Amelia — Complete

Chapter iii. — Consequences of the masquerade, not uncommon nor surprizing.

The lady, getting first out of her chair, ran hastily up into the nursery to the children; for such was Amelia’s constant method at her return home, at whatever hour. Booth then walked into the dining-room, where he had not been long before Amelia came down to him, and, with a most chearful countenance, said, “My dear, I fancy we have neither of us supped; shall I go down and see whether there is any cold meat in the house?”

“For yourself, if you please,” answered Booth; “but I shall eat nothing.”

“How, my dear!” said Amelia; “I hope you have not lost your appetite at the masquerade!” for supper was a meal at which he generally eat very heartily.

“I know not well what I have lost,” said Booth; “I find myself disordered.—My head aches. I know not what is the matter with me.”

“Indeed, my dear, you frighten me,” said Amelia; “you look, indeed, disordered. I wish the masquerade had been far enough before you had gone thither.”

“Would to Heaven it had!” cries Booth; “but that is over now. But pray, Amelia, answer me one question—Who was that gentleman with you when I came up to you?”

“The gentleman! my dear,” said Amelia; “what gentleman?”

“The gentleman—the nobleman—when I came up; sure I speak plain.”

“Upon my word, my dear, I don’t understand you,” answered she; “I did not know one person at the masquerade.”

“How!” said he; “what! spend the whole evening with a masque without knowing him?”

“Why, my dear,” said she, “you know we were not together.”

“I know we were not,” said he, “but what is that to the purpose? Sure you answer me strangely. I know we were not together; and therefore I ask you whom you were with?”

“Nay, but, my dear,” said she, “can I tell people in masques?”

“I say again, madam,” said he, “would you converse two hours or more with a masque whom you did not know?”

“Indeed, child,” says she, “I know nothing of the methods of a masquerade; for I never was at one in my life.”

“I wish to Heaven you had not been at this!” cries Booth. “Nay, you will wish so yourself if you tell me truth.—What have I said? do I—can I suspect you of not speaking truth? Since you are ignorant then I will inform you: the man you have conversed with was no other than Lord——.”

“And is that the reason,” said she, “you wish I had not been there?”

“And is not that reason,” answered he, “sufficient? Is he not the last man upon earth with whom I would have you converse?”

“So you really wish then that I had not been at the masquerade?”

“I do,” cried he, “from my soul.”

“So may I ever be able,” cried she, “to indulge you in every wish as in this.—I was not there.”

“Do not trifle, Amelia,” cried he; “you would not jest with me if you knew the situation of my mind.”

“Indeed I do not jest with you,” said she. “Upon my honour I was not there. Forgive me this first deceit I ever practised, and indeed it shall be the last; for I have paid severely for this by the uneasiness it hath given me.” She then revealed to him the whole secret, which was thus:

I think it hath been already mentioned in some part of this history that Amelia and Mrs. Atkinson were exactly of the same make and stature, and that there was likewise a very near resemblance between their voices. When Mrs. Atkinson, therefore, found that Amelia was so extremely averse to the masquerade, she proposed to go thither in her stead, and to pass upon Booth for his own wife.

This was afterwards very easily executed; for, when they left Booth’s lodgings, Amelia, who went last to her chair, ran back to fetch her masque, as she pretended, which she had purposely left behind. She then whipt off her domino, and threw it over Mrs. Atkinson, who stood ready to receive it, and ran immediately downstairs, and, stepping into Amelia’s chair, proceeded with the rest to the masquerade.

As her stature exactly suited that of Amelia, she had very little difficulty to carry on the imposition; for, besides the natural resemblance of their voices, and the opportunity of speaking in a feigned one, she had scarce an intercourse of six words with Booth during the whole time; for the moment they got into the croud she took the first opportunity of slipping from him. And he, as the reader may remember, being seized by other women, and concluding his wife to be safe with Mrs. James, was very well satisfied, till the colonel set him upon the search, as we have seen before.

