TOM JONES
PART 45
Chapter v. — In which the history is continued.
Mr
Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender ideas concerning
Jones, which had brought tears into the good man’s eyes. This Mrs Miller
observing, said, “Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to this poor young man is known,
notwithstanding all your care to conceal it; but there is not a single syllable
of truth in what those villains said. Mr Nightingale hath now discovered the
whole matter. It seems these fellows were employed by a lord, who is a rival of
poor Mr Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship.—I assure them I don’t know
who they will press next. Mr Nightingale here hath seen the officer himself,
who is a very pretty gentleman, and hath told him all, and is very sorry for
what he undertook, which he would never have done, had he known Mr Jones to have
been a gentleman; but he was told that he was a common strolling vagabond.”
Allworthy
stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to every word she said.
“Yes, sir,” answered she, “I believe you are.——It is a very different story, I
believe, from what those fellows told this lawyer.”
“What
lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?” said Allworthy. “Nay, nay,” said she,
“this is so like you to deny your own goodness: but Mr Nightingale here saw
him.” “Saw whom, madam?” answered he. “Why, your lawyer, sir,” said she, “that
you so kindly sent to enquire into the affair.” “I am still in the dark, upon
my honour,” said Allworthy. “Why then do you tell him, my dear sir,” cries she.
“Indeed, sir,” said Nightingale, “I did see that very lawyer who went from you
when I came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate, in company with two of
the fellows who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr Jones, and who were
by that means present at the unhappy rencounter between him and Mr
Fitzpatrick.” “I own, sir,” said Mrs Miller, “when I saw this gentleman come
into the room to you, I told Mr Nightingale that I apprehended you had sent him
thither to inquire into the affair.” Allworthy shewed marks of astonishment in
his countenance at this news, and was indeed for two or three minutes struck
dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr Nightingale, he said, “I must
confess myself, sir, more surprized at what you tell me than I have ever been
before at anything in my whole life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?”
“I am most certain,” answered Nightingale. “At Aldersgate?” cries Allworthy.
“And was you in company with this lawyer and the two fellows?”—“I was, sir,”
said the other, “very near half an hour.” “Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “and in
what manner did the lawyer behave? did you hear all that past between him and
the fellows?” “No, sir,” answered Nightingale, “they had been together before I
came.—In my presence the lawyer said little; but, after I had several times
examined the fellows, who persisted in a story directly contrary to what I had
heard from Mr Jones, and which I find by Mr Fitzpatrick was a rank falshood,
the lawyer then desired the fellows to say nothing but what was the truth, and
seemed to speak so much in favour of Mr Jones, that, when I saw the same person
with you, I concluded your goodness had prompted you to send him thither.”—“And
did you not send him thither?” says Mrs Miller.—“Indeed I did not,” answered
Allworthy; “nor did I know he had gone on such an errand till this moment.”—“I
see it all!” said Mrs Miller, “upon my soul, I see it all! No wonder they have
been closeted so close lately. Son Nightingale, let me beg you run for these
fellows immediately——find them out if they are above-ground. I will go
myself”—“Dear madam,” said Allworthy, “be patient, and do me the favour to send
a servant upstairs to call Mr Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if
not, Mr Blifil.” Mrs Miller went out muttering something to herself, and
presently returned with an answer, “That Mr Dowling was gone; but that the
t’other,” as she called him, “was coming.”
Allworthy
was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose spirits were all up in
arms in the cause of her friend. He was not however without some suspicions
which were near akin to hers. When Blifil came into the room, he asked him with
a very serious countenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever
before given him, “Whether he knew anything of Mr Dowling’s having seen any of
the persons who were present at the duel between Jones and another gentleman?”
There is
nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by surprize on a man whose
business it is to conceal truth, or to defend falshood. For which reason those
worthy personages, whose noble office it is to save the lives of their
fellow-creatures at the Old Bailey, take the utmost care, by frequent previous
examination, to divine every question which may be asked their clients on the
day of tryal, that they may be supplyed with proper and ready answers, which
the most fertile invention cannot supply in an instant. Besides, the sudden and
violent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these surprizes, causes frequently
such an alteration in the countenance, that the man is obliged to give evidence
against himself. And such indeed were the alterations which the countenance of
Blifil underwent from this sudden question, that we can scarce blame the
eagerness of Mrs Miller, who immediately cryed out, “Guilty, upon my honour!
guilty, upon my soul!”
Mr
Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then turning to Blifil,
who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, “Why do you hesitate, sir, at
giving me an answer? You certainly must have employed him; for he would not, of
his own accord, I believe, have undertaken such an errand, and especially
without acquainting me.”
