Clarissa, Volume 2 (of 9)

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Mr. Lovelace has faults enow to deserve very severe censure, although he
be not guilty of this. If I were upon such terms with him as he could
wish me to be, I should give him such a hint, that this treacherous
Joseph Leman cannot be so much attached to him, as perhaps he thinks him
to be. If it were, he would not have been so ready to report to his
disadvantage (and to Betty Barnes too) this slight affair of the pretty
rustic. Joseph has engaged Betty to secrecy; promising to let her, and
her young master, to know more, when he knows the whole of the matter:
and this hinders her from mentioning it, as she is nevertheless agog to
do, to my sister or brother. And then she does not choose to disoblige
Joseph; for although she pretends to look above him, she listens, I
believe, to some love-stories he tells her.

Women having it not in their power to begin a courtship, some of them
very frequently, I believe, lend an ear where their hearts incline not.

But to say no more of these low people, neither of whom I think tolerably
of; I must needs own, that as I should for ever have despised this man,
had he been capable of such a vile intrigue in his way to Harlowe-place,
and as I believe he was capable of it, it has indeed [I own it has]
proportionably engaged my generosity, as you call it, in his favour:
perhaps more than I may have reason to wish it had. And, rally me as you
will, pray tell me fairly, my dear, would it not have had such an effect
upon you?

Then the real generosity of the act.--I protest, my beloved friend, if he
would be good for the rest of his life from this time, I would forgive
him a great many of his past errors, were it only for the demonstration
he has given in this, that he is capable of so good and bountiful a
manner of thinking.

You may believe I made no scruple to open his letter, after the receipt
of your second on this subject: nor shall I of answering it, as I have no
reason to find fault with it: an article in his favour, procured him,
however, so much the easier, (I must own,) by way of amends for the undue
displeasure I took against him; though he knows it not.

Is it lucky enough that this matter was cleared up to me by your friendly
diligence so soon: for had I written before it was, it would have been to
reinforce my dismission of him; and perhaps I should have mentioned the
very motive; for it affected me more than I think it ought: and then,
what an advantage would that have given him, when he could have cleared
up the matter so happily for himself!

When I send you this letter of his, you will see how very humble he is:
what acknowledgements of natural impatience: what confession of faults,
as you prognosticated.

A very different appearance, I must own, all these make, now the story of
the pretty rustic is cleared up, to what they would have made, had it
not.

You will see how he accounts to me, 'That he could not, by reason of
indisposition, come for my letter in person: and the forward creature
labours the point, as if he thought I should be uneasy that he did not.'
I am indeed sorry he should be ill on my account; and I will allow, that
the suspense he has been in for some time past, must have been vexatious
enough to so impatient a spirit. But all is owing originally to himself.

You will find him (in the presumption of being forgiven) 'full of
contrivances and expedients for my escaping my threatened compulsion.'

I have always said, that next to being without fault, is the
acknowledgement of a fault; since no amendment can be expected where an
error is defended: but you will see in this very letter, an haughtiness
even in his submissions. 'Tis true, I know not where to find fault as to
the expression; yet cannot I be satisfied, that his humility is humility;
or even an humility upon such conviction as one should be pleased with.

To be sure, he is far from being a polite man: yet is not directly and
characteristically, as I may say, unpolite. But his is such a sort of
politeness, as has, by a carelessness founded on very early indulgence,
and perhaps on too much success in riper years, and an arrogance built
upon both, grown into assuredness, and, of course, I may say, into
indelicacy.

The distance you recommend at which to keep these men, is certainly right
in the main: familiarity destroys reverence: But with whom?--Not with
those, surely, who are prudent, grateful, and generous.

But it is very difficult for persons, who would avoid running into one
extreme, to keep clear of another. Hence Mr. Lovelace, perhaps, thinks
it the mark of a great spirit to humour his pride, though at the expense
of his politeness: but can the man be a deep man, who knows not how to
make such distinctions as a person of but moderate parts cannot miss?

He complains heavily of my 'readiness to take mortal offence at him, and
to dismiss him for ever: it is a high conduct, he says, he must be frank
enough to tell me; a conduct that must be very far from contributing to
allay his apprehensions of the possibility that I may be prosecuted into
my relations' measures in behalf of Mr. Solmes.'