Mrs. Atkinson, the moment she came home, ran upstairs to the nursery, where she found Amelia, and told her in haste that she might very easily carry on the deceit with her husband; for that she might tell him what she pleased to invent, as they had not been a minute together during the whole evening.

Booth was no sooner satisfied that his wife had not been from home that evening than he fell into raptures with her, gave her a thousand tender caresses, blamed his own judgment, acknowledged the goodness of hers, and vowed never to oppose her will more in any one instance during his life.

Mrs. Atkinson, who was still in the nursery with her masquerade dress, was then summoned down-stairs, and, when Booth saw her and heard her speak in her mimic tone, he declared he was not surprized at his having been imposed upon, for that, if they were both in the same disguise, he should scarce be able to discover the difference between them.

They then sat down to half an hour’s chearful conversation, after which they retired all in the most perfect good humour.

Chapter iv. — Consequences of the masquerade.

When Booth rose in the morning he found in his pocket that letter which had been delivered to him by Colonel Bath, which, had not chance brought to his remembrance, he might possibly have never recollected.

He had now, however, the curiosity to open the letter, and beginning to read it, the matter of it drew him on till he perused the whole; for, notwithstanding the contempt cast upon it by those learned critics the bucks, neither the subject nor the manner in which it was treated was altogether contemptible.

But there was still another motive which induced Booth to read the whole letter, and this was, that he presently thought he knew the hand. He did, indeed, immediately conclude it was Dr Harrison; for the doctor wrote a very remarkable one, and this letter contained all the particularities of the doctor’s character.

He had just finished a second reading of this letter when the doctor himself entered the room. The good man was impatient to know the success of Amelia’s stratagem, for he bore towards her all that love which esteem can create in a good mind, without the assistance of those selfish considerations from which the love of wives and children may be ordinarily deduced. The latter of which, Nature, by very subtle and refined reasoning, suggests to us to be part of our dear selves; and the former, as long as they remain the objects of our liking, that same Nature is furnished with very plain and fertile arguments to recommend to our affections. But to raise that affection in the human breast which the doctor had for Amelia, Nature is forced to use a kind of logic which is no more understood by a bad man than Sir Isaac Newton’s doctrine of colours is by one born blind. And yet in reality it contains nothing more abstruse than this, that an injury is the object of anger, danger of fear, and praise of vanity; for in the same simple manner it may be asserted that goodness is the object of love.

The doctor enquired immediately for his child (for so he often called Amelia); Booth answered that he had left her asleep, for that she had had but a restless night. “I hope she is not disordered by the masquerade,” cries the doctor. Booth answered he believed she would be very well when she waked. “I fancy,” said he, “her gentle spirits were a little too much fluttered last night; that is all.”

“I hope, then,” said the doctor, “you will never more insist on her going to such places, but know your own happiness in having a wife that hath the discretion to avoid those places; which, though perhaps they may not be as some represent them, such brothels of vice and debauchery as would impeach the character of every virtuous woman who was seen at them, are certainly, however, scenes of riot, disorder, and intemperance, very improper to be frequented by a chaste and sober Christian matron.”

Booth declared that he was very sensible of his error, and that, so far from soliciting his wife to go to another masquerade, he did not intend ever to go thither any more himself.

The doctor highly approved the resolution; and then Booth said, “And I thank you, my dear friend, as well as my wife’s discretion, that she was not at the masquerade last night.” He then related to the doctor the discovery of the plot; and the good man was greatly pleased with the success of the stratagem, and that Booth took it in such good part.

“But, sir,” says Booth, “I had a letter given me by a noble colonel there, which is written in a hand so very like yours, that I could almost swear to it. Nor is the stile, as far as I can guess, unlike your own. Here it is, sir. Do you own the letter, doctor, or do you not?”

The doctor took the letter, and, having looked at it a moment, said, “And did the colonel himself give you this letter?”

“The colonel himself,” answered Booth.

