“I am not offended with you, child,” says the colonel. “I know you did not intend to offend me.”
“No man, I believe, dares intend it,” said Booth.
“I believe so too,” said the colonel; “d — n me, I know it. But you know, child, how tender I am on this subject. If I had been ever married myself, I should have cleft the man’s skull who had dared look wantonly at my wife.”
“It is certainly the most cruel of all injuries,” said Booth. “How finely doth Shakespeare express it in his Othello!
‘But there, where I had treasured up my soul.’”
“That Shakespeare,” cries the colonel, “was a fine fellow. He was a very pretty poet indeed. Was it not Shakespeare that wrote the play about Hotspur? You must remember these lines. I got them almost by heart at the playhouse; for I never missed that play whenever it was acted, if I was in town: —
By Heav’n it was an easy leap,
To pluck bright honour into the full moon,
Or drive into the bottomless deep.
And — and — faith, I have almost forgot them; but I know it is something about saving your honour from drowning — O! it is very fine! I say, d — n me, the man that writ those lines was the greatest poet the world ever produced. There is dignity of expression and emphasis of thinking, d — n me.”
Booth assented to the colonel’s criticism, and then cried, “I wish, colonel, you would be so kind to give me that letter.” The colonel answered, if he had any particular use for it he would give it him with all his heart, and presently delivered it; and soon afterwards they parted.
Several passages now struck all at once upon Booth’s mind, which gave him great uneasiness. He became confident now that he had mistaken one colonel for another; and, though he could not account for the letter’s getting into those hands from whom Bath had taken it (indeed James had dropt it out of his pocket), yet a thousand circumstances left him no room to doubt the identity of the person, who was a man much more liable to raise the suspicion of a husband than honest Bath, who would at any time have rather fought with a man than lain with a woman.
The whole behaviour of Amelia now rushed upon his memory. Her resolution not to take up her residence at the colonel’s house, her backwardness even to dine there, her unwillingness to go to the masquerade, many of her unguarded expressions, and some where she had been more guarded, all joined together to raise such an idea in Mr. Booth, that he had almost taken a resolution to go and cut the colonel to pieces in his own house. Cooler thoughts, however, suggested themselves to him in time. He recollected the promise he had so solemnly made to the doctor. He considered, moreover, that he was yet in the dark as to the extent of the colonel’s guilt. Having nothing, therefore, to fear from it, he contented himself to postpone a resentment which he nevertheless resolved to take of the colonel hereafter, if he found he was in any degree a delinquent.
The first step he determined to take was, on the first opportunity, to relate to Colonel James the means by which he became possessed of the letter, and to read it to him; on which occasion, he thought he should easily discern by the behaviour of the colonel whether he had been suspected either by Amelia or the doctor without a cause; but as for his wife, he fully resolved not to reveal the secret to her till the doctor’s return.
While Booth was deeply engaged by himself in these meditations, Captain Trent came up to him, and familiarly slapped him on the shoulder.
They were soon joined by a third gentleman, and presently afterwards by a fourth, both acquaintances of Mr. Trent; and all having walked twice the length of the Mall together, it being now past nine in the evening, Trent proposed going to the tavern, to which the strangers immediately consented; and Booth himself, after some resistance, was at length persuaded to comply.
To the King’s Arms then they went, where the bottle went very briskly round till after eleven; at which time Trent proposed a game at cards, to which proposal likewise Booth’s consent was obtained, though not without much difficulty; for, though he had naturally some inclination to gaming, and had formerly a little indulged it, yet he had entirely left it off for many years.
Booth and his friend were partners, and had at first some success; but Fortune, according to her usual conduct, soon shifted about, and persecuted Booth with such malice, that in about two hours he was stripped of all the gold in his pocket, which amounted to twelve guineas, being more than half the cash which he was at that time worth.
How easy it is for a man who is at all tainted with the itch of gaming to leave off play in such a situation, especially when he is likewise heated with liquor, I leave to the gamester to determine. Certain it is that Booth had no inclination to desist; but, on the contrary, was so eagerly bent on playing on, that he called his friend out of the room, and asked him for ten pieces, which he promised punctually to pay the next morning.
Trent chid him for using so much formality on the occasion. “You know,” said he, “dear Booth, you may have what money you please of me. Here is a twenty-pound note at your service; and, if you want five times the sum, it is at your service. We will never let these fellows go away with our money in this manner; for we have so much the advantage, that if the knowing ones were here they would lay odds of our side.”
But if this was really Mr. rent’s opinion, he was very much mistaken; for the other two honourable gentlemen were not only greater masters of the game, and somewhat soberer than poor Booth, having, with all the art in their power, evaded the bottle, but they had, moreover, another small advantage over their adversaries, both of them, by means of some certain private signs, previously agreed upon between them, being always acquainted with the principal cards in each other’s hands. It cannot be wondered, therefore, that Fortune was on their side; for, however she may be reported to favour fools, she never, I believe, shews them any countenance when they engage in play with knaves.
The more Booth lost, the deeper he made his bets; the consequence of which was, that about two in the morning, besides the loss of his own money, he was fifty pounds indebted to Trent: a sum, indeed, which he would not have borrowed, had not the other, like a very generous friend, pushed it upon him.
Trent’s pockets became at last dry by means of these loans. His own loss, indeed, was trifling; for the stakes of the games were no higher than crowns, and betting (as it is called) was that to which Booth owed his ruin. The gentlemen, therefore, pretty well knowing Booth’s circumstances, and being kindly unwilling to win more of a man than he was worth, declined playing any longer, nor did Booth once ask them to persist, for he was ashamed of the debt which he had already contracted to Trent, and very far from desiring to encrease it.
The company then separated. The two victors and Trent went off in their chairs to their several houses near Grosvenor-square, and poor Booth, in a melancholy mood, walked home to his lodgings. He was, indeed, in such a fit of despair, that it more than once came into his head to put an end to his miserable being.
But before we introduce him to Amelia we must do her the justice to relate the manner in which she spent this unhappy evening. It was about seven when Booth left her to walk in the park; from this time till past eight she was employed with her children, in playing with them, in giving them their supper, and in putting them to bed.
When these offices were performed she employed herself another hour in cooking up a little supper for her husband, this being, as we have already observed, his favourite meal, as indeed it was her’s; and, in a most pleasant and delightful manner, they generally passed their time at this season, though their fare was very seldom of the sumptuous kind.
It now grew dark, and her hashed mutton was ready for the table, but no Booth appeared. Having waited therefore for him a full hour, she gave him over for that evening; nor was she much alarmed at his absence, as she knew he was in a night or two to be at the tavern with some brother-officers; she concluded therefore that they had met in the park, and had agreed to spend this evening together.
At ten then she sat down to supper by herself, for Mrs. Atkinson was then abroad. And here we cannot help relating a little incident, however trivial it may appear to some. Having sat some time alone, reflecting on their distressed situation, her spirits grew very low; and she was once or twice going to ring the bell to send her maid for half-a-pint of white wine, but checked her inclination in order to save the little sum of sixpence, which she did the more resolutely as she had before refused to gratify her children with tarts for their supper from the same motive. And this self-denial she was very probably practising to save sixpence, while her husband was paying a debt of several guineas incurred by the ace of trumps being in the hands of his adversary.
Instead therefore of this cordial she took up one of the excellent Farquhar’s comedies, and read it half through; when, the clock striking twelve, she retired to bed, leaving the maid to sit up for her master. She would, indeed, have much more willingly sat up herself, but the delicacy of her own mind assured her that Booth would not thank her for the compliment. This is, indeed, a method which some wives take of upbraiding their husbands for staying abroad till too late an hour, and of engaging them, through tenderness and good nature, never to enjoy the company of their friends too long when they must do this at the expence of their wives’ rest.
To bed then she went, but not to sleep. Thrice indeed she told the dismal clock, and as often heard the more dismal watchman, till her miserable husband found his way home, and stole silently like a thief to bed to her; at which time, pretending then first to awake, she threw her snowy arms around him; though, perhaps, the more witty property of snow, according to Addison, that is to say its coldness, rather belonged to the poor captain.
CHAPTER VI.
Read, gamester, and observe.
Booth could not so well disguise the agitations of his mind from Amelia, but that she perceived sufficient symptoms to assure her that some misfortune had befallen him. This made her in her turn so uneasy that Booth took notice of it, and after breakfast said, “Sure, my dear Emily, something hath fallen out to vex you.”
Amelia, looking tenderly at him, answered, “Indeed, my dear, you are in the right; I am indeed extremely vexed.” “For Heaven’s sake,” said he, “what is it?” “Nay, my love,” cried she, “that you must answer yourself. Whatever it is which hath given you all that disturbance that you in vain endeavour to conceal from me, this it is which causes all my affliction.”
“You guess truly, my sweet,” replied Booth; “I am indeed afflicted, and I will not, nay I cannot, conceal the truth from you. I have undone myself, Amelia.”
“What have you done, child?” said she, in some consternation; “pray, tell me.”
“I have lost my money at play,” answered he.
“Pugh!” said she, recovering herself— “what signifies the trifle you had in your pocket? Resolve never to play again, and let it give you no further vexation; I warrant you, we will contrive some method to repair such a loss.”
“Thou heavenly angel! thou comfort of my soul!” cried Booth, tenderly embracing her; then starting a little from her arms, and looking with eager fondness in her eyes, he said, “Let me survey thee; art thou really human, or art thou not rather an angel in a human form? O, no,” cried he, flying again into her arms, “thou art my dearest woman, my best, my beloved wife!”
Amelia, having returned all his caresses with equal kindness, told him she had near eleven guineas in her purse, and asked how much she should fetch him. “I would not advise you, Billy, to carry too much in your pocket, for fear it should be a temptation to you to return to gaming, in order to retrieve your past losses. Let me beg you, on all accounts, never to think more, if possible, on the trifle you have lost, anymore than if you had never possessed it.”
Booth promised her faithfully he never would, and refused to take any of the money. He then hesitated a moment, and cried— “You say, my dear, you have eleven guineas; you have a diamond ring, likewise, which was your grandmother’s — I believe that is worth twenty pounds; and your own and the child’s watch are worth as much more.”
