.

    ‘Yes, yes,’ says I, ‘you shall see 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 when we talked of it before, he well 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 the secret come out without your consent.’

    ‘But what, then, can you say to him, or 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 of all, I am not obliged to give me any reason at all; 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.’

    ‘Ay,’ says he; ‘but the whole house will tease you about that, even to father and mother, and if you deny them positively, they will be disobliged at you, and suspicious besides.’

    ‘Why,’ says I, ‘what can I do? What would have me do? I was in straight enough before, and as I told you, I was in perplexity before, 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 it is a piece of advice that has a great 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 called 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 more.

        When I was fully recovered he began again. ‘My dear,’ says he, ‘what made you so surprised at what I said? 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 light thing of it, as what you were above, and would value; and is it come to this now?’ said I. ‘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 town; and you never proposed my marrying you sooner, because you knew it might be my ruin; and as to all the rest, I have not failed you in anything, you have wanted for nothing.’

        I could not deny a word of this, and had nothing to say to it in general. ‘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 with splendor at once, 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 respect, and 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 if you had gone on, 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’ pains you have taken to persuade me to believe myself an honest woman; that I was your wife intentionally, though not in the eyes of the world, and that it was as effectual a marriage that had passed between us as is we had been publicly wedded by the parson of the parish. You know and cannot but remember that 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 in any of my behaviour 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, and in the essence of the thing, 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? It is 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 of 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, and that on my account in particular, that he had thought of the other as a remedy so effectual as nothing could come up to it. That he thought this would not be 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, as things might happen; 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 in the negative, he could not but think still it was the only step I could take.

        I guessed at his question presently, namely, whether I was sure 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 further now. Consider of it, and think closely about 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 that 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 the rest of the week, for it was but Tuesday evening when we talked; 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 for the like, stayed at home.

        And now he had me an hour and a half again by myself, and we fell into the same arguments all over again, or at least so near the same, as it would be to no purpose to repeat them. 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, and impossible for either of us to foresee, 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, to abate the excess of my passion, 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 come to be his brother’s wife.

        The bare loss of him as a gallant was not so much my affliction as the loss of his person, whom indeed I loved to distraction; and the loss of all the expectations I had, and which I always had built my hopes upon, of having him one day for my husband. These things oppressed my mind so much, that, in short, I fell very ill; the agonies of my mind, in a word, threw me into a high fever, and long it was, that none in the family expected my life.

        I was reduced very low indeed, and was often delirious and light-headed; but nothing lay so near me as the fear that, when I was light-headed, I should say something or other to his prejudice. I was distressed in my mind also to see him, and so he was to see me, for he really loved me most passionately; but it could not be; there was not the least room to desire it on one side or other, or so much as to make it decent.

        It was near five weeks that I kept my bed and though the violence of my fever abated in three weeks, yet it several times returned; and the physicians said two or three times, they could do no more for me, but that they must leave nature and the distemper to fight it out, only strengthening the first with cordials to maintain the struggle. After the end of five weeks I grew better, but was so weak, so altered, so melancholy, and recovered so slowly, that they physicians apprehended I should go into a consumption; and which vexed me most, they gave it as their opinion that my mind was oppressed, that something troubled me, and, in short, that I was in love. Upon this, the whole house was set upon me to examine me, and to press me to tell whether I was in love or not, and with whom; but as I well might, I denied my being in love at all.

        They had on this occasion a squabble one day about me at table, that had like to have put the whole family in an uproar, and for some time did so. They happened to be all at table but the father; as for me, I was ill, and in my chamber. At the beginning of the talk, which was just as they had finished their dinner, the old gentlewoman, who had sent me somewhat to eat, called her maid to go up and ask me if I would have any more; but the maid brought down word I had not eaten half what she had sent me already.

    ‘Alas, says the old lady, ‘that poor girl! I am afraid she will never be well.’

    ‘Well!’ says the elder brother, ‘how should Mrs. Betty be well? They say she is in love.’

    ‘I believe nothing of it,’ says the old gentlewoman.

    ‘I don’t know,’ says the eldest sister, ‘what to say to it; they have made such a rout about her being so handsome, and so charming, and I know not what, and that in her hearing too, that has turned the creature’s head, I believe, and who knows what possessions may follow such doings? For my part, I don’t know what to make of it.’

    ‘Why, sister, you must acknowledge she is very handsome,’ says the elder brother.’

    ‘Ay, and a great deal handsomer than you, sister,’ says Robin, ‘and that’s your mortification.’

    ‘Well, well, that is not the question,’ says his sister; ‘that girl is well enough, and she knows it well enough; she need not be told of it to make her vain.’

    ‘We are not talking of her being vain,’ says the elder brother, ‘but of her being in love; it may be she is in love with herself; it seems my sisters think so.’

