“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.”