And what is the space of time to look backward upon, between an early departure and the longest survivance? And what the consolation attending the sweet hope of meeting again, never more to be separated, never more to be pained, grieved, or aspersed! But mutually blessing, and being blessed, to all eternity!
In the contemplation of this happy state, in which I hope in God’s good time to rejoice with you, my beloved Mrs Norton, and also with my dear relations, all reconciled to, and blessing, the child against whom they are now so much incensed, I conclude myself
Your ever dutiful and affectionate
CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 414: MR BELFORD TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Sat. morn. Aug. 19
Madam,
I think myself obliged in honour to acquaint you that I am afraid Mr Lovelace will try his fate by an interview with you.
I wish to Heaven you could prevail upon yourself to receive his visit. All that is respectful, even to veneration, and all that is penitent, will you see in his behaviour, if you can admit of it. But as I am obliged to set out directly for Epsom (to perform, as I apprehend, the last friendly offices for poor Mr Belton, whom once you saw), and as I think it more likely that Mr Lovelace will not be prevailed upon, than that he will, I thought fit to give you this intimation, lest otherwise, if he should come, you should be too much surprised.
He flatters himself that you are not so ill as I represent you to be. When he sees you, he will be convinced that the most obliging things he can do will be as proper to be done for the sake of his own future peace of mind, as for your health-sake; and I dare say in fear of hurting the latter, he will forbear the thoughts of any further intrusion; at least while you are so much indisposed: so that one half-hour’s shock, if it will be a shock to see the unhappy man (but just got up himself from a dangerous fever), will be all you will have occasion to stand.
I beg you will not too much hurry and discompose yourself. It is impossible he can be in town till Monday at soonest. And if he resolve to come, I hope to be at Mr Smith’s before him.
I am, madam, with the profoundest veneration,
Your most faithful and most obedient servant,
J. BELFORD
Letter 415: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Sunday, Aug. 20
What an unmerciful fellow art thou! A man has no need of a conscience who has such an impertinent monitor.
But get thee gone to Belton as soon as thou canst. Yet whether thou goest or not, up I must go, and see what I can do with the sweet oddity myself. The moment these prescribing varlets will let me, depend upon it, I go. Nay, Lord M. thinks she ought to permit me one interview. His opinion has great authority with me—when it squares with my own: and I have assured him, and my two cousins, that I will behave with all the decency and respect that man can behave with to the person whom he most respects. And so I will. Of this, if thou choosest not to go to Belton meantime, thou shalt be witness.
Colonel Morden, thou hast heard me say, is a man of honour and bravery—but Colonel Morden has had his girls as well as you and I. And indeed, either openly or secretly, who has not? The devil always baits with a pretty wench when he angles for a man, be his age, rank, or degree, what it will.
I have often heard my beloved speak of the colonel with great distinction and esteem. I wish he could make matters a little easier, for her mind’s sake, between the rest of the implacables and herself.
Methinks I am sorry for honest Belton. But a man cannot be ill or vapourish, but thou liftest up thy shriek-owl note and killest him immediately. None but a fellow who is fit for a drummer in death’s forlorn-hope could take so much delight, as thou dost, in beating a dead-march with thy goose-quills.
I shall call thee seriously to account, when I see thee, for the extracts thou hast given the lady from my letters, notwithstanding what I said in my last; especially if she continue to refuse me. An hundred times have I known a woman deny, yet comply at last: but by these extracts, thou hast I doubt made her bar up the door of her heart, as she used to do her chamber-door, against me. This therefore is a disloyalty that friendship cannot bear, nor honour allow me to forgive.
Letter 416: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
London, Aug. 21. Monday
I believe I am bound to curse thee, Jack. Nevertheless I won’t anticipate, but proceed to write thee a longer letter than thou hast had from me for some time past. So here goes.
That thou mightest have as little notice as possible of the time I was resolved to be in town, I set out in my lord’s chariot and six yesterday as soon as I had dispatched my letter to thee, and arrived in town last night: for I knew I could have no dependence on thy friendship where Miss Harlowe’s humour was concerned.
I had no other place so ready, and so was forced to go to my old lodgings, where also my wardrobe is; and there I poured out millions of curses upon the whole crew, and refused to see either Sally or Polly; and this not only for suffering the lady to escape; but for the villainous arrest, and for their insolence to her at the officer’s house.
I dressed myself in a never worn suit, which I had intended for one of my wedding suits—and liked myself so well, that I began to think with thee that my outside was the best of me.
I took a chair to Smith’s, my heart bounding in almost audible thumps to my throat, with the assured expectation of seeing my beloved. I clasped my fingers as I was danced along: I charged my eyes to languish and sparkle by turns: I talked to my knees, telling them how they must bend; and in the language of a charming describer acted my part in fancy, as well as spoke it to myself.
In this manner entertained I myself till I arrived at Smith’s; and there the fellows set down their gay burden. Off went their hats; Will ready at hand in a new livery; up went the head; out rushed my honour; the woman behind the counter all in flutters—respect and fear giving due solemnity to her features; and her knees, I doubt not, knocking against the inside of her wainscot fence.