Blifil
then answered, “I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence, yet may I hope
your pardon?”—“My pardon,” said Allworthy, very angrily.—“Nay, sir,” answered
Blifil, “I knew you would be offended; yet surely my dear uncle will forgive
the effects of the most amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who
do not deserve it, I own is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which you
yourself are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than one
instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr Dowling, not on a
vain and fruitless enquiry, but to discover the witnesses, and to endeavour to
soften their evidence. This, sir, is the truth; which, though I intended to
conceal from you, I will not deny.”
“I
confess,” said Nightingale, “this is the light in which it appeared to me from
the gentleman’s behaviour.”
“Now,
madam,” said Allworthy, “I believe you will once in your life own you have
entertained a wrong suspicion, and are not so angry with my nephew as you was.”
Mrs Miller
was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be pleased with Blifil, whom
she looked upon to have been the ruin of Jones, yet in this particular instance
he had imposed upon her as well as upon the rest; so entirely had the devil
stood his friend. And, indeed, I look upon the vulgar observation, “That the
devil often deserts his friends, and leaves them in the lurch,” to be a great
abuse on that gentleman’s character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert those who
are only his cup acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half his; but he
generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants, and helps them off
in all extremities, till their bargain expires.
As a
conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is more perfectly
established by recovery from some diseases; so anger, when removed, often gives
new life to affection. This was the case of Mr Allworthy; for Blifil having
wiped off the greater suspicion, the lesser, which had been raised by Square’s
letter, sunk of course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was
greatly offended, bore alone all the reflections which Square had cast on the
enemies of Jones.
As for
that young man, the resentment of Mr Allworthy began more and more to abate
towards him. He told Blifil, “He did not only forgive the extraordinary efforts
of his good-nature, but would give him the pleasure of following his example.”
Then, turning to Mrs Miller with a smile which would have become an angel, he
cryed, “What say you, madam? shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us
together pay a visit to your friend? I promise you it is not the first visit I
have made in a prison.”
Every
reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman; but they must
have a great deal of good-nature, and be well acquainted with friendship, who
can feel what she felt on this occasion. Few, I hope, are capable of feeling
what now passed in the mind of Blifil; but those who are will acknowledge that
it was impossible for him to raise any objection to this visit. Fortune,
however, or the gentleman lately mentioned above, stood his friend, and
prevented his undergoing so great a shock; for at the very instant when the
coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and, having called Mrs Miller from the
company, acquainted her with the dreadful accident lately come to light; and
hearing Mr Allworthy’s intention, begged her to find some means of stopping
him: “For,” says he, “the matter must at all hazards be kept a secret from him;
and if he should now go, he will find Mr Jones and his mother, who arrived just
as I left him, lamenting over one another the horrid crime they have ignorantly
committed.”
The poor
woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his dreadful news, was never
less capable of invention than at present. However, as women are much readier
at this than men, she bethought herself of an excuse, and, returning to
Allworthy, said, “I am sure, sir, you will be surprized at hearing any
objection from me to the kind proposal you just now made; and yet I am afraid
of the consequence of it, if carried immediately into execution. You must
imagine, sir, that all the calamities which have lately befallen this poor
young fellow must have thrown him into the lowest dejection of spirits; and
now, sir, should we all on a sudden fling him into such a violent fit of joy,
as I know your presence will occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some fatal
mischief, especially as his servant, who is without, tells me he is very far
from being well.”
“Is his
servant without?” cries Allworthy; “pray call him hither. I will ask him some
questions concerning his master.”
Partridge
was at first afraid to appear before Mr Allworthy; but was at length persuaded,
after Mrs Miller, who had often heard his whole story from his own mouth, had
promised to introduce him.
Allworthy
recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room, though many years had
passed since he had seen him. Mrs Miller, therefore, might have spared here a
formal oration, in which, indeed, she was something prolix; for the reader, I
believe, may have observed already that the good woman, among other things, had
a tongue always ready for the service of her friends.
“And are
you,” said Allworthy to Partridge, “the servant of Mr Jones?” “I can’t say,
sir,” answered he, “that I am regularly a servant, but I live with him, an’t
please your honour, at present. Non sum qualis eram, as your honour very
well knows.”
Mr
Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as to his health, and
other matters; to all which Partridge answered, without having the least regard
to what was, but considered only what he would have things appear; for a strict
adherence to truth was not among the articles of this honest fellow’s morality
or his religion.
