She did.
Your servant, madam. Be so good as to excuse me. You have heard my story. You are an admirer of the most excellent woman in the world. Dear Mrs Lovick, tell me what is become of her?
The poor lady, sir, went out yesterday on purpose to avoid you.
How so? She knew not that I would be here.
She was afraid you would come when she heard you were recovered from your illness. Ah! Sir, what pity it is that so fine a gentleman should make such ill returns for God’s goodness to him!
You are an excellent woman, Mrs Lovick: I know that, by my cousin John Belford’s account of you; and Miss Harlowe is an angel.
Miss Harlowe is indeed an angel, replied she; and soon will be company for angels.
No jesting with such a woman as this, Jack.
Tell me of a truth, good Mrs Lovick, where I may see this dear lady. Upon my soul, I will neither fright nor offend her. I will only beg of her to hear me speak for one half-quarter of an hour; and if she will have it so, I will never trouble her more.
Sir, said the widow, it would be death for her to see you. She was at home last night; I’ll tell you truth: but fitter to be in bed all day. She came home, she said, to die; and if she could not avoid your visit, she was unable to fly from you; and believed she should die in your presence.
And yet go out again this morning early? How can that be, widow?
Why, sir, she rested not two hours, for fear of you. Her fear gave her strength, which she’ll suffer for when that fear is over. And finding herself, the more she thought of it, the less able to stay to receive your visit, she took chair and is gone nobody knows whither. But I believe she intended to be carried to the water-side, in order to take boat; for she cannot bear a coach. It extremely incommoded her yesterday.
But before we talk any further, said I, if she be gone abroad, you can have no objection to my looking into every apartment above and below; because I am told she is actually in the house.
Indeed, sir, she is not. You may satisfy yourself, if you please: but Mrs Smith and I waited on her to her chair. We were forced to support her, she was so weak. She said, Where can I go, Mrs Lovick? Whither can I go, Mrs Smith? Cruel, cruel man! Tell him I called him so, if he come again! God give him that peace which he denies me!
Sweet creature! cried I, and looked down and took out my handkerchief.
The widow wept. I wish, said she, I had never known so excellent a lady, and so great a sufferer! I love her as my own child!
Mrs Smith wept.
I then gave over the hope of seeing her for this time. I was extremely chagrined at my disappointment, and at the account they gave of her ill health.
Letter 421: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Wednesday morn. Aug. 23
All alive, dear Jack! and in ecstasy! Likely to be once more a happy man! For I have received a letter from my beloved Miss Harlowe; in consequence I suppose of advices that I mentioned in my last, from her sister. And I am setting out for Berkshire directly, to show the contents to my Lord M. and to receive the congratulations of all my kindred upon it.
I went last night, as I intended, to Smith’s: but the dear creature was not returned at near ten o’clock. And lighting upon Tourville, I took him home with me, and made him sing me out of my megrims. I went to bed tolerably easy at two; had bright and pleasant dreams, not such a frightful one as that I gave thee an account of: and at eight this morning, as I was dressing to be in readiness against Will came back, whom I had sent to inquire after his lady’s return, I had this letter brought me by a chairman.
• • •
to Robert Lovelace, Esq.
Tuesday night, 11 o’clock (Aug 22)
Sir,
I have good news to tell you. I am setting out with all diligence for my father’s house. I am bid to hope that he will receive his poor penitent with a goodness peculiar to himself; for I am overjoyed with the assurance of a thorough reconciliation through the interposition of a dear blessed friend, whom I always loved and honoured. I am so taken up with my preparation for this joyful and long-wished-for journey, that I cannot spare one moment for any other business, having several matters of the last importance to settle first. So, pray, sir, don’t disturb or interrupt me—I beseech you don’t. You may in time, possibly, see me at my father’s, at least, if it be not your own fault.
I will write a letter which shall be sent you when I am got thither and received: till when, I am, etc.
CLARISSA HARLOWE
• • •
I dispatched instantly a letter to the dear creature, assuring her with the most thankful joy, ‘That I would directly set out for Berkshire, and wait the issue of the happy reconciliation, and the charming hopes she had filled me with. I poured out upon her a thousand blessings. I declared that it should be the study of my whole life to merit such transcendent goodness. And that there was nothing which her father or friends should require at my hands, that I would not for her sake comply with, in order to promote and complete so desirable a reconciliation.’
I hurried it away without taking a copy of it; and I have ordered the chariot and six to be got ready; and hey for M. Hall! Let me but know how Belton does. I hope a letter from thee is on the road. And if the poor fellow can spare thee, make haste, I advise thee, to attend this truly divine lady, or else thou mayest not see her of months perhaps; at least, not while she is Miss Harlowe. And favour me with one letter before she sets out, if possible, confirming to me, and accounting for, this generous change.
But what accounting for it is necessary? The dear creature cannot receive consolation herself, but she must communicate it to others. How noble! She would not see me in her adversity: but no sooner does the sun of prosperity begin to shine upon her, than she forgives me.
