It was impossible for me, I told her plainly, to comply.

I besought her to give me her hand as this very day.  I could not live without her.  I communicated to her my Lord’s illness, as a reason why I wished not to stay for her uncle’s anniversary.  I besought her to bless me with her consent; and, after the ceremony was passed, to accompany me down to Berks.  And thus, my dearest life, said I, will you be freed from a house, to which you have conceived so great an antipathy.

This, thou wilt own, was a princely offer.  And I was resolved to be as good as my word.  I thought I had killed my conscience, as I told thee, Belford, some time ago.  But conscience, I find, though it may be temporarily stifled, cannot die, and, when it dare not speak aloud, will whisper.  And at this instant I thought I felt the revived varletess (on but a slight retrograde motion) writhing round my pericardium like a serpent; and in the action of a dying one, (collecting all its force into its head,) fix its plaguy fangs into my heart.

She hesitated, and looked down, as if irresolute.  And this set my heart up at my mouth.  And, believe me, I had instantly popt in upon me, in imagination, an old spectacled parson, with a white surplice thrown over a black habit, [a fit emblem of the halcyon office, which, under a benign appearance, often introduced a life of storms and tempests,] whining and snuffling through his nose the irrevocable ceremony.

I hope now, my dearest life, said I, snatching her hand, and pressing it to my lips, that your silence bodes me good.  Let me, my beloved creature, have but your tacit consent; and this moment I will step out and engage a minister.  And then I promised how much my whole future life should be devoted to her commands, and that I would make her the best and tenderest of husbands.

At last, turning to me, I have told you my mind, Mr. Lovelace, said she.  Think you, that I could thus solemnly—­There she stopt—­I am too much in your power, proceeded she; your prisoner, rather than a person free to choose for myself, or to say what I will do or be.  But as a testimony that you mean me well, let me instantly quit this house; and I will then give you such an answer in writing, as best befits my unhappy circumstances.

And imaginest thou, fairest, thought I, that this will go down with a Lovelace?  Thou oughtest to have known that free-livers, like ministers of state, never part with a power put into their hands, without an equivalent of twice the value.

I pleaded, that if we joined hands this morning, (if not, to-morrow; if not, on Thursday, her uncle’s birth-day, and in his presence); and afterwards, as I had proposed, set out for Berks; we should, of course, quit this house; and, on our return to town, should have in readiness the house I was in treaty for.

She answered me not, but with tears and sighs; fond of believing what I hoped I imputed her silence to the modesty of her sex.  The dear creature, (thought I,) solemnly as she began with me, is ruminating, in a sweet suspence, how to put into fit words the gentle purposes of her condescending heart.  But, looking in her averted face with a soothing gentleness, I plainly perceived, that it was resentment, and not bashfulness, that was struggling in her bosom.*