The evils I have suffered, proceeded she, [turning from me,] however
irreparable, are but temporarily evils. Leave me to my hopes of being
enabled to obtain the Divine forgiveness for the offence I have been
drawn in to give to my parents and to virtue; that so I may avoid the
evils that are more than temporary. This is now all I have to wish for.
And what is it that I demand, that I have not a right to, and from
which it is an illegal violence to withhold me?
It was impossible for me, I told her plainly, to comply.
I besought her to give me her hand as this very day. I could not live
without her. I communicated to her my Lord’s illness, as a reason why I
wished not to stay for her uncle’s anniversary. I besought her to bless
me with her consent; and, after the ceremony was passed, to accompany
me down to Berks. And thus, my dearest life, said I, will you be freed
from a house, to which you have conceived so great an antipathy.
This, thou wilt own, was a princely offer. And I was resolved to be as
good as my word. I thought I had killed my conscience, as I told thee,
Belford, some time ago. But conscience, I find, though it may be
temporarily stifled, cannot die, and, when it dare not speak aloud,
will whisper. And at this instant I thought I felt the revived
varletess (on but a slight retrograde motion) writhing round my
pericardium like a serpent; and in the action of a dying one,
(collecting all its force into its head,) fix its plaguy fangs into my
heart.
She hesitated, and looked down, as if irresolute. And this set my heart
up at my mouth. And, believe me, I had instantly popt in upon me, in
imagination, an old spectacled parson, with a white surplice thrown
over a black habit, [a fit emblem of the halcyon office, which, under a
benign appearance, often introduced a life of storms and tempests,]
whining and snuffling through his nose the irrevocable ceremony.
I hope now, my dearest life, said I, snatching her hand, and pressing
it to my lips, that your silence bodes me good. Let me, my beloved
creature, have but your tacit consent; and this moment I will step out
and engage a minister. And then I promised how much my whole future
life should be devoted to her commands, and that I would make her the
best and tenderest of husbands.
At last, turning to me, I have told you my mind, Mr. Lovelace, said
she. Think you, that I could thus solemnly—There she stopt—I am too
much in your power, proceeded she; your prisoner, rather than a person
free to choose for myself, or to say what I will do or be. But as a
testimony that you mean me well, let me instantly quit this house; and
I will then give you such an answer in writing, as best befits my
unhappy circumstances.
And imaginest thou, fairest, thought I, that this will go down with a
Lovelace? Thou oughtest to have known that free-livers, like ministers
of state, never part with a power put into their hands, without an
equivalent of twice the value.
I pleaded, that if we joined hands this morning, (if not, to-morrow; if
not, on Thursday, her uncle’s birth-day, and in his presence); and
afterwards, as I had proposed, set out for Berks; we should, of course,
quit this house; and, on our return to town, should have in readiness
the house I was in treaty for.
She answered me not, but with tears and sighs; fond of believing what I
hoped I imputed her silence to the modesty of her sex. The dear
creature, (thought I,) solemnly as she began with me, is ruminating, in
a sweet suspence, how to put into fit words the gentle purposes of her
condescending heart. But, looking in her averted face with a soothing
gentleness, I plainly perceived, that it was resentment, and not
bashfulness, that was struggling in her bosom.*
* The Lady, in her minutes, owns the difficulty she lay under to keep
her temper in this conference. ‘But when I found,’ says she, ‘that all
my entreaties were ineffectual, and that he was resolved to detain me,
I could no longer withhold my impatience.’
At last she broke silence—I have no patience, said she, to find myself
a slave, a prisoner, in a vile house—Tell me, Sir, in so many words
tell me, whether it be, or be not, your intention to permit me to quit
it?—To permit me the freedom which is my birthright as an English
subject?
Will not the consequence of your departure hence be that I shall lose
you for ever, Madam?—And can I bear the thoughts of that?
She flung from me—My soul disdains to hold parley with thee! were her
violent words.—But I threw myself at her feet, and took hold of her
reluctant hand, and began to imprecate, avow, to promise—But thus the
passionate beauty, interrupting me, went on:
I am sick of thee, MAN!—One continued string of vows, oaths, and
protestations, varied only by time and place, fills thy mouth!—Why
detainest thou me? My heart rises against thee, O thou cruel implement
of my brother’s causeless vengeance.—All I beg of thee is, that thou
wilt remit me the future part of my father’s dreadful curse! the
temporary part, base and ungrateful as thou art! thou hast completed!
I was speechless!—Well I might!—Her brother’s implement!—James
Harlowe’s implement!—Zounds, Jack! what words were these!