During
this dialogue Mr Nightingale took his leave, and presently after Mrs Miller
left the room, when Allworthy likewise despatched Blifil; for he imagined that
Partridge when alone with him would be more explicit than before company. They
were no sooner left in private together than Allworthy began, as in the
following chapter.
Chapter vi. — In which the history is farther continued
“Sure,
friend,” said the good man, “you are the strangest of all human beings. Not
only to have suffered as you have formerly for obstinately persisting in a
falshood, but to persist in it thus to the last, and to pass thus upon the
world for a servant of your own son! What interest can you have in all this?
What can be your motive?”
“I see,
sir,” said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, “that your honour is
prepossessed against me, and resolved not to believe anything I say, and,
therefore, what signifies my protestations? but yet there is one above who
knows that I am not the father of this young man.”
“How!”
said Allworthy, “will you yet deny what you was formerly convicted of upon such
unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay, what a confirmation is your being
now found with this very man, of all which twenty years ago appeared against
you! I thought you had left the country! nay, I thought you had been long since
dead.—In what manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you
meet with him, unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not deny
this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your son in my opinion, to find
that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately to support his father for
so many years.”
“If your
honour will have patience to hear me,” said Partridge, “I will tell you
all.”—Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: “When your honour conceived that
displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon after; for I lost my little
school; and the minister, thinking I suppose it would be agreeable to your
honour, turned me out from the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust
to but the barber’s shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor
livelihood; and when my wife died (for till that time I received a pension of
£12 a year from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was your honour’s own,
for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things besides)—but, as I was
saying, when she died, this pension forsook me; so that now, as I owed two or
three small debts, which began to be troublesome to me, particularly one[*]
which an attorney brought up by law-charges from 15s. to near £30, and as I
found all my usual means of living had forsook me, I packed up my little all as
well as I could, and went off.
[*] This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in
Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with
the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single
action, brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was
called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring
money into the pockets of attorneys, to the great scandal of the
law, of the nation, of Christianity, and even of human nature
itself.
“The first
place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the service of a gentleman
belonging to the law, and one of the best gentlemen that ever I knew, for he
was not only good to me, but I know a thousand good and charitable acts which
he did while I staid with him; and I have known him often refuse business
because it was paultry and oppressive.” “You need not be so particular,” said
Allworthy; “I know this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour
to his profession.”—“Well, sir,” continued Partridge, “from hence I removed to
Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of another lawyer, who
was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to be sure one of the merriest
gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the end of the three years I set up a
little school, and was likely to do well again, had it not been for a most
unlucky accident. Here I kept a pig; and one day, as ill fortune would have it,
this pig broke out, and did a trespass, I think they call it, in a garden
belonging to one of my neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and
employed a lawyer, one—one—I can’t think of his name; but he sent for a writ
against me, and had me to size. When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me—to
hear what the counsellors said! There was one that told my lord a parcel of the
confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to drive my hogs into other
folk’s gardens, and a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped I had at
last brought my hogs to a fair market. To be sure, one would have thought that,
instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had been the greatest
hog-merchant in England. Well—” “Pray,” said Allworthy, “do not be so
particular, I have heard nothing of your son yet.” “O it was a great many
years,” answered Partridge, “before I saw my son, as you are pleased to call
him.——I went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork (for that
one suit ruined me again, and I lay seven years in Winchester jail).”—“Well,”
said Allworthy, “pass that over till your return to England.”—“Then, sir,” said
he, “it was about half a year ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some
time, and not finding it do there, and hearing of a place between that and
Gloucester where the barber was just dead, I went thither, and there I had been
about two months when Mr Jones came thither.” He then gave Allworthy a very
particular account of their first meeting, and of everything, as well as he
could remember, which had happened from that day to this; frequently
interlarding his story with panegyrics on Jones, and not forgetting to
insinuate the great love and respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded
with saying, “Now, sir, I have told your honour the whole truth.” And then
repeated a most solemn protestation, “That he was no more the father of Jones
than of the Pope of Rome;” and imprecated the most bitter curses on his head,
if he did not speak truth.
“What am I
to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. “For what purpose should you so
strongly deny a fact which I think it would be rather your interest to own?”
“Nay, sir,” answered Partridge (for he could hold no longer), “if your honour
will not believe me, you are like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you
had mistaken the mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.”—And
now being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in his
voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he had a little
before expressed such desire to Mrs Miller to conceal from him.
