Pray for me, Mrs Lovick. Pray for me, Mrs Smith, that I may—I have great need of your prayers. This cruel man has discomposed me. What a step has he made me take to avoid him! And will not yet, I doubt, let me be at rest.
She said, that though this was so heavy a day with her, she was at other times within those few days past especially blessed with bright hours; and particularly, that she had now and then such joyful assurances (which she hoped were not presumptuous ones) that God would receive her to His mercy, that she could hardly contain herself and was ready to think herself above this earth while she was in it.
She had a pretty good night, it seems, and this morning went in a chair to St Dunstan’s church.
The chairmen told Mrs Smith that after prayers (for she did not return till between nine and ten) they carried her to a house in Fleet Street, where they never waited on her before. And where dost think this was? Why, to an undertaker’s! Good God! what a woman is this! She went into the back shop and talked with the master of it about half an hour, and came from him with great serenity; he waiting upon her to her chair with a respectful countenance, but full of curiosity and seriousness.
As soon as you can, sir, were her words to him as she got into the chair.
She was so ill in the afternoon, having got cold either at St Dunstan’s or at chapel, that she sent for the clergyman to pray by her; and the women, unknown to her, sent both for Dr H. and Mr Goddard: who were just gone, as I told you, when I came to pay my respects to her this evening.
And thus I have recounted from the good women what passed to this night since my absence.
I long for tomorrow that I may see her: and yet ‘tis such a melancholy longing as I never experienced, and know not how to describe.
• • •
Tuesday, Aug. 29
I was at Smith’s at half an hour after seven.
She desired me to walk up, and invited Mr Smith and his wife, and Mrs Lovick also, to breakfast with her. I was better pleased with her liveliness than with her looks.
The good people retiring after breakfast, the following conversation passed between us.
Pray, sir, let me ask you, said she, if you think I may promise myself that I shall be no more molested by your friend?
I hesitated: for how could I answer for such a man?
What shall I do if he comes again? You see how I am. I cannot fly from him now. If he has any pity left for the poor creature whom he has thus reduced, let him not come. But have you heard from him lately? And will he come?
I hope not, madam; I have not heard from him since Thursday last, that he went out of town rejoicing in the hopes your letter gave him of a reconciliation between your friends and you, and that he might in good times see you at your father’s; and he is gone down to give all his friends joy of the news, and is in high spirits upon it.
As soon as he discovers that that was only a stratagem to keep him away, he will come up; and who knows but even now he is upon the road? I thought I was so bad that I should have been out of his and everybody’s way before now; for I expected not that this contrivance would serve me above two or three days; and by this time he must have found out that I am not so happy as to have any hope of a reconciliation with my family; and then he will come, if it be only in revenge for what he will think a deceit.
I believe I looked surprised to hear her confess that her letter was a stratagem only; for she said, You wonder, Mr Belford, I observe, that I could be guilty of such an artifice. I doubt it is not right. But how could I see a man who had so mortally injured me; yet, pretending sorrow for his crimes, and wanting to see me, could behave with so much shocking levity as he did to the honest people of the house? Yet, ‘tis strange too, that neither you nor he found out my meaning on perusal of my letter. You have seen what I wrote, no doubt?
I have, madam. And then I began to account for it as an innocent artifice.
Thus far indeed, sir, it is innocent, that I meant him no hurt, and had a right to the effect I hoped for from it; and he had none to invade me. But have you, sir, that letter of his, in which he gives you (as I suppose he does) the copy of mine?
I have, madam. And pulled it out of my letter-case: but hesitating. Nay, sir, said she, be pleased to read my letter to yourself—I desire not to see his—and see if you can be longer a stranger to a meaning so obvious.
I read it to myself. Indeed, madam, I can find nothing but that you are going down to Harlowe Place to be reconciled to your father and other friends: and Mr Lovelace presumed that a letter from your sister, which he saw brought when he was at Mr Smith’s, gave you the welcome news of it.
She then explained all to me, and that, as I may say, in six words. A religious meaning is couched under it, and that’s the reason that neither you nor I could find it out.
Read but for my father’s house, Heaven, said she; and for the interposition of my dear blessed friend, suppose the mediation of my Saviour; which I humbly rely upon; and all the rest of the letter will be accounted for.
I read it so, and stood astonished for a minute at her invention, her piety, her charity, and at thine and my own stupidity, to be thus taken in.
And then she expressed a deep concern for what might be the consequence of Colonel Morden’s intended visit to you; and besought me that if now, or at any time hereafter, I had opportunity to prevent any further mischief, without detriment or danger to myself, I would do it.
I assured her of the most particular attention to this and to all her commands; and that in a manner so agreeable to her that she invoked a blessing upon me for my goodness, as she called it, to a desolate creature who suffered under the worst of orphanage; those were her words.
