I put it to her, in the most earnest manner, to tell me whether I might not obtain the favour of a fortnight’s respite?
She assured me it would not be granted.
Would a week? Surely a week would?
She believed a week might, if I would promise two things: the first, upon my honour, not to write a line out of the house, in that week: for it was still suspected, she said, that I found means to write to somebody. And, secondly, to marry Mr Solmes, at the expiration of it.
Impossible! Impossible! I said with passion. What! might I not be obliged with one week, without such a horrid condition at the last?
I even stamped with impatience! I called upon her to witness, that I was guiltless of the consequence of this compulsion; this barbarous compulsion, I called it; let that consequence be what it would.
My aunt chid me in an higher strain than ever she did before.
While I, in a half frenzy, insisted upon seeing my papa: such usage, I said, set me above fear. I would rejoice to owe my death to him, as I did my life.
She owned that she feared for my head.
I did go down half way of the stairs, resolved to throw myself at his feet, wherever he was. My aunt was frighted. Indeed I was quite frenzical for a few minutes. But hearing my brother’s voice, as talking to somebody in my sister’s apartment just by, I stopped; and heard the barbarous designer say, speaking to my sister: This works charmingly, my dear sister!
It does! It does! said she, in an exulting accent.
Let us keep it up, said my brother. The villain is caught in his own trap! Now she must be what we’d have her be.
Do you keep my father to it; I’ll take care of my mamma, said Bella.
Never fear, said he!—and a laugh of congratulation to each other, and derision of me (as I made it out) quite turned my frenzical humour into a vindictive one.
My aunt, just then coming down to me, and taking my hand, led me up; and tried to soothe me.
• • •
I revolved, after she was gone, all that my brother and sister had said: I dwelt upon their triumphings over me: and found rise in my mind a rancour that I think I may say was new to me; and which I could not withstand. And putting every thing together, dreading the near day, what could I do? Am I in any manner excusable for what I did do? If I am condemned by the world, who know not my provocations, may I be acquitted by you? If not, I am unhappy indeed—for this I did.
Having shook off Betty as soon as I could, I wrote to Mr Lovelace to let him know, ‘That all that was threatened at my uncle Antony’s was intended to be executed here. That I had come to a resolution to throw myself upon the protection of either of his two aunts, who would afford it me: in short, that by endeavouring to obtain leave on Monday to dine in the ivy summer-house, I would, if possible, meet him without the garden door at two, three, four, or five o’clock on Monday afternoon, as I should be able. That in the meantime he should acquaint me, whether I might hope for either of those ladies’ protection. And if so, I absolutely insisted that he should leave me with either, and go to London himself or remain at his uncle’s; nor offer to visit me till I were satisfied that nothing could be done with my friends in an amicable way; and that I could not obtain possession of my own estate, and leave to live upon it: and particularly, that he should not hint marriage to me, till I consented to hear him upon that subject.
This was the purport of what I wrote; and down into the garden I slid with it in the dark, which at another time I should not have had the courage to do, and deposited it, and came up again, unknown to anybody.
My mind so dreadfully misgave me when I returned, that to divert in some measure my increasing uneasiness, I had recourse to my private pen; and in a very short time ran this length.
And now that I am come to this part, my uneasy reflections begin again to pour in upon me. Yet what can I do? I believe I shall take it back again the first thing I do in the morning—yet what can I do?
For fear they should have an earlier day in their intention than that which will too soon come, I will begin to be very ill. Nor need I feign much; for indeed I am extremely low, weak and faint.
I hope to deposit this early in the morning for you, as I shall return from resuming my letter, if I do resume it, as my inwardest mind bids me.
Although it is now near two o’clock, I have a good mind to slide down once more, in order to take back my letter. Our doors are always locked and barred up at eleven; but the seats of the lesser hall windows being almost even with the ground without, and the shutters not difficult to open, I could easily get out.
Yet why should I be thus uneasy?—since, should the letter go, I can but hear what Mr Lovelace says to it. His aunts live at too great a distance for him to have an immediate answer from them; so I can scruple going off till I have invitation. Twenty things may happen to afford me a suspension at least: why should I be so very uneasy?—when, too, I can resume it early, before it is probable he will have the thought of finding it there.
But these strange forebodings! Yet I can, if you advise, cause the chariot he shall bring with him, to carry me directly for town, whither in my London scheme, if you were to approve it, I had proposed to go: and this will save you the trouble of procuring for me a vehicle; as well as the suspicion from your mamma of contributing to my escape.
But, solicitous for your advice and approbation too, if I can have it, I will put an end to this letter.
Adieu, my dearest friend, adieu!