Allworthy
was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge himself had been
while he related it. “Good heavens!” says he, “in what miserable distresses do
vice and imprudence involve men! How much beyond our designs are the effects of
wickedness sometimes carried!” He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs
Waters came hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her
than he cried, “Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the
unfortunate mother of Mr Jones. I am sure she will acquit me before your
honour. Pray, madam——”
Mrs Waters,
without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and almost without taking any
notice of him, advanced to Mr Allworthy. “I believe, sir, it is so long since I
had the honour of seeing you, that you do not recollect me.” “Indeed,” answered
Allworthy, “you are so very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this
man already acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you
to my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which brings you to
me?” Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the reader may easily believe
he was not well pleased with the conduct of this lady; neither with what he had
formerly heard, nor with what Partridge had now delivered.
Mrs Waters
answered—“Indeed, sir, I have very particular business with you; and it is such
as I can impart only to yourself. I must desire, therefore, the favour of a
word with you alone: for I assure you what I have to tell you is of the utmost
importance.”
Partridge
was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged the lady to satisfy
Mr Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To which she answered, “You need
be under no apprehension, sir; I shall satisfy Mr Allworthy very perfectly of
that matter.”
Then
Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Waters which is
written in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — Continuation of the history.
Mrs Waters
remaining a few moments silent, Mr Allworthy could not refrain from saying, “I
am sorry, madam, to perceive, by what I have since heard, that you have made so
very ill a use——” “Mr Allworthy,” says she, interrupting him, “I know I have
faults, but ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget
your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased to wave
all upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair to communicate
to you concerning this young man, to whom you have given my maiden name of
Jones.”
“Have I
then,” said Allworthy, “ignorantly punished an innocent man, in the person of
him who hath just left us? Was he not the father of the child?” “Indeed he was
not,” said Mrs Waters. “You may be pleased to remember, sir, I formerly told
you, you should one day know; and I acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a
cruel neglect, in not having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew
how necessary it was.” “Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “be pleased to proceed.”
“You must remember, sir,” said she, “a young fellow, whose name was Summer.”
“Very well,” cries Allworthy, “he was the son of a clergyman of great learning
and virtue, for whom I had the highest friendship.” “So it appeared, sir,”
answered she; “for I believe you bred the young man up, and maintained him at
the university; where, I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to
reside at your house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for,
besides the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much
wit and good breeding.” “Poor gentleman,” said Allworthy, “he was indeed
untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any sins of this kind to
answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to tell me he was the father
of your child.”
“Indeed,
sir,” answered she, “he was not.” “How!” said Allworthy, “to what then tends
all this preface?” “To a story,” said she, “which I am concerned falls to my
lot to unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear something which will surprize
you, will grieve you.” “Speak,” said Allworthy, “I am conscious of no crime,
and cannot be afraid to hear.” “Sir,” said she, “that Mr Summer, the son of
your friend, educated at your expense, who, after living a year in the house as
if he had been your own son, died there of the small-pox, was tenderly lamented
by you, and buried as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the father
of this child.” “How!” said Allworthy; “you contradict yourself.” “That I do
not,” answered she; “he was indeed the father of this child, but not by me.”
“Take care, madam,” said Allworthy, “do not, to shun the imputation of any crime,
be guilty of falshood. Remember there is One from whom you can conceal nothing,
and before whose tribunal falshood will only aggravate your guilt.” “Indeed,
sir,” says she, “I am not his mother; nor would I now think myself so for the
world.” “I know your reason,” said Allworthy, “and shall rejoice as much as you
to find it otherwise; yet you must remember, you yourself confest it before
me.” “So far what I confest,” said she, “was true, that these hands conveyed
the infant to your bed; conveyed it thither at the command of its mother; at
her commands I afterwards owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity,
nobly rewarded, both for my secrecy and my shame.” “Who could this woman be?”
said Allworthy. “Indeed, I tremble to name her,” answered Mrs Waters. “By all
this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation of mine,” cried he.
“Indeed she was a near one.” At which words Allworthy started, and she
continued—“You had a sister, sir.” “A sister!” repeated he, looking aghast.—“As
there is truth in heaven,” cries she, “your sister was the mother of that child
you found between your sheets.” “Can it be possible?” cries he, “Good heavens!”
