But if the worst happen!—as by your continual knelling I know not what to think of it!—then say not in so many dreadful words what the event is—only that you advise me to take a trip to Paris: and that will stab me to the heart
Letter 450: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Thursday night, Aug. 31
When I concluded my last, I hoped that my next attendance upon this surprising lady would furnish me with some particulars as agreeable as now could be hoped for from the declining way she is in, by reason of the welcome letter she had received from her cousin Morden. But it proved quite otherwise to me, though not to herself; for I think I never was more shocked in my life than on the occasion I shall mention presently.
When I attended her about seven in the evening, she told me that she had found herself since I went, in a very petulant way. Strange, she said, that the pleasure she had received from her cousin’s letter should have had such an effect upon her. But she had given way to a comparative humour, as she might call it, and thought it very hard that her nearer relations had not taken the methods with her, which her cousin Morden had begun with; by inquiring into her merit or demerit, and giving her cause a fair audit before condemnation.
She had hardly said this, when she started, and a blush overspread her face, on hearing, as I also did, a sort of lumbering noise upon the stairs, as if a large trunk were bringing up between two people: and looking upon me with an eye of concern, Blunderers! said she, they have brought in something two hours before the time. Don’t be surprised, sir: it is all to save you trouble.
Before I could speak, in came Mrs Smith: Oh madam, said she, what have you done? Mrs Lovick, entering, made the same exclamation. Lord have mercy upon me, madam, cried I, what have you done! For, she stepping at the instant to the door, the women told me it was a coffin.
With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having directed them to carry it into her bedchamber, she returned to us: They were not to have brought it in till after dark, said she. Pray, excuse me, Mr Belford: and don’t you, Mrs Lovick, be concerned: nor you, Mrs Smith. Why should you? There is nothing more in it than the unusualness of the thing. Why may we not be as reasonably shocked at going to the church where are the monuments of our ancestors, with whose dust we even hope our dust shall be one day mingled, as to be moved at such a sight as this?
We all remaining silent, the women having their aprons at their eyes—Why this concern for nothing at all, said she? If I am to be blamed for anything, it is for showing too much solicitude, as it may be thought, for this earthly part. I love to do everything for myself that I can do. I ever did. Every other material point is so far done and taken care of, that I have had leisure for things of lesser moment. Minutenesses may be observed, where greater articles are not neglected for them. I might have had this to order, perhaps, when less fit to order it. I have no mother, no sister, no Mrs Norton, no Miss Howe, near me. Some of you must have seen this in a few days, if not now; perhaps have had the friendly trouble of directing it. And what is the difference of a few days to you, when I am gratified rather than discomposed by it? I shall not die the sooner for such a preparation. Should not everybody make their will, that has anything to bequeath? And who that makes a will, should be afraid of a coffin? My dear friends (to the women), I have considered these things; do not give me reason to think you have not, with such an object before you as you have had in me, for weeks.
We were all silent still, the women in grief, I in a manner stunned. She would not ask me, she said; but would be glad, since it had thus earlier than she had intended been brought in, that her two good friends would walk in and look upon it. They would be less shocked when it was made more familiar to their eye, than while their thoughts ran large upon it.
I took my leave; telling her she had done wrong, very wrong; and ought not, by any means, to have such an object before her.
The women followed her in. ‘Tis a strange sex! Nothing is too shocking for them to look upon, or see acted, that has but novelty and curiosity in it.
While I waited for a chair, Mrs Smith came down, and told me that there were devices and inscriptions upon the lid. Lord bless me! Is a coffin a proper subject to display fancy upon? But these great minds cannot avoid doing extraordinary things!
Letter 451: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Friday morn. Sept. 1
I really was ill and restless all night. Thou wert the subject of my execration, as she of my admiration, all the time I was quite awake: and when I dozed, I dreamt of nothing but of flying hour-glasses, death’s-heads, spades, mattocks, and eternity; the hint of her devices (as given me by Mrs Smith) running in my head.
However, not being able to keep away from Smith’s, I went thither about seven. The lady was just gone out: she had slept better, I found, than I, though her solemn repository was under her window not far from her bedside.
I was prevailed upon by Mrs Smith and her nurse Shelburne (Mrs Lovick being abroad with her) to go up and look at the devices. Mrs Lovick has since shown me a copy of the draft by which all was ordered. And I will give thee a sketch of the symbols.
The principal device, neatly etched on a plate of white metal, is a crowned serpent, with its tail in its mouth, forming a ring, the emblem of eternity, and in the circle made by it is this inscription:
CLARISSA HARLOWE.
APRIL X.
[Then the year]
AETAT. XIX.
For ornaments: at top, an hour-glass winged. At bottom, an urn.
Under the hour-glass, on another plate, this inscription:
HERE the wicked cease from troubling: and HERE the weary be at rest. Job iii. 17.
Over the urn, near the bottom:
Turn again unto thy rest, Oh my soul! For the Lord hath rewarded thee. And why? Thou hast delivered my soul from death; mine eyes from tears; and my feet from falling. Ps[alm] cxvi. 7, 8.
