TOM JONES
PART 9
Chapter xii. — Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from the same fountain with those in the preceding chapter.
The reader
will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia. She passed the night,
after we saw her last, in no very agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but
little, and dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs Honour, her maid, attended
her at the usual hour, she was found already up and drest.
Persons
who live two or three miles’ distance in the country are considered as
next-door neighbours, and transactions at the one house fly with incredible
celerity to the other. Mrs Honour, therefore, had heard the whole story of
Molly’s shame; which she, being of a very communicative temper, had no sooner
entered the apartment of her mistress, than she began to relate in the
following manner:—
“La,
ma’am, what doth your la’ship think? the girl that your la’ship saw at church
on Sunday, whom you thought so handsome; though you would not have thought her
so handsome neither, if you had seen her nearer, but to be sure she hath been
carried before the justice for being big with child. She seemed to me to look like
a confident slut: and to be sure she hath laid the child to young Mr Jones. And
all the parish says Mr Allworthy is so angry with young Mr Jones, that he won’t
see him. To be sure, one can’t help pitying the poor young man, and yet he doth
not deserve much pity neither, for demeaning himself with such kind of
trumpery. Yet he is so pretty a gentleman, I should be sorry to have him turned
out of doors. I dares to swear the wench was as willing as he; for she was
always a forward kind of body. And when wenches are so coming, young men are
not so much to be blamed neither; for to be sure they do no more than what is
natural. Indeed it is beneath them to meddle with such dirty draggle-tails; and
whatever happens to them, it is good enough for them. And yet, to be sure, the
vile baggages are most in fault. I wishes, with all my heart, they were well to
be whipped at the cart’s tail; for it is pity they should be the ruin of a
pretty young gentleman; and nobody can deny but that Mr Jones is one of the
most handsomest young men that ever——”
She was
running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish voice than she had ever
spoken to her in before, cried, “Prithee, why dost thou trouble me with all
this stuff? What concern have I in what Mr Jones doth? I suppose you are all
alike. And you seem to me to be angry it was not your own case.”
“I,
ma’am!” answered Mrs Honour, “I am sorry your ladyship should have such an
opinion of me. I am sure nobody can say any such thing of me. All the young
fellows in the world may go to the divil for me. Because I said he was a
handsome man? Everybody says it as well as I. To be sure, I never thought as it
was any harm to say a young man was handsome; but to be sure I shall never
think him so any more now; for handsome is that handsome does. A beggar
wench!—”
“Stop thy
torrent of impertinence,” cries Sophia, “and see whether my father wants me at
breakfast.”
Mrs Honour
then flung out of the room, muttering much to herself, of which “Marry come up,
I assure you,” was all that could be plainly distinguished.
Whether
Mrs Honour really deserved that suspicion, of which her mistress gave her a
hint, is a matter which we cannot indulge our reader’s curiosity by resolving.
We will, however, make him amends in disclosing what passed in the mind of
Sophia.
The reader
will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection for Mr Jones had
insensibly stolen into the bosom of this young lady. That it had there grown to
a pretty great height before she herself had discovered it. When she first began
to perceive its symptoms, the sensations were so sweet and pleasing, that she
had not resolution sufficient to check or repel them; and thus she went on
cherishing a passion of which she never once considered the consequences.
This
incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She now first perceived the
weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it caused the utmost
perturbation in her mind, yet it had the effect of other nauseous physic, and
for the time expelled her distemper. Its operation indeed was most wonderfully
quick; and in the short interval, while her maid was absent, so entirely
removed all symptoms, that when Mrs Honour returned with a summons from her
father, she was become perfectly easy, and had brought herself to a thorough indifference
for Mr Jones.
The
diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those of the body.
For which reason, we hope, that learned faculty, for whom we have so profound a
respect, will pardon us the violent hands we have been necessitated to lay on
several words and phrases, which of right belong to them, and without which our
descriptions must have been often unintelligible.
