I was now told of his intrigue with Miss Flint; of his unhappily being a married man; and of the worthlessness of his wife, who exercised over him an empire, in all things save that of bearing his name. In a word, Miss Flint’s critical situation was brought forward, and my agency was demanded as the only means of saving her fame, and the infant from the disgrace of an illegitimate birth. I listened to this discourse with disgust, and even horror; but, suppressing my feelings, I told him with firmness, that I had gone already too far into concealments, not to discover the danger of the road; that I meant to quit the Hall, and had already formed my plans for my future life. “These,” added I, bursting into tears, “will not, nor can be subservient to your, or Miss Flint’s views.” “You will change your mind,” replied he sternly, “when I tell you, that, what you have refused to do from gratitude and affection to a _brother_, may be thought expedient to perform for your own safety. Miss Flint has known the particulars of your first marriage from the day you appeared here as her father’s wife. Moreover she insists upon it, that you have no legal proofs of Duncan’s death, nor any claim to your jointure, from its having been granted under a name and character to which you had no right. You will do well to reflect on her temper, and on your condition, under a prosecution _for bigamy_. My evidence, in your favour amounts simply to the Dutchman’s verbal attestation of being at Duncan’s funeral, and his letters and will written at Surinam. These with me are conclusive proofs; but I know not how far they would be so thought in a court at Doctor’s Commons; nor with what consequences at the best, your marrying when a widow under your maiden name may be attended.”—“My punishment is just,” exclaimed I, “I will avow the truth, I will not take Mr. Flint’s money. I will go where I may mourn my lost happiness and _die_. I ask you only to provide me an asylum for the moment. I will not be a burden to you.”—Tenderness was next tried, my ruin involved his; the fate of a child who though yet unborn, was urged with many tears; Miss Flint’s generosity to me, her attachment to him were not omitted. I was conquered. “Do with me what you will,” said I mournfully, “only remember, Philip, who it was, that spread the toils with which my soul is encompassed; I cannot live to see you miserable.” He employed much sophistry to convince me that I was engaged in the performance of a meritorious work, inasmuch as it secured innocence from shame, and saved the reputation of Mr. Flint’s daughter: a woman who had respected my secret, and whose gratitude would bind her to me for life. CHAP. III.