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<h2> LETTER XVII </h2>
<h3> MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE MONDAY AFTERNOON, MARCH 27. </h3>
<p>I have deposited my narrative down to this day noon; but I hope soon to
follow it with another letter, that I may keep you as little a while as
possible in that suspense which I am so much affected by at this moment:
for my heart is disturbed at ever foot I hear stir; and at every door
below that I hear open or shut.</p>
<p>They have been all assembled some time, and are in close debate I believe:
But can there be room for long debate upon a proposal, which, if accepted,
will so effectually answer all their views?—Can they insist a moment
longer upon my having Mr. Solmes, when they see what sacrifices I am ready
to make, to be freed from his addresses?—Oh! but I suppose the
struggle is, first, with Bella's nicety, to persuade her to accept of the
estate, and of the husband; and next, with her pride, to take her sister's
refusals, as she once phrased it!—Or, it may be, my brother is
insisting upon equivalents for his reversion in the estate: and these sort
of things take up but too much the attention of some of our family. To
these, no doubt, one or both, it must be owing, that my proposal admits of
so much consideration.</p>
<p>I want, methinks, to see what Mr. Lovelace, in his letter, says. But I
will deny myself this piece of curiosity till that which is raised by my
present suspense is answered.—Excuse me, my dear, that I thus
trouble you with my uncertainties: but I have no employment, nor heart, if
I had, to pursue any other but what my pen affords me.</p>
<p>MONDAY EVENING.</p>
<p>Would you believe it?—Betty, by anticipation, tells me, that I am to
be refused. I am 'a vile, artful creature. Every body is too good to me.
My uncle Harlowe has been taken in, that's the phrase. They know how it
would be, if he either wrote to me, or saw me. He has, however, been made
ashamed to be so wrought upon. A pretty thing truly in the eye of the
world it would be, were they to take me at my word! It would look as if
they had treated me thus hardly, as I think it, for this very purpose. My
peculiars, particularly Miss Howe, would give it that turn; and I myself
could mean nothing by it, but to see if it would be accepted in order to
strengthen my own arguments against Mr. Solmes. It was amazing, that it
could admit of a moment's deliberation: that any thing could be supposed
to be done in it. It was equally against law and equity: and a fine
security Miss Bella would have, or Mr. Solmes, when I could resume it when
I would!—My brother and she my heirs! O the artful creature!—I
to resolve to live single, when Lovelace is so sure of me—and every
where declares as much!—and can whenever he pleases, if my husband,
claim under the will!—Then the insolence—the confidence—[as
Betty mincingly told me, that one said; you may easily guess who] that
she, who was so justly in disgrace for downright rebellion, should pretend
to prescribe to the whole family!—Should name a husband for her
elder sister!—What a triumph would her obstinacy go away with, to
delegate her commands, not as from a prison, as she called it, but as from
her throne, to her elders and betters; and to her father and mother too!—Amazing,
perfectly amazing, that any body could argue upon such a proposal as this!
