TOM JONES
PART 44
Chapter ix. — What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
Mr Jones
passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless when relieved by
the company of Partridge, before Mr Nightingale returned; not that this worthy
young man had deserted or forgot his friend; for, indeed, he had been much the
greatest part of the time employed in his service.
He had
heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the beginning of the
unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a man-of-war which then lay at
Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went in search of this crew, where he was
informed that the men he sought after were all gone ashore. He then traced them
from place to place, till at last he found two of them drinking together, with
a third person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.
Nightingale
desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was in the room when he
came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale, taking Jones by the hand,
cried, “Come, my brave friend, be not too much dejected at what I am going to
tell you——I am sorry I am the messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to
tell you.” “I guess already what that bad news is,” cries Jones. “The poor
gentleman then is dead.”—“I hope not,” answered Nightingale. “He was alive this
morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear, from the accounts I could get,
that his wound is mortal. But if the affair be exactly as you told it, your own
remorse would be all you would have reason to apprehend, let what would happen;
but forgive me, my dear Tom, if I entreat you to make the worst of your story
to your friends. If you disguise anything to us, you will only be an enemy to
yourself.”
“What
reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said Jones, “to stab me with so
cruel a suspicion?” “Have patience,” cries Nightingale, “and I will tell you
all. After the most diligent enquiry I could make, I at last met with two of
the fellows who were present at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say,
they do not relate the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told
it.” “Why, what do they say?” cries Jones. “Indeed what I am sorry to repeat,
as I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say that they were at too
great a distance to overhear any words that passed between you: but they both
agree that the first blow was given by you.” “Then, upon my soul,” answered
Jones, “they injure me. He not only struck me first, but struck me without the
least provocation. What should induce those villains to accuse me falsely?”
“Nay, that I cannot guess,” said Nightingale, “and if you yourself, and I, who
am so heartily your friend, cannot conceive a reason why they should belie you,
what reason will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why they
should not believe them? I repeated the question to them several times, and so
did another gentleman who was present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and
who really acted a very friendly part by you; for he begged them often to
consider that there was the life of a man in the case; and asked them over and
over, if they were certain; to which they both answered, that they were, and
would abide by their evidence upon oath. For heaven’s sake, my dear friend,
recollect yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your
business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would not
shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law, whatever verbal
provocations may have been given you.” “Alas! my friend,” cries Jones, “what
interest hath such a wretch as I? Besides, do you think I would even wish to
live with the reputation of a murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have
none), could I have the confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a
man condemned for the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have no
such hope; but I have some reliance on a throne still greatly superior; which
will, I am certain, afford me all the protection I merit.”
He then
concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the truth of what he
had at first asserted.
The faith
of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline to credit his
friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful report of the success of
her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he cried out most heroically, “Well,
my friend, I am now indifferent as to what shall happen, at least with regard
to my life; and if it be the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement with
that for the blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer
my honour to be cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least, will be
believed, so far as to justify his character.”
A very
mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends, at which, as few
readers would have been pleased to be present, so few, I believe, will desire
to hear it particularly related. We will, therefore, pass on to the entrance of
the turnkey, who acquainted Jones that there was a lady without who desired to
speak with him when he was at leisure.
Jones
declared his surprize at this message. He said, “He knew no lady in the world
whom he could possibly expect to see there.” However, as he saw no reason to
decline seeing any person, Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale presently took their
leave, and he gave orders to have the lady admitted.
If Jones
was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly was he astonished
when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs Waters! In this
astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order to cure the surprize of
the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a little wonder at the arrival of
this lady.
Who this
Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was, he must be
perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to remember that this lady
departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr Fitzpatrick and the other Irish
gentleman, and in their company travelled to Bath.
Now there
was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick at that time vacant, namely
that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled that office had resigned, or
at least deserted her duty. Mr Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly
examined Mrs Waters on the road, found her extremely fit for the place, which,
on their arrival at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any
scruple accepted. As husband and wife this gentleman and lady continued
together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife they arrived
together in town.
Whether Mr
Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good thing till he had
secured another, which he had at present only a prospect of regaining; or
whether Mrs Waters had so well discharged her office, that he intended still to
retain her as principal, and to make his wife (as is often the case) only her
deputy, I will not say; but certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her,
never communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once
hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever mention the
name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight with him wherever he met him,
he did not imitate those prudent persons who think a wife, a mother, a sister,
or sometimes a whole family, the safest seconds on these occasions. The first
account therefore which she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips,
after he was brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.