Over this text is the head of a white lily snapped short off, and just falling from the stalk; and this inscription over that, between the principal plate and the lily:
The days of man are but as grass. For he flourisheth as a flower of the field: for, as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. Ps ciii. 15, 16.
She excused herself to the women, on the score of her youth, and being used to draw for her needleworks, for having shown more fancy than would perhaps be thought suitable on so solemn an occasion.
The date April 10 she accounted for, as not being able to tell what her closing-day would be; and as that was the fatal day of her leaving her father’s house.
She discharged the undertaker’s bill after I was gone, with as much cheerfulness as she could ever have paid for the clothes she sold to purchase this her palace: for such she called it; reflecting upon herself for the expensiveness of it, saying that they might observe in her, that pride left not poor mortals to the last: but indeed she did not know but her father would permit it, when furnished, to be carried down to be deposited with her ancestors; and in that case she ought not to discredit them in her last appearance.
It is covered with fine black cloth, and lined with white satin; soon she said to be tarnished by viler earth than any it could be covered by.
The burial-dress was brought home with it. The women had curiosity enough, I suppose, to see her open that, if she did open it. And, perhaps, thou wouldst have been glad to have been present to have admired it too!
Letter 454: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Sat. morning, Sept. 2
The lady is alive and serene, and calm, and has all her noble intellects clear and strong. She says she will now content herself with her closet duties and the visits of the parish minister; and will not attempt to go out. Nor indeed will she, I am afraid, ever walk up or down a pair of stairs again.
What has contributed to her serenity, it seems,
is that taking the alarm her fits gave her, she has entirely finished, and signed and sealed her last will: which she had deferred doing till this time, in hopes, as she said, of some good news from Harlowe Place; which would have occasioned the alterations of some passages in it.
Miss Howe’s letter was not given her till four in the afternoon, yesterday; at what time the messenger returned for an answer. She admitted him to her presence in the dining-room, ill as she then was; and would have written a few lines, as desired by Miss Howe; but not being able to hold a pen, she bid the messenger tell her that she hoped to be well enough to write a long letter by the next day’s post; and would not now detain him.
• • •
Saturday, six in the afternoon
I called just now, and found the lady writing to Miss Howe. She made me a melancholy compliment, that she showed me not Miss Howe’s letter because I should soon have that and all her papers before me. But she told me that Miss Howe had very considerately obviated to Colonel Morden several things which might have occasioned misapprehensions between him and me; and had likewise put a lighter construction, for the sake of peace, on some of your actions than they deserved.
She added that her cousin Morden was warmly engaged in her favour with her friends: and one good piece of news Miss Howe’s letter contained; that her father would give up some matters, which (appertaining to her of right) would make my executorship the easier in some particulars that had given her a little pain.
Will says he shall reach you tonight. I shall send in the morning; and if I find her not worse, will ride to Edgware, and return in the afternoon.
Letter 455: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Tuesday, Aug. 29
My dearest friend,
I am at length returned to this place; and had intended to wait on you in London: but my mamma is very ill. Alas! my dear, she is very ill indeed. And you are likewise very ill. I see that by yours of the 25th. What shall I do if I lose two such near, and dear, and tender friends? She was taken ill yesterday at our last stage in our return home—and has a violent surfeit and fever, and the doctors are doubtful about her.
If she should die, how will all my pertnesses to her fly in my face! Why, why, did I ever vex her? She says I have been all duty and obedience! She kindly forgets all my faults, and remembers everything I have been so happy as to oblige her in. And this cuts me to the heart.
I see, I see, my dear, you are very bad—and I cannot bear it. Do, my beloved Miss Harlowe, if you can be better, do, for my sake, be better; and send me word of it. Let the bearer bring me a line. Be sure you send me a line. If I lose you, my more than sister, and lose my mamma, I shall distrust my own conduct, and will not marry. And why should I? Creeping, cringing in courtship: Oh my dear, these men are a vile race of reptiles in our day, and mere bears in their own. See in Lovelace all that was desirable in figure, in birth, and in fortune: but in his heart a devil! See in Hickman—Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell what anybody can see in Hickman, to be always preaching in his favour. And is it to be expected that I, who could hardly bear control from a mother, should take it from a husband?—from one too, who has neither more wit, nor more understanding, than myself? Yet he to be my instructor! So he will, I suppose; but more by the insolence of his will than by the merit of his counsel. It is in vain to think of it. I cannot be a wife to any man breathing whom I at present know. This I the rather mention now, because on my mother’s danger I know you will be for pressing me the sooner to throw myself into another sort of protection, should I be deprived of her. But no more of this subject, or indeed of any other; for I am obliged to attend my mamma, who cannot bear me out of her sight.
• • •
Wednesday, Aug. 30
My mother, Heaven be praised! has had a fine night and is much better. Her fever has yielded to medicine! And now I can write once more with freedom and ease to you, in hopes that you also are better. If this be granted to my prayers, I shall again be happy. I write with still the more alacrity, as I have an opportunity given me to touch upon a subject in which you are nearly concerned.
