Chapter 3

***

Talk of the devil, is an old saying. The lively wretch has made me a
visit, and is but just gone away. He is all impatience and resentment
at the treatment you meet with, and full of apprehensions too, that they
will carry their point with you.

I told him my opinion, that you will never be brought to think of such a
man as Solmes; but that it will probably end in a composition, never to
have either.

No man, he said, whose fortunes and alliances are so considerable, ever
had so little favour from a woman for whose sake he had borne so much.

I told him my mind as freely as I used to do. But whoever was in fault,
self being judge? He complained of spies set upon his conduct, and to
pry into his life and morals, and this by your brother and uncles.

I told him, that this was very hard upon him; and the more so, as
neither his life nor morals perhaps would stand a fair inquiry.

He smiled, and called himself my servant.--The occasion was too fair,
he said, for Miss Howe, who never spared him, to let it pass.--But, Lord
help the shallow souls of the Harlowes! Would I believe it! they were
for turning plotters upon him. They had best take care he did not pay
them in their own coin. Their hearts were better turned for such works
than their heads.

I asked him, If he valued himself upon having a head better turned than
theirs for such works, as he called them?

He drew off: and then ran into the highest professions of reverence and
affection for you.

The object so meritorious, who can doubt the reality of his professions?

Adieu, my dearest, my noble friend!--I love and admire you for the
generous conclusion of your last more than I can express. Though I began
this letter with impertinent raillery, knowing that you always loved to
indulge my mad vein; yet never was there a heart that more glowed with
friendly love, than that of

Your own ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XIII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1.

I now take up my pen to lay before you the inducements and motive which
my friends have to espouse so earnestly the address of this Mr. Solmes.

In order to set this matter in a clear light, it is necessary to go a
little back, and even perhaps to mention some things which you already
know: and so you may look upon what I am going to relate, as a kind of
supplement to my letters of the 15th and 20th of January last.*

* Letters IV. and V.

In those letters, of which I have kept memorandums, I gave you an
account of my brother's and sister's antipathy to Mr. Lovelace; and the
methods they took (so far as they had then come to my knowledge) to ruin
him in the opinion of my other friends. And I told you, that after a
very cold, yet not a directly affrontive behaviour to him, they all of
a sudden* became more violent, and proceeded to personal insults; which
brought on at last the unhappy rencounter between my brother and him.

* See Letter IV.

Now you must know, that from the last conversation that passed between
my aunt and me, it comes out, that this sudden vehemence on my
brother's and sister's parts, was owing to stronger reasons than to the
college-begun antipathy on his side, or to slighted love on hers;
to wit, to an apprehension that my uncles intended to follow my
grandfather's example in my favour; at least in a higher degree
than they wish they should. An apprehension founded it seems on a
conversation between my two uncles and my brother and sister: which my
aunt communicated to me in confidence, as an argument to prevail upon
me to accept of Mr. Solmes's noble settlements: urging, that such a
seasonable compliance, would frustrate my brother's and sister's views,
and establish me for ever in the love of my father and uncles.

I will give you the substance of this communicated conversation, after
I have made a brief introductory observation or two, which however I
hardly need to make to you who are so well acquainted with us all, did
not the series or thread of the story require it.

I have more than once mentioned to you the darling view some of us have
long had of raising a family, as it is called. A reflection, as I have
often thought, upon our own, which is no considerable or upstart one, on
either side, on my mother's especially.--A view too frequently it
seems entertained by families which, having great substance, cannot be
satisfied without rank and title.

My uncles had once extended this view to each of us three children;
urging, that as they themselves intended not to marry, we each of
us might be so portioned, and so advantageously matched, as that
our posterity, if not ourselves, might make a first figure in our
country.--While my brother, as the only son, thought the two girls might
be very well provided for by ten or fifteen thousand pounds a-piece:
and that all the real estates in the family, to wit, my grandfather's,
father's, and two uncles', and the remainder of their respective
personal estates, together with what he had an expectation of from
his godmother, would make such a noble fortune, and give him such an
interest, as might entitle him to hope for a peerage. Nothing less would
satisfy his ambition.

With this view he gave himself airs very early; 'That his grandfather
and uncles were his stewards: that no man ever had better: that
daughters were but incumbrances and drawbacks upon a family:' and this
low and familiar expression was often in his mouth, and uttered always
with the self-complaisance which an imagined happy thought can be
supposed to give the speaker; to wit, 'That a man who has sons brings up
chickens for his own table,' [though once I made his comparison stagger
with him, by asking him, If the sons, to make it hold, were to have
their necks wrung off?] 'whereas daughters are chickens brought up
for tables of other men.' This, accompanied with the equally polite
reflection, 'That, to induce people to take them off their hands, the
family-stock must be impaired into the bargain,' used to put my sister
out of all patience: and, although she now seems to think a younger
sister only can be an incumbrance, she was then often proposing to me to
make a party in our own favour against my brother's rapacious views, as
she used to call them: while I was for considering the liberties he took
of this sort, as the effect of a temporary pleasantry, which, in a young
man, not naturally good-humoured, I was glad to see; or as a foible that
deserved raillery, but no other notice.

But when my grandfather's will (of the purport of which in my particular
favour, until it was opened, I was as ignorant as they) had lopped off
one branch of my brother's expectation, he was extremely dissatisfied
with me. Nobody indeed was pleased: for although every one loved me, yet
being the youngest child, father, uncles, brother, sister, all thought
themselves postponed, as to matter of right and power [Who loves not
power?]: And my father himself could not bear that I should be made
sole, as I may call it, and independent; for such the will, as to that
estate and the powers it gave, (unaccountably, as they all said,) made
me.

To obviate, therefore, every one's jealousy, I gave up to my father's
management, as you know, not only the estate, but the money bequeathed
me (which was a moiety of what my grandfather had by him at his death;
the other moiety being bequeathed to my sister); contenting myself
to take as from his bounty what he was pleased to allow me, without
desiring the least addition to my annual stipend. And then I hoped I had
laid all envy asleep: but still my brother and sister (jealous, as now
is evident, of my two uncles' favour of me, and of the pleasure I had
given my father and them by this act of duty) were every now-and-then
occasionally doing me covert ill offices: of which, however, I took the
less notice, when I was told of them, as I thought I had removed the
cause of their envy; and I imputed every thing of that sort to the
petulance they are both pretty much noted for.

My brother's acquisition then took place. This made us all very happy;
and he went down to take possession of it: and his absence (on so good
an account too) made us still happier. Then followed Lord M.'s proposal
for my sister: and this was an additional felicity for the time. I have
told you how exceedingly good-humoured it made my sister.

You know how that went off: you know what came on in its place.

My brother then returned; and we were all wrong again: and Bella, as
I observed in my letters abovementioned, had an opportunity to give
herself the credit of having refused Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his
reputed faulty morals. This united my brother and sister in one cause.
They set themselves on all occasions to depreciate Mr. Lovelace, and his
family too (a family which deserves nothing but respect): and this gave
rise to the conversation I am leading to, between my uncles and them: of
which I now come to give the particulars; after I have observed, that it
happened before the rencounter, and soon after the inquiry made into Mr.
Lovelace's affairs had come out better than my brother and sister hoped
it would.*

* See Letter IV.

They were bitterly inveighing against him, in their usual way,
strengthening their invectives with some new stories in his disfavour,
when my uncle Antony, having given them a patient hearing, declared,
'That he thought the gentleman behaved like a gentleman; his niece Clary
with prudence; and that a more honourable alliance for the family, as he
had often told them, could not be wished for: since Mr. Lovelace had a
very good paternal estate; and that, by the evidence of an enemy,
all clear. Nor did it appear, that he was so bad a man as he had been
represented to be: wild indeed; but it was a gay time of life: he was a
man of sense: and he was sure that his niece would not have him, if
she had not good reason to think him reformed, or that there was a
likelihood that she could reform him by her example.'

