LETTER XLVII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE IVY SUMMER-HOUSE, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.
He has not yet got my letter: and while I was contriving here how tosend my officious gaoleress from me, that I might have time for theintended interview, and had hit upon an expedient, which I believe wouldhave done, came my aunt, and furnished me with a much better. She saw mylittle table covered, preparative to my solitary dinner; and hoped,she told me, that this would be the last day that my friends would bedeprived of my company at table.
You may believe, my dear, that the thoughts of meeting Mr. Lovelace,for fear of being discovered, together with the contents of my cousinDolly's letter, gave me great and visible emotions. She took notice ofthem--Why these sighs, why these heavings here? said she, patting myneck--O my dear Niece, who would have thought so much natural sweetnesscould be so very unpersuadable?
I could not answer her, and she proceeded--I am come, I doubt, upon avery unwelcome errand. Some things have been told us yesterday, whichcame from the mouth of one of the most desperate and insolent men in theworld, convince your father, and all of us, that you still find meansto write out of the house. Mr. Lovelace knows every thing that is donehere; and that as soon as done; and great mischief is apprehended fromhim, which you are as much concerned as any body to prevent. Your motherhas also some apprehensions concerning yourself, which yet she hopes aregroundless; but, however, cannot be easy, if she would, unless (whileyou remain here in the garden, or in this summer-house) you give herthe opportunity once more of looking into your closet, your cabinet anddrawers. It will be the better taken, if you give me cheerfully yourkeys. I hope, my dear, you won't dispute it. Your desire of dining inthis place was the more readily complied with for the sake of such anopportunity.
I thought myself very lucky to be so well prepared by my cousin Dolly'smeans for this search: but yet I artfully made some scruples, and not afew complaints of this treatment: after which, I not only gave her thekeys of all, but even officiously emptied my pockets before her, andinvited her to put her fingers in my stays, that she might be sure I hadno papers there.
This highly obliged her; and she said, she would represent my cheerfulcompliance as it deserved, let my brother and sister say what theywould. My mother in particular, she was sure, would rejoice at theopportunity given her to obviate, as she doubted not would be the case,some suspicions that were raised against me.
She then hinted, That there were methods taken to come at all Mr.Lovelace's secrets, and even, from his careless communicativeness, atsome secret of mine; it being, she said, his custom, boastingly to prateto his very servants of his intentions, in particular cases. She added,that deep as he was thought to be, my brother was as deep as he, andfairly too hard for him at his own weapons--as one day it would befound.
I knew not, I said, the meaning of these dark hints. I thought thecunning she hinted at, on both sides, called rather for contempt thanapplause. I myself might have been put upon artifices which my heartdisdained to practise, had I given way to the resentment, which, I wasbold to say, was much more justifiable than the actions that occasionedit: that it was evident to me, from what she had said, that theirpresent suspicions of me were partly owing to this supposed superiorcunning of my brother, and partly to the consciousness that the usage Imet with might naturally produce a reason for such suspicions: that itwas very unhappy for me to be made the butt of my brother's wit: that itwould have been more to his praise to have aimed at shewing a kind heartthan a cunning head: that, nevertheless, I wished he knew himself aswell as I imagined I knew him; and he would then have less conceit ofhis abilities: which abilities would, in my opinion, be less thought of,if his power to do ill offices were not much greater than they.
I was vexed. I could not help making this reflection. The dupe theother, too probably, makes of him, through his own spy, deserved it. ButI so little approve of this low art in either, that were I but tolerablyused, the vileness of that man, that Joseph Leman, should be inquiredinto.
She was sorry, she said, to find that I thought so disparagingly of mybrother. He was a young man both of learning and parts.
Learning enough, I said, to make him vain of it among us women: but notof parts sufficient to make his learning valuable either to himself orto any body else.
She wished, indeed, that he had more good nature: but she feared thatI had too great an opinion of somebody else, to think so well of mybrother as a sister ought: since, between the two, there was a sort ofrivalry, as to abilities, that made them hate one another.
Rivalry! Madam, said I.--If that be the case, or whether it be or not,I wish they both understood, better than either of them seem to do,what it becomes gentlemen, and men of liberal education, to be, and todo.--Neither of them, then, would glory in what they ought to be ashamedof.