    ‘I would she was in love with me,’ says Robin; ‘I’d quickly put her out of her pain.’

    ‘What d’ye mean by that, son,’ says the old lady; ‘how can you talk so?’

    ‘Why, madam,’ says Robin, again, very honestly, ‘do you think I’d let the poor girl die for love, and of one that is near at hand to be had, too?’

    ‘Fie, brother!’, says the second sister, ‘how can you talk so? Would you take a creature that has not a groat in the world?’

    ‘Prithee, child,’ says Robin, ‘beauty’s a portion, and good humour with it is a double portion; I wish thou hadst half her stock of both for thy portion.’ So there was her mouth stopped.

    ‘I find,’ says the eldest sister, ‘if Betty is not in love, my brother is. I wonder he has not broke his mind to Betty; I warrant she won’t say No.’

    ‘They that yield when they’re asked,’ says Robin, ‘are one step before them that were never asked to yield, sister, and two steps before them that yield before they are asked; and that’s an answer to you, sister.’

        This fired the sister, and she flew into a passion, and said, things were some to that pass that it was time the wench, meaning me, was out of the family; and but that she was not fit to be turned out, she hoped her father and mother would consider of it as soon as she could be removed.

        Robin replied, that was business for the master and mistress of the family, who where not to be taught by one that had so little judgment as his eldest sister.

        It ran up a great deal farther; the sister scolded, Robin rallied and bantered, but poor Betty lost ground by it extremely in the family. I heard of it, and I cried heartily, and the old lady came up to me, somebody having told her that I was so much concerned about it. I complained to her, that it was very hard the doctors should pass such a censure upon me, for which they had no ground; and that it was still harder, considering the circumstances I was under in the family; that I hoped I had done nothing to lessen her esteem for me, or given any occasion for the bickering between her sons and daughters, and I had more need to think of a coffin than of being in love, and begged she would not let me suffer in her opinion for anybody’s mistakes but my own.

        She was sensible of the justice of what I said, but told me, since there had been such a clamour among them, and that her younger son talked after such a rattling way as he did, she desired I would be so faithful to her as to answer her but one question sincerely. I told her I would, with all my heart, and with the utmost plainness and sincerity. Why, then, the question was, whether there way anything between her son Robert and me. I told her with all the protestations of sincerity that I was able to make, and as I might well, do, that there was not, nor every had been; I told her that Mr. Robert had rattled and jested, as she knew it was his way, and that I took it always, as I supposed he meant it, to be a wild airy way of discourse that had no signification in it; and again assured her, that there was not the least tittle of what she understood by it between us; and that those who had suggested it had done me a great deal of wrong, and Mr. Robert no service at all.

        The old lady was fully satisfied, and kissed me, spoke cheerfully to me, and bid me take care of my health and want for nothing, and so took her leave. But when she came down she found the brother and all his sisters together by the ears; they were angry, even to passion, at his upbraiding them with their being homely, and having never had any sweethearts, never having been asked the question, and their being so forward as almost to ask first. He rallied them upon the subject of Mrs. Betty; how pretty, how good-humoured, how she sung better then they did, and danced better, and how much handsomer she was; and in doing this he omitted no ill-natured thing that could vex them, and indeed, pushed too hard upon them. The old lady came down in the height of it, and to put a stop it to, told them all the discourse she had had with me, and how I answered, that there was nothing between Mr. Robert and I.

    ‘She’s wrong there,’ says Robin, ‘for if there was not a great deal between us, we should be closer together than we are. I told her I lover her hugely,’ says he, ‘but I could never make the jade believe I was in earnest.’ ‘I do not know how you should,’ says his mother; ‘nobody in their senses could believe you were in earnest, to talk so to a poor girl, whose circumstances you know so well.

        ‘But prithee, son,’ adds she, ‘since you tell me that you could not make her believe you were in earnest, what must we believe about it? For you ramble so in your discourse, that nobody knows whether you are in earnest or in jest; but as I find the girl, by your own confession, has answered truly, I wish you would do so too, and tell me seriously, so that I may depend upon it. Is there anything in it or no? Are you in earnest or no? Are you distracted, indeed, or are you not? ’Tis a weighty question, and I wish you would make us easy about it.’

    ‘By my faith, madam,’ says Robin, ‘’tis in vain to mince the matter or tell any more lies about it; I am in earnest, as much as a man is that’s going to be hanged. If Mrs. Betty would say she loved me, and that she would marry me, I’d have her tomorrow morning fasting, and say, ‘To have and to hold,’ instead of eating my breakfast.’

        ‘Well,’ says the mother, ‘then there’s one son lost’; and she said it in a very mournful tone, as one greatly concerned at it.

    ‘I hope not, madam,’ says Robin; ‘no man is lost when a good wife has found him.’