My uncle then gave one instance, my aunt told me, as a proof of a
generosity in Mr. Lovelace's spirit, which convinced him that he was not
a bad man in nature; and that he was of a temper, he was pleased to say,
like my own; which was, That when he (my uncle) had represented to him,
that he might, if he pleased, make three or four hundred pounds a year
of his paternal estate, more than he did; he answered, 'That his tenants
paid their rents well: that it was a maxim with his family, from which
he would by no means depart, Never to rack-rent old tenants, or their
descendants; and that it was a pleasure to him, to see all his tenants
look fat, sleek, and contented.'

I indeed had once occasionally heard him say something like this; and
thought he never looked so well as at that time;--except once; and that
was in an instance given by him on the following incident.

An unhappy tenant of my uncle Antony came petitioning to my uncle
for forbearance, in Mr. Lovelace's presence. When he had fruitlessly
withdrawn, Mr. Lovelace pleaded his cause so well, that the man was
called in again, and had his suit granted. And Mr. Lovelace privately
followed him out, and gave him two guineas, for present relief; the
man having declared, that, at the time, he had not five shilling in the
world.

On this occasion, he told my uncle (but without any airs of
ostentation), that he had once observed an old tenant and his wife in a
very mean habit at church; and questioning them about it the next day,
as he knew they had no hard bargain in their farm, the man said, he had
done some very foolish things with a good intention, which had put him
behind-hand, and he could not have paid his rent, and appear better.
He asked him how long it would take him to retrieve the foolish step
he acknowledged he had made. He said, Perhaps two or three years. Well
then, said he, I will abate you five pounds a year for seven years,
provided you will lay it upon your wife and self, that you may make a
Sunday-appearance like MY tenants. Mean time, take this (putting his
hand in his pocket, and giving him five guineas), to put yourselves in
present plight; and let me see you next Sunday at church, hand in hand,
like an honest and loving couple; and I bespeak you to dine with me
afterwards.

Although this pleased me when I heard it, as giving an instance of
generosity and prudence at the same time, not lessening (as my uncle
took notice) the yearly value of the farm, yet, my dear, I had no
throbs, no glows upon it!--Upon my word, I had not. Nevertheless I own
to you, that I could not help saying to myself on the occasion, 'Were it
ever to be my lot to have this man, he would not hinder me from pursuing
the methods I so much delight to take'--With 'A pity, that such a man
were not uniformly good!'

Forgive me this digression.

My uncle went on (as my aunt told me), 'That, besides his paternal
estate, he was the immediate heir to very splendid fortunes: that, when
he was in treaty for his niece Arabella, Lord M. told him (my uncle)
what great things he and his two half-sisters intended to do for him,
in order to qualify him for the title, which would be extinct at his
Lordship's death, and which they hoped to procure for him, or a still
higher, that of those ladies' father, which had been for some time
extinct on failure of heirs male: that it was with this view that his
relations were all so earnest for his marrying: that as he saw not
where Mr. Lovelace could better himself; so, truly, he thought there was
wealth enough in their own family to build up three considerable ones:
that, therefore, he must needs say, he was the more desirous of this
alliance, as there was a great probability, not only from Mr. Lovelace's
descent, but from his fortunes, that his niece Clarissa might one day
be a peeress of Great Britain:--and, upon that prospect [here was the
mortifying stroke], he should, for his own part, think it not wrong to
make such dispositions as should contribute to the better support of the
dignity.'

My uncle Harlowe, it seems, far from disapproving of what his brother
had said, declared, 'That there was but one objection to an alliance
with Mr. Lovelace; to wit, his faulty morals: especially as so much
could be done for Miss Bella, and for my brother too, by my father; and
as my brother was actually possessed of a considerable estate by virtue
of the deed of gift and will of his godmother Lovell.'

Had I known this before, I should the less have wondered at many things
I have been unable to account for in my brother's and sister's behaviour
to me; and been more on my guard than I imagined there was a necessity
to be.

You may easily guess how much this conversation affected my brother at
the time. He could not, you know, but be very uneasy to hear two of his
stewards talk at this rate to his face.

He had from early days, by his violent temper, made himself both feared
and courted by the whole family. My father himself, as I have lately
mentioned, very often (long before my brother's acquisition had made him
still more assuming) gave way to him, as to an only son who was to build
up the name, and augment the honour of it. Little inducement, therefore,
had my brother to correct a temper which gave him so much consideration
with every body.

'See, Sister Bella,' said he, in an indecent passion before my uncles,
on this occasion I have mentioned--'See how it is!--You and I ought to
look about us!--This little syren is in a fair way to out-uncle, as she
has already out-grandfather'd, us both!'

From this time (as I now find it plain upon recollection) did my brother
and sister behave to me, as to one who stood in their way; and to each
other as having but one interest: and were resolved, therefore, to bend
all their force to hinder an alliance from taking effect, which they
believed was likely to oblige them to contract their views.

And how was this to be done, after such a declaration from both my
uncles?

My brother found out the way. My sister (as I have said) went hand in
hand with him. Between them, the family union was broke, and every one
was made uneasy. Mr. Lovelace was received more and more coldly by all:
but not being to be put out of his course by slights only, personal
affronts succeeded; defiances next; then the rencounter: that, as you
have heard, did the business. And now, if I do not oblige them, my
grandfather's estate is to be litigated with me; and I, who never
designed to take advantage of the independency bequeathed me, am to be
as dependent upon my father's will, as a daughter ought to be who knows
not what is good for herself. This is the language of the family now.

But if I will suffer myself to be prevailed upon, how happy (as they lay
it out) shall we all be!--Such presents am I to have, such jewels, and
I cannot tell what, from every one in the family! Then Mr. Solmes's
fortunes are so great, and his proposals so very advantageous, (no
relation whom he values,) that there will be abundant room to raise
mine upon them, were the high-intended favours of my own relations to
be quite out of the question. Moreover, it is now, with this view,
found out, that I have qualifications which of themselves will be a full
equivalent to Mr. Solmes for the settlements he is to make; and still
leave him under an obligation to me for my compliance. He himself thinks
so, I am told--so very poor a creature is he, even in his own eyes, as
well as in theirs.

These desirable views answered, how rich, how splendid shall we all
three be! And I--what obligations shall I lay upon them all!--And that
only by doing an act of duty so suitable to my character, and manner of
thinking; if, indeed, I am the generous as well as dutiful creature I
have hitherto made them believe I am.

This is the bright side that is turned to my father and uncles, to
captivate them: but I am afraid that my brother's and sister's design is
to ruin me with them at any rate. Were it otherwise, would they not on
my return from you have rather sought to court than frighten me into
measures which their hearts are so much bent to carry? A method they
have followed ever since.

Mean time, orders are given to all the servants to shew the highest
respect to Mr. Solmes; the generous Mr. Solmes is now his character with
some of our family! But are not these orders a tacit confession,
that they think his own merit will not procure him respect? He is
accordingly, in every visit he makes, not only highly caressed by the
principals of our family, but obsequiously attended and cringed to by
the menials.--And the noble settlements are echoed from every mouth.

Noble is the word used to enforce the offers of a man who is mean enough
avowedly to hate, and wicked enough to propose to rob of their just
expectations, his own family, (every one of which at the same time
stands in too much need of his favour,) in order to settle all he is
worth upon me; and if I die without children, and he has none by any
other marriage, upon a family which already abounds. Such are his
proposals.

But were there no other motive to induce me to despise the upstart man,
is not this unjust one to his family enough?--The upstart man, I repeat;
for he was not born to the immense riches he is possessed of: riches
left by one niggard to another, in injury to the next heir, because that
other is a niggard. And should I not be as culpable, do you think, in my
acceptance of such unjust settlements, as he is in the offer of them, if
I could persuade myself to be a sharer in them, or suffer a reversionary
expectation of possessing them to influence my choice?