Now there
is no one circumstance in which the distempers of the mind bear a more exact
analogy to those which are called bodily, than that aptness which both have to
a relapse. This is plain in the violent diseases of ambition and avarice. I
have known ambition, when cured at court by frequent disappointments (which are
the only physic for it), to break out again in a contest for foreman of the
grand jury at an assizes; and have heard of a man who had so far conquered
avarice, as to give away many a sixpence, that comforted himself, at last, on
his deathbed, by making a crafty and advantageous bargain concerning his ensuing
funeral, with an undertaker who had married his only child.
In the
affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the Stoic philosophy, we
shall here treat as a disease, this proneness to relapse is no less
conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor Sophia; upon whom, the very next time she
saw young Jones, all the former symptoms returned, and from that time cold and
hot fits alternately seized her heart.
The
situation of this young lady was now very different from what it had ever been
before. That passion which had formerly been so exquisitely delicious, became
now a scorpion in her bosom. She resisted it therefore with her utmost force,
and summoned every argument her reason (which was surprisingly strong for her
age) could suggest, to subdue and expel it. In this she so far succeeded, that
she began to hope from time and absence a perfect cure. She resolved therefore
to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible; for which purpose she began to conceive
a design of visiting her aunt, to which she made no doubt of obtaining her
father’s consent.
But
Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate stop to any such
proceeding, by introducing an accident, which will be related in the next
chapter.
Chapter xiii. — A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant behaviour of Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that behaviour to the young lady; with a short digression in favour of the female sex. —
Mr Western
grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch that his beloved dogs
themselves almost gave place to her in his affections; but as he could not
prevail on himself to abandon these, he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their
company, together with that of his daughter, by insisting on her riding a
hunting with him.
Sophia, to
whom her father’s word was a law, readily complied with his desires, though she
had not the least delight in a sport, which was of too rough and masculine a
nature to suit with her disposition. She had however another motive, beside her
obedience, to accompany the old gentleman in the chase; for by her presence she
hoped in some measure to restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent him from so
frequently exposing his neck to the utmost hazard.
The
strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an inducement to
her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones, whom she had determined to
avoid; but as the end of the hunting season now approached, she hoped, by a
short absence with her aunt, to reason herself entirely out of her unfortunate
passion; and had not any doubt of being able to meet him in the field the
subsequent season without the least danger.
On the
second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the chase, and was arrived
within a little distance from Mr Western’s house, her horse, whose mettlesome
spirit required a better rider, fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such
a manner that she was in the most imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, who was
at a little distance behind, saw this, and immediately galloped up to her
assistance. As soon as he came up, he leapt from his own horse, and caught hold
of hers by the bridle. The unruly beast presently reared himself an end on his
hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his back, and Jones caught her in
his arms.
She was so
affected with the fright, that she was not immediately able to satisfy Jones,
who was very solicitous to know whether she had received any hurt. She soon
after, however, recovered her spirits, assured him she was safe, and thanked
him for the care he had taken of her. Jones answered, “If I have preserved you,
madam, I am sufficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you
from the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfortune to myself than
I have suffered on this occasion.”
“What
misfortune?” replied Sophia eagerly; “I hope you have come to no mischief?”
“Be not
concerned, madam,” answered Jones. “Heaven be praised you have escaped so well,
considering the danger you was in. If I have broke my arm, I consider it as a
trifle, in comparison of what I feared upon your account.”
Sophia
then screamed out, “Broke your arm! Heaven forbid.”
“I am
afraid I have, madam,” says Jones: “but I beg you will suffer me first to take
care of you. I have a right hand yet at your service, to help you into the next
field, whence we have but a very little walk to your father’s house.”
Sophia
seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was using the other to lead
her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now grew much paler than her fears for
herself had made her before. All her limbs were seized with a trembling,
insomuch that Jones could scarce support her; and as her thoughts were in no
less agitation, she could not refrain from giving Jones a look so full of
tenderness, that it almost argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even
gratitude and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without the
assistance of a third more powerful passion.
