By my soul, Belford, the little witch with her words, but more by her manner, moved me!  Wonder not then that her action, her grief, her tears, set the women into the like compassionate manifestations.

Had I not a cursed task of it?

The two women withdrew to the further end of the room, and whispered, a strange case!  There is no phrensy here—­I just heard said.

The charming creature threw her handkerchief over her head and neck, continuing kneeling, her back towards me, and her face hid upon a chair, and repeatedly sobbed with grief and passion.

I took this opportunity to step to the women to keep them steady.

You see, Ladies, [whispering,] what an unhappy man I am!  You see what a spirit this dear creature has!—­All, all owing to her implacable relations, and to her father’s curse.—­A curse upon them all! they have turned the head of the most charming woman in the world!

Ah!  Sir, Sir, replied Miss Rawlins, whatever be the fault of her relations, all is not as it should be between you and her.  ’Tis plain she does not think herself married:  ’tis plain she does not:  and if you have any value for the poor lady, and would not totally deprive her of her senses, you had better withdraw, and leave to time and cooler consideration the event in your favour.

She will compel me to this at last, I fear, Miss Rawlins; I fear she will; and then we are both undone:  for I cannot live without her; she knows it too well:  and she has not a friend who will look upon her:  this also she knows.  Our marriage, when her uncle’s friend comes, will be proved incontestably.  But I am ashamed to think I have given her room to believe it no marriage:  that’s what she harps upon!

Well, ’tis a strange case, a very strange one, said Miss Rawlins; and was going to say further, when the angry beauty, coming towards the door, said, Mrs. Moore, I beg a word with you.  And they both stepped into the dining-room.

I saw her just before put a parcel into her pocket; and followed them out, for fear she should slip away; and stepping to the stairs, that she might not go by me, Will., cried I, aloud [though I knew he was not near] —­Pray, child, to a maid, who answered, call either of my servants to me.

She then came up to me with a wrathful countenance:  do you call your servant, Sir, to hinder me, between you, from going where I please?

Don’t, my dearest life, misinterpret every thing I do.  Can you think me so mean and unworthy as to employ a servant to constrain you?—­I call him to send to the public-houses, or inns in this town, to inquire after Captain Tomlinson, who may have alighted at some one of them, and be now, perhaps, needlessly adjusting his dress; and I would have him come, were he to be without clothes, God forgive me! for I am stabbed to the heart by your cruelty.

Answer was returned, that neither of my servants was in the way.