I know to whose mediation all this is owing. It is to Colonel Morden’s. She always, as she says, loved and honoured him: and he loved her above all his relations.
I shall now be convinced that there is something in dreams. The ceiling opening is the reconciliation in view. The bright form, lifting her up through it to another ceiling stuck round with golden Cherubims and Seraphims, indicates the charming little boys and girls that will be the fruits of this happy reconciliation. The welcomes, thrice repeated, are those of her family, now no more to be deemed implacable. Yet are they a family too, that my soul cannot mingle with.
But then what is my tumbling over and over, through the floor, into a frightful hole (descending as she ascends)? Ho! only this; it alludes to my disrelish to matrimony: which is a bottomless pit, a gulf, and I know not what. And I suppose, had I not awoke (in such a plaguy fright) I had been soused into some river at the bottom of the hole, and then been carried (mundified or purified from my past iniquities) by the same bright form (waiting for me upon the mossy banks) to my beloved girl; and we should have gone on, cherubiming of it, and carolling, to the end of the chapter.
But what are the black sweeping mantles and robes of my Lord M. thrown over my face, and what are those of the ladies? Oh, Jack! I have these too: they indicate nothing in the world but that my lord will be so good as to die, and leave me all he has. So, rest to thy good-natured soul, honest Lord M.
As to Morden’s flashing through the window, and crying, Die, Lovelace, and be damned, if thou wilt not repair my cousin’s wrongs! That is only that he would have sent me a challenge had I not been disposed to do the lady justice.
All I dislike is this part of the dream: for, even in a dream, I would not be thought to be threatened into any measure, though I liked it ever so well.
And so much for my prophetic dream.
Dear charming creature! What a meeting will there be between her and her father and mother and uncles! What transports, what pleasure, will this happy, long-wished-for reconciliation give her dutiful heart! And indeed, now, methinks I am glad she is so dutiful to them;
for her duty to parents is a conviction to me that she will be as dutiful to her husband: since duty upon principle is an uniform thing.
I shall long to see the promised letter too, when she is got thither, which I hope will give an account of the reception she will meet with.
There is a solemnity, however, I think, in the style of her letter, which pleases and affects me at the same time. But as it is evident she loves me still, and hopes soon to see me at her father’s; she could not help being a little solemn and half-ashamed (dear blushing pretty rogue!) to own her love, after my usage of her.
And then her subscription: Till when, I am, Clarissa Harlowe: as much as to say, after that I shall be, if not your own fault, Clarissa Lovelace!
Oh my best love! My ever generous and adorable creature! How much does this thy forgiving goodness exalt us both!
Letter 423: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Although I have the highest opinion that man can have of the generosity of my dear Miss Harlowe, yet I cannot for the heart of me account for this agreeable change in her temper but one way. Faith and troth, Belford, I verily believe, laying all circumstances together, that the dear creature unexpectedly finds herself in the way I have so ardently wished her to be in; and that this makes her at last incline to favour me, that she may set the better face upon her gestation when at her father’s.
If this be the case, all her falling away and her fainting fits are charmingly accounted for. Nor is it surprising that such a sweet novice in these matters should not know to what to attribute her frequent indispositions. If this should be the case, how shall I laugh at thee! and (when I am sure of her) at the dear novice herself, that all her grievous distresses shall end in a man-child: which I shall love better than all the Cherubims and Seraphims that may come after; though there were to be as many of them as I beheld in my dream; in which a vast expanse of ceiling was stuck as full of them as it could hold.
Letter 426: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Sat. Aug. 26
After I had given some particular orders about the preparations to be made for his [Belton’s] funeral, I went to town; but having made it late before I got in on Thursday night, and being fatigued for want of rest several nights before, and low in my spirits (I could not help it, Lovelace!), I contented myself to send my compliments to the innocent sufferer, to inquire after her health.
My servant saw Mrs Smith, who told him she was very glad I was come to town; for that the lady was worse than she had yet been.
It is impossible to account for the contents of her letter to you; or to reconcile those contents to the facts I have to communicate.
I was at Smith’s by seven yesterday (Friday) morning; and found that the lady was just gone in a chair to St Dunstan’s to prayers; she was too ill to get out by six to Covent Garden Church; and was forced to be supported to her chair by Mrs Lovick. They would have persuaded her against going; but she said she knew not but it would be her last opportunity. Mrs Lovick, dreading that she would be taken worse at church, walked thither before her.
Mrs Smith told me she was so ill on Wednesday night, that she had desired to receive the Sacrament; and accordingly it was administered to her by the parson of the parish: whom she besought to take all opportunities of assisting her in her solemn preparation.
This the gentleman promised: and called in the morning to inquire after her health; and was admitted at the first word. He stayed with her about half an hour; and when he came down, with his face turned aside and a faltering accent, ‘Mrs Smith, said he, you have an angel in your house. I will attend her again in the evening, as she desires, and as often as I think it will be agreeable to her.’
Her increased weakness she attributed to the fatigues she had undergone by your means; and to a letter she had received from her sister, which she answered the same day.
