LETTER LVI
MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE[IN ANSWER TO HER'S OF THURSDAY, AUGUST 24. SEE LETTER XXX. OF THISVOLUME.]THURSDAY, AUG. 31.
I had written sooner, my dearest young lady, but that I have beenendeavouring, ever since the receipt of your last letter, to obtain aprivate audience of your mother, in hopes of leave to communicate it toher. But last night I was surprised by an invitation to breakfast atHarlowe-place this morning; and the chariot came early to fetch me--anhonour I did not expect.
When I came, I found there was to be a meeting of all your family withCol. Morden, at Harlowe-place; and it was proposed by your mother, andconsented to, that I should be present. Your cousin, I understand, hadwith difficulty brought this meeting to bear; for your brother had beforeindustriously avoided all conversation with him on the affecting subject;urging that it was not necessary to talk to Mr. Morden upon it, who,being a remoter relation than themselves, had no business to make himselfa judge of their conduct to their daughter, their niece, and theirsister; especially as he had declared himself in her favour; adding, thathe should hardly have patience to be questioned by Mr. Morden on thathead.
I was in hopes that your mother would have given me an opportunity oftalking with her alone before the company met; but she seemed studiouslyto avoid it; I dare say, however, not with her inclination.
I was ordered in just before Mr. Morden came; and was bid to sit down--which I did in the window.
The Colonel, when he came, began the discourse, by renewing, as he calledit, his solicitations in your favour. He set before them your penitence;your ill health; your virtue, though once betrayed, and basely used; hethen read to them Mr. Lovelace's letter, a most contrite one indeed,* andyour high-souled answer;** for that was what he justly called it; and hetreated as it deserved Mr. Brand's officious information, (of which I hadbefore heard he had made them ashamed,) by representations founded uponinquiries made by Mr. Alston,*** whom he had procured to go up on purposeto acquaint himself with your manner of life, and what was meant by thevisits of that Mr. Belford.
* See Vol. VII. LXXIX.** Ibid. Letter LXXXIII.*** See Vol. VIII. Letter XXIII.
He then told them, that he had the day before waited upon Miss Howe, andhad been shown a letter from you to her,* and permitted to take somememorandums from it, in which you appeared, both by handwriting, and thecontents, to be so very ill, that it seemed doubtful to him, if it werepossible for you to get over it. And when he read to them that passage,where you ask Miss Howe, 'What can be done for you now, were your friendsto be ever so favourable? and wish for their sakes, more than for yourown, that they would still relent;' and then say, 'You are very ill--youmust drop your pen--and ask excuse for your crooked writing; and take, asit were, a last farewell of Miss Howe;--adieu, my dear, adieu,' are yourwords--
* Ibid. Letter XXXIII.
O my child! my child! said you mamma, weeping, and clasping her hands.
Dear Madam, said your brother, be so good as to think you have morechildren than this ungrateful one.
Yet your sister seemed affected.
Your uncle Harlowe, wiping his eyes, O cousin, said he, if one thoughtthe poor girl was really so ill--
She must, said your uncle Antony. This is written to her private friend.God forbid she should be quite lost!
Your uncle Harlowe wished they did not carry their resentments too far.
I begged for God's sake, wringing my hands, and with a bended knee, thatthey would permit me to go up to you; engaging to give them a faithfulaccount of the way you were in. But I was chidden by your brother; andthis occasioned some angry words between him and Mr. Morden.
I believe, Sir, I believe, Madam, said your sister to her father andmother, we need not trouble my cousin to read any more. It does butgrieve and disturb you. My sister Clary seems to be ill: I think, ifMrs. Norton were permitted to go up to her, it would be right; wickedlyas she has acted, if she be truly penitent--
Here she stopt; and every one being silent, I stood up once more, andbesought them to let me go; and then I offered to read a passage or twoin your letter to me of the 24th. But I was taken up again by yourbrother, and this occasioned still higher words between the Colonel andhim.
Your mother, hoping to gain upon your inflexible brother, and to divertthe anger of the two gentlemen from each other, proposed that the Colonelshould proceed in reading the minutes he had taken from your letter.
