Chapter ii.

Containing a very tragical incident.

While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which

we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room

with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair

standing an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as

he would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a

spectre himself.

Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat

shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change

colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was

the matter?

“I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with me. Indeed

I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward room. I am

sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have heard

what I have heard.” “Why, what is the matter?” said Jones. “The

matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, “was that woman who

is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?” “She was,

Partridge,” cried Jones. “And did you really, sir, go to bed with that

woman?” said he, trembling.--“I am afraid what past between us is no

secret,” said Jones.--“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's sake, sir,

answer me,” cries Partridge. “You know I did,” cries Jones. “Why then,

the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you,” cries Partridge;

“but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed with your own

mother.”

Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror

than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with

amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his

words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, “How! how!

what's this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,” cries Partridge, “I have not

breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most

certainly true.--That woman who now went out is your own mother. How

unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that

time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived

to bring about this wickedness.”

“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me till she

hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself

the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which have

befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What

thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses!

And was Mrs Waters, then--but why do I ask? for thou must certainly

know her--If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any

pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to

me. O good Heavens! incest----with a mother! To what am I reserved!”

He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and

despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at

last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to

himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this

wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was

lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.

If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the

scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many

strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between

Partridge and Mrs Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr

Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in life, where

the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little

circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered by

the accurate eye, in this our history.

After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned

back to his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in

a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he

brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition

before he received the following letter:

“SIR,

“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned

something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but

as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such

high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next

meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr

Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the

reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it

was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever

sincerely your unfortunate

“J. WATERS.”

“P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr

Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other

grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not

among the number.”

Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold

it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).

Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read it

likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and

not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both their

countenances. While they both remained speechless the turnkey entered

the room, and, without taking any notice of what sufficiently

discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a

man without desired to speak with him. This person was presently

introduced, and was no other than Black George.

As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the

turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the

face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,

which was reported in the very worst light in Mr Western's family; he

concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr Jones

was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave

him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition,

and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been

over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the

obligations he had formerly received from Mr Jones.

The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the

present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his

misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner

of service. “Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may want a little matter of

money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is

heartily at your service.”

Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks

for the kind offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least

want of that kind.” Upon which George began to press his services more

eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he

wanted nothing which was in the power of any man living to give.

“Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not take the matter

so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be sure

you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.”

“You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the gentleman

is not dead, nor like to die. Don't disturb my master, at present, for

he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in your power to do

him any good.” “You don't know what I may be able to do, Mr

Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern is about my young lady, I

have some news to tell my master.” “What do you say, Mr George?” cried

Jones. “Hath anything lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned?

My Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so profanely.” “I

hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have

something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam

Sophia home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not

possibly learn the very right of it; but my master he hath been in a

vast big passion, and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as

she went out of doors into her chair, that she would never set her

foot in master's house again. I don't know what's the matter, not I,

but everything was very quiet when I came out; but Robin, who waited

at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long while in such

good humour with young madam; that he kissed her several times, and

swore she should be her own mistress, and he never would think of

confining her any more. I thought this news would please you, and so I

slipped out, though it was so late, to inform you of it.” Mr Jones

assured George that it did greatly please him; for though he should

never more presume to lift his eyes toward that incomparable creature,

nothing could so much relieve his misery as the satisfaction he should

always have in hearing of her welfare.

The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not

important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore,

forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this

great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.

Mrs Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began to

set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to the

family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely

refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of his

daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion, and so

irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience nor his

prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued between

them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of

Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs

Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to acquaint her

brother with the letter which Sophia received, which might have

possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe it never

once occurred to her memory at this time.

When Mrs Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as

well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the

compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against

her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the first

time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree acceptable to

the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr Allworthy had insisted on an

entire relinquishment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no

doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question

succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, once

more gave a loose to his natural fondness for her, which had such an

effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and affectionate heart of

Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and something else,

perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed, I much doubt whether

she would not have sacrificed herself to a man she did not like, to

have obliged her father. She promised him she would make it the whole

business of her life to oblige him, and would never marry any man

against his consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest

happiness, that he was resolved to take the other step, and went to

bed completely drunk.