The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders

It is impossible to express his surprise at this relation, and the

double importunity which he used with me to discover it to him. He

told me I could not be called kind to him, nay, I could not be faithful

to him if I concealed it from him. I told him I thought so too, and

yet I could not do it. He went back to what I had said before to him,

and told me he hoped it did not relate to what I had said in my

passion, and that he had resolved to forget all that as the effect of a

rash, provoked spirit. I told him I wished I could forget it all too,

but that it was not to be done, the impression was too deep, and I

could not do it: it was impossible.

He then told me he was resolved not to differ with me in anything, and

that therefore he would importune me no more about it, resolving to

acquiesce in whatever I did or said; only begged I should then agree,

that whatever it was, it should no more interrupt our quiet and our

mutual kindness.

This was the most provoking thing he could have said to me, for I

really wanted his further importunities, that I might be prevailed with

to bring out that which indeed it was like death to me to conceal; so I

answered him plainly that I could not say I was glad not to be

importuned, thought I could not tell how to comply. 'But come, my

dear,' said I, 'what conditions will you make with me upon the opening

this affair to you?' 'Any conditions in the world,' said he, 'that you can in reason desire

of me.' 'Well,' said I, 'come, give it me under your hand, that if you

do not find I am in any fault, or that I am willingly concerned in the

causes of the misfortune that is to follow, you will not blame me, use

me the worse, do my any injury, or make me be the sufferer for that

which is not my fault.' 'That,' says he, 'is the most reasonable demand in the world: not to

blame you for that which is not your fault. Give me a pen and ink,'

says he; so I ran in and fetched a pen, ink, and paper, and he wrote

the condition down in the very words I had proposed it, and signed it

with his name. 'Well,' says he, 'what is next, my dear?' 'Why,' says I, 'the next is, that you will not blame me for not

discovering the secret of it to you before I knew it.' 'Very just again,' says he; 'with all my heart'; so he wrote down that

also, and signed it.