“I assure you, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I never saw this matter in the odious light in which you have truly represented it, before. I am ashamed to recollect what I have formerly said on this subject. And yet, whilst the opinion of the world is as it is, one would wish to comply as far as possible, especially as my husband is an officer of the army. If it can be done, therefore, with safety to his honour— “
“Again honour!” cries the doctor; “indeed I will not suffer that noble word to be so basely and barbarously prostituted. I have known some of these men of honour, as they call themselves, to be the most arrant rascals in the universe.”
“Well, I ask your pardon,” said she; “reputation then, if you please, or any other word you like better; you know my meaning very well.”
“I do know your meaning,” cries the doctor, “and Virgil knew it a great while ago. The next time you see your friend Mrs. Atkinson, ask her what it was made Dido fall in love with AEneas?”
“Nay, dear sir,” said Amelia, “do not rally me so unmercifully; think where my poor husband is now.”
“He is,” answered the doctor, “where I will presently be with him. In the mean time, do you pack up everything in order for your journey to- morrow; for if you are wise, you will not trust your husband a day longer in this town — therefore to packing.”
Amelia promised she would, though indeed she wanted not any warning for her journey on this account; for when she packed up herself in the coach, she packed up her all. However, she did not think proper to mention this to the doctor; for, as he was now in pretty good humour, she did not care to venture again discomposing his temper.
The doctor then set out for Gray’s-inn-lane, and, as soon as he was gone, Amelia began to consider of her incapacity to take a journey in her present situation without even a clean shift. At last she resolved, as she was possessed of seven guineas and a half, to go to her friend and redeem some of her own and her husband’s linen out of captivity; indeed just so much as would render it barely possible for them to go out of town with any kind of decency. And this resolution she immediately executed.
As soon as she had finished her business with the pawnbroker (if a man who lends under thirty per cent. deserves that name), he said to her, “Pray, madam, did you know that man who was here yesterday when you brought the picture?” Amelia answered in the negative. “Indeed, madam,” said the broker, “he knows you, though he did not recollect you while you was here, as your hood was drawn over your face; but the moment you was gone he begged to look at the picture, which I, thinking no harm, permitted. He had scarce looked upon it when he cried out, ‘By heaven and earth it is her picture!’ He then asked me if I knew you.” “Indeed,” says I, “I never saw the lady before.”
In this last particular, however, the pawnbroker a little savoured of his profession, and made a small deviation from the truth, for, when the man had asked him if he knew the lady, he answered she was some poor undone woman who had pawned all her cloathes to him the day before; and I suppose, says he, this picture is the last of her goods and chattels. This hint we thought proper to give the reader, as it may chance to be material.
Amelia answered coldly that she had taken so very little notice of the man that she scarce remembered he was there.
“I assure you, madam,” says the pawnbroker, “he hath taken very great notice of you; for the man changed countenance upon what I said, and presently after begged me to give him a dram. Oho! thinks I to myself, are you thereabouts? I would not be so much in love with some folks as some people are for more interest than I shall ever make of a thousand pound.”
Amelia blushed, and said, with some peevishness, “That she knew nothing of the man, but supposed he was some impertinent fellow or other.”
“Nay, madam,” answered the pawnbroker, “I assure you he is not worthy your regard. He is a poor wretch, and I believe I am possessed of most of his moveables. However, I hope you are not offended, for indeed he said no harm; but he was very strangely disordered, that is the truth of it.”
Amelia was very desirous of putting an end to this conversation, and altogether as eager to return to her children; she therefore bundled up her things as fast as she could, and, calling for a hackney-coach, directed the coachman to her lodgings, and bid him drive her home with all the haste he could.
CHAPTER IV.
In which Dr Harrison visits Colonel James.
The doctor, when he left Amelia, intended to go directly to Booth, but he presently changed his mind, and determined first to call on the colonel, as he thought it was proper to put an end to that matter before he gave Booth his liberty.
The doctor found the two colonels, James and Bath, together. They both received him very civilly, for James was a very well-bred man, and Bath always shewed a particular respect to the clergy, he being indeed a perfect good Christian, except in the articles of fighting and swearing.
Our divine sat some time without mentioning the subject of his errand, in hopes that Bath would go away, but when he found no likelihood of that (for indeed Bath was of the two much the most pleased with his company), he told James that he had something to say to him relating to Mr. Booth, which he believed he might speak before his brother.
“Undoubtedly, sir,” said James; “for there can be no secrets between us which my brother may not hear.”
“I come then to you, sir,” said the doctor, “from the most unhappy woman in the world, to whose afflictions you have very greatly and very cruelly added by sending a challenge to her husband, which hath very luckily fallen into her hands; for, had the man for whom you designed it received it, I am afraid you would not have seen me upon this occasion.”
“If I writ such a letter to Mr. Booth, sir,” said James, “you may be assured I did not expect this visit in answer to it.”
[Illustration: Dr. Harrison.]
