 Section 64 of Tom Jones This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jennifer Stearns. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. O'Gate Teen Chapter 7-9 Chapter 7 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 in gratitude to you is not one of them. I never can or shall forget your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved. But be pleased to wave all, operating 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, and 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 acknowledged 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 greatest friendship. So it appeared, sir, answered she, for I believe you brought the young man up, and maintained him at the university, where I think he has managed to study, when he came to reside at your house, a finer man, I must say, but son never shown 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're 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. Oh, sir, prepare to hear something which 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 smallpox, was tenorly lamented by you, and buried as if he had been your own. That Sumner, 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 invitation of any crime, be guilty of falsehood. Remember, there is one from whom you can conceal nothing, and before whose tribunal of falsehood 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 reasons, said Allworthy, and shall rejoice as much as you, to find it otherwise. Yet you must remember, you yourself confessed it before me. So far what I confessed, said she, was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed, conveyed it thither at the command of its mother, not 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 an airborne. 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, cried 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 from 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 woman 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, showed great kindness to me, and made me many presents. At last she began to cataclyse 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 the 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 stopped, and after a silence of a few minutes, during which she often wiped her eyes, she inquired of me, 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, in which I believe was delivered with more pains than she afterwards suffered in childbirth. 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 Dorset Shire, she inquired the character of a servant, where 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 here after 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 entrusted such a secret. You made me assured, sir, I was well paid for all these affronts, which together, with being informed of the occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed, the lady had 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 pretense or other that she might not return to soon, was dispatched. Then the child was born, for the presence only of myself and my mother, and was that 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 to sleep by the artful conduct of your sister, in pretending ill will to the boy, and that any regard she showed him was of American complacence to you. Mrs. Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story, and concluded by saying, Yes, sir, you have at last discovered your nephew. For so I am sure you will hear after 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 all worthy, expressed 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 linking 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 expressed 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 disposes all things, yet sure it was the most unjustifiable conduct in my sister, to carry the secret with her out of the world. I promise you, sir, said Mrs. Waters, she always professed 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 has 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 turn 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. Alworthy, I must say it was unkind. Indeed, you have been abused. He never deserved it of you. Indeed, madam, said Alworthy, 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 apprised with a villain I had to deal with. It was by this man I found out who Mr. Jones was, and this man, whose name was Dowling, Mr. Jones tells me is your steward. I discovered his name by a very odd accident, for he himself refused to tell it to me, but Partridge, who met him at my lodging the second time he came, knew him formally at Salisbury, and did this Mr. Dowling, said Alworthy, 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, said Alworthy, from circumstances I am too well convinced it was another. Good Heaven, by what wonderful means as a blackest and deepest villainy 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. Alworthy then stepped to the door in order to call a servant, when in came, not Mr. Dowling, for the gentleman who will be seen in the next chapter. Chapter 8. Further continuation. The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr. Western. He no sooner saw Alworthy, then, without considering in the least the presence of Mrs. Waters, he began to persiperate in the following manner. Find doings at my house, a rare kettle of fish I have discovered at last, who the devil would be plagued with a daughter. What's the matter, neighbor? said Alworthy. Matter enough, answered Western, when I thought she was just a coming to. Nay. When she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha' her, and when I was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have set for the lawyer and finished all, what do you think I have found out? That the little bee hath been playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying on a correspondence with that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have quarreled with upon her account, set me word at it, and I ordered her pockets to be searched when she was asleep. And here I have got them, signed with the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience to read half it, which is longer than one of Parsons' supple sermons. But if I am plainly it is all about love, and indeed, what should it be else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and tomorrow morning, down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be married directly. And there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water all her days. And the sooner such a bee breaks her hearts, the better. Though, de-blank in her, that I believe is too young. She will live long enough to plague me. Mr. Western answered all worthy. You know, I have always protested against force, and you yourself consented that none should be used. I, cries he. That was only upon condition that she would consent without. What the devil and Dr. Faustus! Shant I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I desire nothing but her own good? Well, neighbor, answered all worthy. If you will give me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young lady. Will you, said Western, why that is kind now, and neighborly, and may have you will do more than I have been able to do with her, for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you. Well, sir, said all worthy. If you will go home and release the young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within this half hour. But suppose, said Western, she should run away with him in the meantime. For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of hanging a fellow at last, for that the man is alive and like to do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again presently. How, said all worthy, what did you employ him then to inquire or to do anything in that matter? Not I, answered Western. He mentioned it to me just now if his own accord. Just now, cries all worthy, why, where did you see him then? I want much to see, Mr. Dowling, why you may see him, and you will presently at my lodgings, for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this morning about a mortgage. I cod, I shall lose two or three thousand pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr. Nightingale. Well, sir, said all worthy. I will be with you within the half hour. And do for once, cries the squire, take a fool's advice. Never think of dealing with her by gentle methods. Take my word for it those will never do. I have tried him long enough. She must be frightened into it. There is no other way. Tell her I'm her father, and of the horde sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful punishment of it, entail her world. And then tell her about being locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on bread and water. I will do all that can, said all worthy. For I promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with this amiable creature. Nay, the girl is well enough for a matter of that, cries the squire. A man may go farther, and meet with worse meat. That I may declare of her. Though if she be my own daughter, and it she will, but be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a hundred miles of the place. That loves a daughter more than I do. But I see you are busy with the lady there. So go home, and expect you, and so your humble servant. As soon as Mr. Western was gone, Mrs. Water said, I see, sir, the squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I believe, Mr. Alworthy, you would not have known me neither. I am very considerably altered since that day when you so kindly gave me that advice, which I had been happy had I followed. Indeed, madam, cries Alworthy, it gave me a great concern when I first heard the contrary. Indeed, sir, said she, I was ruined by a very deep scheme of villainy, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it would justify me, in your opinion, it would at least mitigate my offense, and induce you to pity me. You are not now, at leisure, to hear my whole story, but this I assure you. I was betrayed by the most solemn promises of marriage, nay, in the eye of heaven I was married to him. For after much reading on the subject I am convinced that particular ceremonies are only requisite to give a legal sanction of marriage, and have only a worldly use in giving a woman the privileges of a wife. But that she who lives constant to one man, after a solemn private affiance, whatever the world may call her, hath little to charge on her own conscience. I am sorry, madam, said Alworthy. You made so ill a use of your learning. Indeed, it would have been well that you had been possessed of much more, or had remained in a state of ignorance. And yet, madam, I am afraid you have more than the sin to answer for. During his life answered she, which was above a dozen years, I most solemnly assured you I had not. And consider, sir, on my behalf, what is in the power of a woman stripped of a reputation and left destitute. Whether the good-natured world will suffer such a stray shape to return to the road of virtue, even if she was never so desirous, I protest then I would have chose it had it been in my power, but necessity drove me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though still unmarried, I lived as a wife for many years, and went by his name. I parted with his gentleman at Worcester, on his march against the rebels, and it was then I accidentally met with Mr. Jones, who rescued me from the hands of a villain. Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young gentleman of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have the twentieth part of his virtues. Nay, whatever vices he hath had, I am fairly persuaded he hath now taken a resolution to abandon them. I hope he hath, cries all worthy. And I hope he will preserve that resolution. I must say I have still the same hopes with regard to yourself. The world, I do agree, are apt to be too merciful on these occasions. Yet time and perseverance will get the better of their disinclination, as they may call it, to pity, for though they are not like heaven, ready to receive a penitent sinner, yet a continued repentance will at length obtain mercy even with the world. This you may be assured of, Mrs. Waters, that whenever I find you are sincere in such good intentions, you shall want no assistance in my power, to make them effectual. Mrs. Waters found now upon her knees before him, and in a flood of tears made him many most passionate acknowledgements of his goodness which, as she truly said, savored more of the divine than human nature. All worthy raised her up, and spoke in a most tender manner, making use of every expression which his invention could suggest to comfort her when he was interrupted by the rival of Mr. Dowling, who upon his first entrance, same as Mrs. Waters, started, and appeared in some confusion, from which he soon recovered himself as well as he could, and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel of Mr. Western's lodgings. But, however, thought it was his duty to call, and equate him with the opinion of counsel upon the case which he had before told him, which was, the conversation of the moneys in that case could not be questioned in a criminal cause, and that an action of a trover might be bought, and if it appeared to the jury to be moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for the value. All worthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, Whatever be your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions. Do you know this lady? That lady, sir, answered Dowling, with great hesitation. All worthy, then, with a most solemn voice said, Look, you, Mr. Dowling, as you value my favor, or your continuance a moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor pervericate, but answer faithfully and truthfully to every question I ask. Do you know this lady? Yes, sir, said Dowling, I have seen the lady. Where, sir? At her own lodgings. Upon what business did you go thither, sir, and who sent you? I went, sir, to inquire, sir, about Mr. Jones. And who sent you to inquire about him? Who, sir? Why, sir, Mr. Bilfield, sent me. And what did you say to the lady concerning that matter? Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word. Will you please, madam, to assist the gentleman's memory? He told me, sir, said Mrs. Waters, that if Mr. Jones had murdered my husband, I should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution by a very worthy gentleman. Who was well apprised what a villain I had to deal with. These I can safely swear with the very words he spoke. Were these the words, sir? said all worthy. I cannot charge my memory exactly, cries Dowling, but I believe I did speak to that purpose. And did Mr. Bilfield order you to say so? I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor have willingly exceeded my authority, in matters of this kind. If I said so, I must have so understood Mr. Bilfield's instructions. Look you, Mr. Dowling, said all worthy. I promised you before this lady that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr. Bilfield's order I will forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth. For I believe what you say, that you would not have acted of your own accord and without authority in this matter. Mr. Bilfield then likewise sent you to examine the two fellows at Aldersgate? He did, sir. Well, in what instructions did he then give you? Recollect as well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he used. Why, sir, Mr. Bilfield sent me to find out the persons who were eyewitnesses of this fight. He said he feared they might be tampered with by Mr. Jones, or some of his friends. He said a blood-required blood, and that not only all who concealed a murderer, for those who omitted anything in their power to bring him to justice, were sharers in his guilt. He said he found you was very desirous of having the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper you should appear in it. He did so, says Aldworthy. Yes, sir, cries Dowling, I should not, I am sure, have preceded such lengths for the sake of any other person living but for your worship. What lengths, sir, said Aldworthy? Nay, sir, cries Dowling, I would not have your worship think I would on any account be guilty of subordination of perjury. But there are two ways of delivering evidence. I told them, therefore, that if any offer should be made them on the other side, they should refuse them, and that they might be assured they should lose nothing by being honest men and telling the truth. I said, we were told that Mr. Jones had assaulted the gentleman first, and that, if that was the truth, they should declare it, and I did not give them some hints that they should be no losers. I think he went lengths indeed, cries Aldworthy. Nay, sir, answered Dowling, I am sure I did not desire them to tell and untruth, nor should I have said what I did unless it had been to oblige you. You would not have thought, I believe, says Aldworthy, to have obliged me, had you known that this Mr. Jones was my own nephew. I am sure, sir, answered he, it did not become me to take any notice of what I thought you desired to conceal. How, cries Aldworthy, and did you know it then? Nay, sir, answered Dowling, if your worship bids me speak the truth, I am sure I shall do it. Indeed, sir, I did know it, for they were almost the last words which Madam Bilfield ever spoke, which she mentioned to me, as I stood alone by her bedside, when she delivered me the letter I brought your worship from her. What letter, cries Aldworthy? The letter, sir, answered Dowling, which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the hands of Mr. Bilfield. O heavens, cries Aldworthy, well, and what were the words? What did my sister say to you? She took me by the hand, answered he, and as she delivered me the letter, said, I scarce know what I have written. Tell my brother, Mr. Jones is his nephew, he is my son, bless him, says she, and then fell backward, as if dying away. I presently called in the people, and she never spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes afterwards. Aldworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes, and then turned to Dowling, said, How came you, sir, not to deliver me this message? Your worship, answered he, must remember that you was at the time ill in bed, and being in a violent hurry, as indeed I always am, I delivered the letter and messaged Mr. Bilfield, who told me that he would carry them both to you, which he had since told me he did, and that your worship, partly out of friendship to Mr. Jones, and partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it mentioned, and did intend to conceal it from the world, and therefore, sir, if you had not mentioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to your worship or any other person. We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible, for a man to convey a lie in the words of truth. This was the case at present, for Bilfield had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In reality, the promises which Bilfield had made to Dowling were the motives which had induced him to secrecy, and as he now very plainly saw Bilfield could not be able to keep them, he thought proper now to make his confession, which the promises of forgiveness joined to the threats, the voice, the looks of Alworthy, and the discoveries he had made before, extorted from him, who was besides taking unawares, and had no time to consider of evasions. Alworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having enjoined on Dowling, stripped silence to what had passed, conducted that gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Bilfield, who was returned to his chamber, for he exalted in the thoughts of his last deceit and his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed below stairs. As Alworthy was returning to his room, he met Mrs. Miller in the entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terrors, said to him, Oh, sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all. He had you not on this account abandoned the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant and was his own mother, and the discovery itself will most probably break his heart without your unkindness. Madam, this is Alworthy. I am under such a astonishment at what I have heard that I am really unable to satisfy you, but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I have made surprising discoveries, and you shall soon know them. The poor woman followed him trembling, and now Alworthy, going up to Mrs. Waters, took her by the hand, and then returned to Mrs. Miller, said, What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman for the services she hath done me? Oh, Mrs. Miller, you have a thousand times heard me call the young man to whom you are also faithful a friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at all. Your friend, Madam, is my nephew, but he is the brother of that wicked vaper, which I have so long nourished in my bosom. She will herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused, of use by one whom you too justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in truth, the worst of villains. The joy which Mrs. Miller now felt bereft of her power of speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At length, recovering so far from her transport, hath to be able to speak, she cried. And is my dear Mr. Jones and your nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady, and are your eyes open to him at last? And shall I live to see him as happy as he deserves? He certainly is my nephew, said all worthy, and I hope all the rest. And is this the dear good woman, the person, cried she, to whom all this discovery is owing? She is indeed, said all worthy. Why, then, cried Mrs. Miller upon her knees? The heavens shower down his choicest blessings upon her head. And for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many. Mrs. Waters then informed them that she will leave Jones, who would very shortly be released, for that the surgeon was gone, in company with the nobleman, but the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr. Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his prisoner his liberty. All worthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his return home, but that he was then obliged to go on some business of consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and presently left the two ladies together. Mr. Billfield, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend upon his uncle, for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man whether he was going. To which the other, making no answer, he again desired to know when he would be pleased to return. All worthy made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair, and then turning about he said, Harky, sir, do you find out, before my return, the letter which your mother sent me in her deathbed? All worthy then departed, and left Billfield in a situation, to be envied only by a man who was just going to be hanged. Chapter 10 A Further Continuation All worthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him, and there were some expressions in it concerning himself, which drew tears from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr. Western's, and was introduced to Sophia. When the first ceremonies were passed, and the gentleman and lady had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued. During which the letter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her countenance and behavior. At length, all worthy, who was himself a little disconcerted, began thus. I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath been the occasion of giving you some in uneasiness, to which I fear I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be assured, madam, had I at first known hath disagreeable the proposals hath been, I should not have suffered you to be hath been so longly persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this visit is to trouble you with any further solicitations of that kind, but entirely to relieve you from them. Serves it, Sophia, with a little modest dissertation. This behavior is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr. Alworthy. But as you have been so kind as to mention this matter, you have pardoned me for saying it hath indeed given me great uneasiness, and hath been the occasion of my suffering, much cruel treatment from a father who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you were too good and generous to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in your own power, and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his favor. I assure you, most amenable young lady, said Alworthy, I am capable of no such resentment. Had the person been my own son, and hath I entertained the highest esteem for him, where you say truly, madam, we cannot force our inclinations. Much less can they be directed by another. Oh, sir, answer, Sophia, every word you speak proves you deserve the good, that good, that great, that benevolent character of the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less than a certain prospect a future misery could have made me resist the commands of my father. I sincerely believe you, madam, replied Alworthy, and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight, since by so justifiable of assistance you have avoided misery indeed. You speak now, Mr. Alworthy, cried she, with a delicacy which few men are capable of feeling, but surely, in my opinion, to lead our lives with one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of wretchedness. Perhaps that wretchedness would be even increased by the sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot give our attentions. If I had married Mr. Bilfield, part of my interrupting you, madam, answered Alworthy, but I cannot bear this opposition. Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice in my heart, I rejoice in your escape. I have discovered the wretched for whom you have suffered all this cruel violence from your father to be a villain. How, sir, cried Sophia, you must believe this surprises me. It hath surprised me, madam, answered Alworthy, and so it will the world. But I have acquainted you with the real truth. Nothing but truth, says Sophia, can I am convinced come from the love-semester, Alworthy? Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news, discovered, you say, may a villainy be ever so. You will soon enough hear the story, cries Alworthy. At present let us not mention so detested a name. I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose. O, Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being a lie to it. I have a near-relation, madam, a young man whose character is. I am convinced, the very opposite to that of this wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope he would admit a visit from him? Sophia, after a minute's silence, answered. I will deal with the utmost sincerity with Mr. Alworthy. His character and the obligation I have just received from him demanded. I have determinedly present to listen to no such proposals from any person. My only desire is to be restored to the affection of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your good offices. Let me besiege you, let me conjure you, but all the goodness which I, and all who know you, have experienced, do not, the very moment when you have released me, from one persecution, do not engage me in another as miserable and fruitless. Indeed, Miss Western, replied Alworthy, I am capable of no such conduct, and if this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may suffer under it. I must smile now, Mr. Alworthy, answered Sophia, when you mention the torments of a man whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me. Pardon me, dear young lady, cries Alworthy. I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the repose of his future days, since, if ever man is capable of a sincere, violent and noble passion, such I am convinced is my unhappy nephews for Miss Western. A nephew of yours, Mr. Alworthy, answered Sophia, it is surely strange I never heard of him before. Indeed, Madam, cries Alworthy, it is only the circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and which to this day was a secret to me. Mr. Jones, who has long loved you, he, he is my nephew. Mr. Jones, your nephew, sir, cries Sophia, can it be possible? He is indeed, Madam, answered Alworthy. He is my own sister's son, as such I shall always own him. Nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past behaviour to him. But I was as ignorant of his merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly, indeed I have. Here the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded, I never shall be able to reward him for his sufferings without your assistance. Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a great esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of fault. But there is great goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, Madam, there is. Here he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from a hurry of spirits, into which so strange and sudden information had thrown her. I sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction. I doubt not, but you will have all the comfort you can promise yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities, which makes it impossible he should not behave well to such an uncle. I hope, Madam, said Alworthy, he hath those good qualities, which must make him a good husband. He must, I am sure, be of all men, most abandoned. If a lady of your merit should condescend, you must pardon me, Mr. Alworthy, answer Sophia. I cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr. Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit, but I shall never receive Mr. Jones as one who is to be my husband. Upon my honour I never will. Pardon me, Madam, cries Alworthy. If I am a little surprised, after what I have heard from Mr. Western, I hope the unhappy young man hath done nothing, to forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it. Perhaps he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The same villainy may have injured him everywhere. He is no murderer, I assure you, as he hath been called. Mr. Alworthy, answer Sophia, I have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you. But whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I know my heart, I have given no occasion for them, since it hath always been a fixed principle with me, never should have married without his consent. This is to think, the duty of a child to a parent, and this, I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from, as you know indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To reward a force of this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father's house, and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story, and if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own conscience will acquit me. I hear you, Miss Western, cries Alworthy, with admiration. I admire the justness of your sentiments, but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you, young lady, but I am to look on all which I have hitherto heard or seen in the dream only, and have you suffered so much cruelty from your father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely indifferent? I beg, Mr. Alworthy, answer Sophia, I will not, Mr. Alworthy, conceal. I will be very sincere with you. I own, I had a great opinion of Mr. Jones, I believe. I know I have suffered from my opinion. I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my father, but that is now past. I beg, I may not be father-crest. For whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many virtues. He hath great virtues, Mr. Alworthy. I question not, but he will do you honor in the world, and make you happy. I wish you could make him so, madam, replied Alworthy, but that I am convinced is only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his favor. You are deceived indeed, sir, you are deceived, says Sophia. I hope not by him. It is sufficient to have deceived me. Mr. Alworthy, I must insist I may be impressed no further on this subject. I should be sorry, nay, I will not injure him in your favor. I wish Mr. Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well. And I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to me, I am certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former thoughts, but nothing can ever recall them. At present there is not a man upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr. Jones, nor would the addresses of Mr. Belfill himself be less agreeable to me. Western had been long impatient for the events of his conference, and was just now around at the door to listen. When having heard the last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and bursting open the door in a rage, cried out, It is a lie, it is a de-blanked and lie. It is all owing to that de-blanked and rasped Jones, and if she could get at him, she had him any hour of the day. Here Alworthy interposed, and addressing himself to the square with some anger in his look, he said, Mr. Western, you have not kept your word with me. You promised to abstain from all violence. Why so I did, cries Western, as long as it was possible, but to hear a wench telling such confounded lies, sounds, dost she think? If she could make vools of other vogue, she can make one of me? No, no, I know her better than the dost. I'm sorry to tell you, sir, answered Alworthy. It doth not appear by your behaviour to this young lady, that you may know her at all. I beg pardon for what I say, but I think her intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is your daughter, Mr. Western, and I think she doth honor to your name. If I was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you, a less account than any other man whatever. Odd rabid it, cries the squire. I wish she was thine, with all my heart. Would soon be glad to be rid of the trouble of her. Indeed, my good friend, answered Alworthy, you yourself are the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that confidence in the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will be the happiest father on earth. I, confidence in her, cries the squire. Splod, what confidence can I place in her, when she won't do as I have her? Let her give but her consent to marry, as I would have her, and I'll place as much confidence in her as must have me. You have no right, neighbor, answered Alworthy, to insist on any such consent. A negative voice your daughter allows you, and God and nature have that power to allow you no more. A negative voice, cries the squire. I, I. I'll show you what a negative voice I have. Go along. Go into your chamber. Go, you stubborn. Indeed, Mr. Western, said Mr. Alworthy, indeed you use her cruelly. I cannot bear to see you this. You shall. You must behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment. Yes, yes, said the squire. I know what she deserves. Now she's gone. I'll show you what she deserves. See here, sir. Here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady Belaston, in which she is so kind to give me to understand that the fellow has got out of prison again, and here she advises me to take all the care I can of the wench. Obzookers. Neighbor Alworthy, you don't know what it is to cover a daughter. The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own suggestivity, and then Alworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him with a whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to Bilfill, and with every particular which hath been disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters. Men, overviolent in their dispositions, are, for the most part, as changeable in them. No sooner than was Mr. Western informed of Mr. Alworthy's intention to make Jones his heir than he joined heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for her marriage with Jones as he had before been to couple her to Bilfill. Here Mr. Alworthy was again forced into pose, and to relate what had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great surprise. The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at this account. Elastic right out. Why, what can be the meaning of this, neighbor Alworthy? What a one she was, that I'll be swan to. Obzookers, I have hid at it. As sure as a gun I have hid, all the very right of it. It's all along a zister. The girl hath got a hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I have bound them together at my cousin, my Lady Bellistens. He hath turned the head of her, that's certain, but de-blanket me, if he shall ha' her. I'll had no lords, no courtiers in my family. Alworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his resolution to avoid all violent measures. I very earnestly recommended gentle methods to Mr. Western, as though as by which he might be assured of succeeding best with his daughter. He then took his leave, and returned back to Mrs. Miller, but was forced to comply with the earnest entries of the squire, and promising to bring Mr. Jones to visit him then after noon, what he might, as he said, make all matters up with the young gentleman. I, Mr. Alworthy's departure, Western promised to follow his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, I don't know how it is, but de-blanket me. Alworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please, and yet I have as good in the state as you, and am in the commission of the great peace as well as yourself. End of Book 18, Chapter 7-9, read by Jennifer Stearns, Concord, New Hampshire. Section 65 of Tom Jones. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding. Book 18, Chapter 10. Where in the history begins the drill towards a conclusion. When Alworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr. Jones was just arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty chamber, whether he ordered Mr. Jones to be brought to him alone. It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the meeting between the uncle and nephew. For Mrs. Waters, as the reader may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret of his birth. The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides are indeed beyond my power to describe. I shall not therefore attempt it. After Alworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms. Oh, my child! he cried. How have I been to blame? How have I injured you? What amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I have entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to you? Am I not now made amends, Christ Jones? Would not my sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly repaid? Oh, my dear uncle, this goodness, this tenderness overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast upon me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour, to be once more thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous benefactor. Indeed, child, cries Alworthy, I have used you cruelly. He then explained to him all the treachery of Bliffle, and again repeated expressions of the utmost concern for having been induced by that treachery to use him so ill. Oh, talk not so, answered Jones. Indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were, and, under such a deception, the best must have acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the midst of your anger just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that goodness, of which I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on self-accusation by carrying your generous sentiments too far. Alas, sir, I have not been punished more than I have deserved, and it shall be the whole business of my future life to reserve that happiness you now bestow on me. For, believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment had not been thrown away upon me. Though I have been a great, I am not a hardened sinner. I thank heaven I have had time to reflect on my past life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any gross villainy, yet I can discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be ashamed of. Follies which have been attended with dreadful consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of destruction. I am rejoiced, my dear child, answered all worthy, to hear you talk thus sensibly, for as I am convinced hypocrisy, good heaven, how have I been imposed on by it in others, was never among your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom, to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue. For virtue I am now convinced you love in a great degree. Prudence is indeed the duty which we owe to ourselves, and if we will be so much our own enemies as to neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in discharging their duty to us. For, when a man lays the foundation of his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it. You say, however, you have seen your errors and will perform them. I firmly believe you, my dear child, and, therefore, from this moment you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them only yourself, so far as for the future to teach you, they're better to avoid them. But still remember, for your comfort, that there is this great difference between those faults which candor may construe into imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villainy only. The former perhaps are even more apt to subject a man to ruin, but, if he reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved. The world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him, and he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers he hath escaped. But villainy, my boy, when once discovered is irretrievable. The stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The cendors of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in public, and if shame drives him into retirement, he will go to it with all those terrors with which a wary child, who is afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt him, repose like a false friend will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents itself. If he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his heels. If forward, incurable despair stares him in the face till, like a condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that this is not your case, and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath suffered you to see your errors before they have brought on you that destruction to which a persistence in even those errors must have led you. You have deserted them, and the prospect now before you is such that happiness seems in your own power. At these words Jones fetched a deep sigh, upon which, when already remonstrated, he said, Sir, I will conceal nothing from you. I fear there is one consequence of my vices I shall never be able to retrieve. Oh, my dear uncle, I have lost a treasure. You need say no more, answered Orwithy. I will be explicit with you. I know what you lament. I have seen the young lady, and have discourse with her concerning you. This I must insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of the steadfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To abide entirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it shall be in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from solicitations which I hate to think of. She shall owe no further constraint to my family. I know her father will be as ready to torment her now on your account as he hath formerly been on another's. But I am determined she shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence, no more uneasy hours. Oh, my dear uncle, answered Jones, lay I beseech you some command on me in which I shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey you would be to give an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with a dreadful reflection of causing her misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest and now the only additional blessing which heaven can bestow. But it is a blessing which I must owe to her alone. I will not flatter you, child, cries already. I fear your case is desperate. I never saw stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in her vehement declarations against receiving your addresses, for which perhaps you can account better than myself. Oh, sir, I can account too well, answered Jones. I have sinned against her beyond all hope of pardon, and guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten times blacker than the real colours. Oh, my dear uncle, I find my follies are irretrievable, and all your goodness cannot save me from perdition. A servant now acquainted them that Mr. Western was below stairs, for his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon, upon which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself, to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr. Western to be shown into a parlour, went down to him. Mrs. Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone, for she had not yet seen him since his release from prison, than she came eagerly into the room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his newfound uncle and his happy reconciliation, adding, I wish I could give you joy on another account, my dear child, but anything so inexorable I never saw. Jones, with some appearance of surprise, asked her what she meant. Why then, says she, I have been with your young lady, and have explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter, of that I am certain, for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a plain proof that you was resolved to quit all your proflicacy for the future, that you had never been guilty of a single instance of infidelity to her, since you are seeing her in town. I am afraid I went too far there, but heaven forgive me, I hope your future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I can, but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says she had forgiven many faults on account of youth, but expressed such detestation of the character of a libertine that she absolutely silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you, but the justness of her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour she is a lovely woman, and one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. I once fancied, madam, said she. I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr. Jones, and for that I own I had a sincere esteem. But an entire proflicacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world, and all which a good-natured libertine can expect is that we should mix some grains of pity with our contempt and abhorrence. She's an angelic creature. That's the truth on it. Oh, Mrs. Miller, answered Jones. Can I bear to think that I've lost such an angel? Lost? No, Christ, Mrs. Miller. I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to leave such vicious causes, and you may yet have hopes. Nay, if she would remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a sweet, pretty young lady, and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I heard of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western. Nay, I went a little beyond the truth again, for I told her you had refused her. But indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you a little comfort. When I mentioned the young lady's name, who is no other than the pretty widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale. But when I said you had refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over scarlet in an instant, and these were her very words. I will not deny, but that I believe he has some affection for me. Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of all withy himself, though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful power over him. Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, My old friend Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my heart. All paths must be forgotten. I could not intend any affront to thee, because, as all withy here knows, Nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person. And where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One Christian must forget and forgive another. I hope, sir, said Jones, I shall never forget the many obligations I've had to you. But as for any offence towards me I declare I am an utter stranger. At, says Western, then give me thy fist, at as hearty and honest cock as any in the kingdom. Come along with me, I'll carry thee to thy mistress this moment. Here all withy interposed, and the squire being unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some litigation, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia till the afternoon, at which time all withy, as well in compassion to Jones, as in compliance with the eager desires of Western, was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table. The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough, and with which, had it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our reader. But as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very material, it shall suffice to say that matters being entirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit, Mr. Western again returned home. Chapter 11 The history draws nearer to a conclusion. When Mr. Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr. Allwithy and Mrs. Miller that his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who, together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr. Nightingale's, had attended the magistrate, by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the surgeon's oath, that the wounded person was out of all manner of danger from his wound, he was discharged. One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no more than once. But the other had greatly surprised him by asking his pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he said, entirely by his ignorance who he was. Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till afterwards, was this. The lieutenant, whom Lord Falomar had employed, according to the advice of Lady Ballaston, to press Jones as a vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his lordship the event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of the behaviour of Mr. Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that Lord that he must have mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a gentleman. In so much that his lordship, who was strictly a man of honour, owed by no means have been guilty of an action which the world in general would have condemned, began to be much concerned for the advice which he had taken. Within a day or two after this, Lord Falomar happened to dying with the Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his company with the character of Fitzpatrick, to which, indeed, he did not do strict justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause. He then declared an intention of going the next morning to Fitzpatrick's lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if possible, to consent to a separation from his wife, who, the peer said, was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under the power of her husband. Lord Falomar agreed to go with him, that he might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances of the duel, for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery of the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the other noblemen, who depended much on the authority of Lord Falomar, as he thought it would greatly contribute to all Fitzpatrick into her compliance, and perhaps he was in the right. For the poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his wife than he submitted, and articles of separation were soon drawn up and signed between the parties. Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs. Waters concerning the innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps from some other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter, that he spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord Falomar, took all the blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a gentleman, and a man of honour. And upon that, Lord's further inquiry concerning with Sir Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account he had just received from Mrs. Waters after her interview with Dowling. Lord Falomar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to make satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly injured, and without any consideration of rivalship, for he had now given over all thoughts of Sophia, determined to procure Mr. Jones' liberty, being satisfied as well from Fitzpatrick as a surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was confined to whom he behaved as we've already related. When all would he return to his lodgings he immediately carried Jones into his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well what he had heard from Mrs. Waters as what he had discovered from Mr. Dowling. Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this account, but without making any comment or observation upon it, and now a message was brought from Mr. Bliffle, desiring to know if his uncle was a leisure that he might wait upon him. All where he started and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than I believe he had ever used before, bit the servant tell Bliffle he knew him not. Consider, dear sir, cries Jones in a trembling voice. I have considered, answered all with thee, and you yourself shall carry my message through the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as the man whose ruin he hath so villainously contrived. Pardon me, dear sir, said Jones. A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult, and to whom? My own brother, and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarously. Indeed, that would have been more inexcusable than anything is done. Fortune may tempt man of no very bad dispositions to injustice, but insults proceed only from black and rankerous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned and heard. All with thee stood silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said, with tears gushing from his eyes. Oh, my child, to what goodness have I been so long blind! Mrs. Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which was not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had happened. Then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, crying, My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blessed day! And next Mr. O'Whithy himself received the same congratulations, to which he answered, Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am beyond expression happy. Some few more raptures, having passed on all sides, Mrs. Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said there were a very happy set of people assembled, being indeed no other than Mr. Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet, with her bridegroom. O'Whithy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment, for that they had much private business to discourse of, but would not resist promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part of her society at supper. Mrs. Miller then asked what was to be done with Bliffle. For indeed, says she, I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my house. O'Whithy answered, he was as uneasy as herself on the same account. O'Christy, if that be the case, leave the matter to me. I'll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warn't you. Here are two or three lusty fellows below stairs. There will be no need of any violence, cries Orwhithy. If you carry him a message from me, he will, I am convinced, the part of his own accord. Will I, said Mrs. Miller, I never did anything in my life with a better will. Here Jones interfered and said, he had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr. Orwhithy pleased, be himself the messenger. I know, says he, already enough of your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me beseech you, sir, added he, to reflect on the dreadful consequences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How unfit alas is this poor man to die in his present situation! This suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs. Miller. She left the room, crying, You are too good, Mr. Jones, infinitely too good to live in this world. But it made a deeper impression on Orwhithy. My good child, said he, I am equally astonished at the goodness of your heart and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid that this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for repentance. That would be a shocking consideration indeed. Go to him, therefore, and use your own discretion. Yet do not flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness, for I shall never forgive villainy farther than my religion obliges me, and that extends not either to our bounty or our conversation. Jones went up to Bliffle's room, whom he found in a situation which moved his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion in many beholders. He cast himself on his bed, where he lay, abandoning himself to despair, and drowned in tears, not in such tears as flow from contrition and wash away guilt from minds which have been seduced or surprised into it, unawares, against the bent of their natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good. No, these tears were such as the frighted thief shats in his card, and are indeed the effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling for themselves. It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let it suffice to say that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess. He admitted nothing which his invention could supply to raise and comfort the drooping spirits of Bliffle before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must quit the house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would endeavor to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle. Bliffle was at first silent and silent, balancing in his mind whether he should yet deny all. But, finding at last the evidence too strong against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet. In short, he was now as remarkably mean as he had been before, remarkably wicked. Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised him to bear his afflictions more like a man, repeating at the same time his promises that he would do all in his power to lessen them, for which Bliffle, making many professions of his unworthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks, and then, he having declared he would immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle. Among other matters, all were they now acquainted Jones with a discovery which he had made concerning the five hundred pound banknotes. I have, said he, already consulted a lawyer who tells me to my great astonishment that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind. Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward you, I think a highwayman compared to him is an innocent person. Good heavens! says Jones. Is it possible? I am shocked beyond measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester fellow in the world. The temptation of such a sum was too great for him to withstand. For smaller matters have come safe to me through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it weakness rather than ingratitude, for I am convinced the poor fellow loves me, and had done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget. Nay, I believe he hath repented of this very act, for it is not above a day or two ago when my affairs seemed in a most desperate situation that he visited me in my confinement, and offered me any money I wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress it must be to have a sum in his possession which must put him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering the like. Child, cries Orworthy, you carry this forgiving temper too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow I might perhaps have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to be, and so far I confess I have gone, for I have often pitted the fate of a highwayman when I have been on the grand jury, and have more than once applied to the judge on the behalf of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case. But when this honesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude or the like, compassion and forgiveness then become false. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be punished, at least as far as I can punish him. This was spoken with so stern a voice that Jones did not think proper to make any reply. Besides, the hour appointed by Mr. Western now drew so near that it barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, according to order, with his clothes. Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor fellow was unable either to contain or express his transports. He behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he was dressing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage. His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered. Nor did he admit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones, and concluded with saying, I always told your honour something boated in my mind that he would one time or other have it in your power to make my fortune. Jones assured him that this boating should have certainly be verified with regard to him, as all the other omens had been to himself, which did not a little add to all the raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his master. By Henry Fielding Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr. Western's. He was indeed one of the finest figures ever beheld, and his personal loan would have charmed the greater part of womankind, but we hope it hath already appeared in this history that nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely as she sometimes doth on this merit only to recommend her work. Sophia, who angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best advantage for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful that even all worthy when he saw her could not forbear whispering Western that he believed she was the finest creature in the world, to which Western answered in a whisper, overheard by all present, so much the better for Tom, for damn me if she shan't have the tossling her. Sophia was all over Scarlett at these words, while Tom's continents was altogether his pale, and he was almost ready to sink from his chair. The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged all worthy out of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in private before he forgot it. The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question, not appear strange to many readers, that those who had so much to say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other's arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent and motionless, in so much that a stranger of moderate sujacity might have well concluded they were mutually indifferent. But so it was, however strange it may seem, both sat with their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence. Mr. Jones, during this interval, attempted once or twice to speak, but was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out some broken words. When Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse from the subject which she knew well enough he was endeavouring to open, said, Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this discovery. And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate, said Jones, sighing, will I have incurred your displeasure? Nay, sir, said she, as to that, you best know whether you have deserved it. Indeed, madam, answered he, you yourself are as well apprised of all my demerits. Mrs. Miller hath acquainted you with the whole truth. Oh, my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness? I think, Mr. Jones, said she, I may almost depend on your own justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own conduct. Alas, answered he, it is mercy, and not justice which I implore at your hands. Justice I know must condemn me, yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Belliston. Of that I most solemnly declare you have had a true account. He then insisted much on the security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretense of breaking off, if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer. But confess that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a letter as that into her power. Which, he said he, I have dearly paid for in the effect it has upon you? I do not. I cannot, says she, believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shows you clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr. Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I fancied, and you pretended your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have professed to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a man capable of so much inconstancy? Oh, my Sophia, cries he, do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever inflamed a human breast. Think most adorable creature of my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia, have flattered myself with the most distant hopes of ever being permitted to throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now? It would not have been in the power of any other woman to have inspired a thought which the severest chastity could have condemned. In constancy to you, oh, Sophia, if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. Oh, let it reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom. Sincere repentance, Mr. Jones, answered she, will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on, nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its sincerity. Name any proof in my power, answered Jones eagerly. Time, replied she, time alone, Mr. Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent and have resolved to abandon these vicious courses which I should detest you for if I imagined you capable of persevering in them. Do not imagine it, Christ Jones. On my knees I entreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the business of my life to deserve. Let it, then, said she, be the business of some part of your life to show me you deserve it. I think I have been explicit enough in assuring you that when I see you merit my confidence you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word? He replied, do not believe me upon my word. I have a better security, a pledge for my constancy which it is impossible to see and to doubt. What is that? said Sophia, a little surprise. I will show you my charming angel, cried Jones, seizing her hand and carrying her to the glass. There, behold it there in that lovely figure, that face, that shape, those eyes, the mind which shines through these eyes. Can the man who shall be in possession of these be in constant? Impossible, my Sophia. They would fix a dormant, a lord Rochester. You could not doubt it if you could see with any eyes but your own. Sophia blushed and half smiled, but forcing again her brow into a frown. If I am to judge, said she, of the future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when I am out of your sight than it will in this glass when I am out of the room. By heaven, by all that is sacred, said Jones, it never was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of a more has to do with the heart. I will never marry a man, replied Sophia very gravely, who shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am of making such a distinction. I will learn it, said Jones. I have learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught it me at once and all the rest of her sex from that moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion to my heart. Well, Sophia, the proof of this must be from time. Your situation, Mr. Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of being near me and convincing me that your mind is altered, too. Oh, my angel, cries Jones, how shall I thank thy goodness? And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in my prosperity? Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone who have given relish to that prosperity. Since I owe it to the dear hope, oh, my Sophia, let it not be a distant one. I will be all obedience to your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you permit me, yet let me entreat you to appoint a short trial. Oh, tell me when I may expect you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true. When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr. Jones, I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not. Oh, don't look unkindly thus, my Sophia, cries he. I do not. I dare not press you, yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. Oh, consider the impatience of love. A twelve-month perhaps, said she. Oh, my Sophia, cries he, you have named an eternity. Perhaps it may be something sooner, says she. I will not be teased. If your passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy. Easy, Sophia, call not such an exalting happiness as mine by so cold a name. Oh, transporting thought, am I not assured that the blessed day will come when I shall call you mine, when fear shall be no more, when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia happy? Indeed, sir, said she, that day is in your power. Oh, my dear, my divine angel, cried he, these words have made me mad with joy. But I must, I will thank those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss. He then caught her in his arms and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before. At this instant, Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, To her, boy, to her, go to her, that's it, little honeys, oh, that's it. Well, what is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? And what shall it be, to-morrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute longer than next day, I am resolved. Let me beseech you, sir, says Jones. Don't let me be the occasion. Beseech mine! Cries Western, I thought thou hast been a lad of higher metal than to give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks. I tell thee, it is all flim-flam. Zeduckers, she'd have the wedding to-night with all her heart. Would's not, Sophie, come confess and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak? Why should I confess, sir, says Sophia, since it seems you are so well acquainted with my thoughts? That's a good girl, cries he, and dost consent then. No, indeed, sir, says Sophia, I have given no such consent. And wouldn't I hathen to-morrow nor next day, says Western? Indeed, sir, says she, I have no such intention. But I can tell thee, replied he, why thou hast not, only because thou dost love to be disobedient and to plague and vex thy father. Pracer, said Jones, interfering, I tell thee, thou art a puppy, cries he. When I verbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining and languishing and writing. Now I am worthy, she is against thee, all the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and governed by her father, that is the whole truth on it, it is only to disablage and contradict me. What would my papa have me do, cries Sophia? What would I adi-dose, says he, why, again, I am this moment? Well, sir, says Sophia, I will obey you. There is my hand, Mr. Jones. Well, and will you consent the ay, and to-morrow morning, says Western? I will be obedient to you, sir, cries she. Why then to-morrow morning be the day, cries he. Why then to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so, says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees and kissed her hand in an agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room, presently crying out, where the devil is all worthy, he is without now, a talking with that damned lawyer, dowling, when he should be minding other matters. He then sailed out in quest of him in very opportunely, left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone. But he soon returned with all worthy, saying, if you won't believe me, you may ask her yourself, hast not given thy cassette, Sophie, to be married to-morrow? Such are your commands, sir, cries Sophia, and I dare not be guilty of disobedience. I hope, madam, cries all worthy, my nephew will merit so much goodness, and will always be as sensible as myself, of the great honour you have done my family. An alliance with so charming, and so excellent a young lady, would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England. Yes, cries Western, but if I had suffered her to stand, shall I shall let Dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet a while. I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring her too. I hope not, cries all worthy, I hope there is not the least constraint. Why there, cries Western, you may bid her on say all again, if you will. Dust-repent heartily, if thy promise, does not, Sophie? Indeed, Papa, cries she, I do not repent, nor do I believe, I ever shall, of any promise in favour of Mr. Jones. Then, nephew, cries all worthy, I felicitate you most heartily, for I think you are the happiest of men. And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful occasion? Indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least use his best endeavours to deserve it. His best endeavours, cries Western, that he will, I warrant, and harky all worthy, I'll bet the five pounds to a crown we have a boy tomorrow nine months. But Prithee, tell me what would ha, would ha burgundy, champagne, or what? for, please, Jupiter, we will make a night on it. Indeed, sir, said all worthy, you must excuse me, both my nephew and I were engaged before I suspected this near approach of his happiness. Engaged, quoth the squire, never tell me, I won't part with thee to-night upon any occasion. Shall't sap here, please, the Lord Harry? You must pardon me, my dear neighbour, answered all worthy. I have given a solemn promise, and that, you know, I never break. Why, Prithee, who art engaged too, cries the squire. All worthy then informed him, as likewise of the company. Haud, Zooker's answered the squire. I will go with thee, and social Sophie, for I won't part with thee to-night, and it would be barbarous to part Tom and the girl. This offer was presently embraced by all worthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a private promise from her father, that he would not mention a syllable concerning her marriage. End of Chapter 12. Book 18, Chapter 13, in which the history is concluded. Young Nightingale had been that afternoon by appointment to wait on his father, who received him much more kindly than he expected. There, likewise, he met his uncle, whose return to town in quest of his new-married daughter. This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to the young gentleman, for these brothers lived in a constant state of contention about the government of their children, both heartily despising the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now endeavored as much as he could to palliate the offence which his own child committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This desire of triumphing over his brother added to the many arguments which all worthy had used, so strongly operated on the old gentleman, that he met his son with a smiling continence, and actually agreed to sup with him that evening at Mrs. Miller's. As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most immoderate affection, there was little difficulty in inclining him to a reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his daughter and her husband were, than he declared he would instantly go to her. And when he arrived there he scarce suffered her to fall upon her knees before he took her up, and embraced her with a tenderness which affected all who saw him. And in less than a quarter of an hour was as well reconciled to both her and her husband as if he had himself joined their hands. In this situation were affairs when Mr. Allworthy and his company arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs. Miller, who no sooner saw Sophia than she guessed everything that had happened, and so great was her friendship to Jones that it added not a few transports to those she felt unhappiness of her own daughter. There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people met together where everyone was so perfectly happy as in this company. Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the least perfect content, for notwithstanding his affection for his son, notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of Allworthy, together with the other mode have mentioned before, he could not so entirely be satisfied with his son's choice. And perhaps the presence of Sophia herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his concern as a thought now and then suggested itself that his son might have had that lady, or some other such. Not that any of the charms which adorned either the person or mind of Sophia created the uneasiness. It was the contents of her father's coffers which set his heart a longing. These were the charms which he could not bear to think his son had sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs. Miller. The brides were both very pretty women, but so totally were they eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia that had they not been two of the best tempered girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in their breasts, for neither of their husbands could long keep his eyes from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving homage, or rather like a superior being receiving adoration from all around her. But it was an adoration which they gave, not which she exacted, for she was as much distinguished by her modesty and affability as by all her other perfections. The evening was spent in much true mirth, all were happy, but those the most who had been the most unhappy before. Their former sufferings and fears gave such a relish to their felicity as even love and fortune in their fullest flow could not have given without the advantage of such a comparison. Yet as great joy, especially after a sudden change in revolution of circumstances, is apt to be silent and dwells rather in the heart than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the least merry of the company, which Western observed with great impatience, often crying out to them, Why dost not talk, boy? Why dost look so grave? Has lost thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine, shout out another glass, and, the more to enliven her, he would sometimes sing a merry song, which bore some relation to matrimony in the loss of a maiden head. Nay, he would have proceeded so far on that topic as to have driven her out of the room if Mr. Allworthy had not checked him, sometimes by looks, and once or twice by a thigh, Mr. Western. He began, indeed, once to debate the matter and assert his right to talk to his own daughter, as he thought fit, but as nobody seconded him, he was soon reduced to order. Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the cheerfulness and good humor of the company that he insisted on their meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so, and the lovely Sophia, who was now in private, become a bride too, officiated as the mistress of ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase, did the honors of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones in the chapel at Doctor's Common, where Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Western, and Mrs. Miller were the only persons present. Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the company who were that day to dine with him should be acquainted with her marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs. Miller, and Jones undertook for Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy of Sophia to the public entertainment which, in compliance with father's will, she was obliged to go to greatly against her inclinations. In confidence of this secrecy, she went through the day pretty well till the squire, who was now advanced into the second bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but filling out a bumper drank a health to the bride. The health was immediately pledged by all present to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia and the great concern of Jones upon her account. To say truth there was not a person present made wiser by this discovery, for Mrs. Miller had whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband, her husband to his sister, and she to all the rest. Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies, and the squire sat into his caps in which he was by degrees deserted by all the company except the uncle of young Nightingale, who loved his bottle as well as Western himself. These two therefore sat stoutly to it during the whole evening, and long after that happy hour which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her enraptured Jones. Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion, in which to our great pleasure, though contrary perhaps to thy expectation, Mr. Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind. For what happiness this world affords equal to the possession of such a woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never yet discovered. As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in this history, as some may desire to know a little more concerning them, we will proceed in as few words as possible to satisfy their curiosity. All worthy hath never yet been profiled upon to see Bliffle, but he hath yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle two hundred pound a year upon him, to which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this income he lives in one of the northern counties about two hundred miles distant from London, and lays up two hundred pound a year out of it in order to purchase a seat in the next Parliament from a neighbouring borough, which he is bargained for with an attorney there. He is also lately turned Methodist in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect whose estate lies in that part of the kingdom. Square died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter, and as to Thwackam he continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless attempts to regain the confidence of All Worthy or to ingratiate himself with Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces and abuses behind their backs. But in his stead Mr. All Worthy hath lately taken Mr. Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown immoderately fond, and declares he shall have the tuition of her children. Mrs. Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite end of the town, and is so good an economist that she spends three times the income of her fortune without running into debt. She maintains a perfect intimacy with the Lady of the Irish Pier, and in acts of friendship to her repays all obligations she owes her husband. Mrs. Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent two months together with her in the country. Lady Belliston made the latter a formal visit at her returned town, where she behaved to Jones as a perfect stranger, and with great civility wished him joy on his marriage. Mr. Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the neighbourhood of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs. Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agreeable intercourse subsists between the two families. As to those of lower account, Mrs. Waters, returned into the country, had a pension of sixty pound a year settled upon her by Mr. Allworthy, and is married to Parsons Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western hath bestowed a considerable living. Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away and was never since heard of, and Jones bestowed the money on his family, but not in equal proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share. As for Partridge, Jones hath settled fifty pound a year on him, and he hath again set up a school in which he meets with much better encouragement than formally. And there is now a treaty of marriage on foot between him and Ms. Molly Seagram, which, through the mediation of Sophia, is likely to take effect. We now return to take leave of Mr. Jones and Sophia, who, within two days after their marriage, attended Mr. Western and Mr. Allworthy into the country. Western hath resigned his family seat and the greater part of his estate to his son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser house of his in another part of the country, which is better for hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr. Jones, who, as well as his daughter, hath an infinite delight in doing everything in their power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended with such success that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his life till now. He hath there a parlor and an anti-chamber to himself, where he gets drunk with whom he pleases, and his daughter is still as ready as formerly to play to him whenever he desires it. For Jones hath assured her that, as next to pleasing her, one of his highest satisfactions is to contribute to the happiness of the old man. So the great duty which she expresses and performs to her father renders her almost equally dear to him with the love which she bestows on himself. Sophia hath already produced him to fine children, a boy and a girl, of whom the old gentleman is so fond that he spends much of his time in the nursery, where he declares that tattling of his little granddaughter, who is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music than the finest cry of dogs in England. Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and hath omitted no instance of showing his affection to him and his lady who love him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a tendency to vice has been corrected by continual conversation with this good man, and by his union with the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by reflection on his past follies, acquired a discretion and prudence very uncommon in one of his lively parts. To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an affection daily increased and confirmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem, nor is their conduct towards their relations and friends less amiable than towards one another, and such is their condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant or a servant who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr. Jones was married to his Sophia. End of Chapter Thirteen End of The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling by Henry Fielding Recorded by Maureen Blaski of Babasbeach.ca In Victoria, November 12th, 2008