Indeed, it concerns me not a little, that my friends could be brought to
encourage such offers on such motives as I think a person of conscience
should not presume to begin the world with.

But this it seems is the only method that can be taken to disappoint Mr.
Lovelace; and at the same time to answer all my relations have wish for
each of us. And surely I will not stand against such an accession to the
family as may happen from marrying Mr. Solmes: since now a possibility
is discovered, (which such a grasping mind as my brother's can easily
turn into a probability,) that my grandfather's estate will revert to
it, with a much more considerable one of the man's own. Instances of
estates falling in, in cases far more unlikely than this, are insisted
upon; and my sister says, in the words of an old saw, It is good to be
related to an estate.

While Solmes, smiling no doubt to himself at a hope so remote, by offers
only, obtains all their interests; and doubts not to join to his own
the estate I am envied for; which, for the conveniency of its situation
between two of his, will it seems be of twice the value to him that
it would be of to any other person; and is therefore, I doubt not, a
stronger motive with him than the wife.

These, my dear, seem to me the principal inducements of my relations to
espouse so vehemently as they do this man's suit. And here, once more,
must I deplore the family fault, which gives those inducements such a
force as it will be difficult to resist.

And thus far, let matters with regard to Mr. Solmes and me come out as
they will, my brother has succeeded in his views; that is to say, he
has, in the first place, got my FATHER to make the cause his own, and to
insist upon my compliance as an act of duty.

My MOTHER has never thought fit to oppose my father's will, when once he
has declared himself determined.

My UNCLES, stiff, unbroken, highly-prosperous bachelors, give me leave
to say, (though very worthy persons in the main,) have as high notions
of a child's duty, as of a wife's obedience; in the last of which, my
mother's meekness has confirmed them, and given them greater reason to
expect the first.

My aunt HERVEY (not extremely happy in her own nuptials, and perhaps
under some little obligation) is got over, and chuses [sic] not to
open her lips in my favour against the wills of a father and uncles so
determined.

This passiveness in my mother and in my aunt, in a point so contrary
to their own first judgments, is too strong a proof that my father is
absolutely resolved.

Their treatment of my worthy MRS. NORTON is a sad confirmation of it:
a woman deserving of all consideration for her wisdom, and every body
thinking so; but who, not being wealthy enough to have due weight in a
point against which she has given her opinion, and which they seem
bent upon carrying, is restrained from visiting here, and even from
corresponding with me, as I am this very day informed.

Hatred to Lovelace, family aggrandizement, and this great motive
paternal authority!--What a force united must they be supposed to have,
when singly each consideration is sufficient to carry all before it!

This is the formidable appearance which the address of this disagreeable
man wears at present.

My BROTHER and my SISTER triumph.--They have got me down, as Hannah
overheard them exult. And so they have (yet I never knew that I
was insolently up); for now my brother will either lay me under an
obligation to comply to my own unhappiness, and so make me an instrument
of his revenge upon Lovelace; or, if I refuse, will throw me into
disgrace with my whole family.

Who will wonder at the intrigues and plots carried on by undermining
courtiers against one another, when a private family, but three of which
can possibly have clashing interests, and one of them (as she presumes
to think) above such low motives, cannot be free from them?

What at present most concerns me, is, the peace of my mother's mind!
How can the husband of such a wife (a good man too!--But oh! this
prerogative of manhood!) be so positive, so unpersuadable, to one who
has brought into the family means, which they know so well the value of,
that methinks they should value her the more for their sake?

They do indeed value her: but, I am sorry to say, she has purchased
that value by her compliances; yet has merit for which she ought to be
venerated; prudence which ought of itself to be conformed to in every
thing.

But whither roves my pen? How dare a perverse girl take these liberties
with relations so very respectable, and whom she highly respects? What
an unhappy situation is that which obliges her, in her own defence as it
were, to expose their failings?

But you, who know how much I love and reverence my mother, will judge
what a difficulty I am under, to be obliged to oppose a scheme which she
has engaged in. Yet I must oppose it (to comply is impossible); and must
without delay declare my opposition, or my difficulties will increase;
since, as I am just now informed, a lawyer has been this very day
consulted [Would you have believed it?] in relation to settlements.

Were ours a Roman Catholic family, how much happier for me, that they
thought a nunnery would answer all their views!--How happy, had not
a certain person slighted somebody! All then would have been probably
concluded between them before my brother had arrived to thwart
the match: then had I a sister; which now I have not; and two
brothers;--both aspiring; possibly both titled: while I should only have
valued that in either which is above title, that which is truly noble in
both!

But by what a long-reaching selfishness is my brother governed! By what
remote, exceedingly remote views! Views, which it is in the power of the
slightest accident, of a fever, for instance, (the seeds of which are
always vegetating, as I may say, and ready to burst forth, in his own
impetuous temper,) or of the provoked weapon of an adversary, to blow up
and destroy!

I will break off here. Let me write ever so freely of my friends, I am
sure of your kind construction: and I confide in your discretion, that
you will avoid reading to or transcribing for others such passages as
may have the appearance of treating too freely the parental, or even the
fraternal character, or induce others to censure for a supposed failure
in duty to the one, or decency to the other,

Your truly affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XIV

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE THURSDAY EVENING, MARCH 2.

On Hannah's depositing my long letter, (begun yesterday, but by reason
of several interruptions not finished till within this hour,) she found
and brought me yours of this day. I thank you, my dear, for this kind
expedition. These few lines will perhaps be time enough deposited, to be
taken away by your servant with the other letter: yet they are only to
thank you, and to tell you my increasing apprehensions.

I must take or seek the occasion to apply to my mother for her
mediation; for I am in danger of having a day fixed, and antipathy taken
for bashfulness.--Should not sisters be sisters to each other? Should
not they make a common cause of it, as I may say, a cause of sex, on
such occasions as the present? Yet mine, in support of my brother's
selfishness, and, no doubt, in concert with him, has been urging in full
assembly it seems, (and that with an earnestness peculiar to herself
when she sets upon any thing,) that an absolute day be given me; and if
I comply not, to be told, that it shall be to the forfeiture of all my
fortunes, and of all their love.

She need not be so officious: my brother's interest, without hers, is
strong enough; for he has found means to confederate all the family
against me. Upon some fresh provocation, or new intelligence concerning
Mr. Lovelace, (I know not what it is,) they have bound themselves, or
are to bind themselves, by a signed paper, to one another [The Lord
bless me, my dear, what shall I do!] to carry their point in favour of
Mr. Solmes, in support of my father's authority, as it is called, and
against Mr. Lovelace, as a libertine, and an enemy to the family: and if
so, I am sure, I may say against me.--How impolitic in them all, to join
two people in one interest, whom they wish for ever to keep asunder!

What the discharged steward reported of him is surely bad enough: what
Mrs. Fortescue said, not only confirms that bad, but gives room to think
him still worse. And yet the something further which my friends have
come at, is of so heinous a nature (as Betty Barnes tells Hannah) that
it proves him almost to be the worst of men.--But, hang the man, I
had almost said--What is he to me? What would he be--were not this Mr.
Sol----O my dear, how I hate the man in the light he is proposed to me!

All of them, at the same time, are afraid of Mr. Lovelace; yet not
afraid to provoke him!--How am I entangled!--to be obliged to go on
corresponding with him for their sakes--Heaven forbid, that their
persisted-in violence should so drive me, as to make it necessary for my
own!

But surely they will yield--Indeed I cannot.

I believe the gentlest spirits when provoked (causelessly and cruelly
provoked) are the most determined. The reason may be, that not taking
up resolutions lightly--their very deliberation makes them the more
immovable.--And then when a point is clear and self-evident, how can
one with patience think of entering into an argument or contention upon
it?--

An interruption obliges me to conclude myself, in some hurry, as well as
fright, what I must ever be,

Yours more than my own, CLARISSA HARLOWE.

