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  Upon serious consideration, for indeed now I began to consider things very seriously, and never till now, I resolved to tell him of it first; and it was not long before I had an opportunity, for the very next day his brother went to London upon some business, and the family being out a-visiting, just as it happened before and as indeed was often the case, he came according to his custom to spend an hour or two with Mrs. Betty.

  When he had sat down awhile, he easily perceived there was an alteration in my countenance, that I was not so free and pleasant with him as I used to be and, particularly, that I had been a-crying; he was not long before he took notice of it and asked me in very kind terms what was the matter and if anything troubled me. I would have put it off if I could, but it was not to be concealed; so after suffering many importunities to draw that out of me, which I longed as much as possible to disclose, I told him that it was true something did trouble me, and something of such a nature that I could hardly conceal from him, and yet that I could not tell how to tell him of it neither; that it was a thing that not only surprised me, but greatly perplexed me, and that I knew not what course to take unless he would direct me. He told me with great tenderness that, let it be what it would, I should not let it trouble me, for he would protect me from all the world.

  I then began at a distance and told him I was afraid the ladies had got some secret information of our correspondence; for that it was easy to see that their conduct was very much changed towards me, and that now it was come to pass that they frequently found fault with me and sometimes fell quite out with me, though I never gave them the least occasion; that whereas I used always to lie with the eldest sister, I was lately put to lie by myself or with one of the maids; and that I had overheard them several times talking very unkindly about me; but that which confirmed it all was that one of the servants had told me that she had heard I was to be turned out, and that it was not safe for the family that I should be any longer in the house.

  He smiled when he heard of this, and I asked him how he could make so light of it when he must needs know that if there was any discovery I was undone, and that it would hurt him, though not ruin him, as it would me. I upbraided him that he was like the rest of his sex; that when they had the character of a woman at their mercy, oftentimes made it their jest, and at least looked upon it as a trifle, and counted the ruin of those they had had their will of as a thing of no value.

  He saw me warm and serious, and he changed his style immediately; he told me he was sorry I should have such a thought of him; that he had never given me the least occasion for it, but had been as tender of my reputation as he could be of his own; that he was sure our correspondence had been managed with so much address that not one creature in the family had so much as a suspicion of it; that if he smiled when I told him my thoughts, it was at the assurance he lately received that our understanding one another was not so much as guessed at, and that when he had told me how much reason he had to be easy, I should smile as he did, for he was very certain it would give me a full satisfaction.

  “This is a mystery I cannot understand,” says I, “or how it should be to my satisfaction that I am to be turned out-of-doors; for if our correspondence is not discovered, I know not what else I have done to change the faces of the whole family to me, who formerly used me with so much tenderness as if I had been one of their own children.”

  “Why, look you, child,” says he, “that they are uneasy about you, that is true; but that they have the least suspicion of the case as it is, and as it respects you and I, is so far from being true that they suspect my brother, Robin; and in short, they are fully persuaded he makes love to you; nay, the fool has put it into their heads too himself, for he is continually bantering them about it and making a jest of himself. I confess I think he is wrong to do so, because he cannot but see it vexes them and makes them unkind to you; but ’tis a satisfaction to me because of the assurance it gives me that they do not suspect me in the least, and I hope this will be to your satisfaction too.”

  “So it is,” says I, “one way; but this does not reach my case at all, nor is this the chief thing that troubles me, though I have been concerned about that too.” “What is it, then?” says he. With which I fell into tears and could say nothing to him at all. He strove to pacify me all he could, but began at last to be very pressing upon me to tell what it was. At last I answered that I thought I ought to tell him too and that he had some right to know it; besides, that I wanted his direction in the case, for I was in such perplexity that I knew not what course to take, and then I related the whole affair to him. I told him how imprudently his brother had managed himself in making himself so public; for that if he had kept it a secret, I could but have denied him positively without giving any reason for it, and he would in time have ceased his solicitations; but that he had the vanity, first, to depend upon it that I would not deny him, and then had taken the freedom to tell his design to the whole house.

  I told him how far I had resisted him and how sincere and honourable his offers were; “but,” says I, “my case will be doubly hard; for as they carry it ill to me now because he desires to have me, they’ll carry it worse when they shall find I have denied him; and they will presently say there’s something else in it and that I am married already to somebody else, or that I would never refuse a match so much above me as this was.”

  This discourse surprised him indeed very much. He told me that it was a critical point indeed for me to manage, and he did not see which way I should get out of it; but he would consider of it and let me know next time we met what resolution he was come to about it; and in the meantime desired I would not give my consent to his brother nor yet give him a flat denial, but that I would hold him in suspense awhile.

  I seemed to start at his saying I should not give him my consent. I told him he knew very well I had no consent to give; that he had engaged himself to marry me and that I was thereby engaged to him; that he had all along told me I was his wife, and I looked upon myself as effectually so as if the ceremony had passed; and that it was from his own mouth that I did so, he having all along persuaded me to call myself his wife.

