I hope, I earnestly hope, that nothing can be found that will impeach your discretion; and then—but I may say too much—
And away she went, having added to my perplexity.
But I now can think of nothing but this interview.—Would to Heaven it were over!—To meet to quarrel—but, let him take what measures he will, I will not stay a moment with him, if he be not quite calm and resigned.
Don’t you see how crooked some of my lines are? Don’t you see how some of the letters stagger more than others?—That is when this interview is more in my head than in my subject.
But, after all, should I, ought I to meet him? How have I taken it for granted that I should!—I wish there were time to take your advice. Yet you are so loth to speak quite out—but that I owe, as you own, to the difficulty of my situation.
I should have mentioned, that in the course of this conversation I besought my aunt to stand my friend, and to put in a word for me on my approaching trial; and to endeavour to procure me time for consideration
, if I could obtain nothing else.
She told me, that, after the ceremony was performed (odious confirmation of a hint in my cousin Dolly’s letter!) I should have what time I pleased to reconcile myself to my lot before cohabitation.
This put me out of all patience.
She requested of me in her turn, she said, that I would resolve to meet them all with cheerful duty, and with a spirit of absolute acquiescence. It was in my power to make them all happy. And how joyful would it be to her, she said, to see my father, my mother, my uncles, my brother, my sister, all embracing me with raptures, and folding me in turns to their fond hearts, and congratulating each other on their restored happiness! Her own joy, she said, would probably make her motionless and speechless for a time: and for her Dolly—the poor girl, who had suffered in the esteem of some, for her grateful attachment to me, would have everybody love her again.
Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial will be the most affecting that I have yet had?
My aunt set forth all this in so strong a light, and I was so particularly touched on my cousin Dolly’s account, that, impatient as I was just before, I was greatly moved: yet could only show, by my sighs and my tears, how desirable such an event would be to me, could it be brought about upon conditions with which it was possible for me to comply.
Here comes Betty Barnes with my dinner—
The wench is gone. The time of meeting is at hand. O that he may not come!—But should I, or should I not, meet him?—How I question, without possibility of a timely answer!
Betty, according to my leading hint to my aunt, boasted to me, that she was to be employed, as she called it, after she had eat her own dinner.
She should be sorry, she told me, to have me found out. Yet ’twould be all for my good. I should have it in my power to be forgiven for all at once, before Wednesday night. The confident creature then, to stifle a laugh, put a corner of her apron in her mouth, and went to the door: and on her return to take away, as I angrily bid her, she begged my excuse—but—but—and then the saucy creature laughed again, she could not help it, to think how I had drawn myself in by my summerhouse dinnering, since it had given so fine an opportunity, by way of surprise, to look into all my private hoards. She thought something was in the wind
, when my brother came into my dining here so readily. Her young master was too hard for everybody. ’Squire Lovelace himself was nothing at all at a quick thought to her young master.
My aunt mentioned Mr. Lovelace’s boasting behaviour to his servants: perhaps he may be so mean. But as to my brother, he always took a pride in making himself appear to be a man of parts and learning to our servants. Pride and meanness, I have often thought, are as nearly allied, and as close borderers upon each other, as the poet tells us wit and madness are.
But why do I trouble you (and myself, at such a crisis) with these impertinences?—Yet I would forget, if I could, the nearest evil, the interview; because, my apprehensions increasing as the hour is at hand, I should, were my intentions to be engrossed by them, be unfit to see him, if he does come: and then he will have too much advantage over me, as he will have seeming reason to reproach me with change of resolution.
The upbraider, you know, my dear, is in some sense a superior; while the upbraided, if with reason upbraided, must make a figure as spiritless as conscious.
I know that this wretch will, if he can, be his own judge, and mine too. But the latter he shall not be.
I dare say, we shall be all to pieces. But I don’t care for that. It would be hard, if I, who have held it out so sturdily to my father and uncles, should not—but he is at the garden-door—
I was mistaken!—How many noises unlike, be made like to what one fears!—Why flutters the fool so—!
I will hasten to deposit this. Then I will, for the last time, go to the usual place, in hopes to find that he has got my letter. If he has, I will not meet him. If he has not, I will take it back, and show him what I have written. That will break the ice, as I may