LETTER XV

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE FRIDAY, MARCH 3.

I have both your letters at once. It is very unhappy, my dear, since
your friends will have you marry, that a person of your merit should be
addressed by a succession of worthless creatures, who have nothing but
their presumption for their excuse.

That these presumers appear not in this very unworthy light to some of
your friends, is, because their defects are not so striking to them
as to others.--And why? Shall I venture to tell you?--Because they are
nearer their own standard--Modesty, after all, perhaps has a concern in
it; for how should they think that a niece or sister of theirs [I will
not go higher, for fear of incurring your displeasure] should be an
angel?

But where indeed is the man to be found (who has the least share of due
diffidence) that dares to look up to Miss Clarissa Harlowe with hope, or
with any thing but wishes? Thus the bold and forward, not being sensible
of their defects, aspire; while the modesty of the really worthy fills
them with too much reverence to permit them to explain themselves. Hence
your Symmes's, your Byron's, your Mullins's, your Wyerley's (the best
of the herd), and your Solmes's, in turn, invade you--Wretches that,
looking upon the rest of your family, need not despair of succeeding in
an alliance with it--But to you, what an inexcusable presumption!

Yet I am afraid all opposition will be in vain. You must, you will, I
doubt, be sacrificed to this odious man. I know your family. There will
be no resisting such baits as he has thrown out. O, my dear, my beloved
friend! and are such charming qualities, is such exalted merit, to be
sunk in such a marriage!--You must not, your uncle tells your mother,
dispute their authority. AUTHORITY! what a full word is that in the
mouth of a narrow-minded person, who happened to be born thirty years
before one!--Of your uncles I speak; for as to the paternal authority,
that ought to be sacred.--But should not parents have reason for what
they do?

Wonder not, however, at your Bell's unsisterly behaviour in this affair:
I have a particular to add to the inducements your insolent brother is
governed by, which will account for all her driving. You have already
owned, that her outward eye was from the first struck with the figure
and address of the man whom she pretends to despise, and who, 'tis
certain, thoroughly despises her: but you have not told me, that still
she loves him of all men. Bell has a meanness in her very pride; that
meanness rises with her pride, and goes hand in hand with it; and no
one is so proud as Bell. She has owned her love, her uneasy days,
and sleepless nights, and her revenge grafted upon her love, to her
favourite Betty Barnes--To lay herself in the power of a servant's
tongue! Poor creature!--But LIKE little souls will find one another
out, and mingle, as well as LIKE great ones. This, however, she told the
wench in strict confidence: and thus, by way of the female round-about,
as Lovelace had the sauciness on such another occasion, in ridicule of
our sex, to call it, Betty (pleased to be thought worthy of a secret,
and to have an opportunity of inveighing against Lovelace's perfidy,
as she would have it to be) told it to one of her confidants:
that confidant, with like injunctions of secrecy, to Miss Lloyd's
Harriot--Harriot to Miss Lloyd--Miss Lloyd to me--I to you--with leave
to make what you please of it.

And now you will not wonder to find Miss Bell an implacable rival,
rather than an affectionate sister; and will be able to account for the
words witchcraft, syren, and such like, thrown out against you; and for
her driving on for a fixed day for sacrificing you to Solmes: in short,
for her rudeness and violence of every kind.

What a sweet revenge will she take, as well upon Lovelace as upon you,
if she can procure her rival sister to be married to the man that sister
hates; and so prevent her having the man whom she herself loves (whether
she have hope of him or not), and whom she suspects her sister loves!

Poisons and poniard have often been set to work by minds inflamed by
disappointed love, and actuated by revenge.--Will you wonder, then, that
the ties of relationship in such a case have no force, and that a sister
forgets to be a sister?

Now I know this to be her secret motive, (the more grating to her, as
her pride is concerned to make her disavow it), and can consider it
joined with her former envy, and as strengthened by a brother, who has
such an ascendant over the whole family; and whose interest (slave to it
as he always was) engaged him to ruin you with every one: both possessed
of the ears of all your family, and having it as much in their power as
in their will to misrepresent all you say, all you do; such subject also
as to the rencounter, and Lovelace's want of morals, to expatiate upon:
your whole family likewise avowedly attached to the odious man by means
of the captivating proposals he has made them;--when I consider all
these things, I am full of apprehensions for you.--O my dear, how will
you be able to maintain your ground;--I am sure, (alas! I am too sure)
that they will subdue such a fine spirit as yours, unused to opposition;
and (tell it not in Gath) you must be Mrs. Solmes!

Mean time, it is now easy, as you will observe, to guess from what
quarter the report I mentioned to you in one of my former, came,
That the younger sister has robbed the elder of her lover:* for Betty
whispered it, at the time she whispered the rest, that neither Lovelace
nor you had done honourably by her young mistress.--How cruel, my dear,
in you, to rob the poor Bella of the only lover she only had!--At the
instant too that she was priding herself, that now at last she should
have it in her power not only to gratify her own susceptibilities, but
to give an example to the flirts of her sex** (my worship's self in
her eye) how to govern their man with a silken rein, and without a
curb-bridle!

* Letter I.

** Letter II.

Upon the whole, I have now no doubt of their persevering in favour of
the despicable Solmes; and of their dependence upon the gentleness of
your temper, and the regard you have for their favour, and for your own
reputation. And now I am more than ever convinced of the propriety of
the advice I formerly gave you, to keep in your own hands the estate
bequeathed to you by your grandfather.--Had you done so, it would have
procured you at least an outward respect from your brother and sister,
which would have made them conceal the envy and ill-will that now are
bursting upon you from hearts so narrow.

I must harp a little more upon this string--Do not you observe, how much
your brother's influence has overtopped yours, since he has got into
fortunes so considerable, and since you have given some of them an
appetite to continue in themselves the possession of your estate, unless
you comply with their terms?

I know your dutiful, your laudable motives; and one would have thought,
that you might have trusted to a father who so dearly loved you. But had
you been actually in possession of that estate, and living up to it, and
upon it, (your youth protected from blighting tongues by the company
of your prudent Norton, as you had proposed,) do you think that your
brother, grudging it to you at the time as he did, and looking upon it
as his right as an only son, would have been practising about it, and
aiming at it? I told you some time ago, that I thought your trials but
proportioned to your prudence:* but you will be more than woman, if
you can extricate yourself with honour, having such violent spirits and
sordid minds in some, and such tyrannical and despotic wills in others,
to deal with. Indeed, all may be done, and the world be taught further
to admire you for your blind duty and will-less resignation, if you can
persuade yourself to be Mrs. Solmes.

* Letter I.

I am pleased with the instances you give me of Mr. Lovelace's
benevolence to his own tenants, and with his little gift to your
uncle's. Mrs. Fortescue allows him to be the best of landlords: I might
have told you that, had I thought it necessary to put you into some
little conceit of him. He has qualities, in short, that may make him
a tolerable creature on the other side of fifty: but God help the
poor woman to whose lot he shall fall till then! women, I should say,
perhaps; since he may break half-a-dozen hearts before that time.--But
to the point I was upon--Shall we not have reason to commend the
tenant's grateful honesty, if we are told, that with joy the poor man
called out your uncle, and on the spot paid him in part of his debt
those two guineas?--But what shall we say of that landlord, who, though
he knew the poor man to be quite destitute, could take it; and, saying
nothing while Mr. Lovelace staid, as soon as he was gone, tell of it in
praise of the poor fellow's honesty?--Were this so, and were not that
landlord related to my dearest friend, how should I despise such a
wretch?--But, perhaps, the story is aggravated. Covetous people have
every one's ill word: and so indeed they ought; because they are
only solicitous to keep that which they prefer to every one's good
one.--Covetous indeed would they be, who deserved neither, yet expected
both!

