Clarissa, Volume 2 (of 9)

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You have taught me what to say to, and what to think of, Mr. Lovelace.
You have, by agreeable anticipation, let me know how it is probable he
will apply to me to be excused. I will lay every thing before you that
shall pass on the occasion, if he do apply, that I may take your advice,
when it can come in time; and when it cannot, that I may receive your
correction, or approbation, as I may happen to merit either.--Only one
thing must be allowed for me; that whatever course I shall be permitted
or be forced to steer, I must be considered as a person out of her own
direction. Tost to and fro by the high winds of passionate controul,
(and, as I think, unseasonable severity,) I behold the desired port, the
single state, into which I would fain steer; but am kept off by the
foaming billows of a brother's and sister's envy, and by the raging winds
of a supposed invaded authority; while I see in Lovelace, the rocks on
one hand, and in Solmes, the sands on the other; and tremble, lest I
should split upon the former, or strike upon the latter.

But you, my better pilot, to what a charming hope do you bid me aspire,
if things come to extremity!--I will not, as you caution me, too much
depend upon your success with your mother in my favour; for well I know
her high notions of implicit duty in a child: but yet I will hope too;
because her seasonable protection may save me perhaps from a greater
rashness: and in this case, she shall direct me in all my ways: I will do
nothing but by her orders, and by her advice and yours: not see any body:
not write to any body: nor shall any living soul, but by her direction
and yours, know where I am. In any cottage place me, I will never stir
out, unless, disguised as your servant, I am now-and-then permitted an
evening-walk with you: and this private protection to be granted for no
longer time than till my cousin Morden comes; which, as I hope, cannot be
long.

I am afraid I must not venture to take the hint you give me, to deposit
some of my clothes; although I will some of my linen, as well as papers.

I will tell you why--Betty had for some time been very curious about my
wardrobe, whenever I took out any of my things before her.

Observing this, I once, on taking one of my garden-airings, left my keys
in the locks: and on my return surprised the creature with her hand upon
the keys, as if shutting the door.

She was confounded at my sudden coming back. I took no notice: but on
her retiring, I found my cloaths were not in the usual order.

I doubted not, upon this, that her curiosity was owing to the orders she
had received; and being afraid they would abridge me of my airings, if
their suspicions were not obviated, it has ever since been my custom
(among other contrivances) not only to leave my keys in the locks, but to
employ the wench now-and-then in taking out my cloaths, suit by suit, on
pretence of preventing their being rumpled or creased, and to see that
the flowered silver suit did not tarnish: sometimes declaredly to give
myself employment, having little else to do. With which employment
(superadded to the delight taken by the low as well as by the high of our
sex in seeing fine cloaths) she seemed always, I thought, as well pleased
as if it answered one of the offices she had in charge.

To this, and to the confidence they have in a spy so diligent, and to
their knowing that I have not one confidant in a family in which
nevertheless I believe every servant loves me; nor have attempted to
make one; I suppose, I owe the freedom I enjoy of my airings: and perhaps
(finding I make no movements towards going away) they are the more
secure, that I shall at last be prevailed upon to comply with their
measures: since they must think, that, otherwise, they give me
provocation enough to take some rash step, in order to free myself from a
treatment so disgraceful; and which [God forgive me, if I judge amiss!] I
am afraid my brother and sister would not be sorry to drive me to take.

If, therefore, such a step should become necessary, (which I yet hope
will not,) I must be contented to go away with the clothes I shall have
on at the time. My custom to be dressed for the day, as soon as breakfast
is over, when I have had no household employments to prevent me, will
make such a step (if I am forced to take it) less suspected. And the
linen I shall deposit, in pursuance of your kind hint, cannot be missed.

This custom, although a prisoner, (as I may too truly say,) and neither
visited nor visiting, I continue. We owe to ourselves, and to our sex,
you know, to be always neat; and never to be surprised in a way we should
be pained to be seen in.

Besides, people in adversity (which is the state of trial of every good
quality) should endeavour to preserve laudable customs, that, if sun
shine return, they may not be losers by their trial.

Does it not, moreover, manifest a firmness of mind, in an unhappy person,
to keep hope alive? To hope for better days, is half to deserve them:
for could we have just ground for such a hope, if we did not resolve to
deserve what that hope bids us aspire to?--Then who shall befriend a
person who forsakes herself?

