This convinces me, that if she has apprized her friends of my offers to her, they will not believe me to be in earnest, till they are assured that I am so from my own mouth.  But then I understand, that the intended visit is an officiousness of Morden’s own, without the desire of any of her friends.

Now, Jack, what can a man make of all this?  My intelligence as to the continuance of her family’s implacableness is not to be doubted; and yet when I read her letter, what can one say?—­Surely, the dear little rogue will not lie!

I never knew her dispense with her word, but once; and that was, when she promised to forgive me after the dreadful fire that had like to have happened at our mother’s, and yet would not see me the next day, and afterwards made her escape to Hampstead, in order to avoid forgiving me:  and as she severely smarted for this departure from her honour given, (for it is a sad thing for good people to break their word when it is in their power to keep it,) one would not expect that she should set about deceiving again; more especially by the premeditation of writing.  Thou, perhaps, wilt ask, what honest man is obliged to keep his promise with a highwayman? for well I know thy unmannerly way of making comparisons; but I say, every honest man is—­and I will give thee an illustration.

Here is a marauding varlet, who demands your money, with a pistol at your breast.  You have neither money nor valuable effects about you; and promise solemnly, if he will spare your life, that you will send him an agreed-upon sum, by such a day, to such a place.

The question is, if your life is not in the fellow’s power?

How he came by the power is another question; for which he must answer with his life when caught—­so he runs risque for risque.

Now if he give you your life, does he not give, think you, a valuable consideration for the money you engage your honour to send him?  If not, the sum must be exorbitant, or your life is a very paltry one, even in your own opinion.

I need not make the application; and I am sure that even thou thyself, who never sparest me, and thinkest thou knowest my heart by thy own, canst not possibly put the case in a stronger light against me.

Then, why do good people take upon themselves to censure, as they do, persons less scrupulous than themselves?  Is it not because the latter allow themselves in any liberty, in order to carry a point?  And can my not doing my duty, warrant another for not doing his?—­Thou wilt not say it can.

And how would it sound, to put the case as strongly once more, as my greatest enemy would put it, both as to fact and in words—­here has that profligate wretch Lovelace broken his vow with and deceived Miss Clarissa Harlowe.—­A vile fellow! would an enemy say:  but it is like him.  But when it comes to be said that the pious Clarissa has broken her word with and deceived Lovelace; Good Lord! would every one say; sure it cannot be!