Mr
Western, who was advanced at some distance when this accident happened, was now
returned, as were the rest of the horsemen. Sophia immediately acquainted them
with what had befallen Jones, and begged them to take care of him. Upon which
Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his daughter’s horse without its
rider, and was now overjoyed to find her unhurt, cried out, “I am glad it is no
worse. If Tom hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again.”
The squire
alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on foot, with his daughter
and Jones. An impartial spectator, who had met them on the way, would, on
viewing their several countenances, have concluded Sophia alone to have been
the object of compassion: for as to Jones, he exulted in having probably saved
the life of the young lady, at the price only of a broken bone; and Mr Western,
though he was not unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was,
however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate escape of his
daughter.
The
generosity of Sophia’s temper construed this behaviour of Jones into great
bravery; and it made a deep impression on her heart: for certain it is, that
there is no one quality which so generally recommends men to women as this;
proceeding, if we believe the common opinion, from that natural timidity of the
sex, which is, says Mr Osborne, “so great, that a woman is the most cowardly of
all the creatures God ever made;”—a sentiment more remarkable for its bluntness
than for its truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth them, I believe, more
justice, when he says, “The modesty and fortitude of men differ from those
virtues in women; for the fortitude which becomes a woman, would be cowardice
in a man; and the modesty which becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman.”
Nor is there, perhaps, more of truth in the opinion of those who derive the
partiality which women are inclined to show to the brave, from this excess of
their fear. Mr Bayle (I think, in his article of Helen) imputes this, and with
greater probability, to their violent love of glory; for the truth of which, we
have the authority of him who of all others saw farthest into human nature, and
who introduces the heroine of his Odyssey, the great pattern of matrimonial
love and constancy, assigning the glory of her husband as the only source of
her affection towards him.[*]
[*] The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the
sentiment is entirely left out in the translation.
However
this be, certain it is that the accident operated very strongly on Sophia; and,
indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I am inclined to believe, that, at
this very time, the charming Sophia made no less impression on the heart of
Jones; to say truth, he had for some time become sensible of the irresistible
power of her charms.
Chapter xiv. — The arrival of a surgeon.—His operations, and a long dialogue between Sophia and her maid.
When they
arrived at Mr Western’s hall, Sophia, who had tottered along with much
difficulty, sunk down in her chair; but by the assistance of hartshorn and
water, she was prevented from fainting away, and had pretty well recovered her
spirits, when the surgeon who was sent for to Jones appeared. Mr Western, who
imputed these symptoms in his daughter to her fall, advised her to be presently
blooded by way of prevention. In this opinion he was seconded by the surgeon,
who gave so many reasons for bleeding, and quoted so many cases where persons
had miscarried for want of it, that the squire became very importunate, and
indeed insisted peremptorily that his daughter should be blooded.
Sophia
soon yielded to the commands of her father, though entirely contrary to her own
inclinations, for she suspected, I believe, less danger from the fright, than
either the squire or the surgeon. She then stretched out her beautiful arm, and
the operator began to prepare for his work.
While the
servants were busied in providing materials, the surgeon, who imputed the
backwardness which had appeared in Sophia to her fears, began to comfort her
with assurances that there was not the least danger; for no accident, he said,
could ever happen in bleeding, but from the monstrous ignorance of pretenders
to surgery, which he pretty plainly insinuated was not at present to be
apprehended. Sophia declared she was not under the least apprehension; adding,
“If you open an artery, I promise you I’ll forgive you.” “Will you?” cries
Western: “D—n me, if I will. If he does thee the least mischief, d—n me if I
don’t ha’ the heart’s blood o’un out.” The surgeon assented to bleed her upon
these conditions, and then proceeded to his operation, which he performed with
as much dexterity as he had promised; and with as much quickness: for he took
but little blood from her, saying, it was much safer to bleed again and again,
than to take away too much at once.
Sophia,
when her arm was bound up, retired: for she was not willing (nor was it,
perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the operation on Jones. Indeed, one
objection which she had to bleeding (though she did not make it) was the delay
which it would occasion to setting the broken bone. For Western, when Sophia
was concerned, had no consideration but for her; and as for Jones himself, he
“sat like patience on a monument smiling at grief.” To say the truth, when he
saw the blood springing from the lovely arm of Sophia, he scarce thought of
what had happened to himself.