These are reflections by which I sometimes endeavour to support myself.

I know you don't despise my grave airs, although (with a view no doubt to
irradiate my mind in my misfortunes) you rally me upon them. Every body
has not your talent of introducing serious and important lessons, in such
a happy manner as at once to delight and instruct.

What a multitude of contrivances may not young people fall upon, if the
mind be not engaged by acts of kindness and condescension! I am not used
by my friends of late as I always used their servants.

When I was intrusted with the family-management, I always found it right,
as well in policy as generosity, to repose a trust in them. Not to seem
to expect or depend upon justice from them, is in a manner to bid them to
take opportunities, whenever they offer, to be unjust.

Mr. Solmes, (to expatiate on this low, but not unuseful subject,) in his
more trifling solicitudes, would have had a sorry key-keeper in me. Were
I mistress of a family, I would not either take to myself, or give to
servants, the pain of keeping those I had reason to suspect. People low
in station have often minds not sordid. Nay, I have sometimes thought,
that (even take number for number) there are more honest low people, than
honest high. In the one, honest is their chief pride. In the other, the
love of power, of grandeur, of pleasure, mislead; and that and their
ambition induce a paramount pride, which too often swallows up the more
laudable one.

Many of the former would scorn to deceive a confidence. But I have seen,
among the most ignorant of their class, a susceptibility of resentment,
if their honesty has been suspected: and have more than once been forced
to put a servant right, whom I have heard say, that, although she valued
herself upon her honesty, no master or mistress should suspect her for
nothing.

How far has the comparison I had in my head, between my friends treatment
of me, and my treatment of the servants, carried me!--But we always
allowed ourselves to expatiate on such subjects, whether low or high, as
might tend to enlarge our minds, or mend our management, whether notional
or practical, and whether such expatiating respected our present, or
might respect our probable future situations.

What I was principally leading to, was to tell you how ingenious I am in
my contrivances and pretences to blind my gaoleress, and to take off the
jealousy of her principals on my going down so often into the garden and
poultry-yard. People suspiciously treated are never I believe at a loss
for invention. Sometimes I want air, and am better the moment I am out
of my chamber.--Sometimes spirits; and then my bantams and pheasants or
the cascade divert me; the former, by their inspiring liveliness; the
latter, by its echoing dashes, and hollow murmurs.--Sometimes, solitude
is of all things my wish; and the awful silence of the night, the
spangled element, and the rising and setting sun, how promotive of
contemplation!--Sometimes, when I intend nothing, and expect no letters,
I am officious to take Betty with me; and at others, bespeak her
attendance, when I know she is otherwise employed, and cannot give it me.

These more capital artifices I branch out into lesser ones, without
number. Yet all have not only the face of truth, but are real truths;
although not my principal motive. How prompt a thing is will!--What
impediments does dislike furnish!--How swiftly, through every difficulty,
do we move with the one!--how tardily with the other!--every trifling
obstruction weighing us down, as if lead were fastened to our feet!

FRIDAY MORNING, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.

I have already made up my parcel of linen. My heart ached all the time I
was employed about it; and still aches, at the thoughts of its being a
necessary precaution.

When the parcel comes to your hands, as I hope it safely will, you will
be pleased to open it. You will find in it two parcels sealed up; one of
which contains the letters you have not yet seen; being those written
since I left you: in the other are all the letters and copies of letters
that have passed between you and me since I was last with you; with some
other papers on subjects so much above me, that I cannot wish them to be
seen by any body whose indulgence I am not so sure of, as I am of yours.
If my judgment ripen with my years, perhaps I may review them.

Mrs. Norton used to say, from her reverend father, that youth was the
time of life for imagination and fancy to work in: then, were a writer to
lay by his works till riper years and experience should direct the fire
rather to glow, than to flame out; something between both might perhaps
be produced that would not displease a judicious eye.

In a third division, folded up separately, are all Mr. Lovelace's letters
written to me since he was forbidden this house, and copies of my answers
to them. I expect that you will break the seals of this parcel, and when
you have perused them all, give me your free opinion of my conduct.

