istress of my own
resolutions, my uncle himself shall not prevail with me to bind my soul
in covenant with so vile a man.'

After a pause (for I was all attention) thus she proceeded:

It is easy for me, Mr. Lovelace, to see that further violences are
intended me, if I comply not with your purposes, whatever they are, I
will suppose them to be what you solemnly profess they are. But I have
told you as solemnly my mind, that I never will, that I never can be
your's; nor, if so, any man's upon earth. All vengeance, nevertheless,
for the wrongs you have done me, I disclaim. I want but to slide into
some obscure corner, to hide myself from you and from every one who
once loved me. The desire lately so near my heart, of a reconciliation
with my friends, is much abated. They shall not receive me now, if they
would. Sunk in mine own eyes, I now think myself unworthy of their
favour. In the anguish of my soul, therefore, I conjure you, Lovelace,
[tears in her eyes,] to leave me to my fate. In doing so, you will give
me a pleasure the highest I now can know.

Where, my dearest life----

No matter where. I will leave to Providence, when I am out of this
house, the direction of my future steps. I am sensible enough of my
destitute condition. I know that I have not now a friend in the world.
Even Miss Howe has given me up--or you are--But I would fain keep my
temper!--By your means I have lost them all--and you have been a
barbarous enemy to me. You know you have.

She paused.

I could not speak.

The evils I have suffered, proceeded she, [turning from me,] however
irreparable, are but temporarily evils. Leave me to my hopes of being
enabled to obtain the Divine forgiveness for the offence I have been
drawn in to give to my parents and to virtue; that so I may avoid the
evils that are more than temporary. This is now all I have to wish
for. And what is it that I demand, that I have not a right to, and
from which it is an illegal violence to withhold me?

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