    ‘Why, but, child,’ says the old lady, ‘she is a beggar.’

    ‘Why, then, madam, she has the more need of charity,’ says Robin; ‘I’ll take her off the hands of the parish, and she and I’ll beg together.’

    ‘It’s bad jesting with such things,’ says the mother.

    ‘I don’t jest, madam,’ says Robin. ‘We’ll come and beg your pardon, madam; and your blessing, madam, and my father’s.’

    ‘This is all out of the way, son,’ says the mother. ‘If you are in earnest you are undone.’

    ‘I am afraid not,’ says he, ‘for I am really afraid she won’t have me; after all my sister’s huffing and blustering, I believe I shall never be able to persuade her to it.’

    ‘That’s a fine tale, indeed; she is not so far out of her senses neither. Mrs. Betty is no fool,’ says the younger sister. ‘Do you think she has learnt to say No, any more than other people?’

    ‘No, Mrs. Mirth-wit,’ says Robin, ‘Mrs. Betty’s no fool; but Mrs. Betty may be engaged some other way, and what then?’

    ‘Nay,’ says the eldest sister, ‘we can say nothing to that. Who must it be to, then? She is never out of the doors; it must be between you.’

    ‘I have nothing to say to that,’ says Robin. ‘I have been examined enough; there’s my brother. If it must be between us, go to work with him.’

        This stung the elder brother to the quick, and he concluded that Robin had discovered something. However, he kept himself from appearing disturbed. ‘Prithee,’ says he, ‘don’t go to shame your stories off upon me; I tell you, I deal in no such ware; I have nothing to say to Mrs. Betty, nor to any of the Mrs. Betty’s in the parish’; and with that he rose up and brushed off.

    ‘No,’ says the eldest sister, ‘I dare answer for my brother; he knows the world better.’

        Thus the discourse ended, but it left the elder brother quite confounded. He concluded his brother had made a full discovery, and he began to doubt whether I had been concerned in it or not; but with all his management he could not bring it about to get at me. At last he was so perplexed that he was quite desperate, and resolved he would come into my chamber and see me, whatever came of it. In order to do this, he contrived it so, that one day after dinner, watching his eldest sister till he could see her go upstairs, he runs after her. ‘Hark ye, sister,’ says he, ‘where is this sick woman? May not a body see her?’ ‘Yes,’ says the sister, ‘I believe you may; but let me go first a little, and I’ll tell you.’ So she ran up to the door and gave me notice, and presently called to him again. ‘Brother,’ says she, ‘you may come if you please.’ So in he came, just in the same kind of rant. ‘Well,’ says he at the door as he came in, ‘where is this sick body that’s in love? How do ye do, Mrs. Betty?’ I would have got up out of my chair, but was so weak I could not for a good while; and he saw it, and his sister to, and she said, ‘Come, do not strive to stand up; my brother desires no ceremony, especially now you are so weak.’ ‘No, no, Mrs. Betty, pray sit still,’ says he, and so sits himself down in a chair over against me, and appeared as if he was mighty merry.

        He talked a lot of rambling stuff to his sister and to me, sometimes of one thing, sometimes of another, on purpose to amuse his sister, and every now and then would turn it upon the old story, directing it to me. ‘Poor Mrs. Betty,’ says he, ‘it is a sad thing to be in love; why, it has reduced you sadly.’ At last I spoke a little. ‘I am glad to see you so merry, sir,’ says I; ‘but I think the doctor might have found something better to do than to make his game at his patients. If I had been ill of no other distemper, I know the proverb too well to have let him come to me.’ ‘What proverb?’ says he, ‘Oh! I remember it now. What—

        Is not that it, Mrs. Betty?’ I smiled and said nothing. ‘Nay,’ says he, ‘I think the effect has proved it to be love, for it seems the doctor has been able to do you but little service; you mend very slowly, they say. I doubt there’s somewhat in it, Mrs. Betty; I doubt you are sick of the incureables, and that is love.’ I smiled and said, ‘No, indeed, sir, that’s none of my distemper.’

        We had a deal of such discourse, and sometimes others that signified as little. By and by he asked me to sing them a song, at which I smiled, and said my singing days were over. At last he asked me if he should play upon his flute to me; his sister said she believe it would hurt me, and that my head could not bear it. I bowed, and said, No, it would not hurt me. ‘And, pray, madam.’ said I, ‘do not hinder it; I love the music of the flute very much.’ Then his sister said, ‘Well, do, then, brother.’ With that he pulled out the key of his closet. ‘Dear sister,’ says he, ‘I am very lazy; do step to my closet and fetch my flute; it lies in such a drawer,’ naming a place where he was sure it was not, that she might be a little while a-looking for it.