You must know then, my dear, that your cousin Morden has been here with me. He told me of an interview he had on Monday at Lord M.’s with Lovelace; and asked me abundance of questions about you, and about that villainous man.
I could have raised a fine flame between them if I would: but, observing that he is a man of very lively passions, and believing you would be miserable if anything should happen to him from a quarrel with a man who is known to have so many advantages at his sword, I made not the worst of the subjects we talked of. But, as I could not tell untruths in his favour, you must think I said enough to make him curse the wretch.
I don’t find, well as they all used to respect Colonel Morden, that he has influence enough upon them to bring them to any terms of reconciliation.
What can they mean by it! But your brother is come home, it seems: so, the honour of the house—the reputation of the family, is all the cry!
The colonel is exceedingly out of humour with them all. Yet has he not hitherto, it seems, seen your brutal brother. I told him how ill you were, and communicated to him some of the contents of your letter. He admired you, cursed Lovelace, and raved against all your family.
He says that none of your friends think you so ill as you are; nor will believe it. He is sure they all love you, and that dearly too.
The colonel (as one of your trustees) is resolved to see you put into possession of your estate: and in the meantime he has actually engaged them to remit to him, for you, the produce of it accrued since your grandfather’s death (a very considerable sum); and proposes himself to attend you with it. But by a hint he dropped, I find you had disappointed some people’s littleness by not writing to them for money and supplies; since they were determined to distress you, and to put you at defiance.
Like all the rest! I hope I may say that without offence.
I am obliged to leave off here. But having a good deal still to write, and my mother better, I will pursue the subject in another letter, although I send both together. I need not say how much I am, and will ever be,
Your affectionate, etc.
ANNA HOWE
Letter 456: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Thursday, Aug. 31
The colonel thought fit once to speak it to the praise of Lovelace’s generosity, that (as a man of honour ought) he took to himself all the blame and acquitted you of the consequences of the precipitate step you had taken; since, he said, as you loved him, and was in his power, he must have had advantages which he would not have had if you had continued at your father’s, or at any friend’s.
Mighty generous, I said (were it as he supposed) in such insolent reflectors, the best of them; who pretend to clear reputations which never had been sullied, but by falling into their dirty acquaintance! But in this case, I added, that there was no need of anything but the strictest truth, to demonstrate Lovelace to be the blackest of villains, you the brightest of innocents.
This he catched at; and swore that could he find that there were anything uncommon or barbarous in the seduction, as one of your letters had indeed seemed to imply (that is to say, my dear, anything worse than perjury, breach of faith, and abuse of a generous confidence!—sorry fellows!), he would avenge his cousin to the utmost.
Upon the whole I find that Mr Morden has a very slender notion of women’s virtue in particular cases: for which reason I put him down, though your favourite, as one who is not entitled to cast the first stone.
He even hinted (as from your relations indeed) that it is impossible but there must be some will where there is much love. These sort of reflections are enough to make a woman who has at heart her own honour and the honour of her sex, to look about her and consider what she is doing when she enters into an intimacy with these wretches; since it is plain that whenever she throws herself into t
he power of a man, and leaves for him her parents or guardians, everybody will believe it to be owing more to her good luck than to her discretion if there be not an end of her virtue: and let the man be ever such a villain to her, she must take into her own bosom a share of his guilty baseness.
I find he is willing to hope that a marriage between you may still take place; which he says will heal up all breaches.
I would have written much more—But am obliged to leave off to attend my two cousins Spilsworth, and my cousin Herbert, who are come to visit us on account of my mother’s illness. I will therefore dispatch these by Rogers; and if my mother gets well soon (as I hope she will) I am resolved to see you in town, and tell you everything that now is upon my mind: and particularly, mingling my soul with yours, how much I am, and will ever be, my dearest dear friend,
Your affectionate
ANNA HOWE
Letter 457: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Sunday evening, Sept. 3
I wonder not at the impatience your servant tells me you express to hear from me. I was designing to write you a long letter, and was just returned from Smith’s for that purpose; but since you are so urgent, you must be contented with a short one.
I attended the lady this morning, just before I set out for Edgware. She was so ill overnight, that she was obliged to leave her letter to Miss Howe unfinished: but early this morning she made an end of it, and had just sealed it up as I came. She was so fatigued with writing, that she told me she would lie down after I was gone, and endeavour to recruit her spirits.
They had sent for Mr Goddard when she was so ill last night; and not being able to see him out of her own chamber, he for the first time saw her house, as she calls it. He was extremely shocked and concerned at it; and chid Mrs Smith and Mrs Lovick for not persuading her to have such an object removed from her bedchamber: and when they excused themselves on the little authority it was reasonable to suppose they must have with a lady so much their superior, he reflected warmly on those who had more authority, and who left her to proceed in such a shocking and solemn whimsy, as he called it.