Fiction > Harvard Classics > Henry Fielding > The History of Tom Jones, Vol. II > Book XVIII > Chapter VI
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Henry Fielding. (1707–1754).  The History of Tom Jones.
The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction.  1917.
  
Book XVIII. Containing about Six Days
VI. In Which the History Is Farther Continued
  
“SURE, friend,” said the good man, “you are the strangest of all human beings. Not only to have suffered as you have formerly for obstinately persisting in a falsehood, but to persist in it thus to the last, and to pass thus upon the world for a servant of your own son! What interest can you have in all this? What can be your motive?”   1
  “I see, sir,” said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, “that your honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not to believe anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations? but yet there is one above who knows that I am not the father of this young man.”   2
  “How!” said Allworthy, “will you yet deny what you was formerly convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay, what a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all which twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left the country! nay, I thought you had been long since dead.—In what manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet with him, unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your son in my opinion, to find that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately to support his father for so many years.”   3
  “If your honour will have patience to hear me,” said Partridge, “I will tell you all.”—Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: “When your honour conceived that displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon after; for I lost my little school; and the minister, thinking I suppose it would be agreeable to your honour, turned me out from the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the barber’s shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor livelihood; and when my wife died (for till that time I received a pension of £12 a year from an unknown hand, which indeed, I believe was your honour’s own, for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things besides)—but, as I was saying, when she died, this pension forsook me; so that now, as I owed two or three small debts, which began to be troublesome to me, particularly one 1 which an attorney brought up by law-charges from 15s. to near £30, and as I found all my usual means of living had forsook me, I packed up my little all as well as I could, and went off.   4
  “The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the service of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best gentlemen that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know a thousand good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with him; and I have known him often refuse business because it was paultry and oppressive.” “You need not be so particular,” said Allworthy; “I know this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his profession.”—“Well, sir,” continued Partridge, “from hence I removed to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of another lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to be sure one of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the end of the three years I set up a little school, and was likely to do well again, had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I kept a pig; and one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig broke out, and did a trespass, I think they call it, in a garden belonging to one of my neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and employed a lawyer, one—one—I can’t think of his name; but he sent for a writ against me, and had me to size. When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me—to hear what the counsellors said! There was one that told my lord a parcel of the confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to drive my hogs into other folk’s gardens, and a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped I had at last brought my hogs to a fair market. To be sure, one would have thought that, instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had been the greatest hog-merchant in England. Well—” “Pray,” said Allworthy, “do not be so particular, I have heard nothing of your son yet.” “O it was a great many years,” answered Partridge, “before I saw my son, as you are pleased to call him.—I went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork (for that one suit ruined me again, and I lay seven years in Winchester jail).”——“Well,” said Allworthy, “pass that over till your return to England.”——“Then, sir,” said he, “it was about half a year ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some time, and not finding it do there, and hearing of a place between that and Gloucester where the barber was just dead, I went thither, and there I had been about two months when Mr. Jones came thither.” He then gave Allworthy a very particular account of their first meeting, and of everything, as well as he could remember, which had happened from that day to this; frequently interlarding his story with panegyrics on Jones, and not forgetting to insinuate the great love and respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded with saying, “Now, sir, I have told your honour the whole truth.” And then repeated a most solemn protestation, “That he was no more the father of Jones than of the Pope of Rome;” and imprecated the most bitter curses on his head, if he did not speak truth.   5
  “What am I to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. “For what purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be rather your interest to own?” “Nay, sir,” answered Partridge (for he could hold no longer), “if your honour will not believe me, you are like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.”—And now being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs. Miller to conceal from him.   6
  Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge himself had been while he related it. “Good heavens!” says he, “in what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve men! How much beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes carried!” He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs. Waters came hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her than he cried, “Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the unfortunate mother of Mr. Jones. I am sure she will acquit me before your honour. Pray, madam——”   7
  Mrs. Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr. Allworthy. “I believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that you do not recollect me.” “Indeed,” answered Allworthy, “you are so very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which brings you to me?” Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct of this lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what Partridge had now delivered.   8
  Mrs. Waters answered—“Indeed, sir, I have very particular business with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure you what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.”   9
  Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged the lady to satisfy Mr. Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To which she answered, “You need be under no apprehension, sir; I shall satisfy Mr. Allworthy very perfectly of that matter.”  10
  Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Waters which is written in the next chapter.  11


Note 1.  This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single action, brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring money into the pockets of attorneys, to the great scandal of the law, of the nation, of Christianity, and even of human nature itself. [back]

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