It was a master-stroke of finesse—It was ME in perfection!—Surely
my uncle Harlowe will never again be so taken in!'</p>
<p>All this was the readier told me, because it was against me, and would
tease and vex me. But as some of this fine recapitulation implied, that
somebody spoke up for me. I was curious to know who it was. But Betty
would not tell me, for fear I should have the consolation to find that all
were not against me.</p>
<p>But do you not see, my dear, what a sad creature she is whom you honour
with your friendship?—You could not doubt your influence over me:
Why did you not take the friendly liberty I have always taken with you,
and tell me my faults, and what a specious hypocrite I am? For, if my
brother and sister could make such discoveries, how is it possible, that
faults to enormous [you could see others, you thought, of a more secret
nature!] could escape you penetrating eye?</p>
<p>Well, but now, it seems, they are debating how and by whom to answer me:
for they know not, nor are they to know, that Mrs. Betty has told me all
these fine things. One desires to be excused, it seems: another chooses
not to have any thing to say to me: another has enough of me: and of
writing to so ready a scribbler, there will be no end.</p>
<p>Thus are those imputed qualifications, which used so lately to gain me
applause, now become my crimes: so much do disgust and anger alter the
property of things.</p>
<p>The result of their debate, I suppose, will somehow or other be
communicated to me by-and-by. But let me tell you, my dear, that I am made
so desperate, that I am afraid to open Mr. Lovelace's letter, lest, in the
humour I am in, I should do something (if I find it not exceptionable)
that may give me repentance as long as I live.</p>
<p>MONDAY NIGHT.</p>
<p>This moment the following letter is brought me by Betty.</p>
<p>MONDAY, 5 O'CLOCK MISS CUNNING-ONE,</p>
<p>Your fine new proposal is thought unworthy of a particular answer. Your
uncle Harlowe is ashamed to be so taken in. Have you no new fetch for your
uncle Antony? Go round with us, child, now your hand's in. But I was bid
to write only one line, that you might not complain, as you did of your
worthy sister, for the freedoms you provoked: It is this—Prepare
yourself. To-morrow you go to my uncle Antony's. That's all, child.</p>
<p>JAMES HARLOWE.</p>
<p>I was vexed to the heart at this: and immediately, in the warmth of
resentment, wrote the enclosed to my uncle Harlowe; who it seems stays
here this night.</p>
<p>TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. MONDAY NIGHT. HONOURED SIR,</p>
<p>I find I am a very sad creature, and did not know it. I wrote not to my
brother. To you, Sir, I wrote. From you I hope the honour of an answer. No
one reveres her uncle more than I do. Nevertheless, between uncle and
niece, excludes not such a hope: and I think I have not made a proposal
that deserves to be treated with scorn.</p>
<p>Forgive me, Sir—my heart is full. Perhaps one day you may think you
have been prevailed upon (for that is plainly the case!) to join to treat
me—as I do not deserve to be treated. If you are ashamed, as my
brother hints, of having expressed any returning tenderness to me, God
help me! I see I have no mercy to expect from any body! But, Sir, from
your pen let me have an answer; I humbly implore it of you. Till my
brother can recollect what belongs to a sister, I will not take from him
no answer to the letter I wrote to you, nor any commands whatever.</p>
<p>I move every body!—This, Sir, is what you are pleased to mention.
But whom have I moved?—One person in the family has more moving ways
than I have, or he could never so undeservedly have made every body
ashamed to show tenderness to a poor distressed child of the same family.</p>
<p>Return me not this with contempt, or torn, or unanswered, I beseech you.
My father has a title to do that or any thing by his child: but from no
other person in the world of your sex, Sir, ought a young creature of mine
(while she preserves a supplicating spirit) to be so treated.</p>
<p>When what I have before written in the humblest strain has met with such
strange constructions, I am afraid that this unguarded scrawl will be very
ill received. But I beg, Sir, you will oblige me with one line, be it ever
so harsh, in answer to my proposal. I still think it ought to be attended
to. I will enter into the most solemn engagements to make it valid by a
perpetual single life. In a word, any thing I can do, I will do, to be
restored to all your favours. More I cannot say, but that I am, very
undeservedly,</p>
<p>A most unhappy creature.</p>
<p>Betty scrupled again to carry this letter; and said, she should have
anger; and I should have it returned in scraps and bits.</p>
<p>I must take that chance, said I: I only desire that you will deliver it as
directed.</p>
<p>Sad doings! very sad! she said, that young ladies should so violently set
themselves against their duty.</p>
<p>I told her, she should have the liberty to say what she pleased, so she
would but be my messenger that one time: and down she went with it.</p>
<p>I bid her, if she could, slide it into my uncle's hand, unseen; at least
unseen by my brother or sister, for fear it should meet, through their
good office, with the fate she had bespoken for it.</p>
<p>She would not undertake for that, she said.</p>
<p>I am now in expectation of the result. But having so little ground to hope