You will see how he puts his present and his future happiness, 'with
regard to both worlds, entirely upon me.' The ardour with which he vows
and promises, I think the heart only can dictate: how else can one guess
at a man's heart?

You will also see, 'that he has already heard of the interview I am to
have with Mr. Solmes;' and with what vehemence and anguish he expresses
himself on the occasion. I intend to take proper notice of the ignoble
means he stoops to, to come at his early intelligence of our family. If
persons pretending to principle, bear not their testimony against
unprincipled actions, what check can they have?

You will see, 'how passionately he presses me to oblige him with a few
lines, before the interview between Mr. Solmes and me takes place, (if,
as he says, it must take place,) to confirm his hope, that I have no
view, in my present displeasure against him, to give encouragement to
Solmes. An apprehension, he says, that he must be excused for repeating;
especially as the interview is a favour granted to that man, which I have
refused to him; since, as he infers, were it not with such an
expectation, why should my friends press it?'

***

I have written; and to this effect: 'That I had never intended to write
another line to a man, who could take upon himself to reflect upon my sex
and myself, for having thought fit to make use of my own judgment.

'I tell him, that I have submitted to the interview with Mr. Solmes,
purely as an act of duty, to shew my friends, that I will comply with
their commands as far as I can; and that I hope, when Mr. Solmes himself
shall see how determined I am, he will cease to prosecute a suit, in
which it is impossible he should succeed with my consent.

'I assure him, that my aversion to Mr. Solmes is too sincere to permit me
to doubt myself on this occasion. But, nevertheless, he must not
imagine, that my rejecting of Mr. Solmes is in favour to him. That I
value my freedom and independency too much, if my friends will but leave
me to my own judgment, to give them up to a man so uncontroulable, and
who shews me beforehand what I have to expect from him, were I in his
power.

'I express my high disapprobation of the methods he takes to come at what
passes in a private family. The pretence of corrupting other people's
servants, by way of reprisal for the spies they have set upon him, I tell
him, is a very poor excuse; and no more than an attempt to justify one
meanness by another.

'There is, I observe to him, a right and a wrong in every thing, let
people put what glosses they please upon their action. To condemn a
deviation, and to follow it by as great a one, what, I ask him, is this,
but propagating a general corruption?--A stand must be made somebody,
turn round the evil as many as may, or virtue will be lost: And shall it
not be I, a worthy mind would ask, that shall make this stand?

'I leave him to judge, whether his be a worthy one, tried by this rule:
And whether, knowing the impetuosity of his own disposition, and the
improbability there is that my father and family will ever be reconciled
to him, I ought to encourage his hopes?

'These spots and blemishes, I further tell him, give me not earnestness
enough for any sake but his own, to wish him in a juster and nobler train
of thinking and acting; for that I truly despised many of the ways he
allows himself in: our minds are therefore infinitely different: and as
to his professions of reformation, I must tell him, that profuse
acknowledgements, without amendment, are but to me as so many
anticipating concessions, which he may find much easier to make, thane
either to defend himself, or amend his errors.

'I inform him, that I have been lately made acquainted' [and so I have by
Betty, and she by my brother] 'with the weak and wanton airs he gives
himself of declaiming against matrimony. I severely reprehend him on
this occasion: and ask him, with what view he can take so witless, so
despicable a liberty, in which only the most abandoned of men allow
themselves, and yet presume to address me?

'I tell him, that if I am obliged to go to my uncle Antony's, it is not
to be inferred, that I must therefore necessarily be Mr. Solmes's wife:
since I must therefore so sure perhaps that the same exceptions lie so
strongly against my quitting a house to which I shall be forcibly
carried, as if I left my father's house: and, at the worst, I may be able
to keep them in suspense till my cousin Morden comes, who will have a
right to put me in possession of my grandfather's estate, if I insist
upon it.'

This, I doubt, is somewhat of an artifice; which can only be excusable,
as it is principally designed to keep him out of mischief. For I have
but little hope, if carried thither, whether sensible or senseless,
absolutely if I am left to the mercy of my brother and sister, but they
will endeavour to force the solemn obligation upon me. Otherwise, were
there but any prospect of avoiding this, by delaying (or even by taking
things to make me ill, if nothing else would do,) till my cousin comes, I
hope I should not think of leaving even my uncle's house. For I should
not know how to square it to my own principles, to dispense with the duty
I owe to my father, wherever it shall be his will to place me.