I long for your next letter. Continue to be as particular as possible.
I can think of no other subject but what relates to you and to your
affairs: for I am, and ever will be, most affectionately,

Your own, ANNA HOWE.

LETTER XVI

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [HER PRECEDING NOT AT THAT TIME
RECEIVED.] FRIDAY, MARCH 3.

O my dear friend, I have had a sad conflict! Trial upon trial;
conference upon conference!--But what law, what ceremony, can give a
man a right to a heart which abhors him more than it does any living
creature?

I hope my mother will be able to prevail for me.--But I will recount it
all, though I sit up the whole night to do it; for I have a vast deal to
write, and will be as minute as you wish me to be.

I concluded my last in a fright. It was occasioned by a conversation
that passed between my mother and my aunt, part of which Hannah
overheard. I need not give you the particulars; since what I have to
relate to you from different conversations that have passed between my
mother and me, in the space of a very few hours, will include them all.
I will begin then.

I went down this morning when breakfast was ready with a very uneasy
heart, from what Hannah had informed me of yesterday afternoon; wishing
for an opportunity, however, to appeal to my mother, in hopes to engage
her interest in my behalf, and purposing to try to find one when she
retired to her own apartment after breakfast: but, unluckily, there was
the odious Solmes, sitting asquat between my mother and sister, with so
much assurance in his looks!--But you know, my dear, that those we love
not, cannot do any thing to please us.

Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have been well enough: but the
bend and broad-shouldered creature must needs rise, and stalk towards a
chair, which was just by that which was set for me.

I removed it to a distance, as if to make way to my own: and down I sat,
abruptly I believe; what I had heard all in my head.

But this was not enough to daunt him. The man is a very confident, he is
a very bold, staring man!--Indeed, my dear, the man is very confident.

He took the removed chair, and drew it so near mine, squatting in it
with his ugly weight, that he pressed upon my hoop.--I was so offended
(all I had heard, as I said, in my head) that I removed to another
chair. I own I had too little command of myself. It gave my brother
and sister too much advantage. I day say they took it. But I did it
involuntarily, I think. I could not help it.--I knew not what I did.

I saw that my father was excessively displeased. When angry, no man's
countenance ever shews it so much as my father's. Clarissa Harlowe! said
he with a big voice--and there he stopped. Sir! said I, trembling and
courtesying (for I had not then sat down again); and put my chair nearer
the wretch, and sat down--my face, as I could feel, all in a glow.

Make tea, child, said my kind mamma; sit by me, love, and make tea.

I removed with pleasure to the seat the man had quitted; and being
thus indulgently put into employment, soon recovered myself; and in the
course of the breakfasting officiously asked two or three questions
of Mr. Solmes, which I would not have done, but to make up with my
father.--Proud spirits may be brought to! Whisperingly spoke my sister
to me, over her shoulder, with an air of triumph and scorn: but I did
not mind her.

My mother was all kindness and condescension. I asked her once, if she
were pleased with the tea? She said, softly, (and again called me dear,)
she was pleased with all I did. I was very proud of this encouraging
goodness: and all blew over, as I hoped, between my father and me; for
he also spoke kindly to me two or three times.

Small accidents these, my dear, to trouble you with; only as they lead
to greater, as you shall hear.

Before the usual breakfast-time was over, my father withdrew with my
mother, telling her he wanted to speak with her. Then my sister and next
my aunt (who was with us) dropt away.

My brother gave himself some airs of insult, which I understood well
enough; but which Mr. Solmes could make nothing of: and at last he arose
from his seat--Sister, said he, I have a curiosity to shew you. I will
fetch it. And away he went shutting the door close after him.

I saw what all this was for. I arose; the man hemming up for a speech,
rising, and beginning to set his splay-feet [indeed, my dear, the man in
all his ways is hateful to me] in an approaching posture.--I will
save my brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, said I. I
courtesied--Your servant, sir--The man cried, Madam, Madam, twice, and
looked like a fool.--But away I went--to find my brother, to save my
word.--But my brother, indifferent as the weather was, was gone to
walk in the garden with my sister. A plain case, that he had left his
curiosity with me, and designed to shew me no other.

I had but just got into my own apartment, and began to think of sending
Hannah to beg an audience of my mother (the more encouraged by her
condescending goodness at breakfast) when Shorey, her woman, brought me
her commands to attend me in her closet.

My father, Hannah told me, was just gone out of it with a positive angry
countenance. Then I as much dreaded the audience as I had wished for it
before.

I went down however; but, apprehending the subject she intended to
talk to me upon, approached her trembling, and my heart in visible
palpitations.

She saw my concern. Holding out her kind arms, as she sat, Come kiss
me, my dear, said she, with a smile like a sun-beam breaking through
the cloud that overshadowed her naturally benign aspect--Why flutters my
jewel so?

This preparative sweetness, with her goodness just before, confirmed my
apprehensions. My mother saw the bitter pill wanted gilding.

O my Mamma! was all I could say; and I clasped my arms round her neck,
and my face sunk into her bosom.

My child! my child! restrain, said she, your powers of moving! I dare
not else trust myself with you.--And my tears trickled down her bosom,
as hers bedewed my neck.

O the words of kindness, all to be expressed in vain, that flowed from
her lips!

Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my own Clarissa Harlowe!--O my
daughter, best beloved of my heart, lift up a face so ever amiable to
me!--Why these sobs?--Is an apprehended duty so affecting a thing, that
before I can speak--But I am glad, my love, you can guess at what I have
to say to you. I am spared the pains of breaking to you what was a task
upon me reluctantly enough undertaken to break to you. Then rising, she
drew a chair near her own, and made me sit down by her, overwhelmed as I
was with tears of apprehension of what she had to say, and of gratitude
for her truly maternal goodness to me--sobs still my only language.

And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms round my
neck, and my glowing cheek wet with my tears, close to her own: Let me
talk to you, my child. Since silence is your choice, hearken to me, and
be silent.

You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake of
peace. Your papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will not
be controuled; nor yet persuaded. You have sometimes seemed to pity me,
that I am obliged to give up every point. Poor man! his reputation the
less for it; mine the greater: yet would I not have this credit, if
I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and to myself. You are a
dutiful, a prudent, and a wise child, she was pleased to say, in hope,
no doubt, to make me so: you would not add, I am sure, to my trouble:
you would not wilfully break that peace which costs your mother so much
to preserve. Obedience is better than sacrifice. O my Clary Harlowe,
rejoice my heart, by telling me that I have apprehended too much!--I see
your concern! I see your perplexity! I see your conflict! [loosing
her arm, and rising, not willing I should see how much she herself
was affected]. I will leave you a moment.--Answer me not--[for I was
essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from
mine, dropt down on my knees, my hands clasped, and lifted up in
a supplicating manner]--I am not prepared for your irresistible
expostulation, she was pleased to say. I will leave you to recollection:
and I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my truly maternal
tenderness be not thrown away upon you.

And then she withdrew into the next apartment; wiping her eyes as she
went from me; as mine overflowed; my heart taking in the whole compass
of her meaning.

She soon returned, having recovered more steadiness.

Still on my knees, I had thrown my face across the chair she had sat in.

Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe--No sullenness, I hope!

No, indeed, my ever-to-be-revered Mamma.--And I arose. I bent my knee.

She raised me. No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and compliance.
Your heart, not your knees, must bend. It is absolutely determined.
Prepare yourself therefore to receive your father, when he visits you
by-and-by, as he would wish to receive you. But on this one quarter of
an hour depends the peace of my future life, the satisfaction of all the
family, and your own security from a man of violence: and I charge you
besides, on my blessing, that you think of being Mrs. Solmes.

There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk: and when I
recovered, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty
holding open my reluctantly-opened palm, my laces cut, my linen scented
with hartshorn; and my mother gone. Had I been less kindly treated, the
hated name still forborne to be mentioned, or mentioned with a little
more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less
visible emotion--But to be bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly
beloved, so truly reverenced, to think of being MRS. SOLMES--what a
denunciation was that!

Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her solemn way): Your mamma,
Miss, is concerned for your disorder: she expects you down again in an
hour; and bid me say, that she then hopes every thing from your duty.

I made no reply; for what could I say? And leaning upon my Hannah's arm,
withdrew to my own apartment. There you will guess how the greatest part
of the hour was employed.

Within that time, my mother came up to me.

I love, she was pleased to say, to come into this apartment.--No
emotions, child! No flutters!--Am I not your mother?--Do not discompose
me by discomposing yourself! Do not occasion me uneasiness, when I
would give you nothing but pleasure. Come, my dear, we will go into your
closet.

She took my hand, led the way, and made me sit down by her: and after
she had inquired how I did, she began in a strain as if she supposed I
had made use of the intervening space to overcome all my objections.

She was pleased to tell me, that my father and she, in order to spare my
natural modesty, had taken the whole affair upon themselves--

Hear me out; and then speak.--He is not indeed every thing I wish him to
be: but he is a man of probity, and has no vices--

No vices, Madam--!

Hear me out, child.--You have not behaved much amiss to him: we have
seen with pleasure that you have not--

O Madam, must I not now speak!

I shall have done presently.--A young creature of your virtuous and
pious turn, she was pleased to say, cannot surely love a profligate: you
love your brother too well, to wish to marry one who had like to have
killed him, and who threatened your uncles, and defies us all. You have
had your own way six or seven times: we want to secure you against a man
so vile. Tell me (I have a right to know) whether you prefer this man
to all others?--Yet God forbid that I should know you do; for such
a declaration would make us all miserable. Yet tell me, are your
affections engaged to this man?

I knew not what the inference would be, if I said they were not.

You hesitate--You answer me not--You cannot answer me.--Rising--Never
more will I look upon you with an eye of favour--

O Madam, Madam! Kill me not with your displeasure--I would not, I need
not, hesitate one moment, did I not dread the inference, if I answer
you as you wish.--Yet be that inference what it will, your threatened
displeasure will make me speak. And I declare to you, that I know not my
own heart, if it not be absolutely free. And pray, let me ask my dearest
Mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that, like a giddy creature,
I must be forced to marry, to save me from--From what? Let me beseech
you, Madam, to be the guardian of my reputation! Let not your Clarissa
be precipitated into a state she wishes not to enter into with any man!
And this upon a supposition that otherwise she shall marry herself, and
disgrace her whole family.

Well then, Clary [passing over the force of my plea] if your heart be
free--

O my beloved Mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart operate
in my favour. Urge not upon me the inference that made me hesitate.

I won't be interrupted, Clary--You have seen in my behaviour to you,
on this occasion, a truly maternal tenderness; you have observed that
I have undertaken the task with some reluctance, because the man is not
every thing; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in
a man too high--

Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me!--Is there then any danger that I
should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint at?

Again interrupted!--Am I to be questioned, and argued with? You know
this won't do somewhere else. You know it won't. What reason then,
ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because you
think from my indulgence to you, you may?

What can I say? What can I do? What must that cause be that will not
bear being argued upon?

Again! Clary Harlowe!

Dearest Madam, forgive me: it was always my pride and my pleasure to
obey you. But look upon that man--see but the disagreeableness of his
person--

Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye!--Now is Mr.
Solmes, I see, but comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only as
another man has a much more specious person

But, Madam, are not his manners equally so?--Is not his person the true
representative of his mind?--That other man is not, shall not be, any
thing to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden,
resists.

Condition thus with your father. Will he bear, do you think, to be thus
dialogued with? Have I not conjured you, as you value my peace--What
is it that I do not give up?--This very task, because I apprehended you
would not be easily persuaded, is a task indeed upon me. And will you
give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offered to
you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you
must, or be looked upon as in a state of defiance with your whole
family.

And saying this, she arose and went from me. But at the chamber-door
stopt; and turned back: I will not say below in what a disposition I
leave you. Consider of every thing. The matter is resolved upon. As you
value your father's blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all the
family, resolve to comply. I will leave you for a few moments. I will
come up to you again. See that I find you as I wish to find you; and
since your heart is free, let your duty govern it.

In about half an hour, my mother returned. She found me in tears.
She took my hand: It is my part evermore, said she, to be of the
acknowledging side. I believe I have needlessly exposed myself to your
opposition, by the method I have taken with you. I first began as if I
expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon myself.

Do not, my dearest Mamma! do not say so!

Were the occasion for this debate, proceeded she, to have risen from
myself; were it in my power to dispense with your compliance; you too
well know what you can do with me.

Would any body, my dear Miss Howe, wish to marry, who sees a wife of
such a temper, and blessed with such an understanding as my mother is
noted for, not only deprived of all power, but obliged to be even active
in bringing to bear a point of high importance, which she thinks ought
not to be insisted upon?

When I came to you a second time, proceeded she, knowing that your
opposition would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: and
in this I was wrong too, because a young creature who loves to reason,
and used to love to be convinced by reason, ought to have all her
objections heard: I now therefore, this third time, see you; and am
come resolved to hear all you have to say: and let me, my dear, by my
patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it, because
it is to you I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous.--Let me,
if your heart be really free, let me see what it will induce you to do
to oblige me: and so as you permit your usual discretion to govern you,
I will hear all you have to say; but with this intimation, that say what
you will, it will be of no avail elsewhere.

What a dreadful saying is that! But could I engage your pity, Madam, it
would be somewhat.

You have as much of my pity as of my love. But what is person, Clary,
with one of your prudence, and your heart disengaged?

Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart is to be engaged?--O
Madam, who can think of marrying when the heart is shocked at the
first appearance, and where the disgust must be confirmed by every
conversation afterwards?

This, Clary, is owing to your prepossession. Let me not have cause
to regret that noble firmness of mind in so young a creature which I
thought your glory, and which was my boast in your character. In this
instance it would be obstinacy, and want of duty.--Have you not made
objections to several--

That was to their minds, to their principles, Madam.--But this man--

Is an honest man, Clary Harlowe. He has a good mind. He is a virtuous
man.

He an honest man? His a good mind, Madam? He a virtuous man?--

Nobody denies these qualities.

Can he be an honest man who offers terms that will rob all his own
relations of their just expectations?--Can his mind be good--

You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he offers so much, are the last
person who should make this observation.

Give me leave to say, Madam, that a person preferring happiness to
fortune, as I do; that want not even what I have, and can give up the
use of that, as an instance of duty--

No more, no more of your merits!--You know you will be a gainer by that
cheerful instance of your duty; not a loser. You know you have but
cast your bread upon the waters--so no more of that!--For it is not
understood as a merit by every body, I assure you; though I think it a
high one; and so did your father and uncles at the time--

At the time, Madam!--How unworthily do my brother and sister, who are
afraid that the favour I was so lately in--

I hear nothing against your brother and sister--What family feuds have I
in prospect, at a time when I hoped to have most comfort from you all!

God bless my brother and sister in all their worthy views! You shall
have no family feuds if I can prevent them. You yourself, Madam, shall
tell me what I shall bear from them, and I will bear it: but let my
actions, not their misrepresentations (as I am sure by the disgraceful
prohibitions I have met with has been the case) speak for me.

Just then, up came my father, with a sternness in his looks that made me
tremble.--He took two or three turns about my chamber, though pained by
his gout; and then said to my mother, who was silent as soon as she saw
him--

My dear, you are long absent.--Dinner is near ready. What you had to
say, lay in a very little compass. Surely, you have nothing to do but
to declare your will, and my will--But perhaps you may be talking of the
preparations--Let us have you soon down--Your daughter in your hand, if
worthy of the name.

And down he went, casting his eye upon me with a look so stern, that
I was unable to say one word to him, or even for a few minutes to my
mother.

Was not this very intimidating, my dear?