        As soon as she was gone, he related the whole story to me of the discourse his brother had about me, and of his pushing it at him, and his concern about it, which was the reason of his contriving this visit to me. I assured him I had never opened my mouth either to his brother or to anybody else. I told him the dreadful exigence I was in; that my love to him, and his offering to have me forget that affection and remove it to another, had thrown me down; and that I had a thousand times wished I might die rather than recover, and to have the same circumstances to struggle with as I had before, and that his backwardness to life had been the great reason of the slowness of my recovering. I added that I foresaw that as soon as I was well, I must quit the family, and that as for marrying his brother, I abhorred the thoughts of it after what had been my case with him, and that he might depend upon it I would never see his brother again upon that subject; that if he would break all his vows and oaths and engagements with me, be that between his conscience and his honour and himself; but he should never be able to say that I, whom he had persuaded to call myself his wife, and who had given him the liberty to use me as a wife, was not as faithful to him as a wife ought to be, whatever he might be to me.

        He was going to reply, and had said that he was sorry I could not be persuaded, and was a-going to say more, but he heard his sister a-coming, and so did I; and yet I forced out these few words as a reply, that I could never be persuaded to love one brother and marry another. He shook his head and said, ‘Then I am ruined,’ meaning himself; and that moment his sister entered the room and told him she could not find the flute. ‘Well,’ says he merrily, ‘this laziness won’t do’; so he gets up and goes himself to go to look for it, but comes back without it too; not but that he could have found it, but because his mind was a little disturbed, and he had no mind to play; and, besides, the errand he sent his sister on was answered another way; for he only wanted an opportunity to speak to me, which he gained, though not much to his satisfaction.

        I had, however, a great deal of satisfaction in having spoken my mind to him with freedom, and with such an honest plainness, as I have related; and though it did not at all work the way I desired, that is to say, to oblige the person to me the more, yet it took from him all possibility of quitting me but by a downright breach of honour, and giving up all the faith of a gentleman to me, which he had so often engaged by, never to abandon me, but to make me his wife as soon as he came to his estate.

        It was not many weeks after this before I was about the house again, and began to grow well; but I continued melancholy, silent, dull, and retired, which amazed the whole family, except he that knew the reason of it; yet it was a great while before he took any notice of it, and I, as backward to speak as he, carried respectfully to him, but never offered to speak a word to him that was particular of any kind whatsoever; and this continued for sixteen or seventeen weeks; so that, as I expected every day to be dismissed the family, on account of what distaste they had taken another way, in which I had no guilt, so I expected to hear no more of this gentleman, after all his solemn vows and protestations, but to be ruined and abandoned.

        At last I broke the way myself in the family for my removing; for being talking seriously with the old lady one day, about my own circumstances in the world, and how my distemper had left a heaviness upon my spirits, that I was not the same thing I was before, the old lady said, ‘I am afraid, Betty, what I have said to you about my son has had some influence upon you, and that you are melancholy on his account; pray, will you let me know how the matter stands with you both, if it may not be improper? For, as for Robin, he does nothing but rally and banter when I speak of it to him.’ ‘Why, truly, madam,’ said I ‘that matter stands as I wish it did not, and I shall be very sincere with you in it, whatever befalls me for it. Mr. Robert has several times proposed marriage to me, which is what I had no reason to expect, my poor circumstances considered; but I have always resisted him, and that perhaps in terms more positive than became me, considering the regard that I ought to have for every branch of your family; but,’ said I, ‘madam, I could never so far forget my obligation to you and all your house, to offer to consent to a thing which I know must needs be disobliging to you, and this I have made my argument to him, and have positively told him that I would never entertain a though of that kind unless I had your consent, and his father’s also, to whom I was bound by so many invincible obligations.’

        ‘And is this possible, Mrs. Betty?’ says the old lady. ‘Then you have been much juster to us than we have been to you; for we have all looked upon you as a kind of snare to my son, and I had a proposal to make to you for your removing, for fear of it; but I had not yet mentioned it to you, because I thought you were not thorough well, and I was afraid of grieving you too much, lest it should throw you down again; for we have all a respect for you still, though not so much as to have it be the ruin of my son; but if it be as you say, we have all wronged you very much.’

        ‘As to the truth of what I say, madam,’ said I, ‘refer you to your son himself; if he will do me any justice, he must tell you the story just as I have told it.’

        Away goes the old lady to her daughters and tells them the whole story, just as I had told it her; and they were surprised at it, you may be sure, as I believed they would be. One said she could never have thought it; another said Robin was a fool; a third said she would not believe a word of it, and she would warrant that Robin would tell the story another way. But the old gentlewoman, who was resolved to go to the bottom of it before I could have the least opportunity of acquainting her son with what had passed, resolved too that she would talk with her son immediately, and to that purpose sent for him, for he was gone but to a lawyer’s house in the town, upon some petty business of his own, and upon her sending, he returned immediately.