B would gladly pay common interest for it; but would be undone, (in his own opinion at least, and that is everything to him), if he complied with the miser’s terms; since he would be sure to be soon thrown into gaol for the debt, and made a prisoner for life. Wherefore guessing (being an arch, penetrating fellow) where the sweet hoard lies, he searches for it, when the miser is in a profound sleep, finds it, and runs away with it.
(B, in this case, can only be a thief, that’s plain, Jack).
Here Miss Montague put in very smartly.—A thief, Sir, said she, that steals what is and ought to be dearer to me than my life, deserves less to be forgiven than he who murders me.
But what is this, cousin Charlotte, said I, that is dearer to you than your life? Your honour, you’ll say—I will not talk to a lady (I never did) in a way she cannot answer me—But in the instance for which I put my case, (allowing all you attribute to the phantom) what honour is lost, where the will is not violated, and the person cannot help it? But, with respect to the case put, how knew we, till the theft was committed, that the miser did actually set so romantic a value upon the treasure?
Both my cousins were silent; and my Lord, because he could not answer me, cursed me; and I proceeded.
Well then, the result is, that B can only be a thief; that’s plain.—To pursue, therefore, my case—
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Suppose this same miserly A, on awaking and searching for, and finding his treasure gone, takes it so much to heart that he starves himself;
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Who but himself is to blame for that?—Would either equity, law, or conscience, hang B for a murder?
And now to apply, said I—
None of your applications, cried my cousins, both in a breath.
None of your applications, and be d⸺d to you, the passionate Peer.
Well then, returned I, I am to conclude it to be a case so plain that it needs none; looking at the two girls, who tried for a blush apiece. And I hold myself, of consequence, acquitted of the death.
Not so, cried my Lord, (Peers are judges, thou knowest, Jack, in the last resort): for if, by committing an unlawful act, a capital crime is the consequence, you are answerable for both.
Say you so, my good Lord?—But will you take upon you to say, supposing (as in the present case) a rape (saving your presence, cousin Charlotte, saving your presence, cousin Patty)—Is death the natural consequence of a rape?—Did you ever hear, my Lord, or did you, Ladies, that it was?—And if not the natural consequence, and a lady will destroy herself, whether by a lingering death, as of grief; or by the dagger, as Lucretia did; is there more than one fault the man’s?—Is not the other hers?—Were it not so, let me tell you, my dears, chucking each of my blushing cousins under the chin, we either would have had no men so wicked as young Tarquin was, or no women so virtuous as Lucretia, in the space of—How many thousand years, my Lord?—And so Lucretia is recorded as a single wonder!
You may believe I was cried out upon. People who cannot answer, will rave: and this they all did. But I insisted upon it to them, and so I do to you, Jack, that I ought to be acquitted of everything but a common theft, a private larceny, as the lawyers call it, in this point. And were my life to be a forfeit of the law, it would not be for murder.
Besides, as I told them, there was a circumstance strongly in my favour in this case: for I would have been glad, with all my soul, to have purchased my forgiveness by a compliance with the terms I first boggled at. And this, you all know, I offered; and my Lord, and Lady Betty, and Lady Sarah, and my two cousins, and all my cousins’ cousins, to the fourteenth generation, would have been bound for me—But it would not do: the sweet miser would break her heart, and die: And how could I help it?
Upon the whole, Jack, had not the lady died, would there have been half so much said of it, as there is? Was I the cause of her death? or could I help it? And have there not been, in a million of cases like this, nine hundred and ninty-nine thousand that have not ended as this has ended?—How hard, then, is my fate!—Upon my soul, I won’t bear it as I have done; but, instead of taking guilt to myself, claim pity. And this (since yesterday cannot be recalled) is the only course I can pursue to make myself easy. Proceed anon.
Letter 516
Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, Esq.
But what a pretty scheme of life hast thou drawn out for thyself and thy old widow! By my soul, Jack, I was mightily taken with it. There is but one thing wanting in it; and that will come of course: only to be in the commission, and one of the quorum. Thou art already provided with a clerk, as good as thou’lt want, in the widow Lovick; for thou understandest law, and she conscience: a good Lord Chancellor between ye!—I should take prodigious pleasure to hear thee decide in a bastard case, upon thy new notions and old remembrances.
But raillery apart. (All gloom at heart, by Jupiter! although the pen and the countenance assume airs of levity!) If, after all, thou canst so easily repent and reform, as thou thinkest thou canst: if thou canst thus shake off thy old sins, and thy old habits: and if thy old master will so readily dismiss so tried and so faithful a servant, and permit thee thus calmly to enjoy thy new system; no room