“Why then,” cries the doctor, “he is surely the most impudent fellow that the world ever produced. What! did he deliver it with an air of triumph?”

“He delivered it me with air enough,” cries Booth, “after his own manner, and bid me read it for my edification. To say the truth, I am a little surprized that he should single me out of all mankind to deliver the letter to; I do not think I deserve the character of such a husband. It is well I am not so very forward to take an affront as some folks.”

“I am glad to see you are not,” said the doctor; “and your behaviour in this affair becomes both the man of sense and the Christian; for it would be surely the greatest folly, as well as the most daring impiety, to risque your own life for the impertinence of a fool. As long as you are assured of the virtue of your own wife, it is wisdom in you to despise the efforts of such a wretch. Not, indeed, that your wife accuses him of any downright attack, though she hath observed enough in his behaviour to give offence to her delicacy.”

“You astonish me, doctor,” said Booth. “What can you mean? my wife dislike his behaviour! hath the colonel ever offended her?”

“I do not say he hath ever offended her by any open declarations; nor hath he done anything which, according to the most romantic notion of honour, you can or ought to resent; but there is something extremely nice in the chastity of a truly virtuous woman.”

“And hath my wife really complained of anything of that kind in the colonel?”

“Look ye, young gentleman,” cries the doctor; “I will have no quarrelling or challenging; I find I have made some mistake, and therefore I insist upon it by all the rights of friendship, that you give me your word of honour you will not quarrel with the colonel on this account.”

“I do, with all my heart,” said Booth; “for, if I did not know your character, I should absolutely think you was jesting with me. I do not think you have mistaken my wife, but I am sure she hath mistaken the colonel, and hath misconstrued some over-strained point of gallantry, something of the Quixote kind, into a design against her chastity; but I have that opinion of the colonel, that I hope you will not be offended when I declare I know not which of you two I should be the sooner jealous of.”

“I would by no means have you jealous of any one,” cries the doctor; “for I think my child’s virtue may be firmly relied on; but I am convinced she would not have said what she did to me without a cause; nor should I, without such a conviction, have written that letter to the colonel, as I own to you I did. However, nothing I say hath yet past which, even in the opinion of false honour, you are at liberty to resent! but as to declining any great intimacy, if you will take my advice, I think that would be prudent.”

“You will pardon me, my dearest friend,” said Booth, “but I have really such an opinion of the colonel that I would pawn my life upon his honour; and as for women, I do not believe he ever had an attachment to any.”

“Be it so,” said the doctor: “I have only two things to insist on. The first is, that, if ever you change your opinion, this letter may not be the subject of any quarrelling or fighting: the other is, that you never mention a word of this to your wife. By the latter I shall see whether you can keep a secret; and, if it is no otherwise material, it will be a wholesome exercise to your mind; for the practice of any virtue is a kind of mental exercise, and serves to maintain the health and vigour of the soul.”

“I faithfully promise both,” cries Booth. And now the breakfast entered the room, as did soon after Amelia and Mrs. Atkinson.

The conversation ran chiefly on the masquerade; and Mrs. Atkinson gave an account of several adventures there; but whether she told the whole truth with regard to herself I will not determine, for, certain it is, she never once mentioned the name of the noble peer. Amongst the rest, she said there was a young fellow that had preached a sermon there upon a stool, in praise of adultery, she believed; for she could not get near enough to hear the particulars.

During that transaction Booth had been engaged with the blue domino in another room, so that he knew nothing of it; so that what Mrs. Atkinson had now said only brought to his mind the doctor’s letter to Colonel Bath, for to him he supposed it was written; and the idea of the colonel being a lover to Amelia struck him in so ridiculous a light, that it threw him into a violent fit of laughter.

The doctor, who, from the natural jealousy of an author, imputed the agitation of Booth’s muscles to his own sermon or letter on that subject, was a little offended, and said gravely, “I should be glad to know the reason of this immoderate mirth. Is adultery a matter of jest in your opinion?”

