"Come," says I, "I would have you take back the expressions you have used towards him. For I am sure no man merited them less."
"Never," says she.
"The lady is overwrought a little," says Mr. Fielding, coming gallantly if somewhat unwisely to my aid. "Is she not weary and distrest? Sir Thomas, were he not otherwise engaged, would be delighted to place a chamber at madam's disposal for the remainder of this evening. May I have the honour to do so in his name, for I am sure she is in a great need of repose?"
"I thank you, sir," says Cynthia coldly, "but I am surprised that you should presume to propose a service that you must know, after what hath passed, must be highly distasteful to me."
"You do the gentleman a great wrong," says I, with some heat. "And I am sure, madam, when you look at this matter more reasonably, you will be the first to acknowledge it. I thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart for this kind offer, also for those other services you have rendered to us; and I beg to accept it of you, sir, in the name of my wife, in the spirit in which it is given."
I thought that some such speech was no more than Mr. Fielding's due, but the effect of it was greatly marred by Cynthia's unreasonable conduct. Drawing herself up into all the majesty of her five feet nothing, she bowed to us both in an imperious manner.
"I wish you a good evening, Mr.——, I did not catch your name," says she. "You also, my lord, as you choose to remain."
Before we could reply, or any attempt could be made to detain her, she turned on her heel and swept forth of the room, straight out of the house into the black midnight. There was no other course open to me but to follow her. But ere I did so, I clasped Mr. Fielding warmly by the hand, again thanked him for his generous behaviour, and made some sort of an apology for that of Cynthia. He, good fellow, although evidently perturbed that he should have so distrest her, was yet very warm on his part too, and as I was going out, slipped the only guinea he had in the world into my hand. I protested strongly and refused to take it.
"My dear fellow," says he, "you are ill-advised to refuse it. I know what even that sum must mean to one in your condition, when the hand of every man is against you. To be sure by accepting it you will be a guinea better off than your benefactor. But at least I have a few friends left, however little I may merit them; and although it be ever my fate to have my character judged by those foibles that I am least willing to have it judged by."
Indeed he so insisted on my accepting this highly desirable guinea, that there was no other course than to take it, however reluctantly; for to have refused it might have seemed churlish. And Heaven knows that it is the last thing I would have risked after what had happened.