But while you give me the charming hope, that, in order to avoid one man,
I shall not be under the necessity of throwing myself upon the friends of
the other; I think my case not desperate.

***

I see not any of my family, nor hear from them in any way of kindness.
This looks as if they themselves expected no great matters from the
Tuesday's conference which makes my heart flutter every time I think of
it.

My uncle Antony's presence on the occasion I do not much like: but I had
rather meet him than my brother or sister: yet my uncle is very
impetuous. I can't think Mr. Lovelace can be much more so; at least he
cannot look angry, as my uncle, with his harder features, can. These
sea-prospered gentlemen, as my uncle has often made me think, not used to
any but elemental controul, and even ready to buffet that, bluster often
as violently as the winds they are accustomed to be angry at.

I believe Mr. Solmes will look as much like a fool as I shall do, if it
be true, as my uncle Harlowe writes, and as Betty often tells me, that he
is as much afraid of seeing me, as I am of seeing him.

Adieu, my happy, thrice-happy Miss Howe, who have no hard terms fixed to
your duty!--Who have nothing to do, but to fall in with a choice your
mother has made for you, to which you have not, nor can have, a just
objection: except the frowardness of our sex, as our free censurers would
perhaps take the liberty to say, makes it one, that the choice was your
mother's, at first hand. Perverse nature, we know, loves not to be
prescribed to; although youth is not so well qualified, either by
sedateness or experience, to choose for itself.

To know your own happiness, and that it is now, nor to leave it to after
reflection to look back upon the preferable past with a heavy and self
accusing heart, that you did not choose it when you might have chosen it,
is all that is necessary to complete your felicity!--And this power is
wished you by

Your
CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XXX

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
SATURDAY, APRIL 2.

I ought yesterday to have acknowledged the receipt of your parcel. Robin
tells me, that the Joseph Leman, whom you mention as the traitor, saw
him. He was in the poultry-yard, and spoke to Robin over the bank which
divides that from the green-lane. 'What brings you hither, Mr. Robert?--
But I can tell. Hie away, as fast as you can.'

No doubt but their dependence upon this fellow's vigilance, and upon
Betty's, leaves you more at liberty in your airings, than you would
otherwise be. But you are the only person I ever heard of, who in such
circumstances had not some faithful servant to trust little offices to.
A poet, my dear, would not have gone to work for an Angelica, without
giving her her Violetta, her Cleante, her Clelia, or some such pretty-
named confidant--an old nurse at the least.

I read to my mother several passages of your letters. But your last
paragraph, in your yesterday's quite charmed her. You have won her heart
by it, she told me. And while her fit of gratitude for it lasted, I was
thinking to make my proposal, and to press it with all the earnestness I
could give it, when Hickman came in, making his legs, and stroking his
cravat and ruffles.

I could most freely have ruffled him for it. As it was--Sir, said I, saw
you not some of the servants?--Could not one of them have come in before
you?

He begged pardon: looked as if he knew not whether he had best keep his
ground, or withdraw:--Till my mother, his fast friend, interposed--Why,
Nancy, we are not upon particulars.--Pray, Mr. Hickman, sit down.

By your le--ave, good Madam, to me. You know his drawl, when his muscles
give him the respectful hesitation.--

Ay, ay, pray sit down, honest man, if you are weary--but by mamma, if you
please. I desire my hoop may have its full circumference. All they're
good for, that I know, is to clean dirty shoes, and to keep fellows at a
distance.

Strange girl! cried my mother, displeased; but with a milder turn, ay,
ay, Mr. Hickman, sit down by me: I have no such forbidding folly in my
dress.

I looked serious; and in my heart was glad this speech of hers was not
made to your uncle Antony.

My mother, with the true widow's freedom, would mighty prudently have led
into the subject we had been upon; and would have had read to him, I
question not, that very paragraph in your letter which is so much in his
favour. He was highly obliged to dear Miss Harlowe, she would assure
him; that she did say--

But I asked him, if he had any news by his last letters from London?--A
question which he always understands to be a subject changer; for
otherwise I never put it. And so if he be but silent, I am not angry
with him that he answers it not.

