The Adventures of Roderick Random
the time he knew my misfortunes he had entertained a detestation for
the author of them, which had of late been increased and inflamed to a
desire of revenge, by a piece of dishonourable conduct towards him—that
hearing of my melancholy situation, he had come with an intention of
offering his assistance and comfort, and was ready to espouse my
quarrel, and forthwith take vengeance on my seducer, provided I would
grant him one consideration, which, he hoped, I should see no reason to
refuse. Had all the artifice of hell been employed in composing a
persuasive, it could not have had a more instantaneous or favourable
effect than this discourse had upon me. I was transported with a
delirium of gloomy joy. The contract was made; he devoted himself to my
revenge, undertook to murder Lothario that very night, and to bring me
an account of his death before morning. Accordingly, about two of the
clock, he was introduced to my chamber, and assured me that my
perfidious lover was no more: that although he was not entitled to such
an honourable proceeding, he had fairly challenged him to the field,
where he upbraided him with his treachery towards me, for whom, he told
me, his sword was drawn, and after a few passes left him weltering in
his blood. I was so savaged by my wrongs, that I delighted in the
recital of this adventure, made him repeat the particulars and feasted
my eyes on the blood that remained on his clothes and sword. My
imagination was so engrossed by these ideas, that in my sleep I dreamed
Lothario appeared before me pale, mangled, and bloody, blamed my
rashness, protested his innocence, and pleaded his cause so
pathetically, that I was convinced of his fidelity, and waked in a fit
of horror and remorse. I dropped asleep again, and the same apparition
recurred to my fancy. In short, I passed the night in great misery, and
looked upon my avenger with such abhorrence, that in the morning,
perceiving my aversion, he insinuated there was still a possibility of
Lothario’s recovery: it was quite true he left him wounded on the
ground, but not quite dead, and perhaps his hurts might not be mortal.
At these words I started up, bade him fly for intelligence, and if he
could not bring me tidings of Lothario’s safety, at least consult his
own, and never return; for I was resolved to surrender myself to
justice, and declare all I knew of the affair, that, if possible I
might expiate my own guilt, by incurring the rigours of a sincere
repentance and ignominious death. He very coolly represented the
unreasonableness of my prejudice against him, who had done nothing but
what his love of me inspired, and honour justified: that now he had, at
the risk of his life, been subservient to my revenge, I was about to
discard him as an infamous agent, occasionally necessary; and that,
even if he should be so lucky as to bring news of Lothario’s safety, it
was probable my former resentment might revive, and I would upbraid him
with having failed in his undertaking. I assured him, that on the
contrary, he should be dearer to me than ever, as I then should be
convinced he acted more on the principles of a man of honour than on
those of a mercenary assassin, and scorned to take away the life of an
adversary, how inveterate soever, which fortune had put in his power.
“Well, then madam,” said he, “whatever may have happened, I shall find
it no difficult matter to acquit myself in point of honour;” and took
his leave in order to inquire into the consequences of his duel. I was
now more sensible than ever of the degrees of guilt and misery; all the
affliction I had suffered hitherto was owing to my own credulity and
weakness, and my conscience could only accuse me of venial crimes; but
now that I looked upon myself as a murderer, it is impossible to
express the terrors of my imagination, which was incessantly haunted by
the image of the deceased, and my bosom stung with the most exquisite
agonies, of which I saw no end. At length, Horatio (for so I shall call
my new friend) returned, and telling me I had nothing to fear,
delivered into my hands a billet containing these words.
“Madam,
“As I understand it is of consequence to your peace, I take this
liberty to inform you, that the wounds I received from Horatio are
not mortal. This satisfaction my humanity could not deny, even to a
person who has endeavoured to disturb the repose as well as the
life of
“Lothario.”
‘Being well acquainted with this hand, I had no reason to suspect an
imposition in this letter, which I read over and over with a transport
of joy, and caressed Horatio so much that he appeared the happiest man
alive. Thus was I won from despair by the menaces of a greater
misfortune than that which depressed me. Griefs are like usurpers,—the
most powerful deposes all the rest. But my raptures were not lasting:
that very letter which in a manner re-established my tranquillity, in a
little time banished my peace. His unjust reproaches, while they waked
my resentment, recalled my former happiness, and filled my soul with
rage and sorrow. Horatio, perceiving the situation of my mind,
endeavoured to divert my chagrin, by treating me with all the
amusements and entertainments of the town. I was gratified with every
indulgence I could desire; introduced into the company of women in my
own situation, by whom an uncommon deference was paid to me; and I
began to lose all remembrance of my former condition, when an accident
brought it back to my view with all its interesting circumstances.
Diverting myself one day with some newspapers, which I had not before
perused, the following advertisement attracted my attention:
‘“Whereas a young gentlewoman disappeared from her father’s house in
the county of —, about the end of September, on account (as is
supposed) of some uneasiness of mind, and has not been as yet heard of.
Whoever will give any information about her to Mr. — of Gray’s Inn,
shall be handsomely rewarded; or if she will return to the arms of her
disconsolate parent, she will be received with the utmost tenderness,
whatever reason she may have to think otherwise, and may be the means
of prolonging the life of a father already weighed down almost to the
grave with age and sorrow.”
‘This pathetic remonstrance had such an effect on me, that I was fully
resolved to return, like the prodigal son, and implore the forgiveness
of him who gave me life; but, alas! Upon inquiry, I found he had paid
his debt to nature a month before, lamenting my absence to his last
hour, having left his fortune to a stranger, as a mark of his
resentment of my unkind and undutiful behaviour. Penetrated with
remorse on this occasion, I sank into the most profound melancholy, and
considered myself as the immediate cause of his death. I lost all
relish for company; and, indeed, most of my acquaintances no sooner
perceived my change of temper, than they abandoned me. Horatio,
disgusted at my insensibility, or from some other cause, became colder
and colder every day, till at last he left me altogether, without
making any apology for his conduct, or securing me against the miseries
of want, as a man of honour ought to have done, considering the share
he had in my ruin; for I afterwards learned, that the quarrel between
Lothario and him was a story trumped up to rid the one of my
importunities, and give the other a recommendation to me, which, it
seems, he desired, upon seeing me at the house of my seducer. Reduced
to this extremity, I cursed my own simplicity, uttered horrid
imprecations against the treachery of Horatio; and, as I became every
day more and more familiarised to the loss of innocence, resolved to be
revenged on the sex in general, by practising their own arts upon
themselves. Nor was an opportunity long wanting: an old gentlewoman,
under pretence of sympathising, visited me, and after having condoled
me on my misfortunes, and professed a disinterested friendship, began
to display the art of her occupation, in encomiums on my beauty, and
invectives against the wretch who had forsaken me; insinuating withal,
that it would be my own fault if I did not still make my fortune by the
extraordinary qualifications with which nature had endowed me. I soon
understood her drift, and gave her such encouragement to explain
herself, that we came to an agreement immediately to divide whatever
profits might accrue from such gallants as she should introduce to my
acquaintance. The first stroke of my dissimulation was practised upon a
certain judge, to whom I was recommended by this matron as an innocent
creature just arrived from the country.’
CHAPTER XXIII
Miss Williams interrupted by a bailiff, who carries her to the
Marshalsea—I accompany her—prove she is not the person named in the
writ—the bailiff is fain to discharge her—we shift our lodging—her
story, and my reflections thereupon—progress of a common woman of the
town—resolves to quit that way of life
Her story was here interrupted by a rap at the door, which I no sooner
opened, than three or four terrible fellows rushed in, one of whom
accosted my fellow-lodger thus: “Madam, your servant—you must do me the
favour to come along with me, I have a writ against you.” While the
bailiff (for so he was) spoke thus, his followers surrounded the
prisoner, and began to handle her very roughly. This treatment incensed
me so much, that I snatched up the poker and would certainly have used
it in defence of the lady, without any regard to the strength and
number of her adversaries, had she not begged me, with a composure of
countenance for which I could not account, to use no violence on her
behalf, which could be of no service to her, but might be very
detrimental to myself. Then turning to the leader of this formidable
troop, she desired to see the writ, and having perused it, said with a
faltering voice, “I am not the person whose name is here mentioned,
arrest me at your peril.” “Ay, ay, madam,” replied the catchpole. “We
shall prove your identity. In the meantime, whither will you be pleased
to be carried, to my house, or to jail?” “If I must be confined,” said
she, “I would rather be in your house than in a common jail.” “Well,
well,” answered he, “if you have money enough in your pocket, you shall
be entertained like a princess.” But when she acquainted him with her
poverty, he swore he never gave credit, and ordered one of his
myrmidons to call a coach, to carry her to the Marshalsea at once.
While they waited for the convenience, she took me aside, and bade me
be under no concern on her account, for she knew how to extricate
herself from this difficulty very soon, and perhaps gain something by
the occasion. Although her discourse was a mystery to me, I was very
well pleased with her assurance; and when the coach came to the door, I
offered to accompany her to prison, to which proposal, after much
entreaty, she consented.
When we arrived at the gate of the Marshalsea, our conductor alighted,
and having demanded entrance, presented the writ to the turnkey, who no
sooner perceived the name of Elizabeth Cary than he cried, “Ah, ah: my
old acquaintance Bet! I’m glad to see thee with all my heart.” So
saying, he opened the coach door, and helped her to dismount; but when
he observed her face, he started back, saying, “Who have we got here?”
The bailiff, alarmed at this interrogation, cried with some emotion,
“Who should it be but the prisoner, Elizabeth Cary?” The turnkey
replied, “That Elizabeth Cary! I’ll be hanged if that’s Elizabeth Cary
more than my grandmother.” Here the lady thought fit to interpose, and
tell the catchpole, if he had taken her word for it at first, he might
have saved himself and her a great deal of trouble. “It may be so,”