As Mr
Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a story at any time,
and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than usual, it was some time
before she discovered that the gentleman who had given him this wound was the
very same person from whom her heart had received a wound, which, though not of
a mortal kind, was yet so deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it.
But no sooner was she acquainted that Mr Jones himself was the man who had been
committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she took the first
opportunity of committing Mr Fitzpatrick to the care of his nurse, and hastened
away to visit the conqueror.
She now
entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an immediate check from
the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who started and blessed himself when he
saw her. Upon which she said, “Nay, I do not wonder at your surprize; I believe
you did not expect to see me; for few gentlemen are troubled here with visits
from any lady, unless a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr Jones.
Indeed, I little thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would
have been in such a place.” “Indeed, madam,” says Jones, “I must look upon this
visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such dismal
habitations.” “I protest, Mr Jones,” says she, “I can hardly persuade myself
you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why, your face is more
miserable than any dungeon in the universe. What can be the matter with you?”
“I thought, madam,” said Jones, “as you knew of my being here, you knew the
unhappy reason.” “Pugh!” says she, “you have pinked a man in a duel, that’s
all.” Jones exprest some indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost
contrition for what had happened. To which she answered, “Well, then, sir, if
you take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not dead,
and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed, who
first dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed desirous of representing his
case to be as bad as possible, that he might have the more honour from curing
him: but the king’s surgeon hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever,
of which there are at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger
of life.” Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report;
upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, “By the most extraordinary
accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and have seen the gentleman, and
I promise you he doth you justice, and says, whatever be the consequence, that
he was entirely the aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame.”
Jones
expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs Waters brought him.
He then informed her of many things which she well knew before, as who Mr
Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his resentment, &c. He likewise told her
several facts of which she was ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and
other particulars, concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the
follies and vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had
been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be unpardonable if he
did not take warning, and quit those vicious courses for the future. He lastly
concluded with assuring her of his resolution to sin no more, lest a worse
thing should happen to him.
Mrs Waters
with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of low spirits and
confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the devil when he was sick, and
told him, “She doubted not but shortly to see him at liberty, and as lively a
fellow as ever; and then,” says she, “I don’t question but your conscience will
be safely delivered of all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding.”
Many more
things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do her no great honour,
in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor are we quite certain but that
the answers made by Jones would be treated with ridicule by others. We shall
therefore suppress the rest of this conversation, and only observe that it
ended at last with perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of
Jones than of the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news
she had brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the
penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview, conceived
a very different opinion of from what she now entertained of him.
Thus the
melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr Nightingale was pretty well effaced;
but the dejection into which Mrs Miller had thrown him still continued. The
account she gave so well tallied with the words of Sophia herself in her
letter, that he made not the least doubt but that she had disclosed his letter
to her aunt, and had taken a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this
thought gave him were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had
yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second chapter of
the ensuing book.
BOOK XVIII.
CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
Chapter i. — A farewel to the reader.
We are
now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As we have,
therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us behave to one
another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who have passed several days
in the company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or little
animosities which may have occurred on the road, generally make all up at last,
and mount, for the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good
humour; since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
As I have
here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a little farther. I
intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good company I have mentioned
in their last journey. Now, it is well known that all jokes and raillery are at
this time laid aside; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the
jest-sake personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is
usually plain and serious.
In the
same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this work, indulged any
pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay it down. The variety of
matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to cram into this book, will afford no
room for any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere made, and
which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was
beginning to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only; and,
indeed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this book will
produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it scarce sufficient
to tell the story.
And now,
my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other) of heartily
wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining companion to thee, I promise
thee it is what I have desired. If in anything I have offended, it was really
without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy
friends; but I do most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them.
I question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me, that thou
wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever told thee so did me
an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility more than myself; nor hath
any man more reason; for none hath ever been treated with more; and what is a
very severe fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very men
fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves with
the utmost virulence.
All these
works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long before this page shall
offer itself to thy perusal; for however short the period may be of my own
performances, they will most probably outlive their own infirm author, and the
weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries.
Chapter ii. — Containing a very tragical incident.
While
Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which we left him
tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room with his face paler
than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair standing an end, and every
limb trembling. In short, he looked as he would have done had he seen a
spectre, or had he, indeed, been a spectre himself.