By the way, not a line from that man!--Not one line! Wednesday I
deposited mine. It remained there on Wednesday night. What time it was
taken away yesterday I cannot tell: for I did not concern myself about
it, till towards night; and then it was not there. No return at ten this
day. I suppose he is as much out of humour as I.--With all my heart.

He may be mean enough perhaps, if ever I should put it into his power, to
avenge himself for the trouble he has had with me.--But that now, I dare
say, I never shall.

I see what sort of a man the encroacher is. And I hope we are equally
sick of one another.--My heart is vexedly easy, if I may so describe it.
--Vexedly--because of the apprehended interview with Solmes, and the
consequences it may be attended with: or else I should be quite easy; for
why? I have not deserved the usage I receive: and could I be rid of
Solmes, as I presume I am of Lovelace, their influence over my father,
mother, and uncles, against me, could not hold.

The five guineas tied up in one corner of a handkerchief under the linen,
I beg you will let pass as an acknowledgement for the trouble I give your
trusty servant. You must not chide me for this. You know I cannot be
easy unless I have my way in these little matters.

I was going to put up what little money I have, and some of my ornaments;
but they are portable, and I cannot forget them. Besides, should they
(suspecting me) desire to see any of the jewels, and were I not able to
produce them, it would amount to a demonstration of an intention which
would have a guilty appearance to them.

FRIDAY, ONE O'CLOCK, IN THE WOOD-HOUSE.

No letter yet from this man! I have luckily deposited my parcel, and
have your letter of last night. If Robert take this without the parcel,
pray let him return immediately for it. But he cannot miss it, I think:
and must conclude that it is put there for him to take away. You may
believe, from the contents of yours, that I shall immediately write
again.--

CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XXVI

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
THURSDAY NIGHT, MARCH 30.

The fruits of my inquiry after your abominable wretch's behaviour and
baseness at the paltry alehouse, which he calls an inn, prepare to hear.

Wrens and sparrows are not too ignoble a quarry for this villainous
gos-hawk!--His assiduities; his watchings; his nightly risques; the
inclement weather he journeys in; must not be all placed to your account.
He has opportunities of making every thing light to him of that sort.
A sweet pretty girl, I am told--innocent till he went thither--Now! (Ah!
poor girl!) who knows what?

But just turned of seventeen!--His friend and brother-rake (a man of
humour and intrigue) as I am told, to share the social bottle with. And
sometimes another disguised rake or two. No sorrow comes near their
hearts. Be not disturbed, my dear, at his hoarsenesses! his pretty,
Betsey, his Rosebud, as the vile wretch calls her, can hear all he says.

He is very fond of her. They say she is innocent even yet--her father,
her grandmother, believe her to be so. He is to fortune her out to a
young lover!--Ah! the poor young lover!--Ah! the poor simple girl!

Mr. Hickman tells me, that he heard in town, that he used to be often at
plays, and at the opera, with women; and every time with a different one
--Ah! my sweet friend!--But I hope he is nothing to you, if all this were
truth.--But this intelligence, in relation to this poor girl, will do his
business, if you had been ever so good friends before.

A vile wretch! Cannot such purity in pursuit, in view, restrain him? but
I leave him to you!--There can be no hope of him. More of a fool, than
of such a man. Yet I wish I may be able to snatch the poor young
creature out of his villainous paws. I have laid a scheme to do so; if
indeed she be hitherto innocent and heart-free.

He appears to the people as a military man, in disguise, secreting
himself on account of a duel fought in town; the adversary's life in
suspense. They believe he is a great man. His friend passes for an
inferior officer; upon a footing of freedom with him. He, accompanied by
a third man, who is a sort of subordinate companion to the second. The
wretch himself with but one servant.

O my dear! how pleasantly can these devils, as I must call them, pass
their time, while our gentle bosoms heave with pity for their supposed
sufferings for us!

***

I have sent for this girl and her father; and am just now informed, that
I shall see them. I will sift them thoroughly. I shall soon find out
such a simple thing as this, if he has not corrupted her already--and if
he has, I shall soon find out that too.--If more art than nature appears
either in her or her father, I shall give them both up--but depend upon
it, the girl's undone.