I let go her struggling hand. She took two or three turns cross the
room, her whole haughty soul in her air. Then approaching me, but in
silence, turning from me, and again to me, in a milder voice—I see thy
confusion, Lovelace. Or is it thy remorse?—I have but one request to
make thee—the request so often repeated—That thou wilt this moment
permit me to quit this house. Adieu, then, let me say, for ever adieu!
And mayest thou enjoy that happiness in this world, which thou hast
robbed me of; as thou hast of every friend I have in it!
And saying this, away she flung, leaving me in a confusion so great,
that I knew not what to think, say, or do!
But Dorcas soon roused me—Do you know, Sir, running in hastily, that my
lady is gone down stairs!
No, sure!—And down I flew, and found her once more at the street-door,
contending with Polly Horton to get out.
She rushed by me into the fore parlour, and flew to the window, and
attempted once more to throw up the sash—Good people! good people!
cried she.
I caught her in my arms, and lifted her from the window. But being
afraid of hurting the charming creature, (charming in her very rage,)
she slid through my arms on the floor.—Let me die here! let me die
here! were her words; remaining jointless and immovable, till Sally and
Mrs. Sinclair hurried in.
She was visibly terrified at the sight of the old wretch; while I
(sincerely affected) appealed, Bear witness, Mrs. Sinclair!—bear
witness, Miss Martin!—Miss Horton!—Every one bear witness, that I offer
not violence to this beloved creature!
She then found her feet—O house [look towards the windows, and all
round her, O house,] contrived on purpose for my ruin! said she—but let
not that woman come into my presence—not that Miss Horton neither, who
would not have dared to controul me, had she not been a base one!—
Hoh, Sir! Hoh, Madam! vociferated the old dragon, her armed kemboed,
and flourishing with one foot to the extent of her petticoats—What’s
ado here about nothing! I never knew such work in my life, between a
chicken of a gentleman and a tiger of a lady!—
She was visibly affrighted: and up stairs she hastened. A bad woman is
certainly, Jack, more terrible to her own sex than even a bad man.
I followed her up. She rushed by her own apartment into the
dining-room: no terror can make her forget her punctilio.
To recite what passed there of invective, exclamations, threatenings,
even of her own life, on one side; of expostulations, supplications,
and sometimes menaces, on the other; would be too affecting; and, after
my particularity in like scenes, these things may as well be imagined
as expressed.
I will therefore only mention, that, at length, I extorted a concession
from her. She had reason* to think it would have been worse for her on
the spot, if she had not made it. It was, That she would endeavour to
make herself easy till she saw what next Thursday, her uncle’s
birth-day, would produce. But Oh! that it were not a sin, she
passionately exclaimed on making this poor concession, to put and end
to her own life, rather than yield to give me but that assurance!
* The Lady mentions, in her memorandum-book, that she had no other way,
as is apprehended, to save herself from instant dishonour, but by
making this concession. Her only hope, now, she says, if she cannot
escape by Dorcas’s connivance, (whom, nevertheless she suspects,) is to
find a way to engage the protection of her uncle, and even of the civil
magistrate, on Thursday next, if necessary. ‘He shall see,’ says she,
‘tame and timid as he thought me, what I dare to do, to avoid so hated
a compulsion, and a man capable of a baseness so premeditatedly vile
and inhuman.’
This, however, shows me, that she is aware that the reluctantly-given
assurance may be fairly construed into a matrimonial expectation on my
side. And if she will now, even now, look forward, I think, from my
heart, that I will put on her livery, and wear it for life.
What a situation am I in, with all my cursed inventions! I am puzzled,
confounded, and ashamed of myself, upon the whole. To take such pains
to be a villain!—But (for the fiftieth time) let me ask thee, Who would
have thought that there had been such a woman in the
world?—Nevertheless, she had best take care that she carries not her
obstinacy much farther. She knows not what revenge for slighted love
will make me do.
The busy scenes I have just passed through have given emotions to my
heart, which will not be quieted one while. My heart, I see, (on
re-perusing what I have written,) has communicated its tremors to my
fingers; and in some places the characters are so indistinct and
unformed, that thou’lt hardly be able to make them out. But if one half
of them is only intelligible, that will be enough to expose me to thy
contempt, for the wretched hand I have made of my plots and
contrivances.—But surely, Jack, I have gained some ground by this
promise.
And now, one word to the assurances thou sendest me, that thou hast not
betrayed my secrets in relation to this charming creature. Thou
mightest have spared them, Belford. My suspicions held no longer than
while I wrote about them.* For well I knew, when I allowed myself time
to think, that thou hadst no principles, no virtue, to be misled by. A
great deal of strong envy, and a little of weak pity, I knew to be thy
motives. Thou couldst not provoke my anger, and my compassion thou ever
hadst; and art now more especially entitled to it; because thou art a
pityful fellow.
All thy new expostulations in my beloved’s behalf I will answer when I
see thee.