of tarrying here always?
I shall not live always.
Do you think you are to stay here as long as you live?
That's as it shall please God, and those who have brought me hither.
Should you like to be at liberty?
I am miserable!—What is liberty to the miserable, but to be more miserable.
How miserable, Miss?—You may make yourself as happy as you please.
I hope you are both happy.
We are.
May you be more and more happy!
But we wish you to be so too.
I shall never be of your opinion, I believe, as to what happiness is.
What do you take our opinion of happiness to be?
To live at Mrs. Sinclair's.
Perhaps, said Sally, we were once as squeamish and narrow-minded as you.
How came it over with you?
Because we saw the ridiculousness of prudery.
Do you come hither to persuade me to hate prudery, as you call it, as much as you do?
We came to offer our service to you.
It is out of your power to serve me.
Perhaps not.
It is not in my inclination to trouble you.
You may be worse offered.
Perhaps I may.
You are mighty short, Miss.
As I wish your visit to be, Ladies.
They owned to me, that they cracked their fans, and laughed.
Adieu, perverse beauty!
Your servant, Ladies.
Adieu, haughty airs!
You see me humbled—
As you deserve, Miss Harlowe. Pride will have a fall.
Better fall, with what you call pride, than stand with meanness.
Who does?
I had once a better opinion of you, Miss Horton!—Indeed you should not insult the miserable.
Neither should the miserable, said Sally, insult people for their civility.
I should be sorry if I did.
Mrs. Sinclair shall attend you by-and-by, to know if you have any commands for her.
I have no wish for any liberty, but that of refusing to see her, and one more person.
What we came for, was to know if you had any proposals to make for your enlargement.
Then, it seems, the officer put in. You have very good friends, Madam, I understand. Is it not better that you make it up? Charges will run high. A hundred and fifty guineas are easier paid than two hundred. Let these ladies bail you, and go along with them; or write to your friends to make it up.
Sally said, There is a gentleman who saw you taken, and was so much moved for you, Miss Harlowe, that he would gladly advance the money for you, and leave you to pay it when you can.
See, Lovelace, what cursed devils these are! This is the way, we know, that many an innocent heart is thrown upon keeping, and then upon the town. But for these wretches thus to go to work with such an angel as this!—How glad would have been the devilish Sally, to have had the least handle to report to thee a listening ear, or patient spirit, upon this hint!
Sir, said she, with high indignation, to the officer, did not you say, last night, that it was as much your business to protect me from the insults of others, as from escaping?—Cannot I be permitted to see whom I please? and to refuse admittance to those I like not?
Your creditors, Madam, will expect to see you.
Not if I declare I will not treat with them.
Then, Madam, you will be sent to prison.
Prison, friend!—What dost thou call thy house?
Not a prison, Madam.
Why these iron-barred windows, then? Why these double locks and bolts all on the outside, none on the in?
And down she dropt into her chair, and they could not get another word from her. She threw her handkerchief over her face, as one before, which was soon wet with tears; and grievously, they own, she sobbed.
Gentle treatment, Lovelace!—Perhaps thou, as well as these wretches, will think it so!
Sally then ordered a dinner, and said, They would soon be back a gain, and see that she eat and drank, as a good christian should, comporting herself to her condition, and making the best of it.
What has not this charming creature suffered, what has she not gone through, in these last three months, that I know of!—Who would think such a delicately-framed person could have sustained what she has sustained! We sometimes talk of bravery, of courage, of fortitude!—Here they are in perfection!—Such bravoes as thou and I should never have been able to support ourselves under half the persecutions, the disappointments, and contumelies, that she has met with; but, like cowards, should have slid out of the world, basely, by some back-door; that is to say, by a sword, by a pistol, by a halter, or knife;—but here is a fine-principled woman, who, by dint of this noble consideration, as I imagine, [What else can support her?] that she has not deserved the evils she contends with; and that this world is designed but as a transitory state of the probation; and that she is travelling to another and better; puts up with all the hardships of the journey; and is not to be diverted from her course by the attacks of thieves and robbers, or any other terrors and difficulties; being assured of an ample reward at the end of it.
If thou thinkest this reflection uncharacteristic from a companion and friend of thine, imaginest thou, that I profited nothing by my long attendance on my uncle in his dying state; and from the pious reflections of the good clergyman, who, day by day, at the poor man's own request, visited and prayed by him?—And could I have another such instance, as this, to bring all these reflections home to me?
Then who can write of good persons, and of good subjects, and be capable of admiring them, and not be made serious for the time? And hence may we gather what a benefit to the morals of men the keeping of good company must be; while those who keep only bad, must necessarily more and more harden, and be hardened.
'Tis twelve of the clock, Sunday night—I can think of nothing but this excellent creature. Her distresses fill my head and my heart. I was drowsy for a quarter of an hour; but the fit is gone off. And I will continue the melancholy subject from the information of these wretches. Enough, I dare say, will arise in the visit I shall make, if admitted to-morrow, to send by thy servant, as to the way I am likely to find her in.
After the women had left her, she complained of her head and her heart; and seemed terrified with apprehensions of being carried once more to Sinclair's.
Refusing any thing for breakfast, Mrs. Rowland came up to her, and told her, (as these wretches owned they had ordered her, for fear she should starve herself,) that she must and should have tea, and bread and butter: and that, as she had friends who could support her, if she wrote to them, it was a wrong thing, both for herself and them, to starve herself thus.
If it be for your own sakes, said she, that is another thing: let coffee, or tea, or chocolate, or what you will, be got: and put down a chicken to my account every day, if you please, and eat it yourselves. I will taste it, if I can. I would do nothing to hinder you. I have friends will pay you liberally, when they know I am gone.
They wondered, they told her, at her strange composure in such distresses.
They were nothing, she