Lovel. Treat me, my dearest creature, as you please, I will bear it: and yet your scorn and your violence have fixed daggers in my heart—But was it possible, without those disguises, to come at your speech?—And could I lose you, if study, if invention, would put it in my power to arrest your anger, and give me hope to engage you to confirm to me the promised pardon? The address I made to you before the women, as if the marriage-ceremony had passed, was in consequence of what your uncle had advised, and what you had acquiesced with; and the rather made, as your brother, and Singleton, and Solmes, were resolved to find out whether what was reported of your marriage were true or not, that they might take their measures accordingly; and in hopes to prevent that mischief, which I have been but too studious to prevent, since this tameness has but invited insolence from your brother and his confederates.
Cl. O thou strange wretch, how thou talkest!—But, Captain Tomlinson, give me leave to say, that, were I inclined to enter farther upon this subject, I would appeal to Miss Rawlins’s judgment (whom else have I to appeal to?) She seems to be a person of prudence and honour; but not to any man’s judgment, whether I carry my resentment beyond fit bounds, when I resolve—
Capt. Forgive, Madam, the interruption—but I think there can be no reason for this. You ought, as you said, to be the sole judge of indignities offered you. The gentlewomen here are strangers to you. You will perhaps stay but a little while among them. If you lay the state of your case before any of them, and your brother come to inquire of them, your uncle’s intended mediation will be discovered, and rendered abortive—I shall appear in a light that I never appeared in, in my life—for these women may not think themselves obliged to keep the secret.
Charming fellow!
Cl. O what difficulties has one fatal step involved me in—but there is no necessity for such an appeal to anybody. I am resolved on my measures.
Capt. Absolutely resolved, Madam?
Cl. I am.
Capt. What shall I say to your uncle Harlowe, Madam?—Poor gentleman! how will he be surprised!—You see, Mr. Lovelace—you see, Sir—turning to me with a flourishing hand—but you may thank yourself—and admirably stalked he from us.
True, by my soul, thought I. I traversed the room, and bit my unpersuasive lips, now upper, now under, for vexation.
He made a profound reverence to her—and went to the window, where lay his hat and whip; and, taking them up, opened the door. Child, said he, to somebody he saw, pray order my servant to bring my horse to the door—
Lovel. You won’t go, Sir—I hope you won’t!—I am the unhappiest man in the world!—You won’t go—yet, alas!—But you won’t go, Sir!—there may be yet hopes that Lady Betty may have some weight—
Capt. Dear Mr. Lovelace! and may not my worthy friend, and affectionate uncle, hope for some influence upon his daughter-niece?—But I beg pardon—a letter will always find me disposed to serve the lady, and that as well for her sake as for the sake of my dear friend.
She had thrown herself into her chair: her eyes cast down: she was motionless, as in a profound study.
The Captain bowed to her again: but met with no return to his bow. Mr. Lovelace, said he, (with an air of equality and independence), I am yours.
Still the dear unaccountable sat as immovable as a statue; stirring neither hand, foot, head, nor eye—I never before saw anyone in so profound a reverie in so waking a dream.
He passed by her to go out at the door she sat near, though the passage by the other door was his direct way; and bowed again. She moved not. I will not disturb the lady in her meditations, Sir.—Adieu, Mr. Lovelace—no farther, I beseech you.
She started, sighing—Are you going, Sir?
Capt. I am, Madam. I could have been glad to do you service; but I see it is not in my power.
She stood up, holding out one hand, with inimitable dignity and sweetness—I am sorry you are going, Sir!—can’t help it—I have no friend to advise with—Mr. Lovelace has the art (or good fortune, perhaps I should call it) to make himself many.—Well, Sir—if you will go, I can’t help it.
Capt. I will not go, Madam; his eyes twinkling. (Again seized with a fit of humanity!) I will not go, if my longer stay can do you either service or pleasure. What, Sir, (turning to me), what, Mr. Lovelace, was your expedient;—perhaps something may be offered, Madam—
She sighed, and was silent.
Revenge, invoked I to myself, keep thy throne in my heart. If the usurper love once more drive thee from it, thou wilt never again regain possession!
Lovel. What I had thought of, what I had intended to propose, (and I sighed), was this, that the dear creature, if she will not forgive me, as she promised, will suspend the displeasure she has conceived against me, till Lady Betty arrives.—That lady may be the mediatrix between us. This dear creature may put herself into her protection, and accompany her down to her seat in Oxfordshire. It is one of her Ladyship’s purposes to prevail on her supposed new niece to go down with her. It may pass to everyone but to Lady Betty, and to you, Captain Tomlinson, and to your friend Mr. Harlowe (as he desires) that we have been some time married: and her
