“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.”