told us we might proceed, for that he had procured a direction: “But,” added he, “it seems there are some thieves hereabouts; and so the best way will be for you to leave your watches and your purses with the farmer, whom I know very well, and who is an honest man, and a tenant of my Lady’s.”
“Thieves!” cried Madame Duval, looking aghast; “the Lord help us! — I’ve no doubt but we shall be all murdered!”
The farmer came up to us, and we gave him all we were worth, and the servants followed our example. We then proceeded; and Madame Duval’s anger so entirely subsided, that, in the mildest manner imaginable, she intreated them to make haste, and promised to tell their Lady how diligent and obliging they had been. She perpetually stopped them, to ask if they apprehended any danger; and was at length so much overpowered by her fears, that she made the footman fasten his horse to the back of the carriage, and then come and seat himself within it. My endeavours to encourage her were fruitless: she sat in the middle, held the man by the arm, and protested that if he did but save her life, she would make his fortune. Her uneasiness gave me much concern, and it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore to acquaint her that she was imposed upon; but the mutual fear of the Captain’s resentment to me, and of her own to him, neither of which would have any moderation, deterred me. As to the footman, he was evidently in torture from restraining his laughter; and I observed that he was frequently obliged to make most horrid grimaces, from pretended fear, in order to conceal his risibility.
Very soon after, “The robbers are coming!” cried the coachman.
The footman opened the door, and jumped out of the chariot.
Madame Duval gave a loud scream.
I could no longer preserve my silence. “For Heaven’s sake, my dear Madame,” said I, “don’t be alarmed — you are in no danger — you are quite safe — there is nothing but —”
Here the chariot was stopped by two men in masks; who at each side put in their hands as if for our purses. Madame Duval sunk to the bottom of the chariot, and implored their mercy. I shrieked involuntarily, although prepared for the attack: one of them held me fast, while the other tore poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, in spite of her cries, threats, and resistance.
I was really frightened, and trembled exceedingly. “My angel!” cried the man who held me, “you cannot surely be alarmed — do you not know me? — I shall hold myself in eternal abhorrence, if I have really terrified you.”
“Indeed, Sir Clement, you have,” cried I:—“but, for Heaven’s sake, where is Madame Duval? — why is she forced away?”
“She is perfectly safe; the Captain has her in charge: but suffer me now, my adored Miss Anville, to take the only opportunity that is allowed me, to speak upon another, a much dearer, much sweeter subject.”
And then he hastily came into the chariot, and seated himself next to me. I would fain have disengaged myself from him, but he would not let me: “Deny me not, most charming of women,” cried he, “deny me not this only moment that is lent me, to pour forth my soul into your gentle ears — to tell you how much I suffer from your absence — how much I dread your displeasure — and how cruelly I am affected by your coldness!”
“O, Sir, this is no time for such language; — pray leave me, pray go to the relief of Madame Duval — I cannot bear that she should be treated with such indignity.”
“And will you — can you command my absence? — When may I speak to you, if not now? — Does the Captain suffer me to breathe a moment out of his sight? — and are not a thousand impertinent people for ever at your elbow?”
“Indeed, Sir Clement, you must change your style, or I will not hear you. The impertinent people you mean are among my best friends; and you would not, if you really wished me well, speak of them so disrespectfully.”
“Wish you well! — O, Miss Anville, point but out to me how, in what manner, I may convince you of the fervour of my passion; — tell me but what services you will accept from me — and you shall find my life, my fortune, my whole soul at your devotion.”
“I want nothing, Sir, that you can offer; — I beg you not to talk to me so — so strangely. Pray leave me; and pray assure yourself you cannot take any method so successless to show any regard for me, as entering into schemes so frightful to Madame Duval, and so disagreeable to myself.”
“The scheme was the Captain’s: I even opposed it: though, I own, I could not refuse myself the so-long-wished-for happiness of speaking to you once more, without so many of — your friends to watch me. And I had flattered myself, that the note I charged the footman to give you, would have prevented the alarm you have received.”
“Well Sir, you have now, I hope, said enough; and, if you will not go yourself to see for Madame Duval, at least suffer me to inquire what is become of her.”
“And when may I speak to you again?”
“No matter when — I don’t know — perhaps —”
“Perhaps what, my angel?”
“Perhaps never, Sir — if you torment me thus.”
“Never! O, Miss Anville, how cruel, how piercing to my soul is that icy word! — Indeed I cannot endure such displeasure.”
“Then, Sir, you must not provoke it. Pray leave me directly.”
“I will Madam: but let me, at least, make a merit of my obedience — allow me to hope that you will, in future, be less averse to trusting yourself for a few moments alone with me”
I was surprised at the freedom of this request: but, while I hesitated how to answer it, the other mask came up to the chariot-door, and, in a voice almost stifled with laughter said, “I’ve done for her! — the old buck is safe; — but we must sheer off directly, or we shall be all ground.”
Sir Clement instantly left me, mounted his horse, and rode off. The Captain having given some directions to the servants, followed him.
I was both uneasy and impatient to know the fate of Madame Duval, and immediately got out of the chariot to seek her. I desired the footman to show me which way she was gone; he pointed with his finger by way of answer, and I saw that he dared not trust his voice to make any other. I walked on at a very quick pace, and soon, to my great consternation, perceived the poor lady seated upright in a ditch. I flew to her with unfeigned concern at her situation. She was sobbing, nay, almost roaring, and in the utmost agony of rage and terror. As soon as she saw me, she redoubled her cries; but her voice was so broken, I could not understand a word she said. I was so much shocked, that it was with difficulty I forebore exclaiming against the cruelty of the Captain for thus wantonly ill-treating her; and I could not forgive myself for having passively suffered the deception. I used my utmost endeavours to comfort her, assuring her of our present safety, and begging her to rise and return to the chariot.
Almost bursting with passion, she pointed to her feet, and with frightful violence she actually tore the ground with her hands.
I then saw that her feet were tied together with a strong rope, which was fastened to the upper branch of a tree, even with a hedge which ran along the ditch where she sat. I endeavoured to untie the knot; but soon found it was infinitely beyond my strength. I was, therefore, obliged to apply to the footman; but, being very unwilling to