But waving this subject, it was not impossible, I said, that they mightfind a little of my writing, and a pen or two, and a little ink, [hatedart!--or rather, hateful the necessity for it!] as I was not permittedto go up to put them out of the way: but if they did, I must becontented. And I assured her, that, take what time they pleased, I wouldnot go in to disturb them, but would be either in or near the garden,in this summer-house, or in the cedar one, or about my poultry-yard, ornear the great cascade, till I was ordered to return to my prison. Withlike cunning I said, I supposed the unkind search would not be madetill the servants had dined; because I doubted not that the pert BettyBarnes, who knew all the corners of my apartment and closet, would beemployed in it.
She hoped, she said, that nothing could be found that would give ahandle against me: for, she would assure me, the motives to the search,on my mother's part especially, were, that she hoped to find reasonrather to acquit than to blame me; and that my father might be inducedto see my to-morrow night, or Wednesday morning, with temper: withtenderness, I should rather say, said she; for he is resolved to do so,if no new offence be given.
Ah! Madam, said I--
Why that Ah! Madam, and shaking your head so significantly?
I wish, Madam, that I may not have more reason to dread my father'scontinued displeasure, than to hope for his returning tenderness.
You don't know, my dear!--Things may take a turn--things may not be sobad as you fear--
Dearest Madam, have you any consolation to give me?--
Why, my dear, it is possible, that you may be more compliable than youhave been.
Why raised you my hopes, Madam?--Don't let me think my dear aunt Herveycruel to a niece who truly honours her.
I may tell you more perhaps, said she (but in confidence, absoluteconfidence) if the inquiry within came out in your favour. Do you knowof any thin above that can be found to your disadvantage?--
Some papers they will find, I doubt: but I must take consequences.My brother and sister will be at hand with their good-naturedconstructions. I am made desperate, and care not what is found.
I hope, I earnestly hope, that nothing can be found that will impeachyour discretion; and then--but I may say too much--
And away she went, having added to my perplexity.
But I now can think of nothing but this interview.--Would to Heaven itwere over!--To meet to quarrel--but, let him take what measures he will,I will not stay a moment with him, if he be not quite calm and resigned.
Don't you see how crooked some of my lines are? Don't you see how someof the letters stagger more than others?--That is when this interview ismore in my head than in my subject.
But, after all, should I, ought I to meet him? How have I taken it forgranted that I should!--I wish there were time to take your advice. Yetyou are so loth to speak quite out--but that I owe, as you own, to thedifficulty of my situation.
I should have mentioned, that in the course of this conversation Ibesought my aunt to stand my friend, and to put in a word for me onmy approaching trial; and to endeavour to procure me time forconsideration, if I could obtain nothing else.
She told me, that, after the ceremony
was performed [odious confirmationof a hint in my cousin Dolly's letter!] I should have what time Ipleased to reconcile myself to my lot before cohabitation.
This put me out of all patience.
She requested of me in her turn, she said, that I would resolve to meetthem all with cheerful duty, and with a spirit of absolute acquiescence.It was in my power to make them all happy. And how joyful would it beto her, she said, to see my father, my mother, my uncles, my brother, mysister, all embracing me with raptures, and folding me in turns to theirfond hearts, and congratulating each other on their restored happiness!Her own joy, she said, would probably make her motionless and speechlessfor a time: and for her Dolly--the poor girl, who had suffered in theesteem of some, for her grateful attachment to me, would have every bodylove her again.
Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial will be the most affectingthat I have yet had?
My aunt set forth all this in so strong a light, and I was soparticularly touched on my cousin Dolly's account, that, impatient as Iwas just before, I was greatly moved: yet could only shew, by my sighsand my tears, how desirable such an event would be to me, could itbe brought about upon conditions with which it was possible for me tocomply.
Here comes Betty Barnes with my dinner--
*****
The wench is gone. The time of meeting is at hand. O that he may notcome!--But should I, or should I not, meet him?--How I question, withoutpossibility of a timely answer!
Betty, according to my leading hint to my aunt, boasted to me, that shewas to be employed, as she called it, after she had eat her own dinner.
She should be sorry, she told me, to have me found out. Yet 'twould beall for my good. I should have it in my power to be forgiven for all atonce, before Wednesday night. The confident creature then, to stifle alaugh, put a corner of her apron in her mouth, and went to the door:and on her return to take away, as I angrily bid her, she begged myexcuse--but--but--and then the saucy creature laughed again, she couldnot help it, to think how I had drawn myself in by my summer-housedinnering, since it had given so fine an opportunity, by way ofsurprise, to look into all my private hoards. She thought something wasin the wind, when my brother came into my dining here so readily. Heryoung master was too hard for every body. 'Squire Lovelace himself wasnothing at all at a quick thought to her young master.
