• • •
Mon. morn. April 10, seven o’clock
Oh my dear! There yet lies the letter, just as I left it!
Does he think he is so sure of me! Perhaps he imagines that I dare not alter my purpose. I wish I had never known him! I begin now to see this rashness in the light everyone else would have seen it in, had I been guilty of it.
Yet, short as the time is, he may still perhaps send, and get the letter. Something may have happened to prevent him, which, when known, will excuse him.
After I have disappointed him more than once before, on a requested interview only, it is impossible he should not have curiosity, at least, to know if something has not happened; and if my mind hold in this more important case.
CL. HARLOWE
Letter 91: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Ivy summer-house, eleven o’clock
But I now can think of nothing but this man!—this interview!—would to Heaven it were over! To meet to quarrel—but I will not stay a moment with him, let him take what measures he will upon it, 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!
But, after all, should I, ought I, to meet him? How I have taken it for granted that I should! I wish there were time to take your advice. Yet you are so loath to speak quite out! But that I owe, as you own, to the difficulty of my situation.
Will you doubt, my dear, that my next trial will be the most affecting that I have yet had?
• • •
The time of meeting is at hand. Oh that he may not come! But should I, or should I not, meet him? How I question, without possibility of a timely answer!
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—
I was mistaken! How may noises un-like, be made like what one fears! Why flutters the fool so!
• • •
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 show him what I have written.
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 conclude that I can then 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
CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 92: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
St Albans, Tuesday morn., past one
Oh my dearest friend!
After what I had resolved upon, as by my former, what shall I write? What can I? With what consciousness, even by letter, do I approach you! You will soon hear (if already you have not heard from the mouth of common fame) that your Clarissa Harlowe is gone off with a man!
I am busying myself to give you the particulars at large. The whole twenty-four hours of each day (to begin the moment I can fix) shall be employed in it till it is finished: Every one of the hours, I mean, that will be spared me by this interrupting man, to whom I have made myself so foolishly accountable for too many of them. Rest is departed from me. I have no call for that: and that has no balm for the wounds of my mind. So you’ll have all those hours without interruption till the account is ended.
But will you receive, shall you be permitted to receive, my letters, after what I have done?
Oh, my dearest friend! But I must make the best of it. I hope that will not be very bad! Yet am I convinced that I did a rash, an inexcusable thing, in meeting him; and all his tenderness, all his vows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that account.
Adieu, my dearest friend! I beseech you to love me still! But, alas! what will your mamma say?—what will mine!—what my other relations?—and how will my brother and sister triumph?
I cannot at present tell you how, or where, you can direct to me. For very early shall I leave this place; harassed and fatigued to death! But, when I can do nothing else, constant use has made me able to write. Long, very long, has that been all my amusement and pleasure: yet could not that have been such to me, had I not had you, my best-beloved friend, to write to. Once more adieu. Pity, and pray for,
Your
CL. HARLOWE
Letter 93: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Tuesday, nine o’clock
I write, because you enjoin me to do so. Love you still!—how can I help it, if I would? You may believe how I stand aghast, your letter communicating the first news—Good God of heaven and earth!—but what shall I say? I shall be all impatience for particulars.
Lord have mercy upon me!—but can it be?
My mamma will, indeed, be astonished! How can I tell it to her?
But, once more, can it be? What woman, at this rate!—but, God preserve you!
Let nothing escape you in your letters. Direct them for me, however, to Mrs Knollys’s, till further notice.
• • •
Observe, my dear, that I don’t blame you by all this—your relations only are in fault! Yet how you came to change your mind is the surprising thing!
How to break it to my mamma, I know not. Yet, if she hear it first from any other, and find I knew it before, she will believe it is by my connivance! Yet, as I hope to live, I know not how to break it to her!
But this is teasing you! I am sure without intention.
Let me now repeat my former advice. If you are not married by this time, be sure delay not the ceremony. Since things are as they are, I wish it were thought that you were privately married before you went away.
I send what you write for [a “parcel of linen”]. If there be anything else you want that is in my power, command without reserve,
Your ever affectionate
ANNA HOWE
Letter 94: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Tuesday night
I think myself obliged to thank you, my dear Miss Howe, for your condescension, in taking notice of a creature who has occasioned you so much scandal.
I am grieved on this account, as much, I verily think, as for the evil itself.
