Suit! said the charming innocent; I don’t know what you mean. Pray, men, don’t lay hands upon me! They offering to put her into the chair.
She then spied thy villain. Oh thou wretch, said she, where is thy vile master? Am I again to be his prisoner? Help, good people!
A crowd had before begun to gather.
The people were most of them struck with compassion. A fine young creature! A thousand pities! some—while some few threw out vile and shocking reflections: but a gentleman interposed, and demanded to see the fellows’ authority.
They showed it. Is your name Clarissa Harlowe, madam? said he.
Yes, yes, indeed, ready to sink, my name was Clarissa Harlowe—but it is now Wretchedness! Lord, be merciful to me! what is to come next?
You must go with these men, madam, said the gentleman: they have authority for what they do. He pitied her, and retired.
Indeed you must, said one chairman.
Indeed you must, said the other.
Can nobody, joined in another gentleman, be applied to, who will see that so fine a creature is not ill used?
Thy villain answered, Orders were given particularly for that. She had rich relations. She need but ask and have. She would only be carried to the officer’s house, till matters could be made up. The people she had lodged with, loved her: but she had left her lodgings privately.
Well, if I must go, I must! I cannot resist. But I will not be carried to the woman’s! I will rather die at your feet, than be carried to the woman’s!
You won’t be carried there, madam, cried thy fellow.
Only to my house, madam, said one of the officers.
Where is that?
In High Holborn, madam.
I know not where High Holborn is: but anywhere, except to the woman’s. But am I to go with men only?
Anywhere—anywhere, said she, but to that woman’s! And stepping into the chair, threw herself on the seat, in the utmost distress and confusion. Carry me, carry me out of sight. Cover me. Cover me up—for ever! were her words.
Thy villain drew the curtains: she had not power; and they went away with her, through a vast crowd of people.
The unhappy lady fainted away when she was taken out of the chair at the officer’s house.
Several people followed the chair to the very house, which is in a wretched court. Sally was there; and satisfied some of the inquirers that the young gentlewoman would be exceedingly well used: and they soon dispersed.
Dorcas was also there; but came not in her sight. Sally, as a favour, offered to carry her to her former lodgings: but she declared they should carry her thither a corpse, if they did.
She asked, What was meant by this usage of her? People told me, said she, that I must go with the men!—that they had authority to take me: so I submitted. But now, what is to be the end of this disgraceful violence?
The end, said the vile Sally Martin, is for honest people to come at their own.
Bless me! Have I taken away anything that belongs to those who have obtained this power over me? I have left very valuable things behind me; but have taken nothing away that is not my own.
And who do you think, Miss Harlowe, for I understand, said the cursed creature, you are not married; who do you think is to pay for your board and your lodgings; such handsome lodgings! for so long a time as you were at Mrs Sinclair’s?... One hundred and fifty guineas, or pounds, is no small sum to lose—and by a young creature, who would have bilked her lodgings!
You amaze me, Miss Martin! What language do you talk in? Bilk my lodgings! What is that?
She stood astonished and silent for a few moments.
Now, Lovelace! Now indeed do I think I ought to forgive thee! But who shall forgive Clarissa Harlowe! Oh my sister! Oh my brother! Tender mercies were your cruelties to this!
She cast up her eyes to heaven, and was silent—and went to the farthest corner of the room and, sitting down, threw her handkerchief over her face.
Sally asked her several questions: but not answering her, she told her she would wait upon her by and by, when she had found her speech.
She ordered the people to press her to eat and drink.
I have ordered pen, ink and paper, to be brought you, Miss Harlowe. There they are. I know you love writing. You may write to whom you please. Your friend Miss Howe will expect to hear from you.
I have no friend, said she. I deserve none.
Rowland, for that is the officer’s name, told her, she had friends enow to pay the debt, if she would write.
She would trouble nobody; she had no friends; was all they could get from her, while Sally stayed: but yet spoken with a patience of spirit as if she enjoyed her griefs.
The insolent creature went away, ordering them in her hearing to be very civil to her, and to let her want for nothing. Now had she, she owned, the triumph of her heart over this haughty beauty, who kept them all at such a distance in their own house!
About six in the evening, Rowland’s wife pressed her to drink tea. She said she had rather have a glass of water; for her tongue was ready to cleave to the roof of her mouth.
About nine o’clock she asked if anybody were to be her bedfellow?
Their maid, if she pleased; or, as she was so weak and ill, the girl should sit up with her, if she chose she should.
She chose to be alone, both night and day, she said. But might she not be trusted with the keys of the room where she was to lie down; for she should not put off her clothes?
That, they told her, could not be.
She was afraid not, she said. But indeed she would not get away, if she could.
They told me that they had but one bed, besides that they lay in themselves (which they would fain have had her accept of), and besides that their maid lay in, in a garret, which they called a hole of a garret: and that that one bed was the prisoner’s bed; which they made several apologies to me about. I suppose it is shocking enough.
But the lady would not lie in theirs. Was she not a prisoner, she said? Let her have the prisoner’s room.