He accordingly read, 'of your resuming your pen; that you thought you hadtaken your last farewell; and the rest of that very affecting passage, inwhich you are obliged to break off more than once, and afterwards to takean airing in a chair.' Your brother and sister were affected at this;and he had recourse to his snuff-box. And where you comfort Miss Howe,and say, 'You shall be happy;' It is more, said he, than she will let anybody else be.
Your sister called you sweet soul! but with a low voice: then grewhard-hearted again; set said [sic], Nobody could help being affected byyour pathetic grief--but that it was your talent.
The Colonel then went on to the good effect your airing had upon you; toyour good wishes to Miss Howe and Mr. Hickman; and to your concludingsentence, that when the happy life you wished to her comes to be woundup, she may be as calm and as easy at quitting it, as you hope in God youshall be. Your mother could not stand this; but retired to a corner ofthe room, and sobbed, and wept. Your father for a few minutes could notspeak, though he seemed inclined to say something.
Your uncles were also both affected; but your brother went round to each,and again reminded your mother that she had other children.--What wasthere, he said, in what was read, but the result of the talent you had ofmoving the passions? And he blamed them for choosing to hear read whatthey knew their abused indulgence could not be a proof against.
This set Mr. Morden up again--Fie upon you, Cousin Harlowe, said he, Isee plainly to whom it is owing that all relationship and ties of blood,with regard to this sweet sufferer, are laid aside. Such rigours asthese make it difficult for a sliding virtue ever to recover itself.
Your brother pretended the honour of the family; and declared, that nochild ought to be forgiven who abandoned the most indulgent of parentsagainst warning, against the light of knowledge, as you had done.
But, Sir, and Ladies, said I, rising from the seat in the window, andhumbly turning round to each, if I may be permitted to speak, my dearMiss asks only for a blessing. She does not beg to be received tofavour; she is very ill, and asks only for a last blessing.
Come, come, good Norton, [I need not tell you who said this,] you areup again with your lamentables!--A good woman, as you are, to forgiveso readily a crime, that has been as disgraceful to your part in hereducation as to her family, is a weakness that would induce one tosuspect your virtue, if you were to be encountered by a temptationproperly adapted.
By some such charitable logic, said Mr. Morden, as this, is my cousinArabella captivated, I doubt not. If virtue, you, Mr. James Harlowe,are the most virtuous young man in the world.
I knew how it would be, replied your brother, in a passion, if I met Mr.Morden upon this business. I would have declined it; but you, Sir, tohis father, would not permit me to do so.
But, Sir, turning to the Colonel, in no other presence----
Then, Cousin James, interrupted the other gentleman, that which is yourprotection, it seems, is mine. I am not used to bear defiances thus--you are my Cousin, Sir, and the son and nephew of persons as dear as nearto me--There he paused--
Are we, said your father, to be made still more unhappy among ourselves,when the villain lives that ought to be the object of every one'sresentment who has either a value for the family, or for this ungratefulgirl?
That's the man, said your cousin, whom last Monday, as you know, I wentpurposely to make the object of mine. But what could I say, when I foundhim so willing to repair his crime?--And I give it as my opinion, andhave written accordingly to my poor cousin, that it is best for all roundthat his o
ffer should be accepted; and let me tell you--
Tell me nothing, said your father, quite enraged, or that very vilefellow! I have a rivetted hatred to him. I would rather see the rebeldie an hundred deaths, were it possible, than that she should give such avillain as him a relation to my family.
Well, but there is no room to think, said you mother, that she will giveus such a relation, my dear. The poor girl will lessen, I fear, thenumber of our relations not increase it. If she be so ill as we are toldshe is, let us send Mrs. Norton up to her.--That's the least we can do--let us take her, however, out of the hands of that Belford.
Both your uncles supported this motion; the latter part of it especially.
Your brother observed, in his ill-natured way, what a fine piece ofconsistency it was in you to refuse the vile injurer, and the amends heoffered; yet to throw yourself upon the protection of his fast friend.