  “Well, my dear,” says he, “don’t be concerned at that now; if I am not your husband, I’ll be as good as a husband to you; and do not let those things trouble you now, but let me look a little farther into this affair, and I shall be able to say more next time we meet.”

  He pacified me as well as he could with this, but I found he was very thoughtful, and that though he was very kind to me, and kissed me a thousand times and more I believe, and gave me money too, yet he offered no more all the while we were together, which was above two hours, and which I much wondered at, considering how it used to be and what opportunity we had.

  His brother did not come from London for five or six days, and it was two days more before he got an opportunity to talk with him; but then, getting him by himself, he talked very close to him about it, and the same evening found means (for we had a long conference together) to repeat all their discourse to me, which as near as I can remember was to the purpose following. He told him he heard strange news of him since he went, viz., that he made love to Mrs. Betty. “Well,” says his brother a little angrily, “and what then? What has anybody to do with that?” “Nay,” says his brother, “don’t be angry, Robin; I don’t pretend to have anything to do with it, but I find they do concern themselves about it and that they have used the poor girl ill about it, which I should take as done to myself.” “Who do you mean by they?” says Robin. “I mean my mother and the girls,” says the elder brother.

  “But hark ye,” says his brother, “are you in earnest? Do you really love the girl?” “Why, then,” says Robin, “I will be free with you; I do love her above all the women in the world, and I will have her, let them say and do what they will. I believe the girl will not deny me.”

  It stuck me to the heart when he told me this, for though it was most rational to think I would not deny him, yet I knew in
my own conscience I must, and I saw my ruin in my being obliged to do so; but I knew it was my business to talk otherwise then, so I interrupted him in his story thus: “Ay!” said I. “Does he think I cannot deny him? But he shall find I can deny him for all that.” “Well, my dear,” says he, “but let me give you the whole story as it went on between us, and then say what you will.”

  Then he went on and told me that he replied thus: “But, brother, you know she has nothing, and you may have several ladies with good fortunes.” “’Tis no matter for that,” said Robin; “I love the girl, and I will never please my pocket in marrying and not please my fancy.” “And so, my dear,” adds he, “there is no opposing him.”

  “Yes, yes,” says I, “I can oppose him; I have learnt to say no now though I had not learnt it before; if the best lord in the land offered me marriage now, I could very cheerfully say no to him.”

  “Well, but, my dear,” says he, “what can you say to him? You know, as you said before, he will ask you many questions about it, and all the house will wonder what the meaning of it should be.”

  “Why,” says I, smiling, “I can stop all their mouths at one clap by telling him and them too that I am married already to his elder brother.”

  He smiled a little too at the word, but I could see it startled him, and he could not hide the disorder it put him into. However, he returned, “Why, though that may be true in some sense, yet I suppose you are but in jest when you talk of giving such an answer as that; it may not be convenient on many accounts.”

  “No, no,” says I pleasantly, “I am not so fond of letting that secret come out without your consent.”

  “But what, then, can you say to them,” says he, “when they find you positive against a match which would be apparently so much to your advantage?” “Why,” says I, “should I be at a loss? First, I am not obliged to give them any reason; on the other hand, I may tell them I am married already and stop there, and that will be a full stop too to him, for he can have no reason to ask one question after it.”

  “Aye,” says he, “but the whole house will tease you about that, and if you deny them positively, they will be disobliged at you and suspicious besides.”

  “Why,” says I, “what can I do? What would you have me do? I was in strait enough before, as I told you, and acquainted you with the circumstances that I might have your advice.”

  “My dear,” says he, “I have been considering very much upon it, you may be sure, and though the advice has many mortifications in it to me and may at first seem strange to you, yet, all things considered, I see no better way for you than to let him go on, and if you find him hearty and in earnest, marry him.”

  I gave him a look full of horror at those words and, turning pale as death, was at the very point of sinking down out of the chair I sat in when, giving a start, “My dear,” says he aloud, “what’s the matter with you? Where are you a-going?” and a great many such things; and with jogging and calling to me, fetched me a little to myself, though it was a good while before I fully recovered my senses, and was not able to speak for several minutes.

  When I was fully recovered he began again. “My dear,” says he, “I would have you consider seriously of it. You may see plainly how the family stand in this case, and they would be stark mad if it was my case, as it is my brother’s; and for aught I see, it would be my ruin and yours too.”

  “Ay!” says I, still speaking angrily. “Are all your protestations and vows to be shaken by the dislike of the family? Did I not always object that to you, and you made a light thing of it, as what you were above and would not value; and is it come to this now? Is this your faith and honour, your love, and the solidity of your promises?”