Yet they owned that she started when she was conducted thither. But recovering herself, Very well, said she—Why should not all be of a piece? Why should not my wretchedness be complete?
She found fault that all the fastenings were on the outside, and none within; and said she could not trust herself in a room where others could come in at their pleasure, and she not go out. She had not been used to it!!!
They assured her that it was as much their duty to protect her from other persons’ insults, as from escaping herself.
Then they were people of more honour, she said, than she had of late been used to!
She asked if they knew Mr Lovelace?
No, was their answer.
Have you heard of him?
No.
Well then, you may be good sort of folks in your way.
• • •
Next morning Sally and Polly both went to visit her.
Sir, said she, with high indignation to the officer, did not you say last night that it was as much your business to protect me from the insults of others, as from escaping? Cannot I be permitted to see whom I please; and to refuse admittance to those I like not?
Your creditors, madam, will expect to see you.
Not if I declare I will not treat with them.
Then, madam, you will be sent to prison.
Prison, friend! What dost thou call thy house?
Not a prison, madam.
Why these iron-barred windows then? Why these double locks, and bolts all on the outside, none on the in?
And down she dropped into her chair, and they could not get another word from her. She threw her handkerchief over her face, as once before, which was soon wet with tears; and grievously, they own, she sobbed.
Sally then ordered a
dinner, and said they would soon be back again, and see that she eat and drink as a good Christian should, comporting herself to her condition, and making the best of it.
• • •
‘Tis twelve of the clock, Sunday night. I can think of nothing but of this excellent creature. Her distresses fill my head and my heart. I was drowsy for a quarter of an hour; but the fit is gone off. And I will continue the melancholy subject from the information of these wretches. Enough, I dare say, will arise in the visit I shall make, if admitted tomorrow, to send by thy servant, as to the way I am likely to find her in.
At twelve Saturday night, Rowland sent to tell them that she was so ill that he knew not what might be the issue; and wished her out of his house.
And this made them as heartily wish to hear from you. For their messenger, to their great surprise, was not then returned from M. Hall. And they were sure he must have reached that place by Friday night.
Early on Sunday morning, both devils went to see how she did. They had such an account of her weakness, lowness, and anguish, that they forbore, out of compassion, they said, finding their visits so disagreeable to her, to see her. But their apprehension of what might be the issue was, no doubt, their principal consideration: nothing else could have softened such flinty bosoms.
They sent for the apothecary Rowland had had to her, and gave him, and Rowland, and his wife, and maid, paradeful injunctions for the utmost care to be taken of her: no doubt with an Old Bailey forecast. And they sent up to let her know what orders they had given: but that, understanding she had taken something to compose herself, they would not disturb her.
It is three o’clock. I will close here; and take a little rest: what I have written will be a proper preparative for what shall offer by and by.
If I find any difficulty in seeing the lady, thy messenger shall post away with this. But, if I am admitted, thou shalt have this and the result of my audience both together. In the former case, thou mayest send another servant to wait the next advices, from
J. BELFORD
Letter 334: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Monday, July 17
About six this morning I went to Rowland’s. Mrs Sinclair was to follow me, in order to dismiss the action; but not to come in sight.
Rowland, upon inquiry, told me that the lady was extremely ill; and that she had desired not to let anybody but his wife or maid come near her.
I said I must see her. I had told him my business overnight; and I must see her.
His wife went up: but returned presently, saying she could not get her to speak to her; yet that her eyelids moved; though she either would not, or could not, open them, to look up at her.
Oons, woman, said I, the lady may be in a fit: the lady may be dying. Let me go up. Show me the way.
A horrid hole of a house, in an alley they call a court; stairs wretchedly narrow, even to the first-floor rooms: and into a den they led me, with broken walls which had been papered, as I saw by a multitude of tacks, and some torn bits held on by the rusty heads.
The floor indeed was clean, but the ceiling was smoked with variety of figures, and initials of names, that had been the woeful employment of wretches who had no other way to amuse themselves.
A bed at one corner, with coarse curtains tacked up at the feet to the ceiling; because the curtain rings were broken off; but a coverlid upon it with a cleanish look, though plaguily in tatters, and the corners tied up in tassels, that the rents in it might go no farther.
The windows dark and double-barred, the tops boarded up to save mending; and only a little four-paned eylet-hole of a casement to let in air; more, however, coming in at broken panes than could come in at that.
Four old turkey-worked chairs, bursten-bottomed, the stuffing staring out.
An old, tottering, worm-eaten table, that had more nails bestowed in mending it to make it stand, than the table cost fifty years ago when new.
To finish the shocking description, in a dark nook stood an old, broken-bottomed cane couch, without a squab or coverlid, sunk at one corner, and unmortised, by the failing of one of its worm-eaten legs, which lay in two pieces under the wretched piece of furniture it could no longer support.
I had leisure to cast my eye on these things: for, going up softly, the poor lady turned not about at our entrance nor, till I spoke, moved her head.
