figure, thought I:] Miss Harlowe, Sir! There is, indeed, such a young lady lodges here—But, but—
But, what, Madam?—I must see her.—One pair of stairs; is it not?— Don't trouble yourself—I shall find her apartment. And was making towards the stairs.
Sir, Sir, the lady, the lady is not at home—she is abroad—she is in the country—
In the country! Not at home!—Impossible! You will not pass this story upon me, good woman. I must see her. I have business of life and death with her.
Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home! Indeed, Sir, she is abroad!—
She then rung a bell: John, cried she, pray step down!—Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home.
Down came John, the good man of the house, when I expected one of his journeymen, by her saucy familiarity.
My dear, said she, the gentleman will not believe Miss Harlowe is abroad.
John bowed to my fine clothes: Your servant, Sir,—indeed the lady is abroad. She went out of town this morning by six o'clock—into the country—by the doctor's advice.
Still I would not believe either John or his wife. I am sure, said I, she cannot be abroad. I heard she was very ill—she is not able to go out in a coach. Do you know Mr. Belford, friend?
Yes, Sir; I have the honour to know 'Squire Belford. He is gone into the country to visit a sick friend. He went on Saturday, Sir.
This had also been told from thy lodgings to Will. whom I sent to desire to see thee on my first coming to town.
Well, and Mr. Belford wrote me word that she was exceeding ill. How then can she be gone out?
O Sir, she is very ill; very ill, indeed—she could hardly walk to the coach.
Belford, thought I, himself knew nothing of the time of my coming; neither can he have received my letter of yesterday: and so ill, 'tis impossible she would go out.
Where is her servant? Call her servant to me.
Her servant, Sir, is her nurse: she has no other. And she is gone with her.
Well, friend, I must not believe you. You'll excuse me; but I must go up stairs myself. And was stepping up.
John hereupon put on a serious, and a less respectful face—Sir, this house is mine; and—
And what, friend? not doubting then but she was above.—I must and will see her. I have authority for it. I am a justice of the peace. I have a search warrant.
And up I went; they following me, muttering, and in a plaguy flutter.
The first door I came to was locked. I tapped at it.
The lady, Sir, has the key of her own apartment.
On the inside, I question not, my honest friend; tapping again. And being assured, if she heard my voice, that her timorous and soft temper would make her betray herself, by some flutters, to my listning ear, I said aloud, I am confident Miss Harlowe is here: dearest Madam, open the door: admit me but for one moment to your presence.
But neither answer nor fluttering saluted my ear; and, the people being very quiet, I led on to the next apartment; and, the key being on the outside, I opened it, and looked all around it, and into the closet.
The mans said he never saw so uncivil a gentleman in his life.
Hark thee, friend, said I; let me advise thee to be a little decent; or I shall teach thee a lesson thou never learnedst in all thy life.
Sir, said he, 'tis not like a gentleman, to affront a man in his own house.
Then prythee, man, replied I, don't crow upon thine own dunghil.
I stept back to the locked door: My dear Miss Harlowe, I beg of you to open the door, or I'll break it open;—pushing hard against it, that it cracked again.
The man looked pale: and, trembling with his fright, made a plaguy long face; and called to one of his bodice-makers above, Joseph, come down quickly.
Joseph came down: a lion's-face grinning fellow; thick, and short, and bushy-headed, like an old oak-pollard. Then did master John put on a sturdier look. But I only hummed a tune, traversed all the other apartments, sounded the passages with my knuckles, to find whether there were private doors, and walked up the next pair of stairs, singing all the way; John and Joseph, and Mrs. Smith, following me up, trembling.
I looked round me there, and went into two open-door bed-chambers; searched the closets, and the passages, and peeped through the key-hole of another: no Miss Harlowe, by Jupiter! What shall I do!—what shall I do! as the girls say.—Now will she be grieved that she is out of the way.
I said this on purpose to find out whether these people knew the lady's story; and had the answer I expected from Mrs. Smith—I believe not, Sir.
Why so, Mrs. Smith? Do you know who I am?
I can guess, Sir.
Whom do you guess me to be?
Your name is Mr. Lovelace, Sir, I make no doubt.
The very same. But how came you to guess so well, dame Smith! You never saw me before, did you?
Here, Jack, I laid out for a compliment, and missed it.
'Tis easy to guess, Sir; for there cannot be two such gentlemen as you.
Well said, dame Smith—but mean you good or bad?—Handsome was the least I thought she would have said.
I leave you to guess, Sir.
Condemned, thought I, by myself, on this appeal.
Why, father Smith, thy wife is a wit, man!—Didst thou ever find that out before?—But where is widow Lovick, dame Smith? My cousin John Belford says she is a very good woman. Is she within? or is she gone with Miss Harlowe too?
She will be within by-and-by, Sir. She is not with the lady.
Well, but my good dear Mrs. Smith, where is the lady gone? and when will she return?
I can't tell, Sir.
Don't tell fibs, dame Smith; don't tell fibs, chucking her under the chin: which made John's upper-lip, with chin shortened, rise to his nose. —I am sure you know!—But here's another pair of stairs: let us see: Who lives up there?—but hold, here's another room locked up, tapping at the door—Who's at home? cried I.
That's Mrs. Lovick's apartment. She is gone out, and has the key with her.
Widow Lovick! rapping again, I believe you are at home: pray open the door.
John and Joseph muttered and whispered together.
No whispering, honest friends: 'tis not manners to whisper. Joseph, what said John to thee?
JOHN!