Miss Harlowe was apprehensive, she said, that you would leave all youcould leave to that pert creature, Miss Howe, [so she called her,] if youshould die.
O do not, do not suppose that, my Bella, said your poor mother. I cannotthink of parting with my Clary--with all her faults, she is my child--herreasons for her conduct are not heard--it would break my heart to loseher.--I think, my dear, to your father, none so fit as I to go up, if youwill give me leave, and Mrs. Norton shall accompany me.
This was a sweet motion, and your father paused upon it. Mr. Mordenoffered his service to escort her; your uncles seemed to approve of it;but your brother dashed all. I hope, Sir, said he, to his father--Ihope, Madam, to his mother--that you will not endeavour to recover afaulty daughter by losing an unculpable son. I do declare, that if evermy sister Clary darkens these doors again, I never will. I will set out,Madam, the same hour you go to London, (on such an errand,) to Edinburgh;and there I will reside, and try to forget that I have relations inEngland, so near and so dear as you are now all to me.
Good God, said the Colonel, what a declaration is this! And suppose,Sir, and suppose, Madam, [turning to your father and mother,] this shouldbe the case, whether it is better, think you, that you should lose forever such a daughter as my cousin Clary, or that your son should go toEdinburgh, and reside there upon an estate which will be the better forhis residence upon it?--
Your brother's passionate behaviour hereupon is hardly to be described.He resented it as promising an alienation of the affection of the familyto him. And to such an height were resentments carried, every one sidingwith him, that the Colonel, with hands and eyes lifted up, cried out,What hearts of flint am I related to!--O, Cousin Harlowe, to your father,are you resolved to have but one daughter?--Are you, Madam, to be taught,by a son, who has no bowels, to forget you are a mother?
The Colonel turned from them to draw out his handkerchief, and could notfor a minute speak. The eyes of every one, but the hard-hearted brother,caught tears from his.
But then turning to them, (with the more indignation, as it seemed, as hehad been obliged to show a humanity, which, however, no brave heartshould be ashamed of,) I leave ye all, said he, fit company for oneanother. I will never open my lips to any of you more upon this subject.I will instantly make my will, and in me shall the dear creature have thefather, uncle, brother, she has lost. I will prevail upon her to takethe tour of France and Italy with me; nor shall she return till ye knowthe value of such a daughter.
And saying this, he hurried out of the room, went into the court-yard,and ordered his horse.
Mr. Antony Harlowe went to him there, just as he was mounting, and saidhe hoped he should find him cooler in the evening, (for he, till then,had lodged at his house,) and that then they would converse calmly, andevery one, mean time, would weigh all matters well.--But the angrygentleman said, Cousin Harlowe, I shall endeavour to discharge theobligations I owe to your civility since I have been in England; but Ihave been so treated by that hot-headed young man, (who, as far as Iknow, has done more to ruin his sister than Lovelace himself, and thiswith the approbation of you all,) that I will not again enter into yourdoors, or theirs. My servants shall have orders whither to bring whatbelongs to me from your house. I will see my dear cousin Clary as soonas I can. And so God bless you altogether!--only this one word to yournephew, if you please--That he wants to be taught the difference betweencourage and bluster; and it is happy for him, perhaps, that I am hiskinsman; though I am sorry he is mine.
I wondered to hear your uncle, on his return to them all, repeat this;because of the consequences it may be attended with, though I hope itwill not have bad ones; yet it was considered as a sort of challenge, andso it confirmed every body in your brother's favour; and Miss Harloweforgot not to inveigh against that error which had brought on all theseevils.
I took the liberty again, but with fear and trembling, to desire leave toattend you.
Before any other person could answer, your brother said, I suppose youlook upon yourself, Mrs. Norton, to be your own mistress. Pray do youwant our consents and courtship to go up?--If I may speak my mind, youand my sister Clary are the fittest to be together.--Yet I wish you wouldnot trouble your head about our family matters, till you are desired todo so.