She was kneeling in a corner of the room, near the dismal window, against the table, on an old bolster (as it seemed to be) of the cane couch, half-covered with her handkerchief; her back to the door; which was only shut to (no need of fastenings!); her arms crossed upon the table, the fore-finger of her right hand in her Bible. She had perhaps been reading in it, and could read no longer. Paper, pens, ink, lay by her book on the table. Her dress was white damask, exceeding neat; but her stays seemed not tight-laced. I was told afterwards, that her laces had been cut when she fainted away at her entrance into this cursed place; and she had not been solicitous enough about her dress to send for others. Her headdress was a little discomposed; her charming hair, in natural ringlets, as you have heretofore described it, but a little tangled, as if not lately kembed, irregularly shading one side of the loveliest neck in the world; as her disordered, rumpled handkerchief did the other. Her face (Oh how altered from what I had seen it! yet lovely in spite of all her griefs and sufferings!) was reclined, when we entered, upon her crossed arms; but so as not more than one side of it to be hid.
When I surveyed the room around, and the kneeling lady, sunk with majesty too in her white, flowing robes (for she had not on a hoop), spreading the dark, though not dirty, floor, and illuminating that horrid corner; her linen beyond imagination white, considering that she had not been undressed ever since she had been here; I thought my concern would have choked me. Something rose in my throat, I know not what, which made me for a moment guggle, as it were, for speech: which, at last, forcing its way, Con-Con-Confound you both, said I to the man and woman, is this an apartment for such a lady? And could the cursed devils of her own sex, who visited this suffering angel, see her, and leave her, in so damned a nook?
Sir, we would have had the lady to accept of our own bedchamber; but she refused it. We are poor people—and we expect nobody will stay with us longer than they can help it.
Up then raised the charming sufferer her lovely face; but with such a significance of woe overspreading it that I could not, for the soul of me, help being visibly affected.
She waved her hand two or three times towards the door, as if commanding me to withdraw; and displeased at my intrusion; but did not speak.
Permit me, madam. I will not approach one step farther without your leave—permit me, for one moment, the favour of your ear!
No—No—go, go; MAN, with an emphasis—and would have said more; but, as if struggling in vain for words, she seemed to give up speech for lost, and dropped her head down once more, with a deep sigh, upon her left arm; her right, as if she had not the use of it (numbed, I suppose), self-moved, dropping down on her side.
I dare not approach you, dearest lady, without your leave: but on my knees I beseech you to permit me to release you from this damned house, and out of the power of the accursed woman who was the occasion of your being here!
She lifted up her sweet face once more, and beheld me on my knees.
Are you not—are you not Mr Belford, sir? I think your name is Belford?
It is, madam, and I ever was a worshipper of your virtues, and an advocate for you; and I come to release you from the hands you are in.
And in whose to place me? Oh leave me, leave me! Let me never rise from this spot! Let me never, never more believe in man!
This moment, dearest lady, this very moment, if you please, you may depart whithersoever you think fit. You are absolutely free, and your own mistress.
I had now as lieve die here in this place, as anywhere. I will owe no obli
gation to any friend of him in whose company you have seen me. So, pray, sir, withdraw.
Then turning to the officer, Mr Rowland I think your name is? I am better reconciled to your house than I was at first. If you can but engage that I shall have nobody come near me but your wife; no man! and neither of those women who have sported with my calamities; I will die with you, and in this very corner. And you shall be well satisfied for the trouble you have had with me. I have value enough for that—for, see, I have a diamond ring; taking it out of her bosom; and I have friends will redeem it at a high price, when I am gone.
But for you, sir, looking at me, I beg you to withdraw. If you mean me well, God, I hope, will reward you for your good meaning; but to the friend of my destroyer will I not owe an obligation.
You will owe no obligation to me, nor to anybody. You have been detained for a debt you do not owe. The action is dismissed; and you will only be so good as to give me your hand into the coach which stands as near to this house as it could draw up. And I will either leave you at the coach-door, or attend you whithersoever you please, till I see you safe where you would wish to be.
Will you then, sir, compel me to be beholden to you?
You will inexpressibly oblige me, madam, to command me to do you either service or pleasure.
Why then, sir—looking at me—but why do you mock me in that humble posture! Rise, sir! I cannot speak to you else.
I arose.
Only, sir, take this ring. I have a sister who will be glad to have it, at the price it shall be valued at, for the former owner’s sake! Out of the money she gives, let this man be paid; handsomely paid: and I have a few valuables more at my lodgings (Dorcas, or the MAN William, can tell where that is); let them, and my clothes at the wicked woman’s where you have seen me, be sold for the payment of my lodging first, and next of your friend’s debts, that I have been arrested for; as far as they will go; only reserving enough to put me into the ground, anywhere, or anyhow, no matter. Tell your friend I wish it may be enough to satisfy the whole demand; but if it be not, he must make it up himself; or, if he think fit to draw for it on Miss Howe, she will repay it, and with interest, if he insist upon it. If I want to say anything more to you (you seem to be an humane man), I will let you know—and so, sir, God bless you.