• • •
I will endeavour to see her. It must be in her own chamber, I suppose; for she will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the confidence of our sex give me over the modesty of hers, if she be recovered! I, the most confident of men: she, the most delicate of women. Sweet soul! methinks I have her before me: her face averted: speech lost in sighs—abashed—conscious. What a triumphant aspect will this give me, when I gaze in her downcast countenance!
Letter 263: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Sunday night
Never blame me for giving way to have art used with this admirable creature. All the princes of the air, or beneath it, joining with me, could never have subdued her while she had her senses.
I will not anticipate—only to tell thee that I am too much awakened by her to think of sleep, were I to go to bed; and so shall have nothing to do, but to write an account of our odd conversation, while it is so strong upon my mind that I can think of nothing else.
She was dressed in a white damask night-gown, with less negligence than for some days past. I was sitting, with my pen in my fingers; and stood up when I first saw her, with great complaisance, as if the day were still her own. And so indeed it is.
She entered with such dignity in her manner, as struck me with great awe, and prepared me for the poor figure I made in the subsequent conversation.
She came up with quick steps, pretty close to me; a white handkerchief in her hand; her eyes neither fierce nor mild, but very earnest; and a fixed sedateness in her whole aspect, which seemed to be the effect of deep contemplation: and thus she accosted me, with an air and action that I never saw equalled.
You see before you, sir, the wretch whose preference of you to all your sex you have rewarded—as it indeed deserved to be rewarded. My father’s dreadful curse has already operated upon me in the very letter of it as to this life; and it seems to me too evident that it will not be your fault that it is not entirely completed in the loss of my soul, as well as of my honour—which you, villainous man! have robbed me of, with a baseness so unnatural, so inhuman, that it seems, you, even you, had not the heart to attempt it, till my senses were made the previous sacrifice.
Here I made an hesitating effort to speak, laying down my pen—but she proceeded. Hear me out, guilty wretch!—abandoned man! Man did I say? Yet what name else can I? since the mortal worryings of the fiercest beast would have been more natural, and infinitely more welcome, than what you have acted by me; and that with a premeditation and contrivance worthy only of that single heart, which now, base as well as ungrateful as thou art, seems to quake within thee. And well mayest thou quake; well mayest thou tremble and falter; and hesitate as thou dost, when thou reflectest upon what I have suffered for thy sake, and the returns thou hast made me!
Let me therefore know whether I am to be controlled in the future disposal of myself? Whether, in a country of liberty as this, where the sovereign of it must not be guilty of your wickedness; and where you neither durst have attempted it, had I one friend or relation to look upon me, I am to be kept here a prisoner, to sustain fresh injuries?
After a pause; for I was still silent:
Can you not answer me this plain question? I quit all claim, all expectation upon you—what right have you to detain me here?
I could not speak. What could I say to such a question?
And she insisted upon being at her own disposal for the remainder of her short life for indeed she abhorred me in every light; and more particularly in that in which I offered myself to her acceptance.
And saying this, she flung from me; leaving me absolutely shocked and confounded at her part of a conversation, which she began with such uncommon, however severe composure, and concluded with so much sincere and unaffected indignation.
Monday morn.
past three
Letter 264: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Monday morn. 5 o’clock (June 19)
Now indeed do I from my heart wish that I had never known this lady. But who would have thought there had been such a woman in the world? Of all the sex I have hitherto known, or heard, or read of, it was once subdued, and always subdued. The first struggle was generally the last; or at least the subsequent struggles were so much fainter and fainter, that a man would rather have them than be without them. But how know I yet—
• • •
The sun has been illuminating, for several hours, everything about me: for that impartial orb shines upon mother Sinclair’s house, as well as upon any other: but nothing within me can it illuminate.
At day-dawn I looked through the key-hole of my beloved’s door. She had declared she would not put off her clothes any more in this house. There I beheld her in a sweet slumber, which I hope will prove refreshing to her disturbed senses; sitting in her elbow-chair, her apron over her head, and that supported by one sweet hand, the other hanging down upon her side, in a sleepy lifelessness; half of one pretty foot only visible.
See the difference in our cases, thought I! She, the charming injured, can sweetly sleep, while the varlet injurer cannot close his eyes; and has been trying to no purpose, the whole night, to divert his melancholy, and to fly from himself!
• • •
Six o’clock
Just now Dorcas tells me that her lady is preparing openly, and without disguise, to be gone. Very probable. The humour she flew away from me in last night, has given me expectation of such an enterprise.
But she has sent me a message by Dorcas that she will meet me in the dining-room; and desires (odd enough!) that the wench may be present at the conversation that shall pass between us. This message gives me hope.
• • •
Nine o’clock
Confounded art, cunning, villainy! By my soul, she had like to have slipped through my fingers. She meant nothing by her message, but to get Dorcas out of the way, and a clear coast. Is a fancied distress sufficient to justify this lady for dispensing with her principles? Does she not show me that she can wilfully deceive, as well as I?
