gave him were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had
yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second
chapter of the ensuing book.
BOOK XVIII
CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS
Chapter 1
A farewell to the reader
We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey.
As we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages let us
behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who
have passed several days in the company of each other; and who,
notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have
occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for
the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour;
since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a
little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good
company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well
known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside;
whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake
personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is
usually plain and serious.
In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this
work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here
lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged
to cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous
observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes
perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning
to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only;
and, indeed. when thou hast perused the many great events which this
book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it
scarce sufficient to tell the story.
And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no
other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining
companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in
anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some
things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do
most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I
question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me,
that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever
told thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises
scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none
hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I
have had some of the abusive writings of those very men fathered
upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves
with the utmost virulence.
All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long
before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however
short the period may be of my own performances, they will most
probably outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions
of his abusive contemporaries.
Chapter 2
Containing a very tragical incident
While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
standing on end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he
would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
spectre himself.
Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being
somewhat shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself
change colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him,
What was the matter?
"I hope, sir," said Partridge, "you will not be angry with me.
Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward
room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than
have heard what I have heard." "Why, what is the matter?" said
Jones. "The matter, sir? O good Heaven!" answered Partridge, "was that
woman who is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?"
"She was, Partridge," cried Jones. "And did you really, sir, go to bed
with that woman?" said he, trembling.- "I am afraid what past between
us is no secret," said Jones.- "Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's
sake, sir, answer me," cries Partridge. "You know I did," cries Jones.
"Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you," cries
Partridge; "but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed
with your own mother."
Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of
horror than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck
dumb with amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At
last his words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, "How!
how! what's this you tell me?" "Nay, sir," cries Partridge, "I have
not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.- That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at
that time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have
contrived to bring about this wickedness."
"Sure," cried Jones, "Fortune will never have done with me till
she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am
myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which
have befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice.
What thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my
senses! And was Mrs. Waters, then- but why do I ask? for thou must
certainly know her-- If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou
hast any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman
back again to me. O good Heavens! incest-- with a mother! To what am I
reserved!" He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of
grief and despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him;
but at last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a
little to himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would
find this wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman
was lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the
scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many
strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview
between Partridge and Mrs. Waters, when she spent a whole day there
with Mr. Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in
life, where the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little
circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered
by the accurate eye, in this our history.
After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned
back to his master, without having seen Mrs. Waters. Jones, who was in
a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he
brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition
before he received the following letter:
SIR,
Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O,
Mr. Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton,
the reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life,
who it was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be
ever sincerely your unfortunate
J. WATERS
P.S.- I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for
Mr. Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not among
the number.
Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold
it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).
Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read
it likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil,
and not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both
their countenances. While they both remained speechless, the turnkey
entered the room, and, without taking any notice of what
sufficiently discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted
Jones that a man without desired to speak with him. This person was
presently introduced, and was other than Black George.
As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to
the turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the
face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,
which was reported in the very worst light in Mr. Western's family; he
concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr.
Jones was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which
gave him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate
disposition, and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he
had been over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of
the obligations he had formerly received from Mr. Jones.
The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the
present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his
misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner
of service. "Perhaps, sir," said he, "you may want a little matter
of money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is
heartily at your service."
Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many
thanks for the kind offer he had made; but answered, "He had not the
least want of that kind." Upon which George began to press his
services more eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with
assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the power of any living
man to give. "Come, come, my good master," answered George, "do not
take the matter so much to heart. Things may end better than you
imagine; to be sure you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a
man, and yet come off." "You are wide of the matter, George," said
Partridge, "the gentleman is not dead, nor like to die. Don't
disturb my master, at present, for he is troubled about a matter in
which it is not in your power to do him any good." You don't know what
I may be able to do, Mr. Partridge," answered George; "if his
concern is about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master."
"What do you say, Mr. George?" cried Jones. "Hath anything lately
happened in which my Sophia is concerned? Sophia! how dares such a
wretch as I mention her so profanely!" "I hope she will be yours yet,"
answered George. "Why yes, sir, I have something to tell you about
her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home, and there hath
been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very right of
it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, and so was Madam
Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her chair,
that she would never set foot in master's house again. I don't know
what's the matter, not I, but everything was very quiet when I came
out; but Robin, who waited at supper, said he had never seen the
squire for a long while in such good humour with young madam; that
he kissed her several times, and swore she should be her own mistress,
and he never would think of confining her any more. I thought this
news would please you, and so I slipped out, though it was so late, to
inform you of it." Mr. Jones assured George that it did greatly please
him; for though he should never more presume to lift his eyes toward
that incomparable creature, nothing could so much relieve his misery
as the satisfaction he should always have in hearing of her welfare.
The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not
important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore,
forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this
great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.
Mrs. Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began
to set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to
the family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had
absolutely refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of
his daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion,
and so irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience
nor his prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued
between them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the
regions of Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this
scolding Mrs. Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to
acquaint her brother with the letter which Sophia received, which
might have possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe
it never once occurred to her memory at this time.
When Mrs. Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as
well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the
compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against
her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the
first time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree
acceptable to the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr. Allworthy
had insisted on an entire relinquishment of all violent means; and,
indeed, as he made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not
in the least question succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he