Jones, who
was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat shocked at this
sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change colour, and his voice a
little faultered while he asked him, What was the matter?
“I hope,
sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with me. Indeed I did not listen,
but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am sure I wish I had been a
hundred miles off, rather than have heard what I have heard.” “Why, what is the
matter?” said Jones. “The matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, “was
that woman who is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?” “She was,
Partridge,” cried Jones. “And did you really, sir, go to bed with that woman?”
said he, trembling.—“I am afraid what past between us is no secret,” said
Jones.—“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven’s sake, sir, answer me,” cries
Partridge. “You know I did,” cries Jones. “Why then, the Lord have mercy upon
your soul, and forgive you,” cries Partridge; “but as sure as I stand here
alive, you have been a-bed with your own mother.”
Upon these
words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror than Partridge
himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with amazement, and both
stood staring wildly at each other. At last his words found way, and in an
interrupted voice he said, “How! how! what’s this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,”
cries Partridge, “I have not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I
have said is most certainly true.—That woman who now went out is your own
mother. How unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at
that time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived to
bring about this wickedness.”
“Sure,”
cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me till she hath driven me to
distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself the cause of all my
misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have befallen me are the consequences
only of my own folly and vice. What thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost
deprived me of my senses! And was Mrs Waters, then—but why do I ask? for thou
must certainly know her—If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast
any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to me. O
good Heavens! incest——with a mother! To what am I reserved!” He then fell into
the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and despair, in which Partridge
declared he would not leave him; but at last, having vented the first torrent
of passion, he came a little to himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge
that he would find this wretched woman in the same house where the wounded
gentleman was lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
If the
reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the scene at Upton, in
the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many strange accidents which
unfortunately prevented any interview between Partridge and Mrs Waters, when
she spent a whole day there with Mr Jones. Instances of this kind we may
frequently observe in life, where the greatest events are produced by a nice
train of little circumstances; and more than one example of this may be
discovered by the accurate eye, in this our history.
After a
fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned back to his master,
without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in a state of desperation at his
delay, was almost raving mad when he brought him his account. He was not long,
however, in this condition before he received the following letter:
“SIR,
“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever
sincerely your unfortunate
“J. WATERS.”
“P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not among the number.”
Jones
having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold it, and indeed
had scarce the use of any one of his faculties). Partridge took it up, and
having received consent by silence, read it likewise; nor had it upon him a
less sensible effect. The pencil, and not the pen, should describe the horrors
which appeared in both their countenances. While they both remained speechless
the turnkey entered the room, and, without taking any notice of what sufficiently
discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a man
without desired to speak with him. This person was presently introduced, and
was no other than Black George.
As sights
of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the turnkey, he instantly
saw the great disorder which appeared in the face of Jones. This he imputed to
the accident that had happened, which was reported in the very worst light in
Mr Western’s family; he concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and
that Mr Jones was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which
gave him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition, and
notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been over-tempted to
commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the obligations he had formerly
received from Mr Jones.
The poor
fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the present sight. He told
Jones he was heartily sorry for his misfortunes, and begged him to consider if
he could be of any manner of service. “Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may want a
little matter of money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have
is heartily at your service.”
Jones
shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks for the kind
offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least want of that kind.” Upon
which George began to press his services more eagerly than before. Jones again
thanked him, with assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the power of
any man living to give. “Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not
take the matter so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be
sure you an’t the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.”
“You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the gentleman is not
dead, nor like to die. Don’t disturb my master, at present, for he is troubled
about a matter in which it is not in your power to do him any good.” “You don’t
know what I may be able to do, Mr Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern
is about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master.” “What do you say,
Mr George?” cried Jones. “Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is
concerned? My Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so profanely.”
“I hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have
something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia
home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very
right of it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, and so was Madam
Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her chair, that she
would never set her foot in master’s house again. I don’t know what’s the
matter, not I, but everything was very quiet when I came out; but Robin, who
waited at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in such
good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and swore she
should be her own mistress, and he never would think of confining her any more.
I thought this news would please you, and so I slipped out, though it was so
late, to inform you of it.” Mr Jones assured George that it did greatly please
him; for though he should never more presume to lift his eyes toward that
incomparable creature, nothing could so much relieve his misery as the
satisfaction he should always have in hearing of her welfare.
The rest
of the conversation which passed at the visit is not important enough to be
here related. The reader will, therefore, forgive us this abrupt breaking off,
and be pleased to hear how this great good-will of the squire towards his
daughter was brought about.