“Far otherwise,” answered Booth. “But how is it possible to refrain from laughter at the idea of a fellow preaching a sermon in favour of it at such a place?”

“I am very sorry,” cries the doctor, “to find the age is grown to so scandalous a degree of licentiousness, that we have thrown off not only virtue, but decency. How abandoned must be the manners of any nation where such insults upon religion and morality can be committed with impunity! No man is fonder of true wit and humour than myself; but to profane sacred things with jest and scoffing is a sure sign of a weak and a wicked mind. It is the very vice which Homer attacks in the odious character of Thersites. The ladies must excuse my repeating the passage to you, as I know you have Greek enough to understand it:—

And immediately adds,

{Footnote: “He was the greatest scoundrel in the whole army."}

“Horace, again, describes such a rascal:

{Footnote: “Who trivial bursts of laughter strives to raise, And courts of prating petulance the praise.”—FRANCIS.}

{Footnote: “This man is black; do thou, O Roman! shun this man."}

“O charming Homer!” said Mrs. Atkinson, “how much above all other writers!”

“I ask your pardon, madam,” said the doctor; “I forgot you was a scholar; but, indeed, I did not know you understood Greek as well as Latin.”

“I do not pretend,” said she, “to be a critic in the Greek; but I think I am able to read a little of Homer, at least with the help of looking now and then into the Latin.”

“Pray, madam,” said the doctor, “how do you like this passage in the speech of Hector to Andromache:

{Footnote: “Go home and mind your own business. Follow your spinning, and keep your maids to their work."}

“Or how do you like the character of Hippodamia, who, by being the prettiest girl and best workwoman of her age, got one of the best husbands in all Troy?—I think, indeed, Homer enumerates her discretion with her other qualifications; but I do not remember he gives us one character of a woman of learning.—Don’t you conceive this to be a great omission in that who, by being the prettiest girl and best workwoman of her age, got one of the best husbands in all Troy?—-I think, indeed, Homer enumerates her discretion with her other qualifications; but I do not remember Don’t you conceive this to be a great omission in that charming poet? However, Juvenal makes you amends, for he talks very abundantly of the learning of the Roman ladies in his time.”

“You are a provoking man, doctor,” said Mrs. Atkinson; “where is the harm in a woman’s having learning as well as a man?”

“Let me ask you another question,” said the doctor. “Where is the harm in a man’s being a fine performer with a needle as well as a woman? And yet, answer me honestly; would you greatly chuse to marry a man with a thimble upon his finger? Would you in earnest think a needle became the hand of your husband as well as a halberd?”

“As to war, I am with you,” said she. “Homer himself, I well remember, makes Hector tell his wife that warlike works—what is the Greek word—Pollemy—something—belonged to men only; and I readily agree to it. I hate a masculine woman, an Amazon, as much as you can do; but what is there masculine in learning?”

“Nothing so masculine, take my word for it. As for your Pollemy, I look upon it to be the true characteristic of a devil. So Homer everywhere characterizes Mars.”

“Indeed, my dear,” cries the serjeant, “you had better not dispute with the doctor; for, upon my word, he will be too hard for you.”

“Nay, I beg you will not interfere,” cries Mrs. Atkinson; “I am sure you can be no judge in these matters.”

At which the doctor and Booth burst into a loud laugh; and Amelia, though fearful of giving her friend offence, could not forbear a gentle smile.

“You may laugh, gentlemen, if you please,” said Mrs. Atkinson; “but I thank Heaven I have married a man who is not jealous of my understanding. I should have been the most miserable woman upon earth with a starched pedant who was possessed of that nonsensical opinion that the difference of sexes causes any difference in the mind. Why don’t you honestly avow the Turkish notion that women have no souls? for you say the same thing in effect.”

“Indeed, my dear,” cries the serjeant, greatly concerned to see his wife so angry, “you have mistaken the doctor.”

