Thou hast blamed me for bringing her to this house:  but had I carried her to any other in England, where there would have been one servant or inmate capable either of compassion or corruption, what must have been the consequence?

But seest thou not, however, that in this flimsy contrivance, the dear implacable, like a drowning man, catches at a straw to save herself!—­A straw shall she find to be the refuge she has resorted to.

LETTER XXV

Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, ESQ. 
TUES.  Morn.  Ten o’clock

Very ill—­exceedingly ill—­as Dorcas tells me, in order to avoid seeing me—­and yet the dear soul may be so in her mind.  But is not that equivocation?  Some one passion predominating in every human breast, breaks through principle, and controuls us all.  Mine is love and revenge taking turns.  Her’s is hatred.—­But this is my consolation, that hatred appeased is love begun; or love renewed, I may rather say, if love ever had footing here.

But reflectioning apart, thou seest, Jack, that her plot is beginning to work.  To-morrow is to break out.

I have been abroad, to set on foot a plot of circumvention.  All fair now, Belford!

I insisted upon visiting my indisposed fair-one.  Dorcas made officious excuses for her.  I cursed the wench in her hearing for her impertinence; and stamped and made a clutter; which was improved into an apprehension to the lady that I would have flung her faithful confidante from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

He is a violent wretch!—­But, Dorcas, [dear Dorcas, now it is,] thou shalt have a friend in me to the last day of my life.

And what now, Jack, dost think the name of her good angel is!—­Why Dorcas Martindale, christian and super (no more Wykes) as in the promissory note in my former—­and the dear creature has bound her to her by the most solemn obligations, besides the tie of interest.

Whither, Madam, do you design to go when you get out of this house?

I will throw myself into the first open house I can find; and beg protection till I can get a coach, or a lodging in some honest family.

What will you do for clothes, Madam?  I doubt you’ll be able to take any away with you, but what you’ll have on.

O, no matter for clothes, if I can but get out of this house.

What will you do for money, Madam?  I have heard his honour express his concern, that he could not prevail upon you to be obliged to him, though he apprehended that you must be short of money.

O, I have rings and other valuables.  Indeed I have but four guineas, and two of them I found lately wrapt up in a bit of lace, designed for a charitable use.  But now, alas! charity begins at home!—­But I have one dear friend left, if she be living, as I hope in God she is! to whom I can be obliged, if I want.  O Dorcas!  I must ere now have heard from her, if I had had fair play.