‘She said it was hard she could not be permitted to die in peace: that her lot was a severe one: that she began to be afraid she should not forbear repining, and to think her punishment greater than her fault; but recalling herself immediately, she comforted herself that her life would be short, and with the assurance of a better.’
On Wednesday morning, when she received your letter in answer to hers, she said, Necessity may well be called the mother of invention. But calamity is the test of integrity. I hope I have not taken an inexcusable step—and there she stopped a minute or two, and then said, I shall now perhaps be allowed to die in peace.
A letter and packet were brought her by a man on horseback from Miss Howe, while we were talking. She retired upstairs to read it; and while I was in discourse with Mrs Smith and Mrs Lovick, the doctor and apothecary both came in together. They confirmed to me my fears as to the dangerous way she is in. They had both been apprised of the new instances of implacableness in her friends, and of your persecutions: and the doctor said, he would not for the world be either the unforgiving father of that lady, or the man who had brought her to this distress. Her heart’s broke; she’ll die, said he: there is no saving her.
When thou receivest this letter, thou wilt see what will soon be the end of all thy injuries to this divine lady. I say, when thou receivest it; for I will delay it for some little time, lest thou shouldst take it into thy head (under pretence of resenting the disappointment her letter must give thee) to molest her again.
This letter having detained me by its length, I shall not now set out for Epsom till tomorrow.
I should have mentioned, that the lady explained to me what the one thing was that she was afraid might happen to ruffle her. It was the apprehension of what may result from a visit which Colonel Morden, as she is informed, designs to make you.
Letter 439: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Monday noon, Aug. 28
But what is the meaning I hear nothing from thee? And why dost thou not let me into the grounds of the sudden reconciliation between my beloved and her friends, and the cause of the generous invitation which she gives me of attending her at her father’s some time hence?
Thou must certainly have been let into the secret by this time; and I can tell thee I shall be plaguy jealous if there be any one thing pass between my angel and thee that is to be concealed from me. For either I am a principal in this cause, or I am nothing.
But let me whisper a word or two in thy ear. I begin to be afraid, after all, that this letter was a stratagem to get me out of town, and for nothing else: for, in the first place, Tourville, in a letter I received this morning, tells me that the lady is actually very ill (I am sorry for it with all my soul!). This, thou’lt say, I may think a reason why she cannot set out as yet: but then I have heard on the other hand, but last night, that the family is as implacable as ever; and my lord and I expect this very afternoon a visit from Colonel Morden; who undertakes, it seems, to question me as to my intention with regard to his cousin.
This convinces me that if she has apprised them of my offers to her, they will not believe me to be in earnest till they are assured that I am so from my own mouth. And then I understand that the intended visit is an officiousness of Morden’s own, without the desire of any of her friends.
Now, Jack, what can a man make of all this? My intelligence as to the continuance of her family’s implacableness is not to be doubted; and yet when I read her letter, what can one say? Surely the dear little rogue will not lie!
I never knew her dispense with her word, but once: and that was when she promised to forgive me, after the dreadful fire that had like to have happened at our mother’s, and yet would not see me next day, and afterwards made her escape to Hampstead in order to avoid forgiving me: and as she severely smarted for this departure from her honour given (for it is a sad thing for good people to break their word when it is in their power to keep it), one would not expect that she should set about deceiving again; more especially by the premeditation of writing.
In this lady th
erefore it would be as unpardonable to tell a wilful untruth, as it would be strange if I kept my word. In love-cases, I mean; for as to the rest, I am an honest moral man, as all who know me can testify.
By my soul, Jack, if it were only that I should be outwitted by such a novice at plotting, and that it would make me look silly to my kinswomen here who know I value myself upon my contrivances, it would vex me to the heart; and I would instantly clap a featherbed into a coach and six, and fetch her away, sick or well, and marry her at my leisure.
But Colonel Morden is come and I must break off.
Letter 440: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Monday night, Aug. 28
I got to town in the evening, and went directly to Smith’s. I found Mrs Lovick and Mrs Smith in the back shop, and I saw they had been both in tears. They rejoiced to see me, however, and told me that the doctor and Mr Goddard were but just gone; as was also the worthy clergyman who often comes to pray by her; and all three were of opinion that she would hardly live to see the entrance of another week. I was not so much surprised as grieved; for I had feared as much when I left her on Saturday.
I sent up my compliments; and she returned that she would take it for a favour if I would call upon her in the morning, by eight o’clock. Mrs Lovick told me that she had fainted away on Saturday, while she was writing, as she had done likewise the day before; and having received benefit then by a little turn in a chair, she was carried abroad again. She returned somewhat better; and wrote till late; yet had a pretty good night; and went to Covent Garden Church in the morning: but came home so ill, that she was obliged to lie down.
When she arose, seeing how much grieved Mrs Lovick and Mrs Smith were for her, she made apologies for the trouble she gave them. You were happy, said she, before I came hither. It was a cruel thing in me to come among honest strangers, and to be sick, and die with you.