_ Chapter IX - A very tragic scene.
The clock had struck eleven, and Amelia was just proceeding to put her
children to bed, when she heard a knock at the street-door; upon which
the boy cried out, "There's papa, mamma; pray let me stay and see him
before I go to bed." This was a favour very easily obtained; for
Amelia instantly ran down-stairs, exulting in the goodness of her
husband for returning so soon, though half an hour was already elapsed
beyond the time in which he promised to return.
Poor Amelia was now again disappointed; for it was not her husband at
the door, but a servant with a letter for him, which he delivered into
her hands. She immediately returned up-stairs, and said--"It was not
your papa, my dear; but I hope it is one who hath brought us some good
news." For Booth had told her that he hourly expected to receive such
from the great man, and had desired her to open any letter which came
to him in his absence.
Amelia therefore broke open the letter, and read as follows:
"SIR,--After what hath passed between us, I need only tell you that I
know you supped this very night alone with Miss Matthews: a fact which
will upbraid you sufficiently, without putting me to that trouble, and
will very well account for my desiring the favour of seeing you to-
morrow in Hyde-park at six in the morning. You will forgive me
reminding you once more how inexcusable this behaviour is in you, who
are possessed in your own wife of the most inestimable jewel.
Yours, &c.
T. JAMES.
I shall bring pistols with me."
It is not easy to describe the agitation of Amelia's mind when she
read this letter. She threw herself into her chair, turned as pale as
death, began to tremble all over, and had just power enough left to
tap the bottle of wine, which she had hitherto preserved entire for
her husband, and to drink off a large bumper.
The little boy perceived the strange symptoms which appeared in his
mother; and running to her, he cried, "What's the matter, my dear
mamma? you don't look well!--No harm hath happened to poor papa, I
hope--Sure that bad man hath not carried him away again?"
Amelia answered, "No, child, nothing--nothing at all." And then a
large shower of tears came to her assistance, which presently after
produced the same in the eyes of both the children.
Amelia, after a short silence, looking tenderly at her children, cried
out, "It is too much, too much to bear. Why did I bring these little
wretches into the world? why were these innocents born to such a
fate?" She then threw her arms round them both (for they were before
embracing her knees), and cried, "O my children! my children! forgive
me, my babes! Forgive me that I have brought you into such a world as
this! You are undone--my children are undone!"
The little boy answered with great spirit, "How undone, mamma? my
sister and I don't care a farthing for being undone. Don't cry so upon
our accounts--we are both very well; indeed we are. But do pray tell
us. I am sure some accident hath happened to poor papa."
"Mention him no more," cries Amelia; "your papa is--indeed he is a
wicked man--he cares not for any of us. O Heavens! is this the
happiness I promised myself this evening?" At which words she fell
into an agony, holding both her children in her arms.
The maid of the house now entered the room, with a letter in her hand
which she had received from a porter, whose arrival the reader will
not wonder to have been unheard by Amelia in her present condition.
The maid, upon her entrance into the room, perceiving the situation of
Amelia, cried out, "Good Heavens! madam, what's the matter?" Upon
which Amelia, who had a little recovered herself after the last
violent vent of her passion, started up and cried, "Nothing, Mrs.
Susan--nothing extraordinary. I am subject to these fits sometimes;
but I am very well now. Come, my dear children, I am very well again;
indeed I am. You must now go to bed; Mrs. Susan will be so good as to
put you to bed."
"But why doth not papa love us?" cries the little boy. "I am sure we
have none of us done anything to disoblige him."
This innocent question of the child so stung Amelia that she had the
utmost difficulty to prevent a relapse. However, she took another dram
of wine; for so it might be called to her, who was the most temperate
of women, and never exceeded three glasses on any occasion. In this
glass she drank her children's health, and soon after so well soothed
and composed them that they went quietly away with Mrs. Susan.
The maid, in the shock she had conceived at the melancholy, indeed
frightful scene, which had presented itself to her at her first coming
into the room, had quite forgot the letter which she held in her hand.
However, just at her departure she recollected it, and delivered it to
Amelia, who was no sooner alone than she opened it, and read as
follows:
"MY DEAREST, SWEETEST LOVE,--I write this from the bailiff's house
where I was formerly, and to which I am again brought at the suit of
that villain Trent. I have the misfortune to think I owe this accident
(I mean that it happened to-night) to my own folly in endeavouring to
keep a secret from you. O my dear! had I had resolution to confess my
crime to you, your forgiveness would, I am convinced, have cost me
only a few blushes, and I had now been happy in your arms. Fool that I
was, to leave you on such an account, and to add to a former
transgression a new one!--Yet, by Heavens! I mean not a transgression
of the like kind; for of that I am not nor ever will be guilty; and
when you know the true reason of my leaving you to-night I think you
will pity rather than upbraid me. I am sure you would if you knew the
compunction with which I left you to go to the most worthless, the
most infamous. Do guess the rest--guess that crime with which I cannot
stain my paper--but still believe me no more guilty than I am, or, if
it will lessen your vexation at what hath befallen me, believe me as
guilty as you please, and think me, for a while at least, as
undeserving of you as I think myself. This paper and pen are so bad, I
question whether you can read what I write: I almost doubt whether I
wish you should. Yet this I will endeavour to make as legible as I
can. Be comforted, my dear love, and still keep up your spirits with
the hopes of better days. The doctor will be in town to-morrow, and I
trust on his goodness for my delivery once more from this place, and
that I shall soon be able to repay him. That Heaven may bless and
preserve you is the prayer of, my dearest love,
Your ever fond, affectionate,
and hereafter, faithful husband,
W. BOOTH."
Amelia pretty well guessed the obscure meaning of this letter, which,
though at another time it might have given her unspeakable torment,
was at present rather of the medicinal kind, and served to allay her
anguish. Her anger to Booth too began a little to abate, and was
softened by her concern for his misfortune. Upon the whole, however,
she passed a miserable and sleepless night, her gentle mind torn and
distracted with various and contending passions, distressed with
doubts, and wandering in a kind of twilight which presented her only
objects of different degrees of horror, and where black despair closed
at a small distance the gloomy prospect. _