LETTER XIX MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. THURSDAY EVENING, JUNE 8.
I am mad, stark mad, by Jupiter, at the thoughts of this!--Unprovided, destitute, unacquainted--some villain, worse than myself, who adores her not as I adore her, may have seized her, and taken advantage of her distress!--Let me perish, Belford, if a whole hecatomb of innocents, as the little plagues are called, shall atone for the broken promises and wicked artifices of this cruel creature!
***
Going home, as I did, with resolutions favourable to her, judge thou of my distraction, when her escape was first hinted to me, although but in broken sentences. I knew not what I said, nor what I did. I wanted to kill somebody. I flew out of one room into another, who broke the matter to me. I charged bribery and corruption, in my first fury, upon all; and threatened destruction to old and young, as they should come in my way.
Dorcas continues locked up from me: Sally and Polly have not yet dared to appear: the vile Sinclair--
But here comes the odious devil. She taps at the door, thought that's only a-jar, whining and snuffling, to try, I suppose, to coax me into temper.
***
What a helpless state, where a man can only execrate himself and others; the occasion of his rage remaining; the evil increasing upon reflection; time itself conspiring to deepen it!--O how I curs'd her!
I have her now, methinks, before me, blubbering--how odious does sorrow make an ugly face!--Thine, Jack, and this old beldam's, in penitentials, instead of moving compassion, must evermore confirm hatred; while beauty in tears, is beauty heightened, and what my heart has ever delighted to see.----
'What excuse!--Confound you, and your cursed daughters, what excuse can you make?--Is she not gone--Has she not escaped?--But before I am quite distracted, before I commit half a hundred murders, let me hear how it was.'----
***
I have heard her story!--Art, damn'd, confounded, wicked, unpardonable art, is a woman of her character--But show me a woman, and I'll show thee a plotter!--This plaguy sex is art itself: every individual of it is a plotter by nature.
This is the substance of the old wretch's account.
She told me, 'That I had no sooner left the vile house, than Dorcas acquainted the syren' [Do, Jack, let me call her names!--I beseech thee, Jack, to permit me to call her names!] 'that Dorcas acquainted her lady with it; and that I had left word, that I was gone to doctors-commons, and should be heard of for some hours at the Horn there, if inquired after by the counsellor, or anybody else: that afterwards I should be either at the Cocoa-tree, or King's-Arms, and should not return till late. She then urged her to take some refreshment.
'She was in tears when Dorcas approached her; her saucy eyes swelled with weeping: she refused either to eat or drink; sighed as if her heart would break.'--False, devilish grief! not the humble, silent, grief, that only deserves pity!--Contriving to ruin me, to despoil me of all that I held valuable, in the very midst of it.
'Nevertheless, being resolved not to see me for a week at least, she ordered her to bring up three or four French rolls, with a little butter, and a decanter of water; telling her, she would dispense with her attendance; and that should be all she should live upon in the interim. So artful creature! pretending to lay up for a week's siege.'--For, as to substantial food, she, no more than other angels--Angels! said I--the devil take me if she be any more an angel!--for she is odious in my eyes; and I hate her mortally!