Letter 84: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Friday morning, seven o’clock, April 7
My aunt Hervey, who is a very early riser, was walking in the garden (Betty attending her, as I saw from my window this morning), when I arose; for, after such a train of fatigue and restless nights, I had unhappily overslept myself: so all I durst venture upon was to step down to my poultry-yard, and deposit mine of yesterday and last night. And I am just come up; for she is still in the garden: this prevents me from going to resume my letter, as I think still to do; and hope it will not be too late.
• • •
Eight o’clock
The man, my dear, has got the letter! What a strange diligence! What an advantage have I given him over me!
Now the letter is out of my power, I have more uneasiness and regret than I had before. For, till now, I had a doubt whether it should, or should not go: and now I think it ought not to have gone. And yet is there any other way than to do as I have done, if I would avoid Solmes? But what a giddy creature shall I be thought if I pursue the course to which this letter must lead me?
My dearest friend, tell me, have I done wrong? Yet do not say I have, if you think it; for should all the world besides condemn me, I shall have some comfort, if you do not. The first time I ever besought you to flatter me. That, of itself, is an indication that I have done wrong, and am afraid of hearing the truth. Oh tell me (but yet do not tell me) if I have done wrong!
• • •
Friday, eleven o’clock
I will go down and deposit this; for Betty has seen I have been writing. The saucy creature took a napkin, and dipped it in water, and with a fleering air: Here, miss; holding the wet corner to me.
What’s that for, said I?
Only, miss, one of the fingers of your right hand, if you please to look at it.
It was inky.
I gave her a look: but said nothing.
But lest I should have another search, I will close here.
CL. HARLOWE
Letter 85: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Friday, one o’clock
I have a letter from Mr Lovelace, full of transports, vows, and promises. I will send it to you enclosed. You’ll see how he engages in it for his aunt Lawrance’s protection, and for Miss Charlotte Montague’s accompanying me. ‘I have nothing to do, but to persevere, he says, and prepa
re to receive the personal congratulations of his whole family.’
But you’ll see, how he presumes upon my being his, as the consequence of throwing myself into that lady’s protection.
The chariot and six is to be ready at the place he mentions. You’ll see, as to the slur upon my reputation which I am so apprehensive about, how boldly he argues. Generously enough, indeed, were I to be his; and had given him reason to believe that I would!—but that I have not done.
How one step brings on another with this encroaching sex! How soon may a young creature who gives a man the least encouragement be carried beyond her intentions, and out of her own power! You would imagine, by what he writes, that I have given him reason to think that my aversion to Mr Solmes is all owing to my favour for him!
However, I have replied to the following effect: ‘That although I had given him room to expect that I would put myself into his aunt’s protection; yet, as I have three days to come, between this and Monday, and as I hope that my friends will still relent or that Mr Solmes will give up a point they will both find it impossible to carry; I shall not look upon myself as absolutely bound by the appointment: and expect therefore, if I recede, that I shall not be called to account for it by him.’
This I will deposit as soon as I can. And as he thinks things are near their crisis, I dare say it will not be long before I have an answer to it.
Letter 87: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Sat. afternoon
A time, I hope, will come, that I shall be able to read your affecting narratives without that impatience and bitterness which now boils over in my heart, and would flow to my pen were I to enter into the particulars of what you write. And, indeed, I am afraid of giving you my advice at all, or of telling you what I should do in your case (supposing you will still refuse my offer); finding too, what you have been brought, or rather driven, to, without it; lest any evil should follow it: in which case, I should never forgive myself. And this consideration has added to my difficulties in writing to you, now you are upon such a crisis, and yet refuse the only method—But I said I would not for the present touch any more that string. Yet, one word more, chide me if you please: if any harm betide you, I shall for ever blame my mamma—indeed I shall—and perhaps yourself, if you do not accept of my offer.
But one thing, in your present situation and prospects, let me advise: it is this, that if you do go away with Mr Lovelace, you take the first opportunity to permit the ceremony to pass. Why should you not, when everybody will know by whose assistance, and in whose company, you leave your father’s house, go whithersoever you will? You may, indeed, keep him at distance, until settlements are drawn and such-like matters are adjusted to your mind.
Give this matter your most serious consideration. Punctilio is out of doors the moment you are out of your father’s house. I know how justly severe you have been upon those inexcusable creatures, whose giddiness and even want of decency have made them, in the same hour, as I may say, leap from a parent’s window to a husband’s bed. But, considering Lovelace’s character, I repeat my opinion that your reputation in the eye of the world requires that no delay be made in this point, when once you are in his power.
I need not, I am sure, make a stronger plea to you.
From this critical and distressful situation, it shall be my hourly prayers that you may be delivered without blemish to that fair fame, which has hitherto, like your heart, been unspotted.