“I do not think you did,” cries the doctor; “but you have great reason to thank Heaven for ordering this matter contrary to your expectations. I know not what trifle may have drawn this challenge from you, but, after what I have some reason to know of you, sir, I must plainly tell you that, if you had added to your guilt already committed against this man, that of having his blood upon your hands, your soul would have become as black as hell itself.”
“Give me leave to say,” cries the colonel, “this is a language which I am not used to hear; and if your cloth was not your protection you should not give it me with impunity. After what you know of me, sir! What do you presume to know of me to my disadvantage?”
“You say my cloth is my protection, colonel,” answered the doctor; “therefore pray lay aside your anger: I do not come with any design of affronting or offending you.”
“Very well,” cries Bath; “that declaration is sufficient from a clergyman, let him say what he pleases.”
“Indeed, sir,” says the doctor very mildly, “I consult equally the good of you both, and, in a spiritual sense, more especially yours; for you know you have injured this poor man.”
“So far on the contrary,” cries James, “that I have been his greatest benefactor. I scorn to upbraid him, but you force me to it. Nor have I ever done him the least injury.”
“Perhaps not,” said the doctor; “I will alter what I have said. But for this I apply to your honour — Have you not intended him an injury, the very intention of which cancels every obligation?”
“How, sir?” answered the colonel; “what do you mean?”
“My meaning,” replied the doctor, “is almost too tender to mention. Come, colonel, examine your own heart, and then answer me, on your honour, if you have not intended to do him the highest wrong which one man can do another?”
“I do not know what you mean by the question,” answered the colonel.
“D — n me, the question is very transparent! “cries Bath.” From any other man it would be an affront with the strongest emphasis, but from one of the doctor’s cloth it demands a categorical answer.”
; “I am not a papist, sir,” answered Colonel James, “nor am I obliged to confess to my priest. But if you have anything to say speak openly, for I do not understand your meaning.”
“I have explained my meaning to you already,” said the doctor, “in a letter I wrote to you on the subject — a subject which I am sorry I should have any occasion to write upon to a Christian.”
“I do remember now,” cries the colonel, “that I received a very impertinent letter, something like a sermon, against adultery; but I did not expect to hear the author own it to my face.”
“That brave man then, sir,” answered the doctor, “stands before you who dares own he wrote that letter, and dares affirm too that it was writ on a just and strong foundation. But if the hardness of your heart could prevail on you to treat my good intention with contempt and scorn, what, pray, could induce you to shew it, nay, to give it Mr. Booth? What motive could you have for that, unless you meant to insult him, and provoke your rival to give you that opportunity of putting him out of the world, which you have since wickedly sought by your challenge?”
“I give him the letter!” said the colonel.
“Yes, sir,” answered the doctor, “he shewed me the letter, and affirmed that you gave it him at the masquerade.”
“He is a lying rascal, then!” said the colonel very passionately. “I scarce took the trouble of reading the letter, and lost it out of my pocket.”
Here Bath interfered, and explained this affair in the manner in which it happened, and with which the reader is already acquainted. He concluded by great eulogiums on the performance, and declared it was one of the most enthusiastic (meaning, perhaps, ecclesiastic) letters that ever was written. “And d — n me,” says he, “if I do not respect the author with the utmost emphasis of thinking.”
The doctor now recollected what had passed with Booth, and perceived he had made a mistake of one colonel for another. This he presently acknowledged to Colonel James, and said that the mistake had been his, and not Booth’s.
Bath now collected all his gravity and dignity, as he called it, into his countenance, and, addressing himself to James, said, “And was that letter writ to you, brother? — I hope you never deserved any suspicion of this kind.”
“Brother,” cries James, “I am accountable to myself for my actions, and shall not render an account either to you or to that gentleman.”
“As to me, brother,” answered Bath, “you say right; but I think this gentleman may call you to an account; nay, I think it is his duty so to do. And let me tell you, brother, there is one much greater than he to whom you must give an account. Mrs. Booth is really a fine woman, a lady of most imperious and majestic presence. I have heard you often say that you liked her; and, if you have quarrelled with her husband upon this account, by all the dignity of man I think you ought to ask his pardon.”
“Indeed, brother,” cries James, “I can bear this no longer — you will make me angry presently.”
“Angry! brother James,” cries Bath; “angry! — I love you, brother, and have obligations to you. I will say no more, but I hope you know I do not fear making any man angry.”
James answered he knew it well; and then the doctor, apprehending that while he was stopping up one breach he should make another, presently interfered, and turned the discourse back to Booth. “You tell me, sir,” said he to James, “that my gown is my protection; let it then at least protect me where I have had no design in offending — where I have consulted your highest welfare, as in truth I did in writing this letter. And if you did not in the least deserve any such suspicion, still you have no cause for resentment. Caution against sin, even to the innocent, can never be unwholesome. But this I assure you, whatever anger you have to me, you can have none to poor Booth, who was entirely ignorant of my writing to you, and who, I am certain, never entertained the least suspicion of you; on the contrary, reveres you with the highest esteem, and love, and gratitude. Let me therefore reconcile all matters between you, and bring you together before he hath even heard of this challenge.”