Mrs
Western, on her first arrival at her brother’s lodging, began to set forth the
great honours and advantages which would accrue to the family by the match with
Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely refused; in which refusal, when
the squire took the part of his daughter, she fell immediately into the most
violent passion, and so irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his
patience nor his prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued
between them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of
Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs Western
departed, and had consequently no leisure to acquaint her brother with the
letter which Sophia received, which might have possibly produced ill effects;
but, to say truth, I believe it never once occurred to her memory at this time.
When Mrs
Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as well indeed from
necessity as inclination, began to return the compliment which her father had
made her, in taking her part against her aunt, by taking his likewise against
the lady. This was the first time of her so doing, and it was in the highest
degree acceptable to the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr Allworthy had
insisted on an entire relinquishment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he
made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question
succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, once more gave a
loose to his natural fondness for her, which had such an effect on the dutiful,
grateful, tender, and affectionate heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given
to Jones, and something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed,
I much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a man she did not
like, to have obliged her father. She promised him she would make it the whole
business of her life to oblige him, and would never marry any man against his
consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest happiness, that he
was resolved to take the other step, and went to bed completely drunk.
Chapter iii. — Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange discovery that he made on that occasion.
The
morning after these things had happened, Mr Allworthy went, according to his
promise, to visit old Nightingale, with whom his authority was so great, that,
after having sat with him three hours, he at last prevailed with him to consent
to see his son.
Here an
accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed of those strange
chances whence very good and grave men have concluded that Providence often
interposes in the discovery of the most secret villany, in order to caution men
from quitting the paths of honesty, however warily they tread in those of vice.
Mr
Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr Nightingale’s, saw Black George; he took no
notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he had perceived him.
However,
when their conversation on the principal point was over, Allworthy asked Nightingale,
Whether he knew one George Seagrim, and upon what business he came to his
house? “Yes,” answered Nightingale, “I know him very well, and a most
extraordinary fellow he is, who, in these days, hath been able to hoard up £500
from renting a very small estate of £30 a year.” “And is this the story which
he hath told you?” cries Allworthy. “Nay, it is true, I promise you,” said
Nightingale, “for I have the money now in my own hands, in five bank-bills,
which I am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some purchase in the north of
England.” The bank-bills were no sooner produced at Allworthy’s desire than he
blessed himself at the strangeness of the discovery. He presently told
Nightingale that these bank-bills were formerly his, and then acquainted him
with the whole affair. As there are no men who complain more of the frauds of
business than highwaymen, gamesters, and other thieves of that kind, so there
are none who so bitterly exclaim against the frauds of gamesters, &c., as
usurers, brokers, and other thieves of this kind; whether it be that the one
way of cheating is a discountenance or reflection upon the other, or that
money, which is the common mistress of all cheats, makes them regard each other
in the light of rivals; but Nightingale no sooner heard the story than he
exclaimed against the fellow in terms much severer than the justice and honesty
of Allworthy had bestowed on him.
Allworthy
desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the secret till he should hear
farther from him; and, if he should in the meantime see the fellow, that he
would not take the least notice to him of the discovery which he had made. He
then returned to his lodgings, where he found Mrs Miller in a very dejected
condition, on account of the information she had received from her son-in-law.
Mr Allworthy, with great chearfulness, told her that he had much good news to
communicate; and, with little further preface, acquainted her that he had
brought Mr Nightingale to consent to see his son, and did not in the least doubt
to effect a perfect reconciliation between them; though he found the father
more sowered by another accident of the same kind which had happened in his
family. He then mentioned the running away of the uncle’s daughter, which he
had been told by the old gentleman, and which Mrs Miller and her son-in-law did
not yet know.
The reader
may suppose Mrs Miller received this account with great thankfulness, and no
less pleasure; but so uncommon was her friendship to Jones, that I am not
certain whether the uneasiness she suffered for his sake did not overbalance
her satisfaction at hearing a piece of news tending so much to the happiness of
her own family; nor whether even this very news, as it reminded her of the
obligations she had to Jones, did not hurt as well as please her; when her
grateful heart said to her, “While my own family is happy, how miserable is the
poor creature to whose generosity we owe the beginning of all this happiness!”
