Clarissa, Volume 2 (of 9)

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But I will not oppress you, my dearest friend, with further reflections
of this sort. I will take them all into myself. Surely I have a mind
that has room for them. My afflictions are too sharp to last long. The
crisis is at hand. Happier times you bid me hope for. I will hope.

***

But yet, I cannot be but impatient at times, to find myself thus driven,
and my character so depreciated and sunk, that were all the future to be
happy, I should be ashamed to shew my face in public, or to look up. And
all by the instigation of a selfish brother, and envious sister--

But let me stop: let me reflect!--Are not these suggestions the
suggestions of the secret pride I have been censuring? Then, already so
impatient! but this moment so resigned, so much better disposed for
reflection! yet 'tis hard, 'tis very hard, to subdue an embittered
spirit!--in the instant of its trial too!--O my cruel brother!--but now
it rises again.--I will lay down a pen I am so little able to govern.--
And I will try to subdue an impatience, which (if my afflictions are sent
me for corrective ends) may otherwise lead me into still more punishable
errors.--

***

I will return to a subject, which I cannot fly from for ten minutes
together--called upon especially, as I am, by your three alternatives
stated in the conclusion of your last.

As to the first; to wit, your advice for me to escape to London--let me
tell you, that the other hint or proposal which accompanies it perfectly
frightens me--surely, my dear, (happy as you are, and indulgently treated
as your mother treats you,) you cannot mean what you propose! What a
wretch must I be, if, for one moment only, I could lend an ear to such a
proposal as this!--I, to be the occasion of making such a mother's
(perhaps shortened) life unhappy to the last hour of it!--Ennoble you, my
dear creature! How must such an enterprise (the rashness public, the
motives, were they excusable, private) debase you!--but I will not dwell
upon the subject--for your own sake I will not.

As to your second alternative, to put myself into the protection of Lord
M. and of the ladies of that family, I own to you, (as I believe I have
owned before,) that although to do this would be the same thing in the
eye of the world as putting myself into Mr. Lovelace's protection, yet I
think I would do it rather than be Mr. Solmes's wife, if there were
evidently no other way to avoid being so.

Mr. Lovelace, you have seen, proposes to contrive a way to put me into
possession of my own house; and he tells me, that he will soon fill it
with the ladies of his family, as my visiters;--upon my invitation,
however, to them. A very inconsiderate proposal I think it to be, and
upon which I cannot explain myself to him. What an exertion of
independency does it chalk out for me! How, were I to attend to him,
(and not to the natural consequences to which the following of his advice
would lead me,) might I be drawn by gentle words into the penetration of
the most violent acts!--For how could I gain possession, but either by
legal litigation, which, were I inclined to have recourse to it, (as I
never can be,) must take up time; or by forcibly turning out the persons
whom my father has placed there, to look after the gardens, the house,
and the furniture--persons entirely attached to himself, and who, as I
know, have been lately instructed by my brother?

Your third alternative, to meet and marry Mr. Lovelace directly; a man
with whose morals I am far from being satisfied--a step, that could not
be taken with the least hope of ever obtaining pardon from or
reconciliation with any of my friends; and against which a thousand
objections rise in my mind--that is not to be thought of.

What appears to me, upon the fullest deliberation, the most eligible, if
I must be thus driven, is the escaping to London. But I would forfeit
all my hopes of happiness in this life, rather than you should go away
with me, as you rashly, though with the kindest intentions, propose. If
I could get safely thither, and be private, methinks I might remain
absolutely independent of Mr. Lovelace, and at liberty either to make
proposals to my friends, or, should they renounce me, (and I had no other
or better way,) to make terms with him; supposing my cousin Morden, on
his arrival, were to join with my other relations. But they would then
perhaps indulge me in my choice of a single life, on giving him up: the
renewing to them this offer, when at my own liberty, will at least
convince them, that I was in earnest when I made it first: and, upon my
word, I would stand to it, dear as you seem to think, when you are
disposed to rally me, it would cost me, to stand to it.