The
surgeon now ordered his patient to be stript to his shirt, and then entirely
baring the arm, he began to stretch and examine it, in such a manner that the
tortures he put him to caused Jones to make several wry faces; which the
surgeon observing, greatly wondered at, crying, “What is the matter, sir? I am
sure it is impossible I should hurt you.” And then holding forth the broken
arm, he began a long and very learned lecture of anatomy, in which simple and
double fractures were most accurately considered; and the several ways in which
Jones might have broken his arm were discussed, with proper annotations showing
how many of these would have been better, and how many worse than the present
case.
Having at
length finished his laboured harangue, with which the audience, though it had
greatly raised their attention and admiration, were not much edified, as they
really understood not a single syllable of all he had said, he proceeded to
business, which he was more expeditious in finishing, than he had been in
beginning.
Jones was
then ordered into a bed, which Mr Western compelled him to accept at his own
house, and sentence of water-gruel was passed upon him.
Among the
good company which had attended in the hall during the bone-setting, Mrs Honour
was one; who being summoned to her mistress as soon as it was over, and asked
by her how the young gentleman did, presently launched into extravagant praises
on the magnanimity, as she called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, “was
so charming in so pretty a creature.” She then burst forth into much warmer
encomiums on the beauty of his person; enumerating many particulars, and ending
with the whiteness of his skin.
This
discourse had an effect on Sophia’s countenance, which would not perhaps have
escaped the observance of the sagacious waiting-woman, had she once looked her
mistress in the face, all the time she was speaking: but as a looking-glass,
which was most commodiously placed opposite to her, gave her an opportunity of
surveying those features, in which, of all others, she took most delight; so
she had not once removed her eyes from that amiable object during her whole
speech.
Mrs Honour
was so intirely wrapped up in the subject on which she exercised her tongue,
and the object before her eyes, that she gave her mistress time to conquer her
confusion; which having done, she smiled on her maid, and told her, “she was
certainly in love with this young fellow.”—“I in love, madam!” answers she:
“upon my word, ma’am, I assure you, ma’am, upon my soul, ma’am, I am
not.”—“Why, if you was,” cries her mistress, “I see no reason that you should
be ashamed of it; for he is certainly a pretty fellow.”—“Yes, ma’am,” answered
the other, “that he is, the most handsomest man I ever saw in my life. Yes, to
be sure, that he is, and, as your ladyship says, I don’t know why I should be
ashamed of loving him, though he is my betters. To be sure, gentlefolks are but
flesh and blood no more than us servants. Besides, as for Mr Jones, thof Squire
Allworthy hath made a gentleman of him, he was not so good as myself by birth:
for thof I am a poor body, I am an honest person’s child, and my father and
mother were married, which is more than some people can say, as high as they
hold their heads. Marry, come up! I assure you, my dirty cousin! thof his skin
be so white, and to be sure it is the most whitest that ever was seen, I am a
Christian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am base born: my grandfather
was a clergyman,[*] and would have been very angry, I believe, to have thought
any of his family should have taken up with Molly Seagrim’s dirty leavings.”
[*] This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded
in this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped
such instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for
the families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can
be thought at present.
Perhaps
Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this manner, from wanting
sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which the reader may probably conjecture
was no very easy task; for certainly there were some passages in her speech
which were far from being agreeable to the lady. However, she now checked the
torrent, as there seemed no end of its flowing. “I wonder,” says she, “at your
assurance in daring to talk thus of one of my father’s friends. As to the
wench, I order you never to mention her name to me. And with regard to the
young gentleman’s birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvantage,
may as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be for the future.”
“I am
sorry I have offended your ladyship,” answered Mrs Honour. “I am sure I hate
Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship can; and as for abusing Squire Jones, I
can call all the servants in the house to witness, that whenever any talk hath
been about bastards, I have always taken his part; for which of you, says I to
the footmen, would not be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of?