“I beg, my dear,” cried she, “you will say nothing upon these subjects—I hope you at least do not despise my understanding.”

“I assure you, I do not,” said the serjeant; “and I hope you will never despise mine; for a man may have some understanding, I hope, without learning.”

Mrs. Atkinson reddened extremely at these words; and the doctor, fearing he had gone too far, began to soften matters, in which Amelia assisted him. By these means, the storm rising in Mrs. Atkinson before was in some measure laid, at least suspended from bursting at present; but it fell afterwards upon the poor serjeant’s head in a torrent, who had learned perhaps one maxim from his trade, that a cannon-ball always doth mischief in proportion to the resistance it meets with, and that nothing so effectually deadens its force as a woolpack. The serjeant therefore bore all with patience; and the idea of a woolpack, perhaps, bringing that of a feather-bed into his head, he at last not only quieted his wife, but she cried out with great sincerity, “Well, my dear, I will say one thing for you, that I believe from my soul, though you have no learning, you have the best understanding of any man upon earth; and I must own I think the latter far the more profitable of the two.”

Far different was the idea she entertained of the doctor, whom, from this day, she considered as a conceited pedant; nor could all Amelia’s endeavours ever alter her sentiments.

The doctor now took his leave of Booth and his wife for a week, he intending to set out within an hour or two with his old friend, with whom our readers were a little acquainted at the latter end of the ninth book, and of whom, perhaps, they did not then conceive the most favourable opinion.

Nay, I am aware that the esteem which some readers before had for the doctor may be here lessened; since he may appear to have been too easy a dupe to the gross flattery of the old gentleman. If there be any such critics, we are heartily sorry, as well for them as for the doctor; but it is our business to discharge the part of a faithful historian, and to describe human nature as it is, not as we would wish it to be.

Chapter v. — In which Colonel Bath appears in great glory.

That afternoon, as Booth was walking in the Park, he met with Colonel Bath, who presently asked him for the letter which he had given him the night before; upon which Booth immediately returned it.

“Don’t you think,” cries Bath, “it is writ with great dignity of expression and emphasis of—of—of judgment?”

“I am surprized, though,” cries Booth, “that any one should write such a letter to you, colonel.”

“To me!” said Bath. “What do you mean, sir? I hope you don’t imagine any man durst write such a letter to me? d—n me, if I knew a man who thought me capable of debauching my friend’s wife, I would—d—n me.”

“I believe, indeed, sir,” cries Booth, “that no man living dares put his name to such a letter; but you see it is anonymous.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ominous,” cries the colonel; “but, blast my reputation, if I had received such a letter, if I would not have searched the world to have found the writer. D—n me, I would have gone to the East Indies to have pulled off his nose.”

“He would, indeed, have deserved it,” cries Booth. “But pray, sir, how came you by it?”

“I took it,” said the colonel, “from a sett of idle young rascals, one of whom was reading it out aloud upon a stool, while the rest were attempting to make a jest, not only of the letter, but of all decency, virtue, and religion. A sett of fellows that you must have seen or heard of about the town, that are, d—n me, a disgrace to the dignity of manhood; puppies that mistake noise and impudence, rudeness and profaneness, for wit. If the drummers of my company had not more understanding than twenty such fellows, I’d have them both whipt out of the regiment.”

“So, then, you do not know the person to whom it was writ?” said Booth.

“Lieutenant,” cries the colonel, “your question deserves no answer. I ought to take time to consider whether I ought not to resent the supposition. Do you think, sir, I am acquainted with a rascal?”

“I do not suppose, colonel,” cries Booth, “that you would willingly cultivate an intimacy with such a person; but a man must have good luck who hath any acquaintance if there are not some rascals among them.”

“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!

“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:—

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 kind 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.

Thus the husband and wife became again reconciled, and poor Amelia generously forgave a passion of which the sagacious reader is better acquainted with the real cause than was that unhappy lady.