Let me go to Hampstead; and trust to my favour.

May I trust to it?—­Say only may I trust to it?

How will you trust to it, if you extort an answer to this question?

Say only, dearest creature, say only, may I trust to your favour, if you go to Hampstead?

How dare you, Sir, if I must speak out, expect a promise of favour from me?—­What a mean creature must you think me, after the ungrateful baseness to me, were I to give you such a promise?

Then standing up, Thou hast made me, O vilest of men! [her hands clasped, and a face crimsoned with indignation,] an inmate of the vilest of houses —­nevertheless, while I am in it, I shall have a heart incapable of any thing but abhorrence of that and of thee!

And round her looked the angel, and upon me, with fear in her sweet aspect of the consequence of her free declaration—­But what a devil must I have been, I who love bravery in a man, had I not been more struck with admiration of her fortitude at the instant, than stimulated by revenge?

Noblest of creatures!—­And do you think I can leave you, and my interest in such an excellence, precarious?  No promise!—­no hope!—­If you make me not desperate, may lightning blast me, if I do you not all the justice ’tis in my power to do you!

If you have any intention to oblige me, leave me at my own liberty, and let me not be detained in this abominable house.  To be constrained as I have been constrained! to be stopt by your vile agents! to be brought up by force, and be bruised in my own defence against such illegal violence!  —­I dare to die, Lovelace—­and she who fears not death, is not to be intimidated into a meanness unworthy of her heart and principles!

Wonderful creature!  But why, Madam, did you lead me to hope for something favourable for next Thursday?—­Once more, make me not desperate —­With all your magnanimity, glorious creature! [I was more than half frantic, Belford,] you may, you may—­but do not, do not make me brutally threaten you—­do not, do not make me desperate!

My aspect, I believe, threatened still more than my words.  I was rising —­She rose—­Mr. Lovelace, be pacified—­you are even more dreadful than the Lovelace I have long dreaded—­let me retire—­I ask your leave to retire—­you really frighten me—­yet I give you no hope—­from my heart I ab——­

Say not, Madam, you abhor me.  You must, for your own sake, conceal your hatred—­at least not avow it.  I seized her hand.

Let me retire—­let me, retire, said she, in a manner out of breath.

I will only say, Madam, that I refer myself to your generosity.  My heart is not to be trusted at this instant.  As a mark of my submission to your will, you shall, if you please, withdraw—­but I will not go to M. Hall—­ live or die my Lord M. I will not go to M. Hall—­but will attend the effect of your promise.  Remember, Madam, you have promised to endeavour to make yourself easy till you see the event of next Thursday—­next Thursday, remember, your uncle comes up, to see us married—­that’s the event.—­You think ill of your Lovelace—­do not, Madam, suffer your own morals to be degraded by the infection, as you called it, of his example.