But don't you know, brother, said Miss Harlowe, that the error of anybranch of a family splits that family into two parties, and makes notonly every common friend and acquaintance, but even servants judges overboth?--This is one of the blessed effects of my sister Clary's fault!
There never was a creature so criminal, said your father, looking withdispleasure at me, who had not some weak heads to pity and side with her.
I wept. Your mother was so good as to take me by the hand; come, goodwoman, said she, come along with me. You have too much reason to beafflicted with what afflicts us, to want additions to your grief.
But, my dearest young lady, I was more touched for your sake than for myown; for I have been low in the world for a great number of years; and,of consequence, have been accustomed to snubs and rebuffs from theaffluent. But I hope that patience is written as legibly on my forehead,as haughtiness on that of any of my obligers.
Your mother led me to her chamber; and there we sat and wept together forseveral minutes, without being able to speak either of us one word to theother. At last she broke silence, asking me, if you were really andindeed so ill as it was said you were?
I answered in the affirmative; and would have shown her your last letter;but she declined seeing it.
I would fain have procured from her the favour of a line to you, with herblessing. I asked, what was intended by your brother and sister? Wouldnothing satisfy them but your final reprobation?--I insinuated, how easyit would be, did not your duty and humility govern you, to make yourselfindependent as to circumstances; but that nothing but a blessing, a lastblessing, was requested by you. And many other thins I urged in yourbehalf. The following brief repetition of what she was pleased to say inanswer to my pleas, will give you a notion of it all; and of the presentsituation of things.
She said, 'She was very unhappy!--She had lost the little authority sheonce had over her other children, through one child's failing! and allinfluence over Mr. Harlowe and his brothers. Your father, she said, hadbesought her to leave it to him to take his own methods with you; and,(as she valued him,) to take no step in your favour unknown to him andyour uncles; yet she owned, that they were too much governed by yourbrother. They would, however, give way in time, she knew, to areconciliation--they designed no other, for they all still loved you.
'Your brother and sister, she owned, were very jealous of your cominginto favour again;--yet could but Mr. Morden have kept his temper, andstood her son's first sallies, who (having always had the family grandeurin view) had carried his resentment so high, that he knew not how todescend, the conferences, so abruptly broken off just now, would haveended more happily; for that she had reason to think that a fewconcessions on your part, with regard to your grandfather's estate, andyour cousin's engaging for your submission as from proper motives, would
have softened them all.
'Mr. Brand's account of your intimacy with the friend of the obnoxiousman, she said, had, for the time very unhappy effects; for before thatshe had gained some ground: but afterwards dared not, nor indeed hadinclination, to open her lips in your behalf. Your continued intimacywith that Mr. Belford was wholly unaccountable, and as whollyinexcusable.
'What made the wished-for reconciliation, she said, more difficult, was,first, that you yourself acknowledged yourself dishonoured; (and it wastoo well known, that it was your own fault that you ever were in thepower of so great a profligate;) of consequence, that their and yourdisgrace could not be greater than it was; yet, that you refuse toprosecute the wretch. Next, that the pardon and blessing hoped for mustprobably be attended with your marriage to the man they hate, and whohates them as much: very disagreeable circumstances, she said, I mustallow, to found a reconciliation upon.
'As to her own part, she must needs say, that if there were any hope thatMr. Lovelace would become a reformed man, the letter her cousin Mordenhad read to them from him to you, and the justice (as she hoped it was)he did your character, though to his own condemnation, (his family andfortunes being unexceptionable,) and all his relations earnest to berelated to you, were arguments that would weigh with her, could they haveany with your father and uncles.'
To my plea of your illness, 'she could not but flatter herself, sheanswered, that it was from lowness of spirits, and temporary dejection.A young creature, she said, so very considerate as you naturally were,and fallen so low, must have enough of that. Should they lose you, whichGod forbid! the scene would then indeed be sadly changed; for then thosewho now most resented, would be most grieved; all your fine qualitieswould rise to their remembrance, and your unhappy error would be quiteforgotten.
'She wished you would put yourself into your cousin's protectionentirely, and have nothing to more to say to Mr. Belford.
