They promised to keep her quiet; and I withdrew into the next room; ordering everyone down but Mrs. Moore and Miss Rawlins.
She was full of exclamations! Unhappy creature! miserable! ruined! and undone! she called herself; wrung her hands, and begged they would assist her to escape from the terrible evils she should otherwise be made to suffer.
They preached patience and quietness to her; and would have had her to lie down: but she refused; sinking, however, into an easy chair; for she trembled so she could not stand.
By this time, I hoped, that she was enough recovered to bear a presence that it behoved me to make her bear; and fearing she would throw out something in her exclamations, that would still more disconcert me, I went into the room again.
O there he is! said she, and threw her apron over her face—I cannot see him!—I cannot look upon him!—Begone, begone! touch me not!—
For I took her struggling hand, beseeching her to be pacified; and assuring her, that I would make all up with her upon her own terms and wishes.
Base man! said the violent lady, I have no wishes, but never to behold you more! Why must I be thus pursued and haunted? Have you not made me miserable enough already?—Despoiled of all succour and help, and of every friend, I am contented to be poor, low, and miserable, so I may live free from your persecutions.
Miss Rawlins stared at me (a confident slut this Miss Rawlins, thought I): so did Mrs. Moore. I told you so! whispering said I, turning to the women; shaking my head with a face of great concern and pity; and then to my charmer, My dear creature, how you rave! You will not easily recover from the effects of this violence. Have patience, my love. Be pacified; and we will coolly talk this matter over: for you expose yourself, as well as me: these ladies will certainly think you have fallen among robbers, and that I am the chief of them.
So you are! so you are! stamping, her face still covered (she thought of Wednesday night, no doubt); and, sighing as if her heart were breaking, she put her hand to her forehead—I shall be quite distracted!
I will not, my dearest love, uncover your face. You shall not look upon me, since I am so odious to you. But this is a violence I never thought you capable of.
And I would have pressed her hand, as I held it, with my lips; but she drew it from me with indignation.
Unhand me, Sir, said she. I will not be touched by you. Leave me to my fate. What right, what title, have you to persecute me thus?
What right, what title
, my dear!—But this is not a time—I have a letter from Captain Tomlinson—here it is—offering it to her—
I will receive nothing from your hands—tell me not of Captain Tomlinson—tell me not of anybody—you have no right to invade me thus—once more leave me to my fate—have you not made me miserable enough?
I touched a delicate string, on purpose to set her in such a passion before the women, as might confirm the intimation I had given of a phrensical disorder.
What a turn is here!—Lately so happy—nothing wanting but a reconciliation between you and your friends!—That reconciliation in such a happy train—shall so slight, so accidental an occasion be suffered to overturn all our happiness?
She started up with a trembling impatience, her apron falling from her indignant face—now, said she, that thou darest to call the occasion slight and accidental, and that I am happily out of thy vile hands, and out of a house I have reason to believe as vile, traitor and wretch as thou art, I will venture to cast an eye upon thee—and Oh! that it were in my power, in mercy to my sex, to look thee first into shame and remorse, and then into death!
This violent tragedy-speech, and the high manner in which she uttered it, had its desired effect. I looked upon the women, and upon her by turns, with a pitying eye; and they shook their wise heads, and besought me to retire, and her to lie down to compose herself.
This hurricane, like other hurricanes, was presently allayed by a shower. She threw herself once more into her armed chair, and begged pardon of the women for her passionate excess; but not of me: yet I was in hopes, that when compliments were stirring, I should have come in for a share.
Indeed, Ladies, said I, (with assurance enough, thou’lt say), this violence is not natural to my beloved’s temper—misapprehension—
Misapprehension, wretch!—And want I excuses from thee!
By what a scorn was every lovely feature agitated!
Then turning her face from me, I have not patience, O thou guileful betrayer, to look upon thee! Begone! Begone! With a face so unblushing, how darest thou appear in my presence?
I thought then, that the character of a husband obliged me to be angry.
You may one day, Madam, repent this treatment:—by my soul, you may. You know I have not deserved it of you—you know—I have not.
Do I know you have not?—Wretch! Do I know—
You do, Madam—and never did man of my figure and consideration, (I thought it was proper to throw that in) meet with such treatment—
She lifted up her hands: indignation kept her silent.
But all is of a piece with the charge you bring against me of despoiling you of all succour and help, of making you poor and low, and with other unprecedented language. I will only say, before these two gentlewomen, that since it must be so, and since your former esteem for me is turned into so riveted an aversion, I will soon,