“Brother,” cries Bath, “I hope I shall not make you angry — I lie when I say so; for I am indifferent to any man’s anger. Let me be an accessory to what the doctor hath said. I think I may be trusted with matters of this nature, and it is a little unkind that, if you intended to send a challenge, you did not make me the bearer. But, indeed, as to what appears to me, this matter may be very well made up; and, as Mr. Booth doth not know of the challenge, I don’t see why he ever should, any more than your giving him the lie just now; but that he shall never have from me, nor, I believe, from this gentleman; for, indeed, if he should, it would be incumbent upon him to cut your throat.”
“Lookee, doctor,” said James, “I do not deserve the unkind suspicion you just now threw out against me. I never thirsted after any man’s blood; and, as for what hath passed, since this discovery hath happened, I may, perhaps, not think it worth my while to trouble myself any more about it.”
The doctor was not contented with perhaps, he insisted on a firm promise, to be bound with the colonel’s honour. This at length he obtained, and then departed well satisfied.
In fact, the colonel was ashamed to avow the real cause of the quarrel to this good man, or, indeed, to his brother Bath, who would not only have condemned him equally with the doctor, but would possibly have quarrelled with him on his sister’s account, whom, as the reader must have observed, he loved above all things; and, in plain truth, though the colonel was a brave man, and dared to fight, yet he was altogether as willing to let it alone; and this made him now and then give a little way to the wrongheadedness of Colonel Bath, who, with all the other principles of honour and humanity, made no more of cutting the throat of a man upon any of his punctilios than a butcher doth of killing sheep.
CHAPTER V.
What passed at the bailiff’s house.
The doctor now set forwards to his friend Booth, and, as he past by the door of his attorney in the way, he called upon him and took him with him.
The meeting between him and Booth need not be expatiated on. The doctor was really angry, and, though he deferred his lecture to a more proper opportunity, yet, as he was no dissembler (indeed, he was incapable of any disguise), he could not put on a show of that heartiness with which he had formerly used to receive his friend.
Booth at last began himself in the following manner: “Doctor, I am really ashamed to see you; and, if you knew the confusion of my soul on this occasion, I am sure you would pity rather than upbraid me; and yet I can say with great sincerity I rejoice in this last instance of my shame, since I am like to reap the most solid advantage from it.” The doctor stared at this, and Booth thus proceeded: “Since I have been in this wretched place I have employed my time almost entirely in reading over a series of sermons which are contained in that book (meaning Dr Barrow’s works, which then lay on the table before him) in proof of the Christian religion; and so good an effect have they had upon me, that I shall, I believe, be the better man for them as long as I live. I have not a doubt (for I own I have had such) which remains now unsatisfied. If ever an angel might be thought to guide the pen of a writer, surely the pen of that great and good man had such an assistant.” The doctor readily concurred in the praises of Dr Barrow, and added, “You say you have had your doubts, young gentleman; indeed, I did not know that — and, pray, what were your doubts?” “Whatever they were, sir,” said Booth, “they are now satisfied, as I believe those of every impartial and sensible reader will be if he will, with due attention, read over these excellent sermons.” “Very well,” answered the doctor, “though I have conversed, I find, with a false brother hitherto, I am glad you are reconciled to truth at last, and I hope your future faith will have some influence on your future life.” “I need not tell you, sir,” replied Booth, “that will always be the case where faith is sincere, as I assure you mine is. Indeed, I never was a rash disbeliever; my chief doubt was founded on this — that, as men appeared to me to
act entirely from their passions, their actions could have neither merit nor demerit.” “A very worthy conclusion truly!” cries the doctor; “but if men act, as I believe they do, from their passions, it would be fair to conclude that religion to be true which applies immediately to the strongest of these passions, hope and fear; chusing rather to rely on its rewards and punishments than on that native beauty of virtue which some of the antient philosophers thought proper to recommend to their disciples. But we will defer this discourse till another opportunity; at present, as the devil hath thought proper to set you free, I will try if I can prevail on the bailiff to do the same.”
The doctor had really not so much money in town as Booth’s debt amounted to, and therefore, though he would otherwise very willingly have paid it, he was forced to give bail to the action. For which purpose, as the bailiff was a man of great form, he was obliged to get another person to be bound with him. This person, however, the attorney undertook to procure, and immediately set out in quest of him.
During his absence the bailiff came into the room, and, addressing himself to the doctor, said, “I think, sir, your name is Doctor Harrison?” The doctor immediately acknowledged his name. Indeed, the bailiff had seen it to a bail-bond before. “Why then, sir,” said the bailiff, “there is a man above in a dying condition that desires the favour of speaking to you; I believe he wants you to pray by him.”
The bailiff himself was not more ready to execute his office on all occasions for his fee than the doctor was to execute his for nothing. Without making any further enquiry therefore into the condition of the man, he immediately went up-stairs.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 227