I choose not to mention my proposal before him, till I know how it will
be relished by my mother. If it be not well received, perhaps I may
employ him on the occasion. Yet I don't like to owe him an obligation,
if I could help it. For men who have his views in their heads, do so
parade it, so strut about, if a woman condescend to employ them in her
affairs, that one has no patience with them.

However, if I find not an opportunity this day, I will make one
to-morrow.

I shall not open either of your sealed-up parcels, but in your presence.
There is no need. Your conduct is out of all question with me: and by
the extracts you have given me from his letters and your own, I know all
that relates to the present situation of things between you.

I was going to give you a little flippant hint or two. But since you
wish to be thought superior to all our sex in the command of yourself;
and since indeed you deserve to be thought so; I will spare you. You
are, however, at times, more than half inclined to speak out. That you
do not, is only owing to a little bashful struggle between you and
yourself, as I may say. When that is quite got over, I know you will
favour me undisguisedly with the result.

I cannot forgive your taking upon me (at so extravagant a rate too) to
pay my mother's servants. Indeed I am, and I will be, angry with you for
it. A year's wages at once well nigh! only as, unknown to my mother, I
make it better for the servants according to their merits--how it made
the man stare!--And it may be his ruin too, as far as I know. If he
should buy a ring, and marry a sorry body in the neighbourhood with the
money, one would be loth, a twelvemonth hence, that the poor old fellow
should think he had reason to wish the bounty never conferred.

I MUST give you your way in these things, you say.--And I know there is
no contradicting you: for you were ever putting too great a value upon
little offices done for you, and too little upon the great ones you do
for others. The satisfaction you have in doing so, I grant it, repays
you. But why should you, by the nobleness of your mind, throw reproaches
upon the rest of the world? particularly, upon your own family--and upon
ours too?

If, as I have heard you say, it is a good rule to give WORDS the hearing,
but to form our judgment of men and things by DEEDS ONLY; what shall we
think of one, who seeks to find palliatives in words, for narrowness of
heart in the very persons her deeds so silently, yet so forcibly, reflect
upon? Why blush you not, my dear friend, to be thus singular?--When you
meet with another person whose mind is like your own, then display your
excellencies as you please: but till then, for pity's sake, let your
heart and your spirit suffer a little contradiction.

I intended to write but a few lines; chiefly to let you know your parcels
are come safe. And accordingly I began in a large hand; and I am already
come to the end of my second sheet. But I could write a quire without
hesitation upon a subject so copious and so beloved as is your praise.
Not for this single instance of your generosity; since I am really angry
with you for it; but for the benevolence exemplified in the whole tenor
of your life and action; of which this is but a common instance. Heaven
direct you, in your own arduous trials, is all I have room to add; and
make you as happy, as you think to be

Your own
ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XXXI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
SUNDAY NIGHT, APRIL 2.

I have many new particulars to acquaint you with, that shew a great
change in the behaviour of my friends as I find we have. I will give
these particulars to you as they offered.

All the family was at church in the morning. They brought good Dr. Lewen
with them, in pursuance of a previous invitation. And the doctor sent up
to desire my permission to attend me in my own apartment.

You may believe it was easily granted.

So the doctor came up.

We had a conversation of near an hour before dinner: but, to my surprise,
he waved every thing that would have led me to the subject I supposed he
wanted to talk about. At last, I asked him, if it were not thought
strange I should be so long absent from church? He made me some handsome
compliments upon it: but said, for his part, he had ever made it a rule
to avoid interfering in the private concerns of families, unless desired
to do so.

I was prodigiously disappointed; but supposing that he was thought too
just a man to be made a judge of in this cause; I led no more to it: nor,
when he was called down to dinner, did he take the least notice of
leaving me behind him there.

But this was not the first time since my confinement that I thought it a
hardship not to dine below. And when I parted with him on the stairs, a
tear would burst its way; and he hurried down; his own good-natured eyes
glistening; for he saw it.--Nor trusted he his voice, lest the accent I
suppose should have discovered his concern; departing in silence; though
with his usual graceful obligingness.