If, my dear, you can procure a vehicle for us both, you can perhaps
procure one for me singly: but can it be done without embroiling yourself
with your mother, or her with our family?--Be it coach, chariot, chaise,
wagon, or horse, I matter not, provided you appear not to have a hand in
my withdrawing. Only, in case it be one of the two latter, I believe I
must desire you to get me an ordinary gown and coat, or habit, of some
servant; having no concert with any of our own: the more ordinary the
better. They must be thrust on in the wood-house; where I can put them
on; and then slide down from the bank, that separates the wood-yard from
the green lane.

But, alas! my dear, this, even this alternative, is not without
difficulties, which, to a spirit so little enterprising as mine, seem in
a manner insuperable. These are my reflections upon it.

I am afraid, in the first place, that I shall not have time for the
requisite preparations for an escape.

Should I be either detected in those preparations, or pursued and
overtaken in my flight, and so brought back, then would they think
themselves doubly warranted to compel me to have their Solmes: and,
conscious of an intended fault, perhaps, I should be the less able to
contend with them.

But were I even to get safely to London, I know nobody there but by name;
and those the tradesmen to our family; who, no doubt, would be the first
written to and engaged to find me out. And should Mr. Lovelace discover
where I was, and he and my brother meet, what mischiefs might ensue
between them, whether I were willing or not to return to Harlowe-place!

But supposing I could remain there concealed, to what might my youth, my
sex, and unacquaintedness of the ways of that great, wicked town, expose
me!--I should hardly dare to go to church for fear of being discovered.
People would wonder how I lived. Who knows but I might pass for a kept
mistress; and that, although nobody came to me, yet, that every time I
went out, it might be imagined to be in pursuance of some assignation?

You, my dear, who alone would know where to direct to me, would be
watched in all your steps, and in all your messages; and your mother, at
present not highly pleased with our correspondence, would then have
reason to be more displeased: And might not differences follow between
her and you, that would make me very unhappy, were I to know them? And
this the more likely, as you take it so unaccountably (and, give me leave
to say, so ungenerously) into your head, to revenge yourself upon the
innocent Mr. Hickman, for all the displeasure your mother gives you.

Were Lovelace to find out my place of abode, that would be the same thing
in the eye of the world as if I had actually gone off with him: For would
he, do you think, be prevailed upon to forbear visiting me? And then his
unhappy character (a foolish man!) would be no credit to any young
creature desirous of concealment. Indeed the world, let me escape
whither, and to whomsoever I could, would conclude him to be the
contriver of it.

These are the difficulties which arise to me on revolving this scheme;
which, nevertheless, might appear surmountable to a more enterprising
spirit in my circumstances. If you, my dear, think them surmountable in
any one of the cases put, [and to be sure I can take no course, but what
must have some difficulty in it,] be pleased to let me know your free and
full thoughts upon it.

Had you, my dear friend, been married, then should I have had no doubt
but that you and Mr. Hickman would have afforded an asylum to a poor
creature more than half lost in her own apprehension for want of one kind
protecting friend!

You say I should have written to my cousin Morden the moment I was
treated disgracefully: But could I have believed that my friends would
not have softened by degrees when they saw my antipathy to their Solmes?

I had thoughts indeed several times of writing to my cousin: but by the
time an answer could have come, I imagined all would have been over, as
if it had never been: so from day to day, from week to week, I hoped on:
and, after all, I might as reasonably fear (as I have heretofore said)
that my cousin would be brought to side against me, as that some of those
I have named would.

And then to appeal a cousin [I must have written with warmth to engage
him] against a father; this was not a desirable thing to set about. Then
I had not, you know, one soul on my side; my mother herself against me.
To be sure my cousin would have suspended his judgment till he could have
arrived. He might not have been in haste to come, hoping the malady
would cure itself: but had he written, his letters probably would have
run in the qualifying style; to persuade me to submit, or them only to
relax. Had his letters been more on my side than on theirs, they would
not have regarded them: nor perhaps himself, had he come and been an
advocate for me: for you see how strangely determined they are; how they
have over-awed or got in every body; so that no one dare open their lips
in my behalf. And you have heard that my brother pushes his measures
with the more violence, that all may be over with me before my cousin's
expected arrival.

But you tell me, that, in order to gain time, I must palliate; that I
must seem to compromise with my friends: But how palliate? How seem to
compromise? You would not have me endeavour to make them believe, that I
will consent to what I never intended to consent to! You would not have
me to gain time, with a view to deceive!

To do evil, that good may come of it, is forbidden: And shall I do evil,
yet know not whether good may come of it or not?

Forbid it, heaven! that Clarissa Harlowe should have it in her thought to
serve, or even to save herself at the expense of her sincerity, and by a
studied deceit!

And is there, after all, no way to escape one great evil, but by plunging
myself into another?--What an ill-fated creature am I!--Pray for me, my
dearest Nancy!--my mind is at present so much disturbed, that I can
hardly pray for myself.

LETTER XXXIX

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
THURSDAY NIGHT.

This alarming hurry I mentioned under my date of last night, and Betty's
saucy dark hints, come out to be owing to what I guessed they were; that
is to say, to the private intimation Mr. Lovelace contrived our family
should have of his insolent resolution [insolent I must call it] to
prevent my being carried to my uncle's.

I saw at the time that it was as wrong with respect to answering his own
view, as it was insolent: For, could he think, as Betty (I suppose from
her betters) justly observed, that parents would be insulted out of their
right to dispose of their own child, by a violent man, whom they hate;
and who could have no pretension to dispute that right with them, unless
what he had from her who had none over herself? And how must this
insolence of his, aggravated as my brother is able to aggravate it,
exasperate them against me?

The rash man has indeed so far gained his point, as to intimidate them
from attempting to carry me away: but he has put them upon a surer and a
more desperate measure: and this has driven me also into one as
desperate; the consequence of which, although he could not foresee it,*
may perhaps too well answer his great end, little as he deserves to have
it answered.

* She was mistaken in this. Mr. Lovelace did foresee this consequence.
All his contrivances led to it, and the whole family, as he boasts,
unknown to themselves, were but so many puppets danced by his wires. See
Vol.I. Letter XXXI.

In short, I have done, as far as I know, the most rash thing that ever I
did in my life.

But let me give you the motive, and then the action will follow of
course.

About six o'clock this evening, my aunt (who stays here all night, on my
account, no doubt) came up and tapped at my door; for I was writing; and
had locked myself in. I opened it; and she entering, thus delivered
herself:

I come once more to visit you, my dear; but sorely against my will;
because it is to impart to you matters of the utmost concern to you, and
to the whole family.

What, Madam, is now to be done with me? said I, wholly attentive.

You will not be hurried away to your uncle's, child; let that comfort
you.--They see your aversion to go.--You will not be obliged to go to
your uncle Antony's.

How you revive me, Madam! this is a cordial to my heart!

I little thought, my dear, what was to follow this supposed
condescension.

And then I ran over with blessings for this good news, (and she permitted
me so to do, by her silence); congratulating myself, that I thought my
father could not resolve to carry things to the last extremity.--

Hold, Niece, said she, at last--you must not give yourself too much joy
upon the occasion neither.--Don't be surprised, my dear.--Why look you
upon me, child, with so affecting an earnestness?--but you must be Mrs.
Solmes, for all that.

I was dumb.

She then told me, that they had undoubted information, that a certain
desperate ruffian (I must excuse her that word, she said) had prepared
armed men to way-lay my brother and uncles, and seize me, and carry me
off.--Surely, she said, I was not consenting to a violence that might be
followed by murder on one side or the other; perhaps on both.

I was still silent.

That therefore my father (still more exasperated than before) had changed
his resolution as to my going to my uncle's; and was determined next
Tuesday to set out thither himself with my mother; and that (for it was
to no purpose to conceal a resolution so soon to be put into execution)--
I must not dispute it any longer--on Wednesday I must give my hand--as
they would have me.

She proceeded, that orders were already given for a license: that the
ceremony was to be performed in my own chamber, in presence of all my
friends, except of my father and mother; who would not return, nor see
me, till all was over, and till they had a good account of my behaviour.

The very intelligence, my dear!--the very intelligence this, which
Lovelace gave me!

I was still dumb--only sighing, as if my heart would break.

She went on, comforting me, as she thought. 'She laid before me the
merit of obedience; and told me, that if it were my desire that my
Norton should be present at the ceremony, it would be complied with: that
the pleasure I should receive from reconciling al my friends to me, and
in their congratulations upon it, must needs overbalance, with such a one
as me, the difference of persons, however preferable I might think the
one man to the other: that love was a fleeting thing, little better than
a name, where mortality and virtue did not distinguish the object of it:
that a choice made by its dictates was seldom happy; at least not durably
so: nor was it to be wondered at, when it naturally exalted the object
above its merits, and made the lover blind to faults, that were visible
to every body else: so that when a nearer intimacy stript it of its
imaginary perfections, it left frequently both parties surprised, that
they could be so grossly cheated; and that then the indifference became
stronger than the love ever was. That a woman gave a man great
advantages, and inspired him with great vanity, when she avowed her love
for him, and preference of him; and was generally requited with insolence
and contempt: whereas the confessedly-obliged man, it was probable, would
be all reverence and gratitude'--and I cannot tell what.

'You, my dear, said she, believe you shall be unhappy, if you have Mr.
Solmes: your parents think the contrary; and that you will be undoubtedly
so, were you to have Mr. Lovelace, whose morals are unquestionably bad:
suppose it were your sad lot to consider, what great consolation you will
have on one hand, if you pursue your parents' advice, that you did so;
what mortification on the other, that by following your own, you have
nobody to blame but yourself.'

This, you remember, my dear, was an argument enforced upon me by Mrs.
Norton.

These and other observations which she made were worthy of my aunt
Hervey's good sense and experience, and applied to almost any young
creature who stood in opposition to her parents' will, but one who had
offered to make the sacrifices I have offered to make, ought to have had
their due weight. But although it was easy to answer some of them in my
own particular case; yet having over and over, to my mother, before my
confinement, and to my brother and sister, and even to my aunt Hervey,
since, said what I must now have repeated, I was so much mortified and
afflicted at the cruel tidings she brought me, that however attentive I
was to what she said, I had neither power nor will to answer one word;
and, had she not stopped of herself, she might have gone on an hour
longer, without interruption from me.

Observing this, and that I only sat weeping, my handkerchief covering my
face, and my bosom heaving ready to burst; What! no answer, my dear?--Why
so much silent grief? You know I have always loved you. You know, that
I have no interest in the affair. You would not permit Mr. Solmes to
acquaint you with some things which would have set your heart against Mr.
Lovelace. Shall I tell you some of the matters charged against him?--
shall I, my dear?

Still I answered only by my tears and sighs.

Well, child, you shall be told these things afterwards, when you will be
in a better state of mind to hear them; and then you will rejoice in the
escape you will have had. It will be some excuse, then, for you to plead
for your behaviour to Mr. Solmes, that you could not have believed Mr.
Lovelace had been so very vile a man.

My heart fluttered with impatience and anger at being so plainly talked
to as the wife of this man; but yet I then chose to be silent. If I had
spoken, it would have been with vehemence.

Strange, my dear, such silence!--Your concern is infinitely more on this
side the day, than it will be on the other.--But let me ask you, and do
not be displeased, Will you choose to see what generous stipulations for
you there are in the settlements?--You have knowledge beyond your years--
give the writings a perusal: do, my dear: they are engrossed, and ready
for signing, and have been for some time. Excuse me, my love--I mean not
to disorder you:--your father would oblige me to bring them up, and to
leave them with you. He commands you to read them. But to read them,
Niece--since they are engrossed, and were before you made them absolutely
hopeless.

And then, to my great terror, she drew some parchments form her
handkerchief, which she had kept, (unobserved by me,) under her apron;
and rising, put them in the opposite window. Had she produced a serpent,
I could not have been more frightened.

Oh! my dearest Aunt, turning away my face, and holding out my hands, hide
from my eyes those horrid parchments!--Let me conjure you to tell me--by
all the tenderness of near relationship, and upon your honour, and by
your love for me, say, Are they absolutely resolved, that, come what
will, I must be that man's?

My dear, you must have Mr. Solmes: indeed you must.

Indeed I never will!--This, as I have said over and over, is not
originally my father's will.--Indeed I never will--and that is all I will
say!

It is your father's will now, replied my aunt: and, considering how all
the family is threatened by Mr. Lovelace, and the resolution he has
certainly taken to force you out of their hands, I cannot but say they
are in the right, not to be bullied out of their child.

Well, Madam, then nothing remains for me to say. I am made desperate. I
care not what becomes of me.

Your piety, and your prudence, my dear, and Mr. Lovelace's immoral
character, together with his daring insults, and threatenings, which
ought to incense you, as much as any body, are every one's dependence.
We are sure the time will come, when you'll think very differently of the
steps your friends take to disappoint a man who has made himself so
justly obnoxious to them all.

She withdrew; leaving me full of grief and indignation:--and as much out
of humour with Mr. Lovelace as with any body; who, by his conceited
contrivances, has made things worse for me than before; depriving me of
the hopes I had of gaining time to receive your advice, and private
assistance to get to town; and leaving me not other advice, in all
appearance, than either to throw myself upon his family, or to be made
miserable for ever with Mr. Solmes. But I was still resolved to avoid
both these evils, if possible.

I sounded Betty, in the first place, (whom my aunt sent up, not thinking
it proper, as Betty told me, that I should be left by myself, and who, I
found, knew their designs,) whether it were not probable that they would
forbear, at my earnest entreaty, to push matters to the threatened
extremity.

But she confirmed all my aunt said; rejoicing (as she said they all did)
that Mr. Lovelace had given them so good a pretence to save me from him
now, and for ever.

She ran on about equipages bespoken; talked of my brother's and sister's
exultations that now the whole family would soon be reconciled to each
other: of the servants' joy upon it: of the expected license: of a visit
to be paid me by Dr. Lewen, or another clergyman, whom they named not to
her; which was to crown the work: and of other preparations, so
particular, as made me dread that they designed to surprise me into a
still nearer day than Wednesday.

These things made me excessively uneasy. I knew not what to resolve
upon.

At one time, What have I to do, thought I, but to throw myself at once
into the protection of Lady Betty Lawrance?--But then, in resentment of
his fine contrivances, which had so abominably disconcerted me, I soon
resolved to the contrary: and at last concluded to ask the favour of
another half-hour's conversation with my aunt.

I sent Betty to her with my request.

She came.

I put it to her, in the most earnest manner, to tell me, whether I might
not obtain the favour of a fortnight's respite?

She assured me, it would not be granted.

Would a week? Surely a week would?

She believed a week might, if I would promise two things: the first, upon
my honour, not to write a line out of the house, in that week: for it was
still suspected, she said, that I found means to write to somebody. And,
secondly, to marry Mr. Solmes, at the expiration of it.

Impossible! Impossible! I said with a passion--What! might not I be
obliged with one week, without such a horrid condition as the last?

She would go down, she said, that she might not seem of her own head to
put upon me what I thought a hardship so great.

She went down: and came up again.

Did I want, was the answer, to give the vilest of men an opportunity to
put his murderous schemes into execution?--It was time for them to put an
end to my obstinacy (they were tired out with me) and to his hopes at
once. And an end should be put on Tuesday or Wednesday next, at
furthest; unless I would give my honour to comply with the condition upon
which my aunt had been so good as to allow me a longer time.

I even stamped with impatience!--I called upon her to witness, that I was
guiltless of the consequence of this compulsion; this barbarous
compulsion, I called it; let that consequence be what it would.

My aunt chid me in a higher strain than ever she did before.

While I, in a half phrensy, insisted upon seeing my father; such usage, I
said, set me above fear. I would rejoice to owe my death to him, as I
did my life.

I did go down half way of the stairs, resolved to throw myself at his
feet wherever he was.--My aunt was frighted. She owned, that she feared
for my head.--Indeed I was in a perfect phrensy for a few minutes--but
hearing my brother's voice, as talking to somebody in my sister's
apartment just by, I stopt; and heard the barbarous designer say,
speaking to my sister, This works charmingly, my dear Arabella!

It does! It does! said she, in an exulting accent.

Let us keep it up, said my brother.--The villain is caught in his own
trap!--Now must she be what we would have her be.

Do you keep my father to it; I'll take care of my mother, said Bella.

Never fear, said he!--and a laugh of congratulation to each other, and
derision of me (as I made it out) quite turned my frantic humour into a
vindictive one.

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