Your servant, madam. Will, let the fellows move to some distance and wait.
You have a young lady lodges here; Miss Harlowe, madam: is she above?
Sir, sir, and please your honour (the woman is struck with my figure, thinks I): Miss Harlowe, sir! There is, indeed, such a young lady lodges here—but, but—
But what, madam? I must see her. One pair of stairs; is it not? Don’t trouble yourself. I shall find her apartment. And was making towards the stairs.
Sir, sir, the lady, the lady is not at home—she is abroad—she is in the country.
In the country! Not at home! Impossible! You will not pass this story upon me, good woman. I must see her. I have business of life and death with her.
Indeed, sir, the lady is not at home! Indeed, sir, she is abroad.
She then rung a bell: John, cried she, pray step down! Indeed, sir, the lady is not at home.
Down came John, the good man of the house, when I expected one of his journeymen, by her saucy familiarity.
My dear, said she, the gentleman will not believe Miss Harlowe is abroad.
John bowed to my fine clothes. Your servant, sir. Indeed the lady is abroad. She went out of town this morning by six o’clock—into the country—by the doctor’s advice.
Still I would not believe either John or his wife. I am sure, said I, she cannot be abroad. I heard she was very ill—she is not able to go out in a coach. Do you know Mr Belford, friend?
Yes, sir; I have the honour to know ‘Squire Belford. He is gone into the country to visit a sick friend. He went on Saturday, sir.
Well, and Mr Belford wrote me word that she was exceeding ill. How then can she be gone out?
Oh sir, she is very ill; very ill, indeed—could hardly walk to the coach.
Where is her servant? Call her servant to me.
Her servant, sir, is her nurse: she has no other. And she is go
ne with her.
Well, friend, I must not believe you. You’ll excuse me; but I must go upstairs myself. And was stepping up.
John hereupon put on a serious and a less respectful face. Sir, this house is mine; and—
And what, friend? not doubting then but she was above. I must and will see her. I have authority for it. I am a Justice of Peace. I have a search-warrant.
And up I went; they following me muttering, and in a plaguy flutter.
The first door I came to was locked. I tapped at it.
The lady, sir, has the key of her own apartment.
On the inside, I question not, my honest friend; tapping again. And being assured if she heard my voice that her timorous and soft temper would make her betray herself by some flutters to my listening ear. I said aloud, I am confident Miss Harlowe is here: dearest madam, open the door: admit me but for one moment to your presence.
But neither answer nor fluttering saluted my ear; and the people being very quiet, I led on to the next apartment; and the key being on the outside, I opened it and looked all round it, and into the closet.
The man said he never saw so uncivil a gentleman in his life.
Hark thee, friend, said I: Let me advise thee to be a little decent; or I shall teach thee a lesson thou never learnedst in all thy life.
Sir, said he, ‘tis not like a gentleman, to affront a man in his own house.
Then prithee, man, replied I, don’t crow upon thine own dunghill.
I stepped back to the locked door: My dear Miss Harlowe, I beg of you to open the door or I’ll break it open—pushing hard against it, that it cracked again.
The man looked pale; and, trembling with his fright, made a plaguy long face; and called to one of his bodice-makers above, Joseph, come down quickly.
Joseph came down: a lion’s-face grinning fellow; thick and short, and bushy-headed, like an old oak pollard. Then did master John put on a sturdier look. But I only hummed a tune, traversed all the other apartments, sounded the passages with my knuckles to find whether there were private doors, and walked up the next pair of stairs, singing all the way; John, and Joseph, and Mrs Smith, following me trembling.
I looked round me there, and went into two open-door bedchambers; searched the closets, the passages, and peeped through the keyhole of another: No Miss Harlowe, by Jupiter! What shall I do! What shall I do! Now will she be grieved that she is out of the way.
I said this on purpose to find out whether these people knew the lady’s story; and had the answer I expected from Mrs Smith. I believe not, sir, said she.
Why so, Mrs Smith? Do you know who I am?
I can guess, sir.
Whom do you guess me to be?
Your name is Mr Lovelace, sir, I make no doubt.
The very same. But how came you to guess so well, Dame Smith? You never saw me before—did you?
Here, Jack, I laid out for a compliment, and missed it.
‘Tis easy to guess, sir; for there cannot be two such gentlemen as you.
Well said, Dame Smith—but mean you good or bad? Handsome was the least I thought she would have said.
I leave you to guess, sir.
Condemned, thinks I, by myself, on this appeal.
Why, Father Smith, thy wife is a wit, man! Didst thou ever find that out before? But where is widow Lovick, Dame Smith? My cousin John Belford says she is a very good woman. Is she within? Or is she gone with Miss Harlowe too?
She will be within by and by, sir. She is not with the lady.
Well, but my good dear Mrs Smith, where is the lady gone? And when will she return?
I can’t tell, sir.
Well, Mrs Smith, with a grave air, I am heartily sorry Miss Harlowe is abroad. You don’t tell me where she is?
Indeed, sir, I cannot.