This conversation, I found, as well from the length as the nature of it, had fatigued her; and seeing her change colour once or twice, I made that my excuse, and took leave of her: desiring her permission to attend her in the evening; and as often as possible; for I could not help telling her that every time I saw her, I more and more considered her as a beatified spirit; and as one sent from heaven to draw me after her out of the miry gulf in which I had been so long immersed.
I shall dispatch my packet tomorrow morning early by my own servant, to make you amends for the suspense I must have kept you in: you’ll thank me for that, I hope; but will not, I am sure, for sending your servant back without a letter.
I long for the particulars of the conversation between you and Mr Morden: the lady, as I have hinted, is full of apprehensions about it. Send me back this packet when perused, for I have not had either time or patience to take a copy of it. And I beseech you enable me to make good my engagements to the poor lady that you will not invade her again.
Letter 442: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Tuesday morn. Aug. 29
Now, Jack, will I give thee an account of what passed on occasion of the visit made us by Colonel Morden.
He came on horseback, attended by one servant; and Lord M. received him as a relation of Miss Harlowe’s, with the highest marks of civility and respect.
After some general talk of the times and of the weather, and such nonsense as Englishmen generally make their introductory topics to conversation, the colonel addressed himself to Lord M. and to me, as follows:
I need not, my lord, and Mr Lovelace, as you know the relation I bear to the Harlowe family, make any apology for entering upon a subject which, on account of that relation, you must think is the principal reason of the honour I have done myself in this visit.
Miss Harlowe, Miss Clarissa Harlowe’s affair, said Lord M. with his usual forward bluntness. That, sir, is what you mean. She is, by all accounts, the most excellent woman in the world.
The colonel then in a very manly strain set forth the wickedness of attempting a woman of virtue and character. He said that men had generally too many advantages over the weakness, credulity, and inexperience of th
e fair sex, who were too apt to be hurried into acts of precipitation by their reading inflaming novels, and idle romances; that his cousin, however, he was sure, was above the reach of common seduction, or to be influenced to the rashness her parents accused her of, by weaker motives than their violence, and the most solemn promises on my part: but, nevertheless, having those motives, and her prudence (eminent as it was) being rather the effect of constitution than experience (a fine advantage, however, he said, to ground an unblamable future life upon), she might not be apprehensive of bad designs in a man she loved: it was, therefore, a very heinous thing to abuse the confidence of such a lady.
He was going on in this trite manner: but, interrupting him, I said: These general observations, colonel, perhaps, suit not this particular case.
I own to you then that I have acted very unworthily by Miss Clarissa Harlowe; and I’ll tell you further, that I heartily repent of my ingratitude and baseness to her. Nay, I will say still further, that I am so grossly culpable as to her, that even to plead that the abuses and affronts I daily received from her implacable relations were in any manner a provocation to me to act vilely by her would be a mean and low attempt to excuse myself—so low and so mean, that it would doubly condemn me.
He looked upon Lord M. and then upon me, two or three times.
Let me put this question to you, Mr Lovelace. Is it true, as I have heard it is, that you would marry my cousin, if she would have you?
I then told him of my sincere offers of marriage; ‘I made no difficulty, I said, to own my apprehensions that my unhappy behaviour to her had greatly affected her: but that it was the implacableness of her friends that had thrown her into despair, and given her a contempt for life.’ I told him, ‘That she had been so good as to send me a letter to divert me from a visit my heart was set upon making her: a letter on which I built great hopes, because she assured me in it, that she was going to her father’s; and that I might see her there, when she was received, if it were not my own fault.’
Lord M. proposed to enter into the proof of all this: he said in his phraseological way that one story was good, till another was heard: that the Harlowe family and I, ‘twas true, had behaved like so many Orsons to one another; and that they had been very free with all our family besides: that nevertheless, for the lady’s sake more than for theirs, or even for mine (he could tell me), he would do greater things for me than they could ask, if she could be brought to have me: and that this he wanted to declare, and would sooner have declared if he could have brought us sooner to patience and a good understanding.
The colonel made excuses for his warmth on the score of his affection to his cousin.
My regard for her made me readily admit them: and so a fresh bottle of Burgundy and another of Champagne being put upon the table, we sat down in good humour after all this blustering, in order to enter closer into the particulars of the case: which I undertook at both their desires to do.
But these things must be the subject of another letter which shall immediately follow this, if it do not accompany it.
Meantime you will observe that a bad cause gives a man great disadvantages: for I myself think that the interrogatories put to me with so much spirit by the colonel made me look cursedly mean; at the same time that it gave him a superiority which I know not how to allow to the best man in Europe.
Letter 448: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO WM. MORDEN, ESQ.
Thursday, Aug. 31
I most heartily congratulate you, dear sir, on your return to your native country. I heard with much pleasure that you were come; but I was both afraid and ashamed, till you encouraged me by a first notice, to address myself to you.
How consoling is it to my wounded heart to find that you have not been carried away by that tide of resentment and displeasure with which I have been so unhappily overwhelmed. But that, while my still nearer relations have not thought fit to examine into the truth of vile reports raised against me, you have informed yourself (and generously credited the information) that my error was owing more to my misfortune than my fault.