for their favour or mercy, I opened Mr. Lovelace's letter.</p>
<p>I would send it to you, my dear (as well as those I shall enclose) by this
conveyance; but not being able at present to determine in what manner I
shall answer it, I will give myself the trouble of abstracting it here,
while I am waiting for what may offer from the letter just carried down.</p>
<p>'He laments, as usual, my ill opinion of him, and readiness to believe
every thing to his disadvantage. He puts into plain English, as I supposed
he would, my hint, that I might be happier, if, by any rashness he might
be guilty of to Solmes, he should come to an untimely end himself.'</p>
<p>He is concerned, he says, 'That the violence he had expressed on his
extreme apprehensiveness of losing me, should have made him guilty of any
thing I had so much reason to resent.'</p>
<p>He owns, 'That he is passionate: all good-natured men, he says, are so;
and a sincere man cannot hide it.' But appeals to me, 'Whether, if any
occasion in the world could excuse the rashness of his expressions, it
would not be his present dreadful situation, through my indifference, and
the malice of his enemies.'</p>
<p>He says, 'He has more reason than ever, from the contents of my last, to
apprehend, that I shall be prevailed upon by force, if not by fair means,
to fall in with my brother's measures; and sees but too plainly, that I am
preparing him to expect it.</p>
<p>'Upon this presumption, he supplicates, with the utmost earnestness, that
I will not give way to the malice of his enemies.</p>
<p>'Solemn vows of reformation, and everlasting truth and obligingness, he
makes; all in the style of desponding humility: yet calls it a cruel turn
upon him, to impute his protestations to a consciousness of the necessity
there is for making them from his bad character.</p>
<p>'He despises himself, he solemnly protests, for his past follies. He
thanks God he has seen his error; and nothing but my more particular
instructions is wanting to perfect his reformation.</p>
<p>'He promises, that he will do every thing that I shall think he can do
with honour, to bring about a reconciliation with my father; and even
will, if I insist upon it, make the first overtures to my brother, and
treat him as his own brother, because he is mine, if he will not by new
affronts revive the remembrance of the past.</p>
<p>'He begs, in the most earnest and humble manner, for one half-hour's
interview; undertaking by a key, which he owns he has to the garden-door,
leading into the coppice, as we call it, (if I will but unbolt the door,)
to come into the garden at night, and wait till I have an opportunity to
come to him, that he may re-assure me of the truth of all he writes, and
of the affection, and, if needful, protection, of all his family.</p>
<p>'He presumes not, he says, to write by way of menace to me; but if I
refuse him this favour, he knows not (so desperate have some strokes in my
letter made him) what his despair may make him do.'</p>
<p>He asks me, 'Determined, as my friends are, and far as they have already
gone, and declare they will go, what can I propose to do, to avoid having
Mr. Solmes, if I am carried to my uncle Antony's; unless I resolve to
accept of the protection he has offered to procure me; or except I will
escape to London, or elsewhere, while I can escape?'</p>
<p>He advises me, 'To sue to your mother, for her private reception of me;
only till I can obtain possession of my own estate, and procure my friends
to be reconciled to me; which he is sure they will be desirous to be, the
moment I am out of their power.'</p>
<p>He apprizes me, [It is still my wonder, how he comes by this
intelligence!] 'That my friends have written to my cousin Morden to
represent matters to him in their own partial way; nor doubt they to
influence him on their side of the question.</p>
<p>'That all this shews I have but one way; if none of my friends or
intimates will receive me.</p>
<p>'If I will transport him with the honour of my choice of this one way,
settlements shall be drawn, with proper blanks, which I shall fill up as I
pleased. Let him but have my commands from my own mouth, all my doubts and
scruples from my own lips; and only a repetition, that I will not, on any
consideration, be Solmes's wife; and he shall be easy. But, after such a
letter as I have written, nothing but an interview can make him so.' He
beseeches me therefore, 'To unbolt the door, as that very night; or, if I
receive not this time enough, this night;—and he will, in a disguise
that shall not give suspicion who he is, if he should be seen, come to the
garden door, in hopes to open it with his key; nor will he have any other
lodging than in the coppice both nights; watching every wakeful hour for
the propitious unbolting, unless he has a letter with my orders to the
contrary, or to make some other appointment.'</p>
<p>This letter was dated yesterday: so he was there last night, I suppose;
and will be there this night; and I have not written a line to him: and
now it is too late, were I determined what to write.</p>
<p>I hope he will not go to Mr. Solmes.—I hope he will not come hither.—If
he do either, I will break with him for ever.</p>
<p>What have I to do with these headstrong spirits? I wish I had never—but
what signifies wishing?—I am strangely perplexed: but I need not
have told you this, after such a representation of my situation.</p>
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