Allworthy,
having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I may use that expression)
on these first tidings, told her he had still something more to impart, which
he believed would give her pleasure. “I think,” said he, “I have discovered a
pretty considerable treasure belonging to the young gentleman, your friend; but
perhaps, indeed, his present situation may be such that it will be of no
service to him.” The latter part of the speech gave Mrs Miller to understand
who was meant, and she answered with a sigh, “I hope not, sir.” “I hope so
too,” cries Allworthy, “with all my heart; but my nephew told me this morning
he had heard a very bad account of the affair.”——“Good Heaven! sir,” said
she—“Well, I must not speak, and yet it is certainly very hard to be obliged to
hold one’s tongue when one hears.”—“Madam,” said Allworthy, “you may say
whatever you please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against
any one; and as for that young man, I assure you I should be heartily pleased
to find he could acquit himself of everything, and particularly of this sad affair.
You can testify the affection I have formerly borne him. The world, I know,
censured me for loving him so much. I did not withdraw that affection from him
without thinking I had the justest cause. Believe me, Mrs Miller, I should be
glad to find I have been mistaken.” Mrs Miller was going eagerly to reply, when
a servant acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to speak with her
immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his nephew, and was told that he had
been for some time in his room with the gentleman who used to come to him, and
whom Mr Allworthy guessing rightly to be Mr Dowling, he desired presently to
speak with him.
When
Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the bank-notes to him, without
mentioning any name, and asked in what manner such a person might be punished.
To which Dowling answered, “He thought he might be indicted on the Black Act;
but said, as it was a matter of some nicety, it would be proper to go to
counsel. He said he was to attend counsel presently upon an affair of Mr
Western’s, and if Mr Allworthy pleased he would lay the case before them.” This
was agreed to; and then Mrs Miller, opening the door, cried, “I ask pardon, I
did not know you had company;” but Allworthy desired her to come in, saying he
had finished his business. Upon which Mr Dowling withdrew, and Mrs Miller
introduced Mr Nightingale the younger, to return thanks for the great kindness
done him by Allworthy: but she had scarce patience to let the young gentleman
finish his speech before she interrupted him, saying, “O sir! Mr Nightingale
brings great news about poor Mr Jones: he hath been to see the wounded
gentleman, who is out of all danger of death, and, what is more, declares he
fell upon poor Mr Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure, sir, you would not
have Mr Jones be a coward. If I was a man myself, I am sure, if any man was to
strike me, I should draw my sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr Allworthy, tell
him all yourself.” Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs Miller had said; and
concluded with many handsome things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the
best-natured fellows in the world, and not in the least inclined to be
quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was going to cease, when Mrs Miller again begged
him to relate all the many dutiful expressions he had heard him make use of
towards Mr Allworthy. “To say the utmost good of Mr Allworthy,” cries
Nightingale, “is doing no more than strict justice, and can have no merit in
it: but indeed, I must say, no man can be more sensible of the obligations he
hath to so good a man than is poor Jones. Indeed, sir, I am convinced the
weight of your displeasure is the heaviest burthen he lies under. He hath often
lamented it to me, and hath as often protested in the most solemn manner he
hath never been intentionally guilty of any offence towards you; nay, he hath
sworn he would rather die a thousand deaths than he would have his conscience
upbraid him with one disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards
you. But I ask pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to intermeddle too far in so
tender a point.” “You have spoke no more than what a Christian ought,” cries
Mrs Miller. “Indeed, Mr Nightingale,” answered Allworthy, “I applaud your
generous friendship, and I wish he may merit it of you. I confess I am glad to
hear the report you bring from this unfortunate gentleman; and, if that matter
should turn out to be as you represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what
you say), I may, perhaps, in time, be brought to think better than lately I
have of this young man; for this good gentlewoman here, nay, all who know me,
can witness that I loved him as dearly as if he had been my own son. Indeed, I
have considered him as a child sent by fortune to my care. I still remember the
innocent, the helpless situation in which I found him. I feel the tender
pressure of his little hands at this moment. He was my darling, indeed he was.”
At which words he ceased, and the tears stood in his eyes.
As the
answer which Mrs Miller made may lead us into fresh matters, we will here stop
to account for the visible alteration in Mr Allworthy’s mind, and the abatement
of his anger to Jones. Revolutions of this kind, it is true, do frequently
occur in histories and dramatic writers, for no other reason than because the
history or play draws to a conclusion, and are justified by authority of
authors; yet, though we insist upon as much authority as any author whatever,
we shall use this power very sparingly, and never but when we are driven to it
by necessity, which we do not at present foresee will happen in this work.
