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Clarissa Harlowe Volume 2

<h2> LETTER XLVII </h2> <h3> MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE IVY SUMMER-HOUSE, ELEVEN O'CLOCK. </h3> 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— <hr /> 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— <hr /> I was mistaken!—How many noises unlike, be made like to what one fears!—Why flutters the fool so—! <hr /> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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