My mother, seeing my concern, seemed to pity me. She called me her good
child, and kissed me; and told me that my father should not know I had
made such opposition. He has kindly furnished us with an excuse for
being so long together, said she.--Come, my dear--dinner will be upon
table presently--Shall we go down?--And took my hand.

This made me start: What, Madam, go down to let it be supposed we were
talking of preparations!--O my beloved Mamma, command me not down upon
such a supposition.

You see, child, that to stay longer together, will be owning that you
are debating about an absolute duty; and that will not be borne. Did not
your father himself some days ago tell you, he would be obeyed? I will a
third time leave you. I must say something by way of excuse for you:
and that you desire not to go down to dinner--that your modesty on the
occasion--

O Madam! say not my modesty on such an occasion: for that will be to
give hope--

And design you not to give hope?--Perverse girl!--Rising and flinging
from me; take more time for consideration!--Since it is necessary, take
more time--and when I see you next, let me know what blame I have to
cast upon myself, or to bear from your father, for my indulgence to you.

She made, however, a little stop at the chamber-door; and seemed to
expect that I would have besought her to make the gentlest construction
for me; for, hesitating, she was pleased to say, I suppose you would not
have me make a report--

O Madam, interrupted I, whose favour can I hope for if I lose my
mamma's?

To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have been
qualifying upon a point that I was too much determined upon, to give
room for any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation about
it. And so my mother went down stairs.

I will deposit thus far; and, as I know you will not think me too minute
in the relation of particulars so very interesting to one you honour
with your love, proceed in the same way. As matters stand, I don't care
to have papers, so freely written, about me.

Pray let Robert call every day, if you can spare him, whether I have any
thing ready or not.

I should be glad you would not send him empty handed. What a generosity
will it be in you, to write as frequently from friendship, as I am
forced to do from misfortune! The letters being taken away will be an
assurance that you have them. As I shall write and deposit as I have
opportunity, the formality of super and sub-scription will be excused.
For I need not say how much I am

Your sincere and ever affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.

LETTER XVII

MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE

My mother, on her return, which was as soon as she had dined, was
pleased to inform me, that she told my father, on his questioning her
about my cheerul compliance (for, it seems, the cheerful was all that
was doubted) that she was willing, on so material a point, to give
a child whom she had so much reason to love (as she condescended to
acknowledge were her words) liberty to say all that was in her heart to
say, that her compliance might be the freer: letting him know, that
when he came up, she was attending to my pleas; for that she found I had
rather not marry at all.

She told me, that to this my father angrily said, let her take
care--let her take care--that she give me not ground to suspect her of
a preference somewhere else. But, if it be to ease her heart, and not to
dispute my will, you may hear her out.

So, Clary, said my mother, I am returned in a temper accordingly: and I
hope you will not again, by your peremptoriness, shew me how I ought to
treat you.

Indeed, Madam, you did me justice to say, I have no inclination to marry
at all. I have not, I hope, made myself so very unuseful in my papa's
family, as--

No more of your merits, Clary! You have been a good child. You have
eased me of all the family cares: but do not now give more than ever
you relieved me from. You have been amply repaid in the reputation
your skill and management have given you: but now there is soon to be a
period to all those assistances from you. If you marry, there will be
a natural, and, if to please us, a desirable period; because your own
family will employ all your talents in that way: if you do not, there
will be a period likewise, but not a natural one--you understand me,
child.

I wept.

I have made inquiry already after a housekeeper. I would have had your
good Norton; but I suppose you will yourself wish to have the worthy
woman with you. If you desire it, that shall be agreed upon for you.

But, why, dearest Madam, why am I, the youngest, to be precipitated into
a state, that I am very far from wishing to enter into with any body?

You are going to question me, I suppose, why your sister is not thought
of for Mr. Solmes?

I hope, Madam, it will not displease you if I were.

I might refer you for an answer to your father.--Mr. Solmes has reasons
for preferring you--

And I have reasons, Madam, for disliking him. And why I am--

This quickness upon me, interrupted my mother, is not to be borne! I am
gone, and your father comes, if I can do no good with you.

O Madam, I would rather die, than--

She put her hand to my mouth--No peremptoriness, Clary Harlowe: once you
declare yourself inflexible, I have done.

I wept for vexation. This is all, all, my brother's doings--his grasping
views--

No reflections upon your brother: he has entirely the honour of the
family at heart.

I would no more dishonour my family, Madam, than my brother would.

I believe it: but I hope you will allow your father, and me, and your
uncles, to judge what will do it honour, what dishonour.

I then offered to live single; never to marry at all; or never but with
their full approbation.

If you mean to shew your duty, and your obedience, Clary, you must shew
it in our way, not in your own.

I hope, Madam, that I have not so behaved hitherto, as to render such a
trial of my obedience necessary.

Yes, Clary, I cannot but say that you have hitherto behaved extremely
well: but you have had no trials till now: and I hope, that now you are
called to one, you will not fail in it. Parents, proceeded she, when
children are young, are pleased with every thing they do. You have been
a good child upon the whole: but we have hitherto rather complied with
you, than you with us. Now that you are grown up to marriageable years,
is the test; especially as your grandfather has made you independent, as
we may say, in preference to those who had prior expectations upon that
estate.

Madam, my grandfather knew, and expressly mentioned in his will his
desire, that my father will more than make it up to my sister. I did
nothing but what I thought my duty to procure his favour. It was rather
a mark of his affection, than any advantage to me: For, do I either
seek or wish to be independent? Were I to be queen of the universe, that
dignity should not absolve me from my duty to you and to my father. I
would kneel for your blessings, were it in the presence of millions--so
that--

I am loth to interrupt you, Clary; though you could more than once break
in upon me. You are young and unbroken: but, with all this ostentation
of your duty, I desire you to shew a little more deference to me when I
am speaking.

I beg your pardon, dear Madam, and your patience with me on such an
occasion as this. If I did not speak with earnestness upon it, I should
be supposed to have only maidenly objections against a man I never can
endure.

Clary Harlowe--!

Dearest, dearest Madam, permit me to speak what I have to say, this
once--It is hard, it is very hard, to be forbidden to enter into
the cause of all these misunderstandings, because I must not speak
disrespectfully of one who supposes me in the way of his ambition, and
treats me like a slave--

Whither, whither, Clary--

My dearest Mamma!--My duty will not permit me so far to suppose my
father arbitrary, as to make a plea of that arbitrariness to you--

How now, Clary!--O girl!

Your patience, my dearest Mamma:--you were pleased to say, you would
hear me with patience.--PERSON in a man is nothing, because I am
supposed to be prudent: so my eye is to be disgusted, and my reason not
convinced--

Girl, girl!

Thus are my imputed good qualities to be made my punishment; and I am to
wedded to a monster--

[Astonishing!--Can this, Clarissa, be from you?

The man, Madam, person and mind, is a monster in my eye.]--And that
I may be induced to bear this treatment, I am to be complimented with
being indifferent to all men: yet, at other times, and to serve other
purposes, be thought prepossessed in favour of a man against whose moral
character lie just objections.--Confined, as if, like the giddiest of
creatures, I would run away with this man, and disgrace my whole family!
O my dearest Mamma! who can be patient under such treatment?

Now, Clary, I suppose you will allow me to speak. I think I have had
patience indeed with you.--Could I have thought--but I will put all upon
a short issue. Your mother, Clarissa, shall shew you an example of that
patience you so boldly claim from her, without having any yourself.

O my dear, how my mother's condescension distressed me at the
time!--Infinitely more distressed me, than rigour could have done. But
she knew, she was to be sure aware, that she was put upon a harsh, upon
an unreasonable service, let me say, or she would not, she could not,
have had so much patience with me.

