_ Chapter VI - A scene of the tragic kind.
He had not been long gone before a thundering knock was heard at the
door of the house where Amelia lodged, and presently after a figure
all pale, ghastly, and almost breathless, rushed into the room where
she then was with her children.
This figure Amelia soon recognised to be Mrs. Atkinson, though indeed
she was so disguised that at her first entrance Amelia scarce knew
her. Her eyes were sunk in her head, her hair dishevelled, and not
only her dress but every feature in her face was in the utmost
disorder.
Amelia was greatly shocked at this sight, and the little girl was much
frightened; as for the boy, he immediately knew her, and, running to
Amelia, he cried, "La! mamma, what is the matter with poor Mrs.
Atkinson?"
As soon as Mrs. Atkinson recovered her breath she cried out, "O, Mrs.
Booth! I am the most miserable of women--I have lost the best of
husbands."
Amelia, looking at her with all the tenderness imaginable, forgetting,
I believe, that there had ever been any quarrel between them, said--
"Good Heavens, madam, what's the matter?"
"O, Mrs. Booth!" answered she, "I fear I have lost my husband: the
doctor says there is but little hope of his life. O, madam! however I
have been in the wrong, I am sure you will forgive me and pity me. I
am sure I am severely punished; for to that cursed affair I owe all my
misery."
"Indeed, madam," cries Amelia, "I am extremely concerned for your
misfortune. But pray tell me, hath anything happened to the serjeant?"
"O, madam!" cries she, "I have the greatest reason to fear I shall
lose him. The doctor hath almost given him over--he says he hath
scarce any hopes. O, madam! that evening that the fatal quarrel
happened between us my dear captain took it so to heart that he sat up
all night and drank a whole bottle of brandy. Indeed, he said he
wished to kill himself; for nothing could have hurt him so much in the
world, he said, as to have any quarrel between you and me. His
concern, and what he drank together, threw him into a high fever. So
that, when I came home from my lord's--(for indeed, madam, I have
been, and set all to rights--your reputation is now in no danger)--
when I came home, I say, I found the poor man in a raving delirious
fit, and in that he hath continued ever since till about an hour ago,
when he came perfectly to his senses; but now he says he is sure he
shall die, and begs for Heaven's sake to see you first. Would you,
madam, would you have the goodness to grant my poor captain's desire?
consider he is a dying man, and neither he nor I shall ever ask you a
second favour. He says he hath something to say to you that he can
mention to no other person, and that he cannot die in peace unless he
sees you."
"Upon my word, madam," cries Amelia, "I am extremely concerned at what
you tell me. I knew the poor serjeant from his infancy, and always had
an affection for him, as I think him to be one of the best-natured and
honestest creatures upon earth. I am sure if I could do him any
service--but of what use can my going be?"
"Of the highest in the world," answered Mrs. Atkinson. "If you knew
how earnestly he entreated it, how his poor breaking heart begged to
see you, you would not refuse."
"Nay, I do not absolutely refuse," cries Amelia. "Something to say to
me of consequence, and that he could not die in peace unless he said
it! did he say that, Mrs. Atkinson?"
"Upon my honour he did," answered she, "and much more than I have
related."
"Well, I will go with you," cries Amelia. "I cannot guess what this
should be; but I will go."
Mrs. Atkinson then poured out a thousand blessings and thanksgivings;
and, taking hold of Amelia's hand, and eagerly kissing it, cried out,
"How could that fury passion drive me to quarrel with such a
creature?"
Amelia told her she had forgiven and forgot it; and then, calling up
the mistress of the house, and committing to her the care of the
children, she cloaked herself up as well as she could and set out with
Mrs. Atkinson.
When they arrived at the house, Mrs. Atkinson said she would go first
and give the captain some notice; for that, if Amelia entered the room
unexpectedly, the surprize might have an ill effect. She left
therefore Amelia in the parlour, and proceeded directly upstairs.
Poor Atkinson, weak and bad as was his condition, no sooner heard that
Amelia was come than he discovered great joy in his countenance, and
presently afterwards she was introduced to him.
Atkinson exerted his utmost strength to thank her for this goodness to
a dying man (for so he called himself). He said he should not have
presumed to give her this trouble, had he not had something which he
thought of consequence to say to her, and which he could not mention
to any other person. He then desired his wife to give him a little
box, of which he always kept the key himself, and afterwards begged
her to leave the room for a few minutes; at which neither she nor
Amelia expressed any dissatisfaction.
When he was alone with Amelia, he spoke as follows: "This, madam, is
the last time my eyes will ever behold what--do pardon me, madam, I
will never offend you more." Here he sunk down in his bed, and the
tears gushed from his eyes.
"Why should you fear to offend me, Joe?" said Amelia. "I am sure you
never did anything willingly to offend me."
"No, madam," answered he, "I would die a thousand times before I would
have ventured it in the smallest matter. But--I cannot speak--and yet
I must. You cannot pardon me, and yet, perhaps, as I am a dying man,
and never shall see you more--indeed, if I was to live after this
discovery, I should never dare to look you in the face again; and yet,
madam, to think I shall never see you more is worse than ten thousand
deaths."
"Indeed, Mr. Atkinson," cries Amelia, blushing, and looking down on
the floor, "I must not hear you talk in this manner. If you have
anything to say, tell it me, and do not be afraid of my anger; for I
think I may promise to forgive whatever it was possible you should
do."
"Here then, madam," said he, "is your picture; I stole it when I was
eighteen years of age, and have kept it ever since. It is set in gold,
with three little diamonds; and yet I can truly say it was not the
gold nor the diamonds which I stole--it was the face, which, if I had
been the emperor of the world--"
"I must not hear any more of this," said she. "Comfort yourself, Joe,
and think no more of this matter. Be assured, I freely and heartily
forgive you--But pray compose yourself; come, let me call in your
wife."
"First, madam, let me beg one favour," cried he: "consider it is the
last, and then I shall die in peace--let me kiss that hand before I
die."
"Well, nay," says she, "I don't know what I am doing--well--there."
She then carelessly gave him her hand, which he put gently to his
lips, and then presently let it drop, and fell back in the bed.
Amelia now summoned Mrs. Atkinson, who was indeed no further off than
just without the door. She then hastened down-stairs, and called for a
great glass of water, which having drank off, she threw herself into a
chair, and the tears ran plentifully from her eyes with compassion for
the poor wretch she had just left in his bed.
To say the truth, without any injury to her chastity, that heart,
which had stood firm as a rock to all the attacks of title and
equipage, of finery and flattery, and which all the treasures of the
universe could not have purchased, was yet a little softened by the
plain, honest, modest, involuntary, delicate, heroic passion of this
poor and humble swain; for whom, in spite of herself, she felt a
momentary tenderness and complacence, at which Booth, if he had known
it, would perhaps have been displeased.
Having staid some time in the parlour, and not finding Mrs. Atkinson
come down (for indeed her husband was then so bad she could not quit
him), Amelia left a message with the maid of the house for her
mistress, purporting that she should be ready to do anything in her
power to serve her, and then left the house with a confusion on her
mind that she had never felt before, and which any chastity that is
not hewn out of marble must feel on so tender and delicate an
occasion. _