I hear that he praised me, and my part in the conversation that passed
between us. To shew them, I suppose, that it was not upon the
interesting subjects which I make no doubt he was desired not to enter
upon.

He left me so dissatisfied, yet so perplexed with this new way of
treatment, that I never found myself so much disconcerted, and out of my
train.

But I was to be more so. This was to be a day of puzzle to me. Pregnant
puzzle, if I may say so: for there must great meaning lie behind it.

In the afternoon, all but my brother and sister went to church with the
good doctor; who left his compliments for me. I took a walk in the
garden. My brother and sister walked in it too, and kept me in their
eye a good while, on purpose, as I thought, that I might see how gay and
good-humoured they were together. At last they came down the walk that I
was coming up, hand-in-hand, lover-like.

Your servant, Miss--your servant, Sir--passed between my brother and me.

Is it not cold-ish, Clary! in a kinder voice than usual, said my sister,
and stopped.--I stopped and courtesied low to her half-courtesy.--I think
not, Sister, said I.

She went on. I courtesied without return; and proceeded, turning to my
poultry-yard.

By a shorter turn, arm-in-arm, they were there before me.

I think, Clary, said my brother, you must present me with some of this
breed, for Scotland.

If you please, Brother.

I'll choose for you, said my sister.

And while I fed them, they pointed to half a dozen: yet intending nothing
by it, I believe, but to shew a deal of love and good-humour to each
other before me.

My uncles next, (at their return from church) were to do me the honour of
their notice. They bid Betty tell me, they would drink tea with me in my
own apartment. Now, thought I, shall I have the subject of next Tuesday
enforced upon me.

But they contradicted the order for tea, and only my uncle Harlowe came
up to me.

Half-distant, half-affectionate, at his entering my chamber, was the air
he put on to his daughter-niece, as he used to call me; and I threw
myself at his feet, and besought his favour.

None of these discomposures, Child. None of these apprehensions. You
will now have every body's favour. All is coming about, my dear. I was
impatient to see you. I could no longer deny myself this satisfaction.
He then raised me, and kissed me, and called me charming creature!

But he waved entering into any interesting subject. All will be well
now. All will be right!--No more complainings! every body loves you!--I
only came to make my earliest court to you! [were his condescending
words] and to sit and talk of twenty and twenty fond things, as I used to
do. And let every past disagreeable thing be forgotten; as if nothing
had happened.

He understood me as beginning to hint at the disgrace of my confinement--
No disgrace my dear can fall to your lot: your reputation is too well
established.--I longed to see you, repeated me--I have seen nobody half
so amiable since I saw you last.

And again he kissed my cheek, my glowing cheek; for I was impatient, I
was vexed, to be thus, as I thought, played upon: And how could I be
thankful for a visit, that (it was now evident) was only a too humble
artifice, to draw me in against the next Tuesday, or to leave me
inexcusable to them all?

O my cunning brother!--This is his contrivance. And then my anger made
me recollect the triumph in his and my sister's fondness for each other,
as practised before me; and the mingled indignation flashing from their
eyes, as arm-in-arm they spoke to me, and the forced condescension
playing upon their lips, when they called me Clary, and Sister.

Do you think I could, with these reflections, look upon my uncle
Harlowe's visit as the favour he seemed desirous I should think it to be?
--Indeed I could not; and seeing him so studiously avoid all
recrimination, as I may call it, I gave into the affectation; and
followed him in his talk of indifferent things: while he seemed to admire
this thing and that, as if he had never seen them before; and now-and
then condescendingly kissed the hand that wrought some of the things he
fixed his eyes upon; not so much to admire them, as to find subjects to
divert what was most in his head, and in my heart.

At his going away--How can I leave you here by yourself, my dear? you,
whose company used to enliven us all. You are not expected down indeed:
but I protest I had a good mind to surprise your father and mother!--If I
thought nothing would arise that would be disagreeable--My dear! my love!
[O the dear artful gentleman! how could my uncle Harlowe so dissemble?]
What say you? Will you give me your hands? Will you see your father?
Can you stand his displeasure, on first seeing the dear creature who has
given him and all of us so much disturbance? Can you promise future--

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