With this prayer, twenty times repeated, concludes
Your ever affectionate
ANNA HOWE
• • •
I hurried myself in writing this; and I hurry Robert away with it, that in a situation so very critical, you may have all the time possible to consider what I have written, upon two points so very important. I will repeat them in a very few words:
‘Whether you choose not rather to go off with one of your own sex; with your Anna Howe—than with one of the other; with Mr Lovelace?’
And if not,
‘Whether you should not marry him as soon as possible?’
Letter 88: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Saturday afternoon
Already have I an ecstatic answer, as I may call it, to my letter.
‘He promises compliance in every article with my will: approves of all I propose; particularly of the private lodging: and thinks it a happy expedient to obviate the censures of the busy and the unreflecting: and yet he hopes, that the putting myself into the protection of either of his aunts, treated as I am treated, would be far from being looked upon by any in a disreputable light.
‘He flatters himself now (my last letter confirming my resolution) that he can be in no apprehension of my changing my mind, unless my friends change their manner of acting by me; which he is too sure they will not. And now will all his relations, who take such a kind and generous share in his interests, glory and pride themselves in the prospects he has before him.’
Thus artfully does he hold me to it!
‘As to fortune, he begs of me not to be solicitous on that score: that his own estate is sufficient for us both; not a nominal, but a real, two thousand pounds per annum, equivalent to some estates reputed a third more: that it never was encumbered: that he is clear of the world, both as to book and bond-debts; thanks, perhaps, to his pride more than to his virtue. That his uncle moreover resolves to settle upon him a thousand pounds per annum on his nuptials. All which it will be in my power to see done, and proper settlements drawn, before I enter into any farther engagements with him; if I will have it so.
‘He is afraid that the time will hardly allow of his procuring Miss Charlotte Montague’s attendance upon me at St Albans, as he had proposed she should; because, he understands, she keeps her chamber, with a violent cold and sore throat. But both she and her sister, the first moment she is able to go abroad, shall visit me at my private lodgings; and introduce me to their aunts, or their aunts to me, as I shall choose; and accompany me to town if I please; and stay as long in it with me, as I shall think fit to stay there.’
So, my dear, the enterprise requires courage and high spirits, you see! And indeed it does! What am I about to do!
Lord bless me!—what am I about to do!
• • •
After all, far as I have gone, I know not but I may still recede: and if I do, a mortal quarrel, I suppose, will ensue. And what if it does? Could there be any way to escape this Solmes, a breach with Lovelace might make way for the single life (so much my preferable wish!) to take place: and then I would defy the sex. For I see nothing but trouble and vexation that they bring upon ours: and when once entered, one is obliged to go on with them, treading with tender feet upon thorns and sharper thorns, to the end of a painful journey.
What to do, I know not. The more I think, the more I am embarrassed!—and the stronger will be my doubts, as the appointed time draw nearer.
But I will go down, and take a little turn in the garden; and deposit this, and his letters, all but the two last; which I will enclose in my next, if I have opportunity to write another.
Meantime, my dear friend—But what can I desire you to pray for? Adieu then!—let me only say—adieu!
Letter 90: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Sunday morning, April 9
Nobody, it seems, will go to church this day. No blessing to be expected perhaps upon views so worldly, and in some so cruel.
They have a mistrust that I have some device in my head. Betty has been looking among my clothes. I found her, on coming up from depositing my letter to Lovelace (for I have written!), peering among them, the key being in the lock. She coloured, and was confounded to be caught. But I only said I should be accustomed to any sort of treatment in time!
This is the substance of my letter to Mr Lovelace:
‘That I have reasons, of the greatest consequence to myself, and which w
hen known must satisfy him, to suspend, for the present, my intention of leaving my father’s house: that I have hopes that matters may be brought to an happy conclusion, without taking a step which nothing but the last necessity could justify: and that he may depend upon my promise, that I will die, rather than consent to marry Mr Solmes.’
• • •
Sunday, four o’clock, p.m.
My letter is not yet taken away! If he should not send for it, or take it, and come hither on my not meeting him tomorrow, in doubt of what may have befallen me, what shall I do? Why had I any concerns with this sex! I, that was so happy till I knew this man!
• • •
Sunday evening, seven o’clock
There remains my letter still! He is busied, I suppose, in his preparations for tomorrow. But then he has servants. Does the man think he is so secure of me, that having appointed he need not give himself any further concern about me, till the very moment! He knows how I am beset. He knows not what may happen. I might be ill, or still more closely watched or confined than before. The correspondence might be discovered. It might be necessary to vary the scheme. I might be forced into measures, which might entirely frustrate my purpose. I might have new doubts: I might suggest something more convenient, for anything he knew. What can the man mean, I wonder! Yet it shall lie; for if he has it any time before the appointed hour, it will save me declaring to him personally my changed purpose, and the trouble of contending with him on that score. If he send for it at all, he will see by the date that he might have had it in time; and if he be put to any inconvenience from shortness of notice, let him take it for his pains.