And, says I, I am sure he is a very fine gentleman; and he hath one of the
whitest hands in the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says I, one of the
sweetest temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and, says I, all
the servants and neighbours all round the country loves him. And, to be sure, I
could tell your ladyship something, but that I am afraid it would offend
you.”—“What could you tell me, Honour?” says Sophia. “Nay, ma’am, to be sure he
meant nothing by it, therefore I would not have your ladyship be
offended.”—“Prithee tell me,” says Sophia; “I will know it this instant.”—“Why,
ma’am,” answered Mrs Honour, “he came into the room one day last week when I
was at work, and there lay your ladyship’s muff on a chair, and to be sure he
put his hands into it; that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday. La!
says I, Mr Jones, you will stretch my lady’s muff, and spoil it: but he still
kept his hands in it: and then he kissed it—to be sure I hardly ever saw such a
kiss in my life as he gave it.”—“I suppose he did not know it was mine,”
replied Sophia. “Your ladyship shall hear, ma’am. He kissed it again and again,
and said it was the prettiest muff in the world. La! sir, says I, you have seen
it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs Honour, cried he; but who can see anything
beautiful in the presence of your lady but herself?—Nay, that’s not all
neither; but I hope your ladyship won’t be offended, for to be sure he meant
nothing. One day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord to my master,
Mr Jones was sitting in the next room, and methought he looked melancholy. La!
says I, Mr Jones, what’s the matter? a penny for your thoughts, says I. Why,
hussy, says he, starting up from a dream, what can I be thinking of, when that
angel your mistress is playing? And then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs
Honour, says he, how happy will that man be!—and then he sighed. Upon my troth,
his breath is as sweet as a nosegay.—But to be sure he meant no harm by it. So
I hope your ladyship will not mention a word; for he gave me a crown never to
mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe, indeed, it was not
the Bible.”
Till
something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I shall say nothing
of Sophia’s colour on this occasion. “Ho—nour,” says she, “I—if you will not
mention this any more to me—nor to anybody else, I will not betray you—I mean,
I will not be angry; but I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you
give it such liberties?”—“Nay, ma’am,” answered she, “to be sure, I would
sooner cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall never
mention a word that your ladyship would not have me.”—“Why, I would not have
you mention this any more,” said Sophia, “for it may come to my father’s ears,
and he would be angry with Mr Jones; though I really believe, as you say, he
meant nothing. I should be very angry myself, if I imagined—“—“Nay, ma’am,”
says Honour, “I protest I believe he meant nothing. I thought he talked as if
he was out of his senses; nay, he said he believed he was beside himself when
he had spoken the words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he,
Honour.—But I ask your ladyship’s pardon; I could tear my tongue out for
offending you.” “Go on,” says Sophia; “you may mention anything you have not
told me before.”—“Yes, Honour, says he (this was some time afterwards, when he
gave me the crown), I am neither such a coxcomb, or such a villain, as to think
of her in any other delight but as my goddess; as such I will always worship
and adore her while I have breath.—This was all, ma’am, I will be sworn, to the
best of my remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he
meant no harm.”—“Indeed, Honour,” says Sophia, “I believe you have a real
affection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you warning; but if
you have a desire to stay with me, you shall.”—“To be sure, ma’am,” answered
Mrs Honour, “I shall never desire to part with your ladyship. To be sure, I
almost cried my eyes out when you gave me warning. It would be very ungrateful
in me to desire to leave your ladyship; because as why, I should never get so
good a place again. I am sure I would live and die with your ladyship; for, as
poor Mr Jones said, happy is the man——”
Here the
dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought such an effect on
Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her bleeding in the morning,
than she, at the time, had apprehended she should be. As to the present
situation of her mind, I shall adhere to a rule of Horace, by not attempting to
describe it, from despair of success. Most of my readers will suggest it easily
to themselves; and the few who cannot, would not understand the picture, or at
least would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn.
To be continued