Had she been in the fore-house, and no passage to go through to get at the street door, she had certainly been gone. But her haste betrayed her: for Sally Martin happening to be in the fore-parlour, and hearing a swifter motion than usual, and a rustling of silks, as if from somebody in a hurry, looked out; and seeing who it was, stepped between her and the door, and set her back against it.
You must not go, madam. Indeed you must not.
By what right?—and how dare you?—and such-like imperious airs the dear creature gave herself—while Sally called out for her aunt; and half a dozen voices joined instantly in the cry for me to hasten down, to hasten down, in a moment.
I was gravely instructing Dorcas abovestairs, and wondering what would be the subject of the conversation which she was to be a witness to, when these outcries reached my ears. And down I flew. In her soft rage the dear soul repeating, I will go! Nobody has a right. I will go! If you kill me, women, I won’t go up again!
As soon as she saw me, she stepped a pace or two towards me; Mr Lovelace, I will go! said she. Do you authorize these women—what right have they, or you either, to stop me?
Is this, my dear, preparative to the conversation you led me to expect in the dining-room? And do you think I can part with you thus? Do you think I will?
And am I, sir, to be thus beset? Surrounded thus? What have these women to do with me?
I desired them to leave us, all but Dorcas, who was down as soon as I. I then thought it right to assume an air of resolution, having found my tameness so greatly triumphed over. And now, my dear, said I (urging her reluctant feet), be pleased to walk into the fore-parlour. Here, since you will not go upstairs—here we may hold our parley: and Dorcas be witness to it. And now, madam, seating her, and sticking my hands in my sides, your pleasure!
Insolent villain! sa
id the furious lady. And rising, ran to the window, and threw up the sash. (She knew not, I suppose, that there were iron rails before the windows.) And when she found she could not get out into the street, clasping her uplifted hands together—having dropped her parcel. For the love of God, good honest man! For the love of God, mistress—to two passers-by—a poor, poor creature, said she, ruined!
I clasped her in my arms, people beginning to gather about the window: and then she cried out, Murder! Help! Help!—and carried her up to the dining-room, in spite of her little plotting heart (as I may now call it), although she violently struggled, catching hold of the banisters here and there, as she could. I would have seated her there, but she sunk down half-motionless, pale as ashes. And a violent burst of tears happily relieved her.
Dorcas wept over her. The wench was actually moved for her!
Violent hysterics succeeded. I left her to Mabel, Dorcas, and Polly; the latter the most supportable to her of the sisterhood.
This attempt, so resolutely made, alarmed me not a little.
Mrs Sinclair and her nymphs are much more concerned; because of the reputation of their house, as they call it, having received some insults (broken windows threatened) to make them produce the young creature who cried out.
While the mobbish inquisitors were in the height of their office, the women came running up to me, to know what they should do; a constable being actually fetched.
Get the constable into the parlour, said I, with three or four of the forwardest of the mob, and produce one of the nymphs, onion-eyed, in a moment, with disordered head-dress and neck-kerchief, and let her own herself the person: the occasion, a female skirmish; but satisfied with the justice done her. Then give a dram or two to each fellow, and all will be well.
• • •
Eleven o’clock
Mrs Sinclair wishes she never had seen the face of so skittish a lady; and she and Sally are extremely pressing with me, to leave the perverse beauty to their breaking, as they call it, for four or five days. But I cursed them into silence; only ordering double precaution for the future.
I am confoundedly out of conceit with myself. If I give up my contrivances, my joy in stratagem, and plot, and invention, I shall be but a common man: such another dull heavy creature as thyself. Yet what does even my success in my machinations bring me, but disgrace, repentance, regret? But I am overmatched, egregiously overmatched, by this lady. What to do with her, or without her, I know not.
Letter 266: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Monday afternoon, June 19
Pity me, Jack, for pity’s sake; since, if thou dost not, nobody else will: and yet never was there a man of my genius and lively temper that wanted it more.
She began with me like a true woman (she in the fault, I to be blamed) the moment I entered the dining-room. Not the least apology, not the least excuse, for the uproar she had made, and the trouble she had given me.
Dearest madam, interrupted I, give not way to so much violence. You must know that your detention is entirely owing to the desire I have to make you all the amends that is in my power to make you. And this, as well for your sake as my own. Surely there is still one way left to repair the wrongs you have suffered.
Canst thou blot out the past week? Several weeks past, I should say; ever since I have been with thee? Canst thou call back time? If thou canst—
Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to say to her, nor for myself: I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace! Abhorred of my soul! for ever I renounce thee! Seek thy fortunes wheresoever thou wilt!—only now, that thou hast already ruined me—
Ruined you, madam. The world need not—I knew not what to say.
Ruined me in my own eyes, and that is the same to me, as if all the world knew it. Hinder me not from going whither my mysterious destiny shall lead me.
