Your’s affectionately,
ELIZAB.  Lawrance.

***

Faith and troth, Jack, I know not what to do with myself; for here, just now having sent in the above note by Dorcas, out came my beloved with it in her hand, in a fit of phrensy!—­true, by my soul!

She had indeed complained of her head all the evening.

Dorcas ran to me, out of breath, to tell me, that her lady was coming in some strange way; but she followed her so quick, that the frighted wench had not time to say in what way.

It seems, when she read the billet—­Now indeed, said she, am I a lost creature!  O the poor Clarissa Harlowe!

She tore off her head-clothes; inquired where I was; and in she came, her shining tresses flowing about her neck; her ruffles torn, and hanging in tatters about her snowy hands, with her arms spread out—­her eyes wildly turned, as if starting from their orbits—­down sunk she at my feet, as soon as she approached me; her charming bosom heaving to her uplifted face; and clasping her arms about my knees, Dear Lovelace, said she, if ever—­if ever—­if ever—­and, unable to speak another word, quitting her clasping hold—­down—­prostrate on the floor sunk she, neither in a fit nor out of one.

I was quite astonished.—­All my purposes suspended for a few moments, I knew neither what to say, nor what to do.  But, recollecting myself, am I again, thought I, in a way to be overcome, and made a fool of!—­If I now recede, I am gone for ever.

I raised her; but down she sunk, as if quite disjointed—­her limbs failing her—­yet not in a fit neither.  I never heard of or saw such a dear unaccountable; almost lifeless, and speechless too for a few moments; what must her apprehensions be at that moment?—­And for what?—­ An high-notioned dear soul!—­Pretty ignorance!—­thought I.

Never having met with so sincere, so unquestionable a repugnance, I was staggered—­I was confounded—­yet how should I know that it would be so till I tried?—­And how, having proceeded thus far, could I stop, were I not to have had the women to goad me on, and to make light of circumstances, which they pretended to be better judges of than I?

I lifted her, however, into a chair, and in words of disordered passion, told her, all her fears were needless—­wondered at them—­begged of her to be pacified—­besought her reliance on my faith and honour—­and revowed all my old vows, and poured forth new ones.

At last, with a heart-breaking sob, I see, I see, Mr. Lovelace, in broken sentences she spoke—­I see, I see—­that at last—­I am ruined!—­Ruined, if your pity—­let me implore your pity!—­and down on her bosom, like a half-broken-stalked lily top-heavy with the overcharging dews of the morning, sunk her head, with a sigh that went to my heart.

All I could think of to re-assure her, when a little recovered, I said.

Why did I not send for their coach, as I had intimated?  It might return in the morning for the ladies.