Pity me, Jack, for pity’s sake; since, if thou dost not, nobody else
will: and yet never was there a man of my genius and lively temper that
wanted it more. We are apt to attribute to the devil every thing
happens to us, which we would not have happen: but here, being, (as
perhaps thou’lt say,) the devil myself, my plagues arise from an angel.
I suppose all mankind is to be plagued by its contrary.
She began with me like a true woman, [she in the fault, I to be
blamed,] the moment I entered the dining-room: not the least apology,
not the least excuse, for the uproar she had made, and the trouble she
had given me.
I come, said she, into thy detested presence, because I cannot help it.
But why am I to be imprisoned here?—Although to no purpose, I cannot
help——
Dearest Madam, interrupted I, give not way to so much violence. You
must know, that your detention is entirely owing to the desire I have
to make you all the amends that is in my power to make you. And this,
as well for your sake as my own. Surely there is still one way left to
repair the wrongs you have suffered——
Canst thou blot out the past week! Several weeks past, I should say;
ever since I have been with thee? Canst thou call back time?—If thou
canst——
Surely, Madam, again interrupting her, if I may be permitted to call
you legally mine, I might have but anticip——
Wretch, that thou art! Say not another word upon this subject. When
thou vowedst, when thou promisedst at Hampstead, I had begun to think
that I must be thine. If I had consented, at the request of those I
thought thy relations, this would have been a principal inducement,
that I could then have brought thee, what was most wanted, an unsullied
honour in dowry, to a wretch destitute of all honour; and could have
met the gratulations of a family to which thy life has been one
continued disgrace, with a consciousness of deserving their
gratulations. But thinkest thou, that I will give a harlot niece to thy
honourable uncle, and to thy real aunts; and a cousin to thy cousins
from a brothel? for such, in my opinion, is this detested house!—Then,
lifting up her clasped hands, ‘Great and good God of Heaven,’ said she,
‘give me patience to support myself under the weight of those
afflictions, which thou, for wise and good ends, though at present
impenetrable by me, hast permitted!’
Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to say to her, nor for
myself, I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace!—Abhorred of my soul! for
ever I renounce thee!—Seek thy fortunes wheresoever thou wilt!—only
now, that thou hast already ruined me!—
Ruined you, Madam—the world need not—I knew not what to say.
Ruined me in my own eyes; and that is the same to me as if all the
world knew it—hinder me not from going whither my mysterious destiny
shall lead me.
Why hesitate you, Sir? What right have you to stop me, as you lately
did; and to bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruised by your
violence? What right have you to detain me here?
I am cut to the heart, Madam, with invectives so violent. I am but too
sensible of the wrong I have done you, or I could not bear your
reproaches. The man who perpetrates a villany, and resolves to go on
with it, shows not the compunction I show. Yet, if you think yourself
in my power, I would caution you, Madam, not to make me desperate. For
you shall be mine, or my life shall be the forfeit! Nor is life worth
having without you!—
Be thine!—I be thine!—said the passionate beauty. O how lovely in her
violence!
Yes, Madam, be mine! I repeat you shall be mine! My very crime is your
glory. My love, my admiration of you is increased by what has
passed—and so it ought. I am willing, Madam, to court your returning
favour; but let me tell you, were the house beset by a thousand armed
men, resolved to take you from me, they should not effect their
purpose, while I had life.
I never, never will be your’s, said she, clasping her hands together,
and lifting up her eyes!—I never will be your’s!
We may yet see many happy years, Madam. All your friends may be
reconciled to you. The treaty for that purpose is in greater
forwardness than you imagine. You know better than to think the worse
of yourself for suffering what you could not help. Enjoin but the terms
I can make my peace with you upon, and I will instantly comply.
Never, never, repeated she, will I be your’s!
Only forgive me, my dearest life, this one time!—A virtue so
invincible! what further view can I have against you?—Have I attempted
any further outrage?—If you will be mine, your injuries will be
injuries done to myself. You have too well guessed at the unnatural
arts that have been used. But can a greater testimony be given of your
virtue?—And now I have only to hope, that although I cannot make you
complete amends, yet you will permit me to make you all the amends that
can possibly be made.
Hear me out, I beseech you, Madam; for she was going to speak with an
aspect unpacifiedly angry: the God, whom you serve, requires but
repentance and amendment. Imitate him, my dearest love, and bless me
with the means of reforming a course of life that begins to be hateful
to me. That was once your favourite point. Resume it, dearest creature,
in charity to a soul, as well as body, which once, as I flattered
myself, was more than indifferent to you, resume it. And let
to-morrow’s sun witness to our espousals.
I cannot judge thee, said she; but the GOD to whom thou so boldly
referrest can, and, assure thyself, He will. But, if compunction has
really taken hold of thee—if, indeed, thou art touched for thy
ungrateful baseness, and meanest any thing by this pleading the holy
example thou recommendest to my imitation; in this thy pretended
repentant moment, let me sift thee thoroughly, and by thy answer I
shall judge of the sincerity of thy pretended declarations.