“I believe they would sell for as much,” cried Amelia; “for a pawnbroker of Mrs. Atkinson’s acquaintance offered to lend me thirty- five pounds upon them when you was in your last distress. But why are you computing their value now?”
“I was only considering,” answered he, “how much we could raise in any case of exigency.”
“I have computed it myself,” said she; “and I believe all we have in the world, besides our bare necessary apparel, would produce about sixty pounds: and suppose, my dear,” said she, “while we have that little sum, we should think of employing it some way or other, to procure some small subsistence for ourselves and our family. As for your dependence on the colonel’s friendship, it is all vain, I am afraid, and fallacious. Nor do I see any hopes you have from any other quarter, of providing for yourself again in the army. And though the sum which is now in our power is very small, yet we may possibly contrive with it to put ourselves into some mean way of livelihood. I have a heart, my Billy, which is capable of undergoing anything for your sake; and I hope my hands are as able to work as those which have been more inured to it. But think, my dear, think what must be our wretched condition, when the very little we now have is all mouldered away, as it will soon be in this town.”
When poor Booth heard this, and reflected that the time which Amelia foresaw was already arrived (for that he had already lost every farthing they were worth), it touched him to the quick; he turned pale, gnashed his teeth, and cried out, “Damnation! this is too much to bear.”
Amelia was thrown into the utmost consternation by this behaviour; and, with great terror in her countenance, cried out, “Good Heavens! my dear love, what is the reason of this agony?”
“Ask me no questions,” cried he, “unless you would drive me to madness.”
“My Billy! my love!” said she, “what can be the meaning of this? — I beg you will deal openly with me, and tell me all your griefs.”
“Have you dealt fairly with me, Amelia?” said he.
“Yes, surely,” said she; “Heaven is my witness how fairly.”
“Nay, do not call Heaven,” cried he, “to witness a falsehood. You have not dealt openly with me, Amelia. You have concealed secrets from me; secrets which I ought to have known, and which, if I had known, it had been better for us both.”
“You astonish me as much as you shock me,” cried she. “What falsehood, what treachery have I been guilty of?”
“You tell me,” said he, “that I can have no reliance on James; why did not you tell me so before?”
“I call Heaven again,” said she, “to witness; nay, I appeal to yourself for the truth of it; I have often told you so. I have told you I disliked the man, notwithstanding the many favours he had done you. I desired you not to have too absolute a reliance upon him. I own I had once an extreme good opinion of him, but I changed it, and I acquainted you that I had so— “
“But not,” cries he, “with the reasons why you had changed it.”
“I was really afraid, my dear,” said she, “of going too far. I knew the obligations you had to him; and if I suspected that he acted rather from vanity than true friendship— “
“Vanity!” cries he; “take care, Amelia: you know his motive to be much worse than vanity — a motive which, if he had piled obligations on me till they had reached the skies, would tumble all down to hell. It is vain to conceal it longer — I know all — your confidant hath told me all.”
“Nay, then,” cries she, “on my knees I entreat you to be pacified, and hear me out. It was, my dear, for you, my dread of your jealous honour, and the fatal consequences.”
“Is not Amelia, then,” cried he, “equally jealous of my honour? Would she, from a weak tenderness for my person, go privately about to betray, to undermine the most invaluable treasure of my soul? Would she have me pointed at as the credulous dupe, the easy fool, the tame, the ki
nd cuckold, of a rascal with whom I conversed as a friend?”
“Indeed you injure me,” said Amelia. “Heaven forbid I should have the trial! but I think I could sacrifice all I hold most dear to preserve your honour. I think I have shewn I can. But I will — when you are cool, I will — satisfy you I have done nothing you ought to blame.”
“I am cool then,” cries he; “I will with the greatest coolness hear you. — But do not think, Amelia, I have the least jealousy, the least suspicion, the least doubt of your honour. It is your want of confidence in me alone which I blame.”
“When you are calm,” cried she, “I will speak, and not before.”
He assured her he was calm; and then she said, “You have justified my conduct by your present passion, in concealing from you my suspicions; for they were no more, nay, it is possible they were unjust; for since the doctor, in betraying the secret to you, hath so far falsified my opinion of him, why may I not be as well deceived in my opinion of the colonel, since it was only formed on some particulars in his behaviour which I disliked? for, upon my honour, he never spoke a word to me, nor hath been ever guilty of any direct action, which I could blame.” She then went on, and related most of the circumstances which she had mentioned to the doctor, omitting one or two of the strongest, and giving such a turn to the rest, that, if Booth had not had some of Othello’s blood in him, his wife would have almost appeared a prude in his eyes. Even he, however, was pretty well pacified by this narrative, and said he was glad to find a possibility of the colonel’s innocence; but that he greatly commended the prudence of his wife, and only wished she would for the future make him her only confidant.
Amelia, upon that, expressed some bitterness against the doctor for breaking his trust; when Booth, in his excuse, related all the circumstances of the letter, and plainly convinced her that the secret had dropt by mere accident from the mouth of the doctor.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 218