This
alteration then in the mind of Mr Allworthy was occasioned by a letter he had
just received from Mr Square, and which we shall give the reader in the
beginning of the next chapter.
Chapter iv. — Containing two letters in very different stiles.
“MY WORTHY FRIEND,—I informed you in my last that I was forbidden the use of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now acquaint you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my friends more than it hath afflicted me. Dr Harrington and Dr Brewster have informed me that there is no hopes of my recovery.
“I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to learn to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine as to shew any
surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have so long studied. Yet, to say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches
this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much stronger support to a good mind than all the consolations that are drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our
enjoyments here, or any other topic of those declamations which are sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn patience in bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real contempt of it, and much less of making us think it is a real good.
I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of atheism, or even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are called philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient as modern, have, from the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future
state; but in reality, that light was so faint and glimmering, and the hopes were so incertain and precarious, that it may be justly doubted on which side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes his Phaedon with declaring that his best arguments amount only to raise a probability; and Cicero himself seems rather to profess an inclination to believe, than any actual belief in the doctrines of immortality. As to myself, to be very sincere with you, I never wasI much in earnest in this faith till I was in earnest a Christian.
“You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you it hath not been till very lately that I could, with truth, call myself so. The pride of philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and the sublimest of all wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks of old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious to shew me my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth, before I sunk into utter darkness forever.
“I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to the main purpose of this letter.
“When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing which sits heavier upon my conscience than the injustice I have been
guilty of to that poor wretch your adopted son. I have, indeed, not only connived at the villany of others, but been myself active in injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell you, on the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the
principal fact, upon the misrepresentation of which you discarded him, I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified any real concern; and what happened afterwards arose from the wildness of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it, from the baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify the innocent,and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this young man hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity
for friendship, the highest integrity, and indeed every virtue which can ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the contrary, I am satisfied, when you dismissed him from your house,
his heart bled for you more than for himself.
“Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing this from you so long; to reveal it now I can have no inducement but
the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the innocent, and of making all the amends in my power for a past offence. I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect desired, and will restore this deserving young man to your favour; the hearing of which, while I am yet alive, will afford the utmost
consolation to,
Sir,
Your most obliged,
obedient humble servant,
THOMAS SQUARE.”
The reader
will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so visibly appearing in Mr
Allworthy, notwithstanding he received from Thwackum, by the same post, another
letter of a very different kind, which we shall here add, as it may possibly be
the last time we shall have occasion to mention the name of that gentleman.
“SIR,
“I am not at all surprized at hearing from your worthy nephew a fresh instance of the villany of Mr Square the atheist’s young pupil. I shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and Iheartily pray that your own blood may not seal up his final commitment to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in your behaviour to this wretch, so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of your character; I say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to prick and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet be wanting to my duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order
to bring you to a due sense of your errors. I therefore pray you seriously to consider the judgment which is likely to overtake this
wicked villain; and let it serve at least as a warning to you, that you may not for the future despise the advice of one who is so indefatigable in his prayers for your welfare.
“Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged much of this diabolical spirit out of a boy, of whom from his infancy I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession. But reflections of this kind now come too late.
“I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily. I should have applied on that occasion earlier, had I thought you would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition.——Your objection to pluralities is being righteous over-much. If there were
any crime in the practice, so many godly men would not agree to it.
If the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a declining way), I hope you will think of me, since I am certain you must be convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest welfare—a welfare to which all worldly considerations are as trifling as the small tithes mentioned in Scripture are, when compared to the weighty matters of the law.
I am, sir,
Your faithful humble servant,
ROGER THWACKUM.”
This was
the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative stile to Allworthy,
and of this he had afterwards sufficient reason to repent, as in the case of
those who mistake the highest degree of goodness for the lowest degree of
weakness. Allworthy had indeed never liked this man. He knew him to be proud
and ill-natured; he also knew that his divinity itself was tinctured with his
temper, and such as in many respects he himself did by no means approve; but he
was at the same time an excellent scholar, and most indefatigable in teaching
the two lads. Add to this, the strict severity of his life and manners, an
unimpeached honesty, and a most devout attachment to religion. So that, upon the
whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor love the man, yet he could never
bring himself to part with a tutor to the boys, who was, both by learning and
industry, extremely well qualified for his office; and he hoped, that as they
were bred up in his own house, and under his own eye, he should be able to
correct whatever was wrong in Thwackum’s instructions.
To be
continued
