Disappointed in her meditated escape; obliged, against her will, to
meet me in the dining-room; and perhaps apprehensive of being upbraided
for her art in feigning herself ill; I expected that the dear perverse
would begin with me with spirit and indignation. But I was in hopes,
from the gentleness of her natural disposition; from the consideration
which I expected from her on her situation; from the contents of the
letter of Captain Tomlinson, which Dorcas told me she had seen; and
from the time she had had to cool and reflect since she last admitted
me to her presence, that she would not have carried it so strongly
through as she did.
As I entered the dining-room, I congratulated her and myself upon her
sudden recovery. And would have taken her hand, with an air of
respectful tenderness; but she was resolved to begin where she left
off.
She turned from me, drawing in her hand, with a repulsing and indignant
aspect—I meet you once more, said she, because I cannot help it. What
have you to say to me? Why am I to be thus detained against my will?
With the utmost solemnity of speech and behaviour, I urged the
ceremony. I saw I had nothing else for it. I had a letter in my pocket
I said, [feeling for it, although I had not taken it from the table
where I left it in the same room,] the contents of which, if attended
to, would make us both happy. I had been loth to show it to her before,
because I hoped to prevail upon her to be mine sooner than the day
mentioned in it.
I felt for it in all my pockets, watching her eye mean time, which I
saw glance towards the table where it lay.
I was uneasy that I could not find it—at last, directed again by her
sly eye, I spied it on the table at the farther end of the room.
With joy I fetched it. Be pleased to read that letter, Madam; with an
air of satisfied assurance.
She took it, and cast her eye over it, in such a careless way, as made
it evident, that she had read it before: and then unthankfully tossed
it into the window-seat before her.
I urged her to bless me to-morrow, or Friday morning; at least, that
she would not render vain her uncle’s journey, and kind endeavours to
bring about a reconciliation among us all.
Among us all! repeated she, with an air equally disdainful and
incredulous. O Lovelace, thou art surely nearly allied to the grand
deceiver, in thy endeavour to suit temptations to inclinations?—But
what honour, what faith, what veracity, were it possible that I could
enter into parley with thee on this subject, (which it is not,) may I
expect from such a man as thou hast shown thyself to be?
I was touched to the quick. A lady of your perfect character, Madam,
who has feigned herself sick, on purpose to avoid seeing the man who
adored her, should not—
I know what thou wouldst say, interrupted she—Twenty and twenty low
things, that my soul would have been above being guilty of, and which I
have despised myself for, have I been brought into by the infection of
thy company, and by the necessity thou hadst laid me under, of
appearing mean. But, I thank God, destitute as I am, that I am not,
however, sunk so low, as to wish to be thine.
I, Madam, as the injurer, ought to have patience. It is for the injured
to reproach. But your uncle is not in a plot against you, it is to be
hoped. There are circumstances in the letter you cast your eyes over——
Again she interrupted me, Why, once more I ask you, am I detained in
this house?—Do I not see myself surrounded by wretches, who, though
they wear the habit of my sex, may yet, as far as I know, lie in wait
for my perdition?
She would be very loth, I said, that Mrs. Sinclair and her nieces
should be called up to vindicate themselves and their house.
Would but they kill me, let them come, and welcome, I will bless the
hand that will strike the blow! Indeed I will.
’Tis idle, very idle, to talk of dying. Mere young-lady talk, when
controuled by those they hate. But let me beseech you, dearest
creature——
Beseech me nothing. Let me not be detained thus against my
will!—Unhappy creature that I am, said she, in a kind of phrensy,
wringing her hands at the same time, and turning from me, her eyes
lifted up! ‘Thy curse, O my cruel father, seems to be now in the height
of its operation!—My weakened mind is full of forebodings, that I am in
the way of being a lost creature as to both worlds! Blessed, blessed
God, said she, falling on her knees, save me, O save me, from myself
and from this man!’
I sunk down on my knees by her, excessively affecting—O that I could
recall yesterday!—Forgive me, my dearest creature, forgive what is
past, as it cannot now, but by one way, be retrieved. Forgive me only
on this condition—That my future faith and honour—
She interrupted me, rising—If you mean to beg of me never to seek to
avenge myself by law, or by an appeal to my relations, to my cousin
Morden in particular, when he comes to England——
D—n the law, rising also, [she started,] and all those to whom you talk
of appealing!—I defy both the one and the other—All I beg is YOUR
forgiveness; and that you will, on my unfeigned contrition,
re-establish me in your favour——
O no, no, no! lifting up her clasped hands, I never never will, never,
never can forgive you!—and it is a punishment worse than death to me,
that I am obliged to meet you, or to see you.
This is the last time, my dearest life, that you will ever see me in
this posture, on this occasion: and again I kneeled to her. Let me
hope, that you will be mine next Thursday, your uncle’s birth-day, if
not before. Would to Heaven I had never been a villain! Your
indignation is not, cannot be greater, than my remorse—and I took hold
of her gown for she was going from me.
Be remorse thy portion!—For thine own sake, be remorse thy portion!—I
never, never will forgive thee!—I never, never will be thine!—Let me
retire!—Why kneelest thou to the wretch whom thou hast so vilely
humbled?
Say but, dearest creature, you will consider—say but you will take time
to reflect upon what the honour of both our families requires of you. I
will not rise. I will not permit you to withdraw [still holding her
gown] till you tell me you will consider.—Take this letter. Weigh well
your situation, and mine. Say you will withdraw to consider; and then I
will not presume to withhold you.
Compulsion shall do nothing with me. Though a slave, a prisoner, in
circumstance, I am no slave in my will!—Nothing will I promise
thee!—Withheld, compelled—nothing will I promise thee!
Noble creature! but not implacable, I hope!—Promise me but to return in
an hour!
Nothing will I promise thee!
Say but that you will see me again this evening!
O that I could say—that it were in my power to say—I never will see
thee more!—Would to Heaven I never were to see thee more!