Here I stopt.  She was silent.  I proceeded—­Have you no commission to employ me in; deserted as you are by all your friends; among strangers, though I doubt not, worthy people?  Cannot I be serviceable by message, by letter-writing, by attending personally, with either message or letter, your father, your uncles, your brother, your sister, Miss Howe, Lord M., or the Ladies his sisters?—­any office to be employed to serve you, absolutely independent of my friend’s wishes, or of my own wishes to oblige him?—­Think, Madam, if I cannot?

I thank you, Sir:  very heartily I thank you:  but in nothing that I can at present think of, or at least resolve upon, can you do me service.  I will see what return the letter I have written will bring me.—­Till then ——­

My life and my fortune, interrupted I, are devoted to your service.  Permit me to observe, that here you are, without one natural friend; and (so much do I know of your unhappy case) that you must be in a manner destitute of the means to make friends——­

She was going to interrupt me, with a prohibitory kind of earnestness in her manner.

I beg leave to proceed, Madam:  I have cast about twenty ways how to mention this before, but never dared till now.  Suffer me now, that I have broken the ice, to tender myself—­as your banker only.—­I know you will not be obliged:  you need not.  You have sufficient of your own, if it were in your hands; and from that, whether you live or die, will I consent to be reimbursed.  I do assure you, that the unhappy man shall never know either my offer, or your acceptance—­Only permit me this small ——­

And down behind her chair dropt a bank note of 100L. which I had brought with me, intending some how or other to leave it behind me:  nor shouldst thou ever have known it, had she favoured me with the acceptance of it; as I told her.

You give me great pain, Mr. Belford, said she, by these instances of your humanity.  And yet, considering the company I have seen you in, I am not sorry to find you capable of such.  Methinks I am glad, for the sake of human nature, that there could be but one such man in the world, as he you and I know.  But as to your kind offer, whatever it be, if you take it not up, you will greatly disturb me.  I have no need of your kindness.  I have effects enough, which I never can want, to supply my present occasion:  and, if needful, can have recourse to Miss Howe.  I have promised that I would—­So, pray, Sir, urge not upon me this favour.—­Take it up yourself.—­If you mean me peace and ease of mind, urge not this favour.—­And she spoke with impatience.

I beg, Madam, but one word——­

Not one, Sir, till you have taken back what you have let fall.  I doubt not either the honour, or the kindness, of your offer; but you must not say one word more on this subject.  I cannot bear it.

She was stooping, but with pain.  I therefore prevented her; and besought her to forgive me for a tender, which, I saw, had been more discomposing to her than I had hoped (from the purity of my intentions) it would be.  But I could not bear to think that such a mind as her’s should be distressed:  since the want of the conveniencies she was used to abound in might affect and disturb her in the divine course she was in.