Liber Amoris, or The New Pygmalion | Page 9

them to my charge. There is not a
word of truth in your suspicions.
H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which
you were a party? Shall I repeat it?
S. I had rather not hear it!
H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman?
S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort.
H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn't * * * * * * * *
* (as I heard she did) she said "Oh, there's nothing in that, for Sarah
very often * * * * * *," and your doing so before company, is only a
trifling addition to the sport.
S. I'll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you.
H. Then she'll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were "very
persevering in your resistance to gay young men," and had been
"several times obliged to ring the bell?" Did you always ring it? Or did
you get into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the
demureness of your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or
have you two characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another,
your natural one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like an
actress who throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did you
not, when I was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr. C----
came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he'd take you for
a light character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of being TAKEN
for a light character? Oh! Sarah!
S. I'll stay and hear this no longer.
H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another?
S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely.
H. Then, THAT is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for

him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another
thing I had to say--be what you will, I love you to distraction! You are
the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that feeling
was so new to me, and so delicious, that it "will never from my heart."
Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the wilderness of
my life; and though thou should'st turn out a weed, I'll not fling thee
from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dread to think--wert
thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with rags, disease, and
infamy, I'd clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die with thee, my love.
Kiss me, thou little sorceress!
S. NEVER.
H. Then go: but remember I cannot live without you--nor I will not.

THE RECONCILIATION

H. I have then lost your friendship?
S. Nothing tends more to alienate friendship than insult.
H. The words I uttered hurt me more than they did you.
S. It was not words merely, but actions as well.
H. Nothing I can say or do can ever alter my fondness for you--Ah,
Sarah! I am unworthy of your love: I hardly dare ask for your pity; but
oh! save me--save me from your scorn: I cannot bear it--it withers me
like lightning.
S. I bear no malice, Sir; but my brother, who would scorn to tell a lie
for his sister, can bear witness for me that there was no truth in what
you were told.
H. I believe it; or there is no truth in woman. It is enough for me to
know that you do not return my regard; it would be too much for me to
think that you did not deserve it. But cannot you forgive the agony of
the moment?
S. I can forgive; but it is not easy to forget some things!
H. Nay, my sweet Sarah (frown if you will, I can bear your resentment
for my ill behaviour, it is only your scorn and indifference that harrow
up my soul)--but I was going to ask, if you had been engaged to be
married to any one, and the day was fixed, and he had heard what I did,
whether he could have felt any true regard for the character of his bride,
his wife, if he had not been hurt and alarmed as I was?

S. I believe, actual contracts of marriage have sometimes been broken
off by unjust suspicions.
H. Or had it been your old friend, what do you think he would have
said in my case?
S. He would never have listened to anything of the sort.
H. He had greater reasons for confidence than I have. But it is your
repeated cruel rejection of me