My aunt mentioned Mr. Lovelace's boasting behaviour to his servants:perhaps he may be so mean. But as to my brother, he always took a pridein making himself appear to be a man of parts and learning to ourown servants. Pride and meanness, I have often thought, are as nearlyallied, and as close borderers upon each other, as the poet tells us witand madness are.
But why do I trouble you (and myself, at such a crisis) with theseimpertinences?--Yet I would forget, if I could, the nearest evil, theinterview; because, my apprehensions increasing as the hour is at hand,I should, were my intentions to be engrossed by them, be unfit to seehim, if he does come: and then he will have too much advantage over me,as he will have seeming reason to reproach me with change of resolution.
The upbraider, you know, my dear, is in some sense a superior; while theupbraided, if with reason upbraided, must make a figure as spiritless asconscious.
I know that this wretch will, if he can, be his own judge, and mine too.But the latter he shall not be.
I dare say, we shall be all to pieces. But I don't care for that. Itwould be hard, if I, who have held it out so sturdily to my father anduncles, should not--but he is at the garden-door--
*****
I was mistaken!--How many noises unlike, be made like to what onefears!--Why flutters the fool so--!
*****
I will hasten to deposit this. Then I will, for the last time, go to theusual place, in hopes to find that he has got my letter. If he has, Iwill not meet him. If he has not, I will take it back, and shew him whatI have written. That will break the ice, as I may say, and save me muchcircumlocution and reasoning: and a steady adherence to that my writtenmind is all that will be necessary.--The interview must be as short aspossible; for should it be discovered, it would furnish a new and strongpretence for the intended evil of Wednesday next.
Perhaps I shall not be able to write again one while. Perhaps not tillI am the miserable property of that Solmes!--But that shall never, neverbe, while I have my senses.
If your servant find nothing from me by Wednesday morning, you may thenconclude that I can neither write to you, nor receive your favours.
In that case, pity and pray for me, my beloved friend; and continue tome that place in your affection, which is the pride of my life, and theonly comfort left to
Your CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER XLVIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE ST. ALBAN'S, TUESDAY MORN. PAST ONE.
O MY DEAREST FRIEND!
After what I had resolved upon, as by my former, what shall I write?what can I? with what consciousness, even by letter, do I approachyou?--You will soon hear (if already you have not heard from the mouthof common fame) that your Clarissa Harlowe is gone off with a man!
I am busying myself to give you the particulars at large. The wholetwenty-four hours of each day (to begin at the moment I can fix) shallbe employed in it till it is finished: every one of the hours, I mean,that will be spared me by this interrupting man, to whom I have mademyself so foolishly accountable for too many of them. Rest is departedfrom me. I have no call for that: and that has no balm for the woundsof my mind. So you'll have all those hours without interruption till theaccount is ended.
But will you receive, shall you be permitted to receive my letters,after what I have done?
O my dearest friend!--But I must make the best of it.
I hope that will not be very bad! yet am I convinced that I did a rashand inexcusable thing in meeting him; and all his tenderness, all hisvows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that account.
The bearer comes to you, my dear, for the little parcel of linen which Isent you with far better and more agreeable hopes.
Send not my letters. Send the linen only: except you will favour me withone line, to tell me you love me still; and that you will suspend yourcensures till you have the whole before you. I am the readier to sendthus early, because if you have deposited any thing for me, you maycause it to be taken back, or withhold any thing you had but intended tosend.
Adieu, my dearest friend!--I beseech you to love me still--Butalas! what will your mother say?--what will mine?--what my otherrelations?--and what my dear Mrs. Norton?--and how will my brother andsister triumph!
I cannot at present tell you how, or where, you can direct to me. Forvery early shall I leave this place; harassed and fatigued to death.But, when I can do nothing else, constant use has made me able to write.Long, very long, has been all my amusement and pleasure: yet could notthat have been such to me, had I not had you, my best beloved friend, towrite to. Once more adieu. Pity and pray for
Your CL. HARLOWE.
END OF VOL. II
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends