Clarissa, Volume 2 (of 9)

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SUNDAY, FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON.

My letter is not yet taken away--If he should not send for it, or take
it, or come hither on my not meeting him to-morrow, in doubt of what may
have befallen me, what shall I do! Why had I any concerns with this sex!
--I, that was so happy till I knew this man!

I dined in the ivy summer-house. My request to do so, was complied with
at the first word. To shew I meant nothing, I went again into the house
with Betty, as soon as I had dined. I thought it was not amiss to ask
this liberty; the weather seemed to be set in fine. Who knows what
Tuesday or Wednesday may produce?

SUNDAY EVENING, SEVEN O'CLOCK.

There remains my letter still!--He is busied, I suppose, in his
preparations for to-morrow. But then he has servants. Does the man
think he is so secure of me, that having appointed, he need not give
himself any further concern about me till the very moment? He knows how
I am beset. He knows not what may happen. I may be ill, or still more
closely watched or confined than before. The correspondence might be
discovered. It might be necessary to vary the scheme. I might be forced
into measures, which might entirely frustrate my purpose. I might have
new doubts. I might suggest something more convenient, for any thing he
knew. What can the man mean, I wonder!--Yet it shall lie; for if he has
it any time before the appointed hour, it will save me declaring to him
personally my changed purpose, and the trouble of contending with him on
that score. If he send for it at all, he will see by the date, that he
might have had it in time; and if he be put to any inconvenience from
shortness of notice, let him take it for his pains.

SUNDAY NIGHT, NINE O'CLOCK.

It is determined, it seems, to send for Mrs. Norton to be here on Tuesday
to dinner; and she is to stay with me for a whole week.

So she is first to endeavour to persuade me to comply; and, when the
violence is done, she is to comfort me, and try to reconcile me to my
fate. They expect fits and fetches, Betty insolently tells me, and
expostulations, and exclamations, without number: but every body will be
prepared for them: and when it's over, it's over; and I shall be easy and
pacified when I find I can't help it.

MONDAY MORN. APRIL 10, SEVEN O'CLOCK.

O my dear! there yet lies the letter, just as I left it!

Does he think he is so sure of me?--Perhaps he imagines that I dare not
alter my purpose. I wish I had never known him! I begin now to see this
rashness in the light every one else would have seen it in, had I been
guilty of it. But what can I do, if he come to-day at the appointed
time! If he receive not the letter, I must see him, or he will think
something has befallen me; and certainly will come to the house. As
certainly he will be insulted. And what, in that case, may be the
consequence! Then I as good as promised that I would take the first
opportunity to see him, if I change my mind, and to give him my reasons
for it. I have no doubt but he will be out of humour upon it: but
better, if we meet, that he should go away dissatisfied with me, than
that I should go away dissatisfied with myself.

Yet, short as the time is, he may still perhaps send, and get the letter.
Something may have happened to prevent him, which when known will excuse
him.

After I have disappointed him more than once before, on a requested
interview only, it is impossible he should not have a curiosity at least,
to know if something has not happened; and whether my mind hold or not in
this more important case. And yet, as I rashly confirmed my resolution
by a second letter, I begin now to doubt it.

NINE O'CLOCK.

My cousin Dolly Hervey slid the enclosed letter into my hand, as I passed
by her, coming out of the garden.

DEAREST MADAM,

I have got intelligence from one who pretends to know every thing, that
you must be married on Wednesday morning to Mr. Solmes. Perhaps,
however, she says this only to vex me; for it is that saucy creature
Betty Barnes. A license is got, as she says: and so far she went as to
tell me (bidding me say nothing, but she knew I would) that Mr. Brand is
to marry you. For Dr. Lewen I hear, refuses, unless your consent can be
obtained; and they have heard that he does not approve of their
proceedings against you. Mr. Brand, I am told, is to have his fortune
made by uncle Harlowe and among them.

You will know better than I what to make of all these matters; for
sometimes I think Betty tells me things as if I should not tell you, and
yet expects that I will.* For there is great whispering between Miss
Harlowe and her; and I have observed that when their whispering is over,
Betty comes and tells me something by way of secret. She and all the
world know how much I love you: and so I would have them. It is an
honour to me to love a young lady who is and ever was an honour to all
her family, let them say what they will.

* It is easy for such of the readers as have been attentive to Mr.
Lovelace's manner of working, to suppose, from this hint of Miss
Hervey's, that he had instructed his double-faced agent to put his sweet-
heart Betty upon alarming Miss Hervey, in hopes she would alarm her
beloved cousin, (as we see she does,) in order to keep her steady to her
appointment with him.

But from a more certain authority than Betty's I can assure you (but I
must beg of you to burn this letter) that you are to be searched once
more for letters, and for pen and ink; for they know you write.
Something they pretend to have come at from one of Mr. Lovelace's
servants, which they hope to make something of. I know not for certain
what it is. He must be a very vile and wicked man who would boast of a
lady's favour to him, and reveal secrets. But Mr. Lovelace, I dare say,
is too much of a gentleman to be guilty of such ingratitude.

Then they have a notion, from that false Betty I believe, that you intend
to take something to make yourself sick; and so they will search for
phials and powders and such like.

If nothing shall be found that will increase their suspicions, you are to
be used more kindly by your papa when you appear before them all, than he
of late has used you.

Yet, sick or well, alas! my dear cousin! you must be married. But your
husband is to go home every night without you, till you are reconciled to
him. And so illness can be no pretence to save you.

They are sure you will make a good wife. So would not I, unless I liked
my husband. And Mr. Solmes is always telling them how he will purchase
your love by rich presents.--A syncophant man!--I wish he and Betty
Barnes were to come together; and he would beat her every day.

After what I told you, I need not advise you to secure every thing you
would not have seen.

Once more let me beg that you will burn this letter; and, pray, dearest
Madam, do not take any thing that may prejudice your health: for that
will not do. I am

Your truly loving cousin,
D.H.

***

When I first read my cousin's letter, I was half inclined to resume my
former intention; especially as my countermanding letter was not taken
away; and as my heart ached at the thoughts of the conflict I must expect
to have with him on my refusal. For see him for a few moments I doubt I
must, lest he should take some rash resolutions; especially as he has
reason to expect I will see him. But here your words, that all punctilio
is at an end the moment I am out of my father's house, added to the still
more cogent considerations of duty and reputation, determined me once
more against the rash step. And it will be very hard (although no
seasonable fainting, or wished-for fit, should stand my friend) if I
cannot gain one month, or fortnight, or week. And I have still more
hopes that I shall prevail for some delay, from my cousin's intimation
that the good Dr. Lewen refuses to give his assistance to their projects,
if they have not my consent, and thinks me cruelly used: since, without
taking notice that I am apprized of this, I can plead a scruple of
conscience, and insist upon having that worthy divine's opinion upon it:
in which, enforced as I shall enforce it, my mother will surely second
me: my aunt Hervey, and Mrs. Norton, will support her: the suspension
must follow: and I can but get away afterwards.

But, if they will compel me: if they will give me no time: if nobody will
be moved: if it be resolved that the ceremony should be read over my
constrained hand--why then--Alas! What then!--I can but--But what? O my
dear! this Solmes shall never have my vows I am resolved! and I will say
nothing but no, as long as I shall be able to speak. And who will
presume to look upon such an act of violence as a marriage?--It is
impossible, surely, that a father and mother can see such a dreadful
compulsion offered to their child--but if mine should withdraw, and leave
the task to my brother and sister, they will have no mercy.

I am grieved to be driven to have recourse to the following artifices.

I have given them a clue, by the feather of a pen sticking out, where
they will find such of my hidden stories, as I intend they shall find.

Two or three little essays I have left easy to be seen, of my own
writing.

About a dozen lines also of a letter begun to you, in which I express my
hopes, (although I say that appearances are against me,) and that my
friends will relent. They know from your mother, by my uncle Antony,
that, some how or other, I now and then get a letter to you. In this
piece of a letter I declare renewedly my firm resolution to give up the
man so obnoxious to my family, on their releasing me from the address of
the other.

Near the essays, I have left the copy of my letter to Lady Drayton;*
which affording arguments suitable to my case, may chance (thus
accidentally to be fallen upon) to incline them to favour me.

* See Letters XIII. and XIV.

I have reserves of pens and ink, you may believe; and one or two in the
ivy summer-house; with which I shall amuse myself, in order to lighten,
if possible, those apprehensions which more and more affect me, as
Wednesday, the day of trial, approaches.

LETTER XLVII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
IVY SUMMER-HOUSE, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.

He has not yet got my letter: and while I was contriving here how to send
my officious gaoleress from me, that I might have time for the intended
interview, and had hit upon an expedient, which I believe would have
done, came my aunt, and furnished me with a much better. She saw my
little table covered, preparative to my solitary dinner; and hoped, she
told me, that this would be the last day that my friends would be
deprived of my company at table.

You may believe, my dear, that the thoughts of meeting Mr. Lovelace, for
fear of being discovered, together with the contents of my cousin Dolly's
letter, gave me great and visible emotions. She took notice of them--Why
these sighs, why these heavings here? said she, patting my neck--O my
dear Niece, who would have thought so much natural sweetness could be so
very unpersuadable?

I could not answer her, and she proceeded--I am come, I doubt, upon a
very unwelcome errand. Some things have been told us yesterday, which
came from the mouth of one of the most desperate and insolent men in the
world, convince your father, and all of us, that you still find means to
write out of the house. Mr. Lovelace knows every thing that is done
here; and that as soon as done; and great mischief is apprehended from
him, which you are as much concerned as any body to prevent. Your mother
has also some apprehensions concerning yourself, which yet she hopes are
groundless; but, however, cannot be easy, if she would, unless (while you
remain here in the garden, or in this summer-house) you give her the
opportunity once more of looking into your closet, your cabinet and
drawers. It will be the better taken, if you give me cheerfully your
keys. I hope, my dear, you won't dispute it. Your desire of dining in
this place was the more readily complied with for the sake of such an
opportunity.

I thought myself very lucky to be so well prepared by my cousin Dolly's
means for this search: but yet I artfully made some scruples, and not a
few complaints of this treatment: after which, I not only gave her the
keys of all, but even officiously emptied my pockets before her, and
invited her to put her fingers in my stays, that she might be sure I had
no papers there.

This highly obliged her; and she said, she would represent my cheerful
compliance as it deserved, let my brother and sister say what they would.
My mother in particular, she was sure, would rejoice at the opportunity
given her to obviate, as she doubted not would be the case, some
suspicions that were raised against me.

She then hinted, That there were methods taken to come at all Mr.
Lovelace's secrets, and even, from his careless communicativeness, at
some secret of mine; it being, she said, his custom, boastingly to prate
to his very servants of his intentions, in particular cases. She added,
that deep as he was thought to be, my brother was as deep as he, and
fairly too hard for him at his own weapons--as one day it would be found.

I knew not, I said, the meaning of these dark hints. I thought the
cunning she hinted at, on both sides, called rather for contempt than
applause. I myself might have been put upon artifices which my heart
disdained to practise, had I given way to the resentment, which, I was
bold to say, was much more justifiable than the actions that occasioned
it: that it was evident to me, from what she had said, that their present
suspicions of me were partly owing to this supposed superior cunning of
my brother, and partly to the consciousness that the usage I met with
might naturally produce a reason for such suspicions: that it was very
unhappy for me to be made the butt of my brother's wit: that it would
have been more to his praise to have aimed at shewing a kind heart than a
cunning head: that, nevertheless, I wished he knew himself as well as I
imagined I knew him; and he would then have less conceit of his
abilities: which abilities would, in my opinion, be less thought of, if
his power to do ill offices were not much greater than they.

I was vexed. I could not help making this reflection. The dupe the
other, too probably, makes of him, through his own spy, deserved it. But
I so little approve of this low art in either, that were I but tolerably
used, the vileness of that man, that Joseph Leman, should be inquired
into.

She was sorry, she said, to find that I thought so disparagingly of my
brother. He was a young man both of learning and parts.

Learning enough, I said, to make him vain of it among us women: but not
of parts sufficient to make his learning valuable either to himself or to
any body else.

She wished, indeed, that he had more good nature: but she feared that I
had too great an opinion of somebody else, to think so well of my brother
as a sister ought: since, between the two, there was a sort of rivalry,
as to abilities, that made them hate one another.

Rivalry! Madam, said I.--If that be the case, or whether it be or not, I
wish they both understood, better than either of them seem to do, what it
becomes gentlemen, and men of liberal education, to be, and to do.--
Neither of them, then, would glory in what they ought to be ashamed of.

But waving this subject, it was not impossible, I said, that they might
find a little of my writing, and a pen or two, and a little ink, [hated
art!--or rather, hateful the necessity for it!] as I was not permitted to
go up to put them out of the way: but if they did, I must be contented.
And I assured her, that, take what time they pleased, I would not go in
to disturb them, but would be either in or near the garden, in this
summer-house, or in the cedar one, or about my poultry-yard, or near the
great cascade, till I was ordered to return to my prison. With like
cunning I said, I supposed the unkind search would not be made till the
servants had dined; because I doubted not that the pert Betty Barnes, who
knew all the corners of my apartment and closet, would be employed in it.

She hoped, she said, that nothing could be found that would give a handle
against me: for, she would assure me, the motives to the search, on my
mother's part especially, were, that she hoped to find reason rather to
acquit than to blame me; and that my father might be induced to see my
to-morrow night, or Wednesday morning, with temper: with tenderness, I
should rather say, said she; for he is resolved to do so, if no new
offence be given.

Ah! Madam, said I--

Why that Ah! Madam, and shaking your head so significantly?

I wish, Madam, that I may not have more reason to dread my father's
continued displeasure, than to hope for his returning tenderness.

You don't know, my dear!--Things may take a turn--things may not be so
bad as you fear--

Dearest Madam, have you any consolation to give me?--

Why, my dear, it is possible, that you may be more compliable than you
have been.

Why raised you my hopes, Madam?--Don't let me think my dear aunt Hervey
cruel to a niece who truly honours her.

I may tell you more perhaps, said she (but in confidence, absolute
confidence) if the inquiry within came out in your favour. Do you know
of any thin above that can be found to your disadvantage?--

Some papers they will find, I doubt: but I must take consequences. My
brother and sister will be at hand with their good-natured constructions.
I am made desperate, and care not what is found.

I hope, I earnestly hope, that nothing can be found that will impeach
your discretion; and then--but I may say too much--

And away she went, having added to my perplexity.

But I now can think of nothing but this interview.--Would to Heaven it
were over!--To meet to quarrel--but, let him take what measures he will,
I will not stay a moment with him, if he be not quite calm and resigned.

Don't you see how crooked some of my lines are? Don't you see how some
of the letters stagger more than others?--That is when this interview is
more in my head than in my subject.

But, after all, should I, ought I to meet him? How have I taken it for
granted that I should!--I wish there were time to take your advice. Yet
you are so loth to speak quite out--but that I owe, as you own, to the
difficulty of my situation.

I should have mentioned, that in the course of this conversation I
besought my aunt to stand my friend, and to put in a word for me on my
approaching trial; and to endeavour to procure me time for consideration,
if I could obtain nothing else.

She told me, that, after the ceremony was performed [odious confirmation
of a hint in my cousin Dolly's letter!] I should have what time I pleased
to reconcile myself to my lot before cohabitation.

This put me out of all patience.

She requested of me in her turn, she said, that I would resolve to meet
them all with cheerful duty, and with a spirit of absolute acquiescence.
It was in my power to make them all happy. And how joyful would it be to
her, she said, to see my father, my mother, my uncles, my brother, my
sister, all embracing me with raptures, and folding me in turns to their
fond hearts, and congratulating each other on their restored happiness!
Her own joy, she said, would probably make her motionless and speechless
for a time: and for her Dolly--the poor girl, who had suffered in the
esteem of some, for her grateful attachment to me, would have every body
love her again.

Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial will be the most affecting
that I have yet had?

My aunt set forth all this in so strong a light, and I was so
particularly touched on my cousin Dolly's account, that, impatient as I
was just before, I was greatly moved: yet could only shew, by my sighs
and my tears, how desirable such an event would be to me, could it be
brought about upon conditions with which it was possible for me to
comply.

