me, I’ll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant you. Here are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs.” “There will be no need of any violence,” cries Allworthy; “if you will carry him a message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord.” “Will I?” said Mrs Miller; “I never did anything in my life with a better will.” Here Jones interfered, and said, “He had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr Allworthy pleased, be himself the messenger. I know,” says he, “already enough of your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me beseech you, sir,” added he, “to reflect on the dreadful consequences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How unfit, alas! is this poor man to die in his present situation.” This suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs Miller. She left the room, crying, “You are too good, Mr Jones, infinitely too good to live in this world.” But it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. “My good child,” said he, “I am equally astonished at the goodness of your heart, and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid that this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for repentance! That would be a shocking consideration indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own discretion; yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness; for I shall never forgive villany farther than my religion obliges me, and that extends not either to our bounty or our conversation.”

Jones went up to Blifil’s room, whom he found in a situation which moved his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion in many beholders. He cast himself on his bed, where he lay abandoning himself to despair, and drowned in tears; not in such tears as flow from contrition, and wash away guilt from minds which have been seduced or surprized into it unawares, against the bent of their natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief sheds in his cart, and are indeed the effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling for themselves.

It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess. He omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to raise and comfort the drooping spirits of Blifil, before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must quit the house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would endeavour to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle.

Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether he should yet deny all; but, finding at last the evidence too strong against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in short he was now as remarkably mean as he had been before remarkably wicked.

Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised him to bear his afflictions more like a man; repeating, at the same time, his promises, that he would do all in his power to lessen them; for which Blifil, making many professions of his unworthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks; and then, he having declared he would immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle.

Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery which he had made concerning the £500 bank-notes. “I have,” said he, “already consulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great astonishment, that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind. Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward you, I think a highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent person.”

“Good Heaven!” says Jones, “is it possible? – I am shocked beyond measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester fellow in the world. – The temptation of such a sum was too great for him to withstand; for smaller matters have come safe to me through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it weakness rather than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves me, and hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I believe he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day or two ago, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he visited me in my confinement, and offered me any money I wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress, it must be, to have a sum in his possession which must put him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering the like.”

“Child,” cries Allworthy, “you carry this forgiving temper too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the grand jury; and have more than once applied to the judge on the behalf of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case; but when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be punished; at least as far as I can punish him.”

This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper to make any reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr Western now drew so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, according to order, with his cloaths.

Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor fellow was unable either to contain or express his transports. He behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he was dressing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage.

His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered; nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, “I always told your honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other have it in your power to make my fortune.” Jones assured him that this boding should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the other omens had been to himself; which did not a little add to all the raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his master.

Chapter xii. – Approaching still nearer to the end

Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr Western’s. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind; but we hope it hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only, to recommend her work.

Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not forbear whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest creature in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper, overheard by all present, “So much the better for Tom; – for d – n me if he shan’t ha the tousling her.” Sophia was all over scarlet at these words, while Tom’s countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost ready to sink from his chair.

The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.

The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to many readers, that those who had so much to say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other’s arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent and motionless; insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might have well concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was, however strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence.

Mr Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out, some broken words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse from the subject which she knew well enough he was endeavouring to open, said —

“Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery.” “And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate,” said Jones, sighing, “while I have incurred your displeasure?” – “Nay, sir,” says she, “as to that you best know whether you have deserved it.” “Indeed, madam,” answered he, “you yourself are as well apprized of all my demerits. Mrs Miller hath acquainted you with the whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness?” – “I think, Mr Jones,” said she, “I may almost depend on your own justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct.” – “Alas! madam,” answered he, “it is mercy, and not justice, which I implore at your hands. Justice I know must condemn me. – Yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly declare you have had a true account.” He then insisted much on the security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer; but confest that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a letter as that into her power, “which,” said he, “I have dearly paid for, in the effect it has upon you.” “I do not, I cannot,” says she, “believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shews you clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have profest to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a man capable of so much inconstancy?” “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia, have flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted to throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now, it would not have been in the power of any other woman to have inspired a thought which the severest chastity could have condemned. Inconstancy to you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom.” “Sincere repentance, Mr Jones,” answered she, “will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its sincerity.” “Name any proof in my power,” answered Jones eagerly. “Time,” replied she; “time alone, Mr Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious courses, which I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of persevering in them.” “Do not imagine it,” cries Jones. “On my knees I intreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the business of my life to deserve.” “Let it then,” said she, “be the business of some part of your life to shew me you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when I see you merit my confidence, you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word?”