  He continued perfectly calm, notwithstanding all my reproaches, and I was not sparing of them at all; but he replied at last, “My dear, I have not broken one promise with you yet; I did tell you I would marry you when I was come to my estate; but you see my father is a hale, healthy man, and may live these thirty years still and not be older than several are round us in the town; and you never proposed my marrying you sooner because you know it might be my ruin; and as to the rest, I have not failed you in anything.”

  I could not deny a word of this. “But why, then,” says I, “can you persuade me to such a horrid step as leaving you since you have not left me? Will you allow no affection, no love, on my side, where there has been so much on your side? Have I made you no returns? Have I given no testimony of my sincerity and of my passion? Are the sacrifices I have made of honour and modesty to you no proof of my being tied to you in bonds too strong to be broken?”

  “But here, my dear,” says he, “you may come into a safe station and appear with honour, and the remembrance of what we have done may be wrapt up in an eternal silence, as if it had never happened; you shall always have my sincere affection; only then it shall be honest and perfectly just to my brother; you shall be my dear sister, as now you are my dear—” And there he stopped.

  “Your dear whore,” says I, “you would have said, and you might as well have said it; but I understand you. However, I desire you to remember the long discourses you have had with me, and the many hours’ pain you have taken to persuade me to believe myself an honest woman; that I was your wife intentionally and that it was as effectual a marriage that had passed between us as if we had been publicly wedded by the parson of the parish. You know these have been your own words to me.”

  I found this was a little too close upon him, but I made it up in what follows. He stood stock still for a while and said nothing, and I went on thus: “You cannot,” says I, “without the highest injustice, believe that I yielded upon all these persuasions without a love not to be questioned, not to be shaken again by anything that could happen afterward. If you have such dishonourable thoughts of me, I must ask you what foundation have I given for such a suggestion.

  “If, then, I have yielded to the importunities of my affection, and if I have been persuaded to believe that I am really your wife, shall I now give the lie to all those arguments and call myself your whore or mistress, which is the same thing? And will you transfer me to your brother? Can you transfer my affection? Can you bid me cease loving you and bid me love him? Is it in my power, think you, to make such a change at demand? No, sir,” said I, “depend upon it, ’tis impossible, and whatever the change on your side may be, I will ever be true; and I had much rather, since it is come that unhappy length, be your whore than your brother’s wife.”

  He appeared pleased and touched with the impression of this last discourse and told me that he stood where he did before; that he had not been unfaithful to me in any one promise he had ever made yet, but that there were so many terrible things presented themselves to his view in the affair before me that he had thought of the other as a remedy, only that he thought this would not be an entire parting us, but we might love as friends all our days and perhaps with more satisfaction than we should in the station we were now in; that he durst say I could not apprehend anything from him as to betraying a secret which could not but be the destruction of us both if it came out; that he had but one question to ask of me that could lie in the way of it, and if that question was answered, he could not but think still it was the only step I could take.

  I guessed at his question presently, viz., whether I was not with child. As to that, I told him he need not be concerned about it, for I was not with child. “Why, then, my dear,” says he, “we have no time to talk farther now. Consider of it; I cannot but be of the opinion still that it will be the best course you can take.” And with this he took his leave, and the more hastily too, his mother and sisters ringing at the gate just at the moment he had risen up to go.

  He left me in the utmost confusion of thought; and he easily perceived it the next day and all of the rest of the week, but he had no opportunity to come at me all that week till the Sunday after, when I, being indisposed, did not go to church, and he, making some excuse, stayed at home.

 
And now he had me an hour and half again by myself, and we fell into the same arguments all over again; at last I asked him warmly what opinion he must have of my modesty that he could suppose I should so much as entertain a thought of lying with two brothers, and assured him it could never be. I added, if he was to tell me that he would never see me more, than which nothing but death could be more terrible, yet I could never entertain a thought so dishonourable to myself and so base to him; and therefore I entreated him if he had one grain of respect or affection left for me, that he would speak no more of it to me or that he would pull his sword out and kill me. He appeared surprised at my obstinacy, as he called it; told me I was unkind to myself and unkind to him in it; that it was a crisis unlooked for upon us both, but that he did not see any other way to save us both from ruin, and therefore he thought it the more unkind; but that if he must say no more of it to me, he added with an unusual coldness that he did not know anything else we had to talk of; and so he rose up to take his leave. I rose up too, as if with the same indifference; but when he came to give me, as it were, a parting kiss, I burst out into such a passion of crying that though I would have spoke, I could not, and only pressing his hand, seemed to give him the adieu, but cried vehemently.

  He was sensibly moved with this; so he sat down again and said a great many kind things to me, but still urged the necessity of what he had proposed; all the while insisting that if I did refuse, he would notwithstanding provide for me; but letting me plainly see that he would decline me in the main point—nay, even as a mistress; making it a point of honour not to lie with the woman that, for aught he knew, might one time or other come to be his brother’s wife.