• • •
I have not the least reason to doubt Mr Lovelace’s sincerity in his offers of marriage: nor that all his relations are heartily desirous of ranking me among them. I have had noble instances of their esteem for me, on their apprehending that my father’s displeasure must have subjected me to difficulties: and this after I had absolutely refused their pressing solicitations in their kinsman’s favour, as well as his own.
Nor think me, my dear cousin, blamable for refusing him. I had given Mr Lovelace no reason to think me a weak creature. If I had, a man of his character might have thought himself warranted to endeavour to make ungenerous advantage of the weakness he had been able to inspire. The consciousness of my own weakness (in that case) might have brought me to a composition with his wickedness.
I can indeed forgive him. But that is because I think his crimes have set me above him. Can I be above the man, sir, to whom I shall give my hand and my vows; and with them a sanction to the most premeditated baseness? No, sir, let me say that your cousin Clarissa, were she likely to live many years and that (if she married not this man) in penury and want, despised and forsaken by all her friends, puts not so high a value upon the conveniencies of life, nor upon life itself, as to seek to re-obtain the one, or to preserve the other, by giving such a sanction: a sanction which (were she to perform her duty) would reward the violater.
One day, sir, you will perhaps know all my story. But, whenever it is known, I beg that the author of my calamities may not be vindictively sought after. He could not have been the author of them but for a strange concurrence of unhappy causes. As the law will not be able to reach him when I am gone, any other sort of vengeance terrifies me but to think of it: for, in such a case, should my friends be safe, what honour would his death bring to my memory? If any of them should come to misfortune, how would my fault be aggravated!
God long preserve you, my dearest cousin, and bless you but in proportion to the consolation you have given me in letting me know that you still love me; and that I have one near and dear relation who can pity and forgive me (and then will you be greatly blessed); is the prayer of
Your ever-grateful and affectionate
CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 449: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Thursday, Aug. 31
I cannot but own that I am cut to the heart by this Miss Harlowe’s interpretation of her letter. She ought never to be forgiven. She, a meek person, and a penitent, and innocent, and pious, and I know not what, who can deceive with a foot in the grave!
‘Tis evident that she sat down to write this letter with a design to mislead and deceive. And if she be capable of that at such a crisis, she has much need of God’s forgiveness, as I have of hers: and, with all her cant of charity and charity, if she be not more sure of it than I am of her real pardon; and if she take the thing in the light she ought to take it in; she will have a few darker moments yet to come than she seems to expect.
She is to send me a letter after she is in heaven, is she? The devil take such allegories; and the devil take thee for calling this absurdity an innocent artifice!
I insist upon it that if a woman of her character at such a critical time is to be justified in such a deception, a man in full health and vigour of body and mind, as I am, may be excused for all his stratagems and attempts against her. And, thank my stars, I can now sit me down with a quiet conscience on that score. By my soul, I can, Jack. Nor has anybody who can acquit her, a right to blame me. But with some, indeed, everything she does must be good, everything I do must be bad. And why? Because she has always taken care to coax the stupid misjudging world like a woman: while I have constantly defied and despised its censures, like a man.
But notwithstanding all, you may let her know from me that I will not molest her, since my visits would be so shocking to her: and I hope she w
ill take this into her consideration as a piece of generosity that she could hardly expect, after the deception she has put upon me. And let her further know that if there be anything in my power that will contribute either to her ease or honour, I will obey her at the very first intimation, however disgraceful or detrimental to myself.
But who that has so many ludicrous images raised in his mind by thy awkward penitence, can forbear laughing at thee? Spare, I beseech thee, dear Belford, for the future, all thy own aspirations, if thou wouldst not dishonour those of an angel indeed.
When I came to that passage where thou sayest that thou considerest her as one sent from heaven to draw thee after her—for the heart of me, I could not for an hour put thee out of my head in the attitude of Dame Elizabeth Carteret on her monument in Westminster Abbey. If thou never observedst it, go thither on purpose; and there wilt thou see this dame in effigy, with uplifted head and hand, the latter taken hold of by a cupid every inch of stone, one clumsy foot lifted up also, aiming, as the sculptor designed it, to ascend; but so executed as would rather make one imagine that the figure (without shoe or stocking as it is, though the rest of the body is robed) was looking up to its corn-cutter: the other riveted to its native earth, bemired like thee (immersed thou callest it), beyond the possibility of unsticking itself. Both figures thou wilt find, seem to be in a contention, the bigger, whether it should pull down the lesser about its ears—the lesser (a chubby fat little varlet, of a fourth part of the other’s bigness, with wings not much larger than those of a butterfly), whether it should raise the larger to a heaven it points to, hardly big enough to contain the great toes of either.
But now, to be serious once more, let me tell you, Belford, that if the lady be really so ill as you write she is, it will become you (no Roman style here!) in a case so very affecting, to be a little less pointed and sarcastic in your reflection.
Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady Page 52