Let me tell you then, proceeded she, that all lies in a small compass,
as your father said.--You have been hitherto, as you are pretty ready to
plead, a dutiful child. You have indeed had no cause to be otherwise. No
child was ever more favoured. Whether you will discredit all your past
behaviour; whether, at a time and upon an occasion, that the highest
instance of duty is expected from you (an instance that is to crown
all); and when you declare that your heart is free--you will give that
instance; or whether, having a view to the independence you may claim,
(for so, Clary, whatever be your motive, it will be judged,) and which
any man you favour, can assert for you against us all; or rather for
himself in spite of us--whether, I say, you will break with us all;
and stand in defiance of a jealous father, needlessly jealous, I will
venture to say, of the prerogatives of his sex, as to me, and still ten
times more jealous of the authority of a father;--this is now the point
with us. You know your father has made it a point; and did he ever give
up one he thought he had a right to carry?

Too true, thought I to myself! And now my brother has engaged my father,
his fine scheme will walk alone, without needing his leading-strings;
and it is become my father's will that I oppose; not my brother's
grasping views.

I was silent. To say the truth, I was just then sullenly silent. My
heart was too big. I thought it was hard to be thus given up by
my mother; and that she should make a will so uncontroulable as my
brother's, her will.--My mother, my dear, though I must not say so, was
not obliged to marry against her liking. My mother loved my father.

My silence availed me still less.

I see, my dear, said she, that you are convinced. Now, my good
child--now, my Clary, do I love you! It shall not be known, that you
have argued with me at all. All shall be imputed to that modesty which
has ever so much distinguished you. You shall have the full merit of
your resignation.

I wept.

She tenderly wiped the tears from my eyes, and kissed my cheek--Your
father expects you down with a cheerful countenance--but I will excuse
your going. All your scruples, you see, have met with an indulgence
truly maternal from me. I rejoice in the hope that you are convinced.
This indeed seems to be a proof of the truth of your agreeable
declaration, that your heart is free.

Did not this seem to border upon cruelty, my dear, in so indulgent a
mother?--It would be wicked [would it not] to suppose my mother capable
of art?--But she is put upon it, and obliged to take methods to which
her heart is naturally above stooping; and all intended for my good,
because she sees that no arguing will be admitted any where else!

I will go down, proceeded she, and excuse your attendance at afternoon
tea, as I did to dinner: for I know you will have some little
reluctances to subdue. I will allow you those; and also some little
natural shynesses--and so you shall not come down, if you chuse not to
come down. Only, my dear, do not disgrace my report when you come to
supper. And be sure behave as you used to do to your brother and sister;
for your behaviour to them will be one test of your cheerful obedience
to us. I advise as a friend, you see, rather than command as a
mother--So adieu, my love. And again she kissed me; and was going.

O my dear Mamma, said I, forgive me!--But surely you cannot believe, I
can ever think of having that man!

She was very angry, and seemed to be greatly disappointed. She
threatened to turn me over to my father and uncles:--she however bid
me (generously bid me) consider, what a handle I gave to my brother
and sister, if I thought they had views to serve by making my uncles
dissatisfied with me.

I, said she, in a milder accent, have early said all that I thought
could be said against the present proposal, on a supposition, that
you, who have refused several other (whom I own to be preferable as to
person) would not approve of it; and could I have succeeded, you,
Clary, had never heard of it. But if I could not, how can you expect
to prevail? My great ends in the task I have undertaken, are the
preservation of the family peace so likely to be overturned; to
reinstate you in the affections of your father and uncles: and to
preserve you from a man of violence.--Your father, you must needs think
will flame out upon your refusal to comply: your uncles are so

thoroughly convinced of the consistency of the measure with their
favourite views of aggrandizing the family, that they are as much
determined as your father: your aunt Hervey and your uncle Hervey are of
the same party. And it is hard, if a father and mother, and uncles, and
aunt, all conjoined, cannot be allowed to direct your choice--surely, my
dear girl, proceeded she [for I was silent all this time], it cannot be
that you are the more averse, because the family views will be promoted
by the match--this, I assure you, is what every body must think, if
you comply not. Nor, while the man, so obnoxious to us all, remains
unmarried, and buzzes about you, will the strongest wishes to live
single, be in the least regarded. And well you know, that were Mr.
Lovelace an angel, and your father had made it a point that you should
not have him, it would be in vain to dispute his will. As to the
prohibition laid upon you (much as I will own against my liking), that
is owing to the belief that you corresponded by Miss Howe's means with
that man; nor do I doubt that you did so.

I answered to every article, in such a manner, as I am sure would have
satisfied her, could she have been permitted to judge for herself; and I
then inveighed with bitterness against the disgraceful prohibitions laid
upon me.

They would serve to shew me, she was pleased to say, how much in earnest
my father was. They might be taken off, whenever I thought fit, and no
harm done, nor disgrace received. But if I were to be contumacious, I
might thank myself for all that would follow.

I sighed. I wept. I was silent.

Shall I, Clary, said she, shall I tell your father that these
prohibitions are as unnecessary as I hoped they would be? That you know
your duty, and will not offer to controvert his will? What say you, my
love?

O Madam, what can I say to questions so indulgently put? I do indeed
know my duty: no creature in the world is more willing to practise
it: but, pardon me, dearest Madam, if I say, that I must bear these
prohibitions, if I am to pay so dear to have them taken off.

Determined and perverse, my dear mamma called me: and after walking
twice or thrice in anger about the room, she turned to me: Your
heart free, Clarissa! How can you tell me your heart is free? Such
extraordinary prepossessions to a particular person must be owing to
extraordinary prepossessions in another's favour! Tell me, Clary, and
tell me truly--Do you not continue to correspond with Mr. Lovelace?

Dearest Madam, replied I, you know my motives: to prevent mischief, I
answered his letters. The reasons for our apprehensions of this sort are
not over.

I own to you, Clary, (although now I would not have it known,) that
I once thought a little qualifying among such violent spirits was not
amiss. I did not know but all things would come round again by the
mediation of Lord M. and his two sisters: but as they all three think
proper to resent for their nephew; and as their nephew thinks fit to
defy us all; and as terms are offered, on the other hand, that could
not be asked, which will very probably prevent your grandfather's estate
going out of the family, and may be a means to bring still greater into
it; I see not, that the continuance of your correspondence with him
either can or ought to be permitted. I therefore now forbid it to you,
as you value my favour.

Be pleased, Madam, only to advise me how to break it off with safety to
my brother and uncles; and it is all I wish for. Would to heaven, the
man so hated had not the pretence to make of having been too violently
treated, when he meant peace and reconciliation! It would always have
been in my own power to have broke with him. His reputed immoralities
would have given me a just pretence at any time to do so. But, Madam, as
my uncles and my brother will keep no measures; as he has heard what the
view is; and his regard for me from resenting their violent treatment
of him and his family; what can I do? Would you have me, Madam, make him
desperate?

The law will protect us, child! offended magistracy will assert itself--

But, Madam, may not some dreadful mischief first happen?--The law
asserts not itself, till it is offended.

You have made offers, Clary, if you might be obliged in the point in
question--Are you really in earnest, were you to be complied with, to
break off all correspondence with Mr. Lovelace?--Let me know this.

Indeed I am; and I will. You, Madam, shall see all the letters that
have passed between us. You shall see I have given him no encouragement
independent of my duty. And when you have seen them, you will be
better able to direct me how, on the condition I have offered, to break
entirely with him.

I take you at your word, Clarissa--Give me his letters; and the copies
of yours.

I am sure, Madam, you will keep the knowledge that I write, and what I
write--

No conditions with your mother--surely my prudence may be trusted to.

I begged her pardon; and besought her to take the key of the private
drawer in my escritoire, where they lay, that she herself might see that
I had no reserves to my mother.

She did; and took all his letters, and the copies of
mine.--Unconditioned with, she was pleased to say, they shall be yours
again, unseen by any body else.

I thanked her; and she withdrew to read them; saying, she would return
them, when she had.