Here comes Betty Barnes with my dinner--

***

The wench is gone. The time of meeting is at hand. O that he may not
come!--But should I, or should I not, meet him?--How I question, without
possibility of a timely answer!

Betty, according to my leading hint to my aunt, boasted to me, that she
was to be employed, as she called it, after she had eat her own dinner.

She should be sorry, she told me, to have me found out. Yet 'twould be
all for my good. I should have it in my power to be forgiven for all at
once, before Wednesday night. The confident creature then, to stifle a
laugh, put a corner of her apron in her mouth, and went to the door: and
on her return to take away, as I angrily bid her, she begged my excuse--
but--but--and then the saucy creature laughed again, she could not help
it, to think how I had drawn myself in by my summer-house dinnering,
since it had given so fine an opportunity, by way of surprise, to look
into all my private hoards. She thought something was in the wind, when
my brother came into my dining here so readily. Her young master was too
hard for every body. 'Squire Lovelace himself was nothing at all at a
quick thought to her young master.

My aunt mentioned Mr. Lovelace's boasting behaviour to his servants:
perhaps he may be so mean. But as to my brother, he always took a pride
in making himself appear to be a man of parts and learning to our own
servants. Pride and meanness, I have often thought, are as nearly
allied, and as close borderers upon each other, as the poet tells us wit
and madness are.

But why do I trouble you (and myself, at such a crisis) with these
impertinences?--Yet I would forget, if I could, the nearest evil, the
interview; because, my apprehensions increasing as the hour is at hand,
I should, were my intentions to be engrossed by them, be unfit to see
him, if he does come: and then he will have too much advantage over me,
as he will have seeming reason to reproach me with change of resolution.

The upbraider, you know, my dear, is in some sense a superior; while the
upbraided, if with reason upbraided, must make a figure as spiritless as
conscious.

I know that this wretch will, if he can, be his own judge, and mine too.
But the latter he shall not be.

I dare say, we shall be all to pieces. But I don't care for that. It
would be hard, if I, who have held it out so sturdily to my father and
uncles, should not--but he is at the garden-door--

***

I was mistaken!--How many noises unlike, be made like to what one fears!
--Why flutters the fool so!--

***

I will hasten to deposit this. Then I will, for the last time, go to the
usual place, in hopes to find that he has got my letter. If he has, I
will not meet him. If he has not, I will take it back, and shew him what
I have written. That will break the ice, as I may say, and save me much
circumlocution and reasoning: and a steady adherence to that my written
mind is all that will be necessary.--The interview must be as short as
possible; for should it be discovered, it would furnish a new and strong
pretence for the intended evil of Wednesday next.

Perhaps I shall not be able to write again one while. Perhaps not till I
am the miserable property of that Solmes!--But that shall never, never
be, while I have my senses.

If your servant find nothing from me by Wednesday morning, you may then
conclude that I can neither write to you, nor receive your favours.

In that case, pity and pray for me, my beloved friend; and continue to me
that place in your affection, which is the pride of my life, and the only
comfort left to

Your
CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XLVIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
ST. ALBAN'S, TUESDAY MORN. PAST ONE.

O MY DEAREST FRIEND!

After what I had resolved upon, as by my former, what shall I write? what
can I? with what consciousness, even by letter, do I approach you?--You
will soon hear (if already you have not heard from the mouth of common
fame) that your Clarissa Harlowe is gone off with a man!

I am busying myself to give you the particulars at large. The whole
twenty-four hours of each day (to begin at the moment I can fix) shall be
employed in it till it is finished: every one of the hours, I mean, that
will be spared me by this interrupting man, to whom I have made myself so
foolishly accountable for too many of them. Rest is departed from me. I
have no call for that: and that has no balm for the wounds of my mind. So
you'll have all those hours without interruption till the account is
ended.

But will you receive, shall you be permitted to receive my letters, after
what I have done?

O my dearest friend!--But I must make the best of it.

I hope that will not be very bad! yet am I convinced that I did a rash
and inexcusable thing in meeting him; and all his tenderness, all his
vows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that account.

The bearer comes to you, my dear, for the little parcel of linen which I
sent you with far better and more agreeable hopes.

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