Tell me—but yet I am afraid to know—what your mamma said.
I long, and yet I dread to be told, what the young ladies my companions, now never more, perhaps, to be so, say of me.
They cannot, however, say worse of me than I will of myself. Self-accusation shall flow in every line of my narrative, where I think I am justly censurable. If any thing can arise from the account I am going to give you, for extenuation of my fault (for that is all a person can hope for, who cannot excuse herself), I know I may expect it from your friendship, though not from the charity of any other: since by this time I doubt not every mouth is opened against me; and all that know Clarissa Harlowe, condemn the fugitive daughter.
• • •
After I had deposited my letter to you, written down to the last hour, as I may say, I returned to the ivy summer-house; first taking back my letter from the loose bricks: and there I endeavoured, as coolly as my situation would permit, to recollect and lay together several incidents that had passed between my aunt and me; and I began to hope, that I need not be so very apprehensive as I had been of the next Wednesday. And thus I argued with myself.
I expected a contention with him, ‘tis true, as he had not my letter: but I thought it would be very strange, as I m
entioned in one of my former, if I, who had so steadily held out against characters so venerable, against authorities so sacred, as I may say, when I thought them unreasonably exerted, should not find myself more equal to such a trial as this; especially as I had so much reason to be displeased with him for not having taken away my letter.
When the bell rang to call the servants to dinner, Betty came to me and asked if I had any commands before she went to hers.
She could hardly have got into the house, when I heard the first signal. Oh, how my heart fluttered! But no time was to be lost. I stepped to the garden door; and seeing a clear coast, unbolted the ready-unlocked door—and there was he, all impatience, waiting for me!
A panic next to fainting seized me when I saw him. My heart seemed convulsed; and I trembled so, that I should hardly have kept my feet had he not supported me.
Fear nothing, dearest creature, said he! Let us hasten away! The chariot is at hand! And by this sweet condescension, you have obliged me beyond expression, or return!
Recovering my spirits a little, as he kept drawing me after him, Oh Mr Lovelace, said I, I cannot go with you! Indeed I cannot! I wrote you word so! Let go my hand and you shall see my letter. It has lain there from yesterday morning till within this half-hour. I bid you watch to the last for a letter from me, lest I should be obliged to revoke the appointment; and had you followed the direction, you would have found it.
I have been watched, my dearest life, said he, half out of breath—I have been watched in every step I took: and my trusty servant has been watched too, ever since Saturday; and dared not to come near your wall. And here we shall be discovered in a moment! Speed away, my charmer!—this is the moment of your deliverance! If you neglect this opportunity, you never can have such another!
What is it you mean, sir! Let go my hand: for I tell you (struggling vehemently) that I will sooner die than go with you!
Good God, said he! with a look of wildness and surprise, what is it I hear!—but (still drawing me after him as he retreated farther from the door) it is no time to argue. By all that’s good you must go!—surely you cannot doubt my honour, nor give me cause to question your own.
As you value me, Mr Lovelace, urge me no farther. I come fixed and resolved. Let me give you the letter I had written. My further reasons shall follow; and they will convince you that I ought not to go.
Nothing, madam, can convince me. By all that’s sacred, I will not leave you! To leave you now is to lose you for ever!
Am I to be thus compelled? interrupted I, with equal indignation and vehemence. Let go my hands. I am resolved not to go with you—and I will convince you that I ought not.
All my friends expect you, madam!—all your own are determined against you! Wednesday next is the day! the important, perhaps the fatal day! Would you stay to be Solmes’s wife? Can this be your determination at last?
No, never, never will I be that man’s!—but I will not go with you! Draw me not thus! How dare you, sir? I would not have seen you, but to tell you so! I had not met you, but for fear you would have been guilty of some rashness!—and, once more, I will not go! What mean you!—striving with all my force to get from him—
Unhand me this moment or I will cry out for help.
I will obey you, my dearest creature!—and quitted my hand with a look full of tender despondency that, knowing the violence of his temper, half-concerned me for him. Yet I was hastening from him when, with a solemn air, looking upon his sword but catching as it were his hand from it, he folded both his arms as if a sudden thought had recovered him from an intended rashness.
Stay one moment!—but one moment stay, oh best beloved of my soul! Your retreat is secure, if you will go: the key lies down at the door