Why hesitate you, sir? What right have you to stop me, as you lately did; and to bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruised with your violence? What right have you to detain me here?
Yet, if you think yourself in my power, I would caution you, madam, not to make me desperate. For you shall be mine, or my life shall be the forfeit! Nor is life worth having without you!
Be thine! I be thine! said the passionate beauty. Oh how lovely in her violence!
Yes, madam, be mine! I repeat, you shall be mine!
And am I then (with a kind of frantic wildness) to be detained a prisoner in this horrid house? Am I, sir? Take care! Take care! holding up her hand, menacing, how you make me desperate! If I fall, though by my own hand, inquisition will be made for my blood: and be not out in thy plot, Lovelace, if it should be so. Make sure work, I charge thee: dig a hole deep enough to cram in and conceal this unhappy body: for, depend upon it, that some of those who will not stir to protect me living, will move heaven and earth to avenge me dead!
A horrid dear creature! She had need, indeed, to talk of her unhappiness, in falling into the hands of the only man in the world who could have used her as I have used her! She is the only woman in the world who could have shocked and disturbed me as she has done. So we are upon a foot in that respect. And I think I have the worst of it by much. Since very little has been my joy; very much my trouble: and her punishment, as she calls it, is over: but when mine will, or what it may be, who can tell?
What a devil ails me! I can neither think nor write!
Lie down, pen, for a moment!
Letter 267: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
The dear creature resumed the topic her heart was so firmly fixed upon; and insisted upon quitting the odious house, and that in very high terms.
I urged her to meet me the next day at the altar, in either of the two churches mentioned in the licence. And I besought her, whatever were her resolution, to let me debate this matter calmly with her.
If, she said, I would have her give what I desired the least moment’s consideration, I must not hinder her from being her own mistress. To what purpose did I ask her consent, if she had not a power over either her own person or actions?
But still she insisted upon being a free agent; of seeing herself in other lodgings before she would give what I urged the least consideration. Nor would she promise me favour even then, or to permit my visits. How then, as I asked her, could I comply, without resolving to lose her for ever?
She put her hand to her forehead often as she talked; and at last, pleading disorder in her head, retired; neither of us satisfied with the other. But she ten times more dissatisfied with me, than I with her.
What now! What now!
Letter 268: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
But, with all this dear creature’s resentment against me, I cannot for my heart think but she will get all over, and consent to enter the pale with me. Were she even to die tomorrow, and to know she should, would not a woman of her sense, of her punctilio, and in her situation, and of so proud a family, rather die married, than otherwise?
As much of my heart as I know of it myself will I tell thee. When I am from her, I cannot still help hesitating about marriage, and I even frequently resolve against it; and am resolved to press my favourite scheme for cohabitation. But when I am with her, I am ready to say, to swear, and to do, whatever I think will be most acceptable to her: and were a parson at hand, I should plunge at once, no doubt of it, into the state.
A wife at any time, I used to say. I had ever confidence and vanity enough to think that no woman breathing could deny her hand, when I held out mine. I am confoundedly mortified to find that this lady is able to hold me at bay, and to refuse all my honest vows.
At the present writing, however, the turn of the scale is in favour of matrimony—for I despair of carrying with her my favourite point.
The lady tells Dorcas that her heart is broken; and that she shall live but a little while. I think nothing of that, if we marry. In the first place, she
knows not what a mind unapprehensive will do for her, in a state to which all the sex look forward with high satisfaction. A few months’ heart’s ease will give my charmer a quite different notion of things: and I dare say, as I have heretofore said, once married, and I am married for life.
And for what should her heart be broken? Her will is unviolated—at present, however, her will is unviolated.
What nonsense then to suppose that such a mere notional violation as she has suffered should be able to cut asunder the strings of life?
To be sure she ought to have forgot it by this time, except the charming, charming consequence happen, that still I am in hopes will happen, were I to proceed no further. And if she apprehend this herself, then has the dear over-nice soul some reason for taking it so much to heart: and yet would not, I think, refuse to legitimate.
Oh Jack! had I an imperial diadem, I swear to thee that I would give it up, even to my enemy, to have one charming boy by this lady. And should she escape me, and no such effect follow, my revenge on her family, and in such a case on herself, would be incomplete, and I should reproach myself as long as I lived.
Were I to be sure that this foundation is laid (and why may I not hope it is?), I should not doubt to have her still (should she withstand her day of grace) on my own conditions: nor should I, if it were so, question that revived affection in her which a woman seldom fails to have for the father of her first child, whether born in wedlock or out of it.
Letter 275: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Wednesday night
I have been so happy as to receive, this moment, a third letter from my dear correspondent Miss Howe. A little severe devil! It would have broke the heart of my beloved had it fallen into her hands. I will enclose a copy of it. Read it here.
• • •
Tuesday, June 20
My dearest Miss Harlowe,