You will not, you mean. She could have no notion of my coming. I came to town but last night—Have been very ill. She has almost broke my heart by her cruelty. You know my story, I doubt not. Tell her I must go out of town tomorrow morning. But I will send my servant to know if she will favour me with one half-hour’s conversation; for, as soon as I get down, I shall set out for Dover, in my way to France, if I have not a countermand from her who has the sole disposal of my fate.
And away I was carried to White’s, according to direction.
As soon as I came thither, I ordered Will to go and change his clothes, and to disguise himself by putting on his black wig and keeping his mouth shut; and then to dodge about Smith’s to inform himself of the lady’s motions.
• • •
I intend to regulate my motions by Will’s intelligence; for see this dear creature I must and will. Yet I have promised Lord M. to be down in two or three days at farthest; for he is grown plaguy fond of me since I was ill.
I am in hopes that the word I left that I am to go out of town tomorrow morning will soon bring the lady back again.
Meantime, I thought I would write to divert thee, while thou art of such importance about the dying; and as thy servant it seems comes backward and forward every day, perhaps I may send thee another tomorrow, with the particulars of the interview between the dear lady and me; after which my soul thirsteth.
Letter 417: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Thursday, Aug. 22
I must write on to divert myself: for I can get no rest; no refreshing rest. I awaked just now in a cursed fright. How a man may be affected by dreams!
‘Methought I had an interview with my beloved. I found her all goodness, condescension, and forgiveness. She suffered herself to be overcome in my favour by the joint intercessions of Lord M., Lady Sarah, Lady Betty, and my two cousins Montague, who waited upon her in deep mourning; the ladies in long trains sweeping after them; Lord M. in a long black mantle trailing after him. They told her they came in these robes to express their sorrow for my sins against her, and to implore her to forgive me.
‘I myself, I thought, was upon my knees and with a sword in my hand, offering either to put it up in the scabbard, or to thrust it into my heart, as she should command the one or the other.
‘At that moment her cousin Morden, I thought, all of a sudden flashed in through a window, with his drawn sword. Die, Lovelace, said he! this instant die, and be damned, if in earnest thou repairest not by marriage my cousin’s wrongs!
‘I was rising to resent this insult, I thought, when Lord M. run between us with his great black mantle, and threw it over my face: and instantly, my charmer, with that sweet voice which has so often played upon my ravished ears, wrapped her arms round me, muffled as I was in my Lord M.’s mantle: Oh spare, spare my Lovelace! And spare, Oh Lovelace, my beloved cousin Morden! Let me not have my distresses augmented by the fall of either or both of those who are so dear to me.
‘At this, charmed with her sweet mediation, I thought I would have clasped her in my arms: when immediately the most angelic form I had ever beheld, vested all in transparent white, descended from a ceiling, which, opening, discovered a ceiling above that, stuck round with golden cherubs and glittering seraphs, all exulting: Welcome, welcome, welcome! and, encircling my charmer, ascended with her to the region of seraphims; and instantly, the opening ceiling closing, I lost sight of her, and of the bright form together, and found wrapped in my arms her azure robe (all stuck thick with stars of embossed silver), which I had caught hold of in hopes of detaining her; but was all that was left me of my beloved Miss Harlowe. And then (horrid to relate!) the floor sinking under me, as the ceiling had opened for her, I dropped into a hole more frightful than that of Elden and tumbling over and over down it, without view of a bottom, I awaked in a panic; and was as effectually disordered for half an hour, as if my dream had been a reality.’
Wilt thou forgive me troubling thee with such visionary stuff? Thou wilt see by it only that, sleeping or waking, my Clarissa is always present with me.
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But here this moment is Will come running hither to tell me that his lady actually returned to her lodgings last night between eleven and twelve, and is now there, though very ill.
I hasten to her. But that I may not add to her indisposition by any rough or boisterous behaviour, I will be as soft and gentle as the dove herself in my addresses to her.
The chair is come. I fly to my beloved.
Letter 418: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Curse upon my stars! Disappointed again!
It was about eight when I arrived at Smith’s. The woman was in the shop.
So, old acquaintance, how do you now? I know my love is above. Let her be acquainted that I am here, waiting for admission to her presence and can take no denial. Tell her that I will approach her with the most respectful duty and in whose company she pleases; and I will not touch the hem of her garment without her leave.
Indeed, sir, you’re mistaken. The lady is not in this house, nor near it.
I’ll see that—Will! beckoning him to me, and whispering, see if thou canst any way find out (without losing sight of the door, lest she should be below stairs) if she be in the neighbourhood, if not within.
Will bowed and went off. Up went I, without further ceremony; attended now only by the good woman.
I went into each apartment, except that which was locked before, and was now also locked: and I called to Miss Harlowe in the voice of love; but by the still silence was convinced she was not there. Yet, on the strength of my intelligence, I doubted not but she was in the house.
I then went up two pair of stairs, and looked round the first room: but no Miss Harlowe.
And who, pray, is in this room? stopping at the door of another.
A widow gentlewoman, sir. Mrs Lovick.
Oh my dear Mrs Lovick! said I, I am intimately acquainted with her character from my cousin John Belford. I must see Mrs Lovick by all means. Good Mrs Lovick, open the door.