And I would recommend it to your most serious consideration, my dear MissClary, whether now, as your cousin (who is your trustee for yourgrandfather's estate,) is come, you should not give over all thoughts ofMr. Lovelace's intimate friend for your executor; more especially, asthat gentleman's interfering in the concerns of your family, should thesad event take place (which my heart aches but to think of) might beattended with those consequences which you are so desirous, in othercases, to obviate and prevent. And suppose, my dear young lady, you wereto write one letter more to each of your uncles, to let them know how illyou are?--And to ask their advice, and offer to be governed by it, inrelation to the disposition of your estate and effects?--Methinks I wishyou would.
I find they will send you up a large part of what has been received fromthat estate since it was your's; together with your current cash whichyou left behind you: and this by your cousin Morden, for fear you shouldhave contracted debts which may make you uneasy.
They seem to expect, that you will wish to live at your grandfather'shouse, in a private manner, if your cousin prevail not upon you to goabroad for a year or two.
FRIDAY MORNING.
Betty was with me just now. She tells me, that your cousin Morden is somuch displeased with them all, that he has refused to lodge any more atyour uncle Antony's; and has even taken up with inconvenient lodgings,till he is provided with others to his mind. This very much concernsthem; and they repent their violent treatment of him: and the more, as heis resolved, he says, to make you his sole executrix, and heir to all hisfortune.
What noble fortunes still, my dearest young lady, await you! I amthoroughly convinced, if it please God to preserve your life and yourhealth, that every body will soon be reconciled to you, and that you willsee many happy days.
Your mother wished me not to attend you as yet, because she hopes that Imay give myself that pleasure soon with every body's good liking, andeven at their desire. Your cousin Morden's reconciliation with them,which they are very desirous of, I am ready to hope will include theirswith you.
But if that should happen which I so much dread, and I not with you, Ishould never forgive myself. Let me, therefore, my dearest young lady,desire you to command my attendance, if you find any danger, and if youwish me peace of mind; and no consideration shall withhold me.
I hear that Miss Howe has obtained leave from her mother to see you; andintends next week to go to town for that purpose; and (as it is believed)to buy clothes for her approaching nuptials.
Mr. Hickman's mother-in-law is lately dead. Her jointure of 600L. a-yearis fallen to him; and she has, moreover, as an acknowledgement of hisgood behaviour to her, left him all she was worth, which was veryconsiderable, a few legacies excepted to her own relations.
These good men are uniformly good: indeed could not else be good; andnever fare the worse for being so. All the world agrees he will makethat fine young lady an excellent husband: and I am sorry they are not asmuch agreed in her making him an excellent wife. But I hope a woman ofher principles would not encourage his address, if, whether she atpresent love him or not, she thought she could not love him; or if shepreferred any other man to him.
Mr. Pocock undertakes to deliver this; but fears it will be Saturdaynight first, if not Sunday morning.
May the Almighty protect and bless you!--I long to see you--my dearestyoung lady, I long to see you; and to fold you once more to my fondheart. I dare to say happy days are coming. Be but cheerful. Give wayto hope.
Whether for this world, or the other, you must be happy. Wish to live,however, were it only because you are so well fitted in mind to makeevery one happy who has the honour to know you. What signifies thistransitory eclipse? You are as near perfection, by all I have heard,as any creature in this world can be: for here is your glory--you arebrightened and purified, as I may say, by your sufferings!--How I long tohear your whole sad, yet instructive story, from your own lips!
For Miss Howe's sake, who, in her new engagements will so much want you;for your cousin Morden's sake, for your mother's sake, if I must go onfarther in your family; and yet I can say, for all their sakes; and formy sake, my dearest Miss Clary; let your resumed and accustomedmagnanimity bear you up. You have many things to do which I know not theperson who will do if you leave us.
Join your prayers then to mine, that God will spare you to a world thatwants you and your example; and, although your days may seem to have beennumbered, who knows but that, with the good King Hezekiah, you may havethem prolonged? Which God grant, if it be his blessed will, to theprayers of
YourJUDITH NORTON
Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 8 Page 57