Debt, Imprisonment for -- Fiction; London (England) -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
"Jane Gambit, sir," she replied, "at your service, and the wife of
Samuel Gambit, foreman of works. And my charge is not to leave Miss
Kitty until she is safe in your reverence's hands. There are the hands,
to be sure; but as for safety----"
She paused, and sniffed violently, looking round the room with a
meaning air.
"Why, woman, you would not think the child in danger with me?"
"I know not, sir. But Miss Kitty has been brought up among gentlefolk,
and the room is not one to which she has been accustomed to live in, or
to eat in, or to sleep in, either at the Vicarage or the Hall. Tobacco
and the smell of rum may be very well--in their place, which, I humbly
submit, is in a tavern, not a gentlewoman's parlour."
"The woman speaks reason," he growled, laying his great hand upon the
table. "See, my dear, my brother-in-law thought me holding a rich
benefice in the Church. Those get rich benefices who have rich friends
and patrons. I had none; therefore I hold no benefice. And as for my
residence, why, truly, I have little choice except between this place
and the Fleet Prison, or perhaps the King's Bench. Else might I welcome
thee in a better and more convenient lodging. Know, therefore, Kitty,
without any concealment, that I live here secluded in the Liberties of
the Fleet in order that my creditors, of whom I have as many as most
men and more importunate, may no longer molest me when I take my walks
abroad; that I am in this place outside the authority of the bishop;
and that my occupation is to marry, with all safety and despatch
without license, or asking of banns, or any of the usual delays, those
good people who wish to be married secretly and quickly, and can
afford at least one guinea fee for the ceremony."
I stared in amazement. To be sure, every clergyman can marry, but for a
clergyman to do naught else seemed strange indeed.
He saw my amazement; and, drawing his tall and burly figure upright,
he began to deliver an oration--I call it an oration, because he so
puffed his cheeks, rolled his sentences, and swelled himself out while
he spoke, that it was more like a sermon or oration than a mere speech.
In it he seemed to be trying at once to justify himself in my eyes, to
assert his own self-respect, and to magnify his office.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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