He is said to be fond of her. He places her at the upper end of his
table. He sets her a-prattling. He keeps his friends at a distance from
her. She prates away. He admires for nature all she says. Once was
heard to call her charming little creature! An hundred has he called so
no doubt. He puts her upon singing. He praises her wild note--O my
dear, the girl's undone!--must be undone!--The man, you know, is
LOVELACE.

Let 'em bring Wyerley to you, if they will have you married--any body but
Solmes and Lovelace be yours!--So advises

Your
ANNA HOWE.

My dearest friend, consider this alehouse as his garrison: him as an
enemy: his brother-rakes as his assistants and abettors. Would not your
brother, would not your uncles, tremble, if they knew how near them he
is, as they pass to and fro?--I am told, he is resolved you shall not be
carried to your uncle Antony's.--What can you do, with or without such an
enterprising--

Fill up the blank I leave.--I cannot find a word bad enough

LETTER XXVII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
FRIDAY, THREE O'CLOCK.

You incense, alarm, and terrify me, at the same time.--Hasten, my dearest
friend, hasten to me what further intelligence you can gather about this
vilest of men.

But never talk of innocence, of simplicity, and this unhappy girl,
together! Must she not know, that such a man as that, dignified in his
very aspect; and no disguise able to conceal his being of condition; must
mean too much, when he places her at the upper end of his table, and
calls her by such tender names? Would a girl, modest as simple, above
seventeen, be set a-singing at the pleasure of such a man as that? a
stranger, and professedly in disguise!--Would her father and grandmother,
if honest people, and careful of their simple girl, permit such freedoms?

Keep his friend at a distance from her!--To be sure his designs are
villainous, if they have not been already effected.

Warn, my dear, if not too late, the unthinking father, of his child's
danger. There cannot be a father in the world, who would sell his
child's virtue. Nor mother!--The poor thing!

I long to hear the result of your intelligence. You shall see the simple
creature, you tell me.--Let me know what sort of a girl she is.--A sweet
pretty girl! you say. A sweet pretty girl, my dear!--They are sweet
pretty words from your pen. But are they yours or his of her?--If she be
so simple, if she have ease and nature in her manner, in her speech, and
warbles prettily her wild notes, why, such a girl as that must engage
such a profligate wretch, (as now indeed I doubt this man is,)
accustomed, perhaps, to town women, and their confident ways.--Must
deeply and for a long season engage him: since perhaps when her innocence
is departed, she will endeavour by art to supply the loss of the natural
charms which now engage him.

Fine hopes of such a wretch's reformation! I would not, my dear, for the
world, have any thing to say--but I need not make resolutions. I have
not opened, nor will I open, his letter.--A sycophant creature!--With
his hoarsenesses--got perhaps by a midnight revel, singing to his wild
note singer, and only increased in the coppice!

To be already on a footing!--In his esteem, I mean: for myself, I despise
him. I hate myself almost for writing so much about him, and of such a
simpleton as this sweet pretty girl as you call her: but no one can be
either sweet or pretty, that is not modest, that is not virtuous.

And now, my dear, I will tell you how I came to put you upon this
inquiry.

This vile Joseph Leman had given a hint to Betty, and she to me, as if
Lovelace would be found out to be a very bad man, at a place where he had
been lately seen in disguise. But he would see further, he said, before
he told her more; and she promised secrecy, in hope to get at further
intelligence. I thought it could be no harm, to get you to inform
yourself, and me, of what could be gathered.* And now I see, his enemies
are but too well warranted in their reports of him: and, if the ruin of
this poor young creature be his aim, and if he had not known her but for
his visits to Harlowe-place, I shall have reason to be doubly concerned
for her; and doubly incensed against so vile a man.

* It will be seen in Vol.I.Letter XXXIV. that Mr. Lovelace's motive for
sparing his Rosebud was twofold. First, Because his pride was gratified
by the grandmother's desiring him to spare her grand-daughter. Many a
pretty rogue, say he, had I spared, whom I did not spare, had my power
been acknowledged, and my mercy in time implored. But the debellare
superbos should be my motto, were I to have a new one.

His other motive will be explained in the following passage, in the same.
I never was so honest, for so long together, says he, since my
matriculation. It behoves me so to be. Some way or other my recess [at
the little inn] may be found out, and it then will be thought that my
Rosebud has attracted me. A report in my favour, from simplicities so
amiable, may establish me, &c.