He replied, “Don’t believe me upon my word; I have a better security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and to doubt.” “What is that?” said Sophia, a little surprized. “I will show you, my charming angel,” cried Jones, seizing her hand and carrying her to the glass. “There, behold it there in that lovely figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines through these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these be inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes but your own.” Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing again her brow into a frown – “If I am to judge,” said she, “of the future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of the room.” “By heaven, by all that is sacred!” said Jones, “it never was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the heart.” “I will never marry a man,” replied Sophia, very gravely, “who shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am myself of making such a distinction.” “I will learn it,” said Jones. “I have learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught it me at once; and all the rest of her sex from that moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion to my heart.” “Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this must be from time. Your situation, Mr Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your mind is altered too.” “O! my angel,” cries Jones, “how shall I thank thy goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in my prosperity? – Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope – O! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one. – I will be all obedience to your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you permit me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short trial. O! tell me when I may expect you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true.” “When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr Jones,” said she, “I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not.” – “O! don’t look unkindly thus, my Sophia,” cries he. “I do not, I dare not press you. – Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. O! consider the impatience of love.” – “A twelvemonth, perhaps,” said she. “O! my Sophia,” cries he, “you have named an eternity.” – “Perhaps it may be something sooner,” says she; “I will not be teazed. If your passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy.” – “Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold a name. – O! transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed day will come, when I shall call you mine; when fears shall be no more; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia happy?” – “Indeed, sir,” said she, “that day is in your own power.” – “O! my dear, my divine angel,” cried he, “these words have made me mad with joy. – But I must, I will thank those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss.” He then caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before.

At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, “To her, boy, to her, go to her. – That’s it, little honeys, O that’s it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What, shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan’t be put off a minute longer than next day, I am resolved.” “Let me beseech you, sir,” says Jones, “don’t let me be the occasion” – “Beseech mine a – ,” cries Western. “I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks. – I tell thee ‘tis all flimflam. Zoodikers! she’d have the wedding to-night with all her heart. Would’st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?” “Why should I confess, sir,” says Sophia, “since it seems you are so well acquainted with my thoughts?” – “That’s a good girl,” cries he, “and dost consent then?” “No, indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have given no such consent.” – “And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?” says Western. – “Indeed, sir,” says she, “I have no such intention.” “But I can tell thee,” replied he, “why hast nut; only because thou dost love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father.” “Pray, sir,” said Jones, interfering – “I tell thee thou art a puppy,” cries he. “When I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languishing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of contrary, that’s all. She is above being guided and governed by her father, that is the whole truth on’t. It is only to disoblige and contradict me.” “What would my papa have me do?” cries Sophia. “What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi’ un thy hand this moment.” – “Well, sir,” says Sophia, “I will obey you. – There is my hand, Mr Jones.” “Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow morning?” says Western. – “I will be obedient to you, sir,” cries she. – “Why then to-morrow morning be the day,” cries he. “Why then to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so,” says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room, presently crying out – “Where the devil is Allworthy? He is without now, a talking with that d – d lawyer Dowling, when he should be minding other matters.” He then sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.

But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won’t believe me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be married to-morrow?” “Such are your commands, sir,” cries Sophia, “and I dare not be guilty of disobedience.” “I hope, madam,” cries Allworthy, “my nephew will merit so much goodness, and will be always as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my family. An alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England.” “Yes,” cries Western, “but if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet a while; I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring her to.” “I hope not, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I hope there is not the least constraint.” “Why, there,” cries Western, “you may bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?” “Indeed, papa,” cries she, “I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any promise in favour of Mr Jones.” “Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I felicitate you most heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men. And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least use his best endeavours to deserve it.” “His best endeavours!” cries Western, “that he will, I warrant un. – Harkee, Allworthy, I’ll bet thee five pounds to a crown we have a boy to-morrow nine months; but prithee tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for, please Jupiter, we’ll make a night on’t.” “Indeed, sir,” said Allworthy, “you must excuse me; both my nephew and I were engaged before I suspected this near approach of his happiness.” – “Engaged!” quoth the squire, “never tell me. – I won’t part with thee to-night upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please the lord Harry.” “You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!” answered Allworthy; “I have given a solemn promise, and that you know I never break.” “Why, prithee, who art engaged to?” cries the squire. – Allworthy then informed him, as likewise of the company. – “Odzookers!” answered the squire, “I will go with thee, and so shall Sophy! for I won’t part with thee to-night; and it would be barbarous to part Tom and the girl.” This offer was presently embraced by Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a private promise from her father that he would not mention a syllable concerning her marriage.