“Have patience, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “and I will unfold to you the whole
story. Just after your departure for London, Miss Bridget came one day to the
house of my mother. She was pleased to say she had heard an extraordinary
character of me, for my learning and superior understanding to all the young
women there, so she was pleased to say. She then bid me come to her to the
great house; where, when I attended, she employed me to read to her. She
expressed great satisfaction in my reading, shewed great kindness to me, and
made me many presents. At last she began to catechise me on the subject of
secrecy, to which I gave her such satisfactory answers, that, at last, having
locked the door of her room, she took me into her closet, and then locking that
door likewise, she said she should convince me of the vast reliance she had on
my integrity, by communicating a secret in which her honour, and consequently
her life, was concerned. She then stopt, and after a silence of a few minutes,
during which she often wiped her eyes, she enquired of me if I thought my
mother might safely be confided in. I answered, I would stake my life on her
fidelity. She then imparted to me the great secret which laboured in her
breast, and which, I believe, was delivered with more pains than she afterwards
suffered in child-birth. It was then contrived that my mother and myself only
should attend at the time, and that Mrs Wilkins should be sent out of the way,
as she accordingly was, to the very furthest part of Dorsetshire, to enquire
the character of a servant; for the lady had turned away her own maid near
three months before; during all which time I officiated about her person upon
trial, as she said, though, as she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently
handy for the place. This, and many other such things which she used to say of
me, were all thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins might hereafter
have, when I was to own the child; for she thought it could never be believed
she would venture to hurt a young woman with whom she had intrusted such a
secret. You may be assured, sir, I was well paid for all these affronts, which,
together with being informed with the occasion of them, very well contented me.
Indeed, the lady had a greater suspicion of Mrs Wilkins than of any other
person; not that she had the least aversion to the gentlewoman, but she thought
her incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have often
heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs Wilkins had committed a murder, she
believed she would acquaint you with it. At last the expected day came, and Mrs
Wilkins, who had been kept a week in readiness, and put off from time to time,
upon some pretence or other, that she might not return too soon, was
dispatched. Then the child was born, in the presence only of myself and my
mother, and was by my mother conveyed to her own house, where it was privately kept
by her till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of Miss Bridget,
conveyed it into the bed where you found it. And all suspicions were afterwards
laid asleep by the artful conduct of your sister, in pretending ill-will to the
boy, and that any regard she shewed him was out of meer complacence to you.”
Mrs Waters
then made many protestations of the truth of this story, and concluded by
saying, “Thus, sir, you have at last discovered your nephew; for so I am sure
you will hereafter think him, and I question not but he will be both an honour
and a comfort to you under that appellation.”
“I need
not, madam,” said Allworthy, “express my astonishment at what you have told me;
and yet surely you would not, and could not, have put together so many
circumstances to evidence an untruth. I confess I recollect some passages
relating to that Summer, which formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had
some liking to him. I mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young
man, as well on his own account as on his father’s, that I should willingly
have consented to a match between them; but she exprest the highest disdain of
my unkind suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more on the
subject. Good heavens! Well! the Lord disposeth all things.—Yet sure it was a
most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry this secret with her out of
the world.” “I promise you, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “she always profest a
contrary intention, and frequently told me she intended one day to communicate
it to you. She said, indeed, she was highly rejoiced that her plot had
succeeded so well, and that you had of your own accord taken such a fancy to
the child, that it was yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh!
sir, had that lady lived to have seen this poor young man turned like a
vagabond from your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to hear that you had
yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a murder of which he was not
guilty——Forgive me, Mr Allworthy, I must say it was unkind.—Indeed, you have
been abused, he never deserved it of you.” “Indeed, madam,” said Allworthy, “I
have been abused by the person, whoever he was, that told you so.” “Nay, sir,”
said she, “I would not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty of
any wrong. The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he only said,
taking me for Mr Fitzpatrick’s wife, that, if Mr Jones had murdered my husband,
I should be assisted with any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a
very worthy gentleman, who, he said, was well apprized what a villain I had to
deal with. It was by this man I found out who Mr Jones was; and this man, whose
name is Dowling, Mr Jones tells me is your steward. I discovered his name by a
very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but Partridge, who met
him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew him formerly at Salisbury.”
“And did
this Mr Dowling,” says Allworthy, with great astonishment in his countenance,
“tell you that I would assist in the prosecution?”—“No, sir,” answered she, “I
will not charge him wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned
no name. Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it could
be no other.”—“Indeed, madam,” says Allworthy, “from circumstances I am too
well convinced it was another. Good Heaven! by what wonderful means is the
blackest and deepest villany sometimes discovered!—Shall I beg you, madam, to
stay till the person you have mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute?
nay, he may be, perhaps, already in the house.”
Allworthy
then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when in came, not Mr
Dowling, but the gentleman who will be seen in the next chapter.
... next
week
