The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding (top young adult novels TXT) 📕

to believe it. Betrayed too⁠—I will think no more.⁠—Come to me directly.⁠—This is the third letter I have writ, the two former are burnt⁠—I am almost inclined to burn this too⁠—I wish I may preserve my senses.⁠—Come to me presently.

Letter II

If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my doors, come to me this instant.

Letter III

I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings. The moment you receive this let me see you;⁠—I shall not stir out; nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain you long.

Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr. Nightingale came into the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston, after last night’s adventure?” (for it was now no secret to anyone in that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones very gravely.⁠—“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don’t be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?”⁠—“And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade?” said Jones.⁠—“Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said Nightingale, “and have given you twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on that point, that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her person. Don’t be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is in no danger, believe me.”

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some overnice ladies will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend’s tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever heard of the lady.

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works, of making any malicious application and of forcing us to be, against our will, the author of scandal, which never entered into our head.

Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.”⁠—“O my dear friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.”⁠—“And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Nightingale.⁠—“Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever yet durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the limpid stream not clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind and body, consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities, that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it.”⁠—“And can you, my good friend,” cries Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands, hesitate a moment about quitting such a⁠—” “Hold,” said Jones, “no more abuse of her: I detest the thought of ingratitude.”⁠—“Pooh!” answered the other, “you are not the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of this kind. She is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a man’s vanity than his gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed, he began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust, his mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all his thoughts, and made his