Before five o’clock (Tuesday morning) the maidservant came up to tell me that my brother was ready, and that breakfast also waited for me in the parlour. I went down with a heart as heavy as my eyes, and received great acknowledgements and compliments from him on being so soon dressed, and ready (as he interpreted it) to continue on our journey.
He had the thought which I had not (for what had I to do with thinking, who had it not when I stood most in need of it?) to purchase for me a velvet hood, and a short cloak, trimmed with silver, without saying anything to me. He must reward himself, the artful encroacher said, before the landlady and her maids and niece, for his forethought; and would salute his pretty sullen sister!—He took his reward; and, as he said before, a tear with it. While he assured me, still before them (a vile wretch!) that I had nothing to fear from meeting with parents who so dearly loved me.—
How could I be complaisant, my dear, to such a man as this?
When we had got in the chariot, and it began to move, he asked me, whether I had any objection to go to Lord M.’s Hertfordshire seat? His Lordship, he said, was at his Berkshire one.
I told him, I chose not to go, as yet, to any of his relations; for that would indicate a plain defiance to my own. My choice was, to go to a private lodging, and for him to be at a distance from me: at least, till I heard how things were taken by my friends: for that, although I had but little hopes of a reconciliation as it was; yet if they knew I was in his protection, or in that of any of his friends, (which would be looked upon as the same thing), there would not be room for any hopes at all.
I should govern him as I pleased, he solemnly assured me, in everything. But he still thought London was the best place for me; and if I were once safe there, and in a lodging to my liking, he would go to M. Hall. But, as I approved not of London, he would urge it no further.
He proposed, and I consented, to put up at an inn in the neighbourhood of The Lawn
(as he called Lord M.’s seat in this county) since I chose not to go thither. And here I got two hours to myself; which I told him I should pass in writing another letter to you, (meaning my narrative, which, though greatly fatigued, I had begun at St. Alban’s), and in one to my sister, to apprise the family (whether they were solicitous about it or not) that I was well; and to beg that my clothes, some particular books, and the fifty guineas I had left in my escritoire, might be sent me.
He asked, if I had considered whither to have them directed?
Indeed, not I, I told him: I was a stranger to—
So was he, he interrupted me; but it struck him by chance—
Wicked storyteller!
But, added he, I will tell you, Madam, how it shall be managed—If you don’t choose to go to London, it is, nevertheless, best that your relations should think you there; for then they will absolutely despair of finding you. If you write, be pleased to direct, to be left for you, at Mr. Osgood’s, near Soho-square. Mr. Osgood is a man of reputation: and this will effectually amuse them.
Amuse them, my dear!—Amuse whom?—My father!—my uncles!—But it must be so!—All his expedients ready, you see!
I had no objection to this: and I have written accordingly. But what answer I shall have, or whether any, that is what gives me no small anxiety.
This, however, is one consolation, that if I have an answer, and although my brother should be the writer, it cannot be more severe than the treatment I have of late received from him and my sister.
Mr. Lovelace stayed out about an hour and half; and then came in; impatiently sending up to me no less than four times, to desire admittance. But I sent him word as often, that I was busy; and at last, that I should be so, till dinner was ready. He then hastened that, as I heard him now-and-then, with a hearty curse upon the cook and waiters.
This is another of his perfections. I ventured afterwards to check him for his free words, as we sat at dinner.
Having heard him swear at his servant, when below, whom, nevertheless, he owns to be a good one; it is a sad life, said I, these innkeepers live, Mr. Lovelace.
No; pretty well, I believe—but why, Madam, think you, that fellows, who eat and drink at other men’s cost, or they are sorry innkeepers, should be entitled to pity?
Because of the soldiers they are obliged to quarter; who are generally, I believe, wretched profligates. Bless me! said I, how I heard one of them swear and curse, just now, at a modest, meek man, as I judge by his low voice, and gentle answers!—Well do they make it a proverb—Like a trooper!
He bit his lip; arose; turned upon his heel; stepped to the glass; and looking confidently abashed, if I may say so, Ay, Madam, said he, these troopers are sad swearing fellows. I think their officers should chastise them for it.
I am sure they deserve chastisement, replied I: for swearing is a most unmanly vice, and cursing as poor and low a one; since they proclaim the profligate’s want of power, and his wickedness at the same time; for, could such a one punish as he speaks, he would be a fiend!
Charmingly observed, by my soul, Madam!—The next trooper I hear swear and curse, I’ll tell him what an unmanly, and what a poor wretch he is.
Mrs. Greme came to pay her duty
to me, as Mr. Lovelace called it; and was