Accordingly, as the reader will hereafter see, Mr. Lovelace finds by the
effects, his expectations from the contrivance he set on foot by means of
his agent Joseph Leman (who plays, as above, upon Betty Barnes) fully
answered, though he could not know what passed on the occasion between
the two ladies.

This explanation is the more necessary to be given, as several of our
readers (through want of due attention) have attributed to Mr. Lovelace,
on his behaviour to his Rosebud, a greater merit than was due to him; and
moreover imagined, that it was improbable, that a man, who was capable of
acting so generously (as they supposed) in this instance, should be
guilty of any atrocious vileness. Not considering, that love, pride, and
revenge as he owns in Vol.I.Letter XXXI. were ingredients of equal force
in his composition; and that resistance was a stimulus to him.

I think I hate him worse than I do Solmes himself.

But I will not add one more word about hi,; and after I have told you,
that I wish to know, as soon as possible what further occurs from your
inquiry. I have a letter from him; but shall not open it till I do: and
then, if it come out as I dare say it will, I will directly put the
letter unopened into the place I took it from, and never trouble myself
more about him. Adieu, my dearest friend.

CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XXVIII

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE.
FRIDAY NOON, MARCH 31.

Justice obliges me to forward this after my last on the wings of the
wind, as I may say. I really believe the man is innocent. Of this one
accusation, I think he must be acquitted; and I am sorry I was so forward
in dispatching away my intelligence by halves.

I have seen the girl. She is really a very pretty, a very neat, and,
what is still a greater beauty, a very innocent young creature. He who
could have ruined such an undersigned home-bred, must have been indeed
infernally wicked. Her father is an honest simple man; entirely
satisfied with his child, and with her new acquaintance.

I am almost afraid for your heart, when I tell you, that I find, now I
have got to the bottom of this inquiry, something noble come out in this
Lovelace's favour.

The girl is to be married next week; and this promoted and brought about
by him. He is resolved, her father says, to make one couple happy, and
wishes he could make more so [There's for you, my dear!] And she
professes to love, he has given her an hundred pounds: the grandmother
actually has it in her hands, to answer to the like sum given to the
youth by one of his own relation: while Mr. Lovelace's companion,
attracted by the example, has given twenty-five guineas to the father,
who is poor, towards clothes to equip the pretty rustic.

Mr. Lovelace and his friend, the poor man says, when they first came to
his house, affected to appear as persons of low degree; but now he knows
the one (but mentioned it in confidence) to be Colonel Barrow, the other
Captain Sloane. The colonel he owns was at first very sweet upon his
girl: but her grandmother's begging of him to spare her innocence, he
vowed, that he never would offer any thing but good counsel to her. He
kept his word; and the pretty fool acknowledged, that she never could
have been better instructed by the minister himself from the bible-book!
--The girl pleased me so well, that I made her visit to me worth her
while.

But what, my dear, will become of us now?--Lovelace not only reformed,
but turned preacher!--What will become of us now?--Why, my sweet friend,
your generosity is now engaged in his favour!--Fie upon this generosity!
I think in my heart, that it does as much mischief to the noble-minded,
as love to the ignobler.--What before was only a conditional liking, I am
now afraid will turn to liking unconditional.

I could not endure to change my invective into panegyric all at once, and
so soon. We, or such as I at least, love to keep ourselves in
countenance for a rash judgment, even when we know it to be rash.
Everybody has not your generosity in confessing a mistake. It requires a
greatness of soul frankly to do it. So I made still further inquiry
after his life and manner, and behaviour there, in hopes to find
something bad: but all uniform!

Upon the whole, Mr. Lovelace comes out with so much advantage from this
inquiry, that were there the least room for it, I should suspect the
whole to be a plot set on foot to wash a blackamoor white. Adieu, my
dear.

ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXIX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SATURDAY, APRIL 1.

Hasty censures do indeed subject themselves to the charge of variableness
and inconsistency in judgment: and so they ought; for, if you, even you,
my dear, were so loth to own a mistake, as in the instance before us you
pretend you were, I believe I should not have loved you so well as I
really do love you. Nor could you, in that case, have so frankly thrown
the reflection I hint at upon yourself, have not your mind been one of
the most ingenuous that ever woman boasted.

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