Tell me, then, is there any reality in the treaty thou has pretended to
be on foot between my uncle and Capt. Tomlinson, and thyself?—Say, and
hesitate not, is there any truth in that story?—But, remember, if there
be not, and thou avowest that there is, what further condemnation
attends to thy averment, if it be as solemn as I require it to be!
This was a cursed thrust! What could I say!—Surely this merciless lady
is resolved to d—n me, thought I, and yet accuses me of a design
against her soul!—But was I not obliged to proceed as I had begun?
In short, I solemnly averred that there was!—How one crime, as the good
folks say, brings on another!
I added, that the Captain had been in town, and would have waited on
her, had she not been indisposed; that he went down much afflicted, as
well on her account, as on that of her uncle; though I had not
acquainted him either with the nature of her disorder, or the
ever-to-be-regretted occasion of it, having told him that it was a
violent fever; That he had twice since, by her uncle’s desire, sent up
to inquire after her health; and that I had already dispatched a man
and horse with a letter, to acquaint him, (and her uncle through him,)
with her recovery; making it my earnest request, that he would renew
his application to her uncle for the favour of his presence at the
private celebrations of our nuptials; and that I expected an answer, if
not this night, as to-morrow.
Let me ask thee next, said she, (thou knowest the opinion I have of the
women thou broughtest to me at Hampstead; and who have seduced me
hither to my ruin; let me ask thee,) If, really and truly, they were
Lady Betty Lawrance and thy cousin Montague?—What sayest thou—hesitate
not—what sayest thou to this question?
Astonishing, my dear, that you should suspect them!—But, knowing your
strange opinion of them, what can I say to be believed?
And is this the answer thou returnest me? Dost thou thus evade my
question? But let me know, for I am trying thy sincerity now, and all
shall judge of thy new professions by thy answer to this question; let
me know, I repeat, whether those women be really Lady Betty Lawrance
and thy cousin Montague?
Let me, my dearest love, be enabled to-morrow to call you lawfully
mine, and we will set out the next day, if you please, to Berkshire to
my Lord M.’s, where they both are at this time; and you shall convince
yourself by your own eyes, and by your own ears; which you will believe
sooner than all I can say or swear.
Now, Belford, I had really some apprehension of treachery from thee;
which made me so miserably evade; for else, I could as safely have
sworn to the truth of this, as to that of the former: but she pressing
me still for a categorical answer, I ventured plumb; and swore to it,
[lover’s oaths, Jack!] that they were really and truly Lady Betty
Lawrance and my cousin Montague.
She lifted up her hands and eyes—What can I think!—what can I think!
You think me a devil, Madam; a very devil! or you could not after you
have put these questions to me, seem to doubt the truth of answers so
solemnly sworn to.
And if I do think thee so, have I not cause? Is there another man in
the world, (I hope for the sake of human nature, there is not,) who
could act by any poor friendless creature as thou hast acted by me,
whom thou hast made friendless—and who, before I knew thee, had for a
friend every one who knew me?
I told you, Madam, before that Lady Betty and my cousin were actually
here, in order to take leave of you, before they set out for Berkshire:
but the effects of my ungrateful crime, (such, with shame and remorse,
I own it to be,) were the reason you could not see them. Nor could I be
fond that they should see you; since they never would have forgiven me,
had they known what had passed—and what reason had I to expect your
silence on the subject, had you been recovered?
It signifies nothing now, that the cause of their appearance has been
answered in my ruin, who or what they are: but if thou hast averred
thus solemnly to two falsehoods, what a wretch do I see before me!
I thought she had now reason to be satisfied; and I begged her to allow
me to talk to her of to-morrow, as of the happiest day of my life. We
have the license, Madam—and you must excuse me, that I cannot let you
go hence till I have tried every way I can to obtain your forgiveness.
And am I then, [with a kind of frantic wildness,] to be detained a
prisoner in this horrid house—am I, Sir?—Take care! take care! holding
up her hand, menacing, how you make me desperate! If I fall, though by
my own hand, inquisition will be made for my blood; and be not out in
thy plot, Lovelace, if it should be so—make sure work, I charge
thee—dig a hole deep enough to cram in and conceal this unhappy body;
for, depend upon it, that some of those who will not stir to protect me
living, will move heaven and earth to avenge me dead!
A horrid dear creature!—By my soul she made me shudder! She had need
indeed to talk of her unhappiness in falling into the hands of the only
man in the world, who could have used her as I have used her—she is the
only woman in the world, who could have shocked and disturbed me as she
has done. So we are upon a foot in that respect. And I think I have the
worst of it by much: since very little has been my joy—very much my
trouble. And her punishment, as she calls it, is over: but when mine
will, or what it may be, who can tell?
Here, only recapitulating, (think, then, how I must be affected at the
time,) I was forced to leave off, and sing a song to myself. I aimed at
a lively air; but I croaked rather than sung. And fell into the old
dismal thirtieth of January strain; I hemmed up for a sprightlier note;
but it would not do; and at last I ended, like a malefactor, in a dead
psalm melody.
Heigh-ho!—I gape like an unfledged kite in its nest, wanting to swallow
a chicken, bobbed at its mouth by its marauding dam!—
What a-devil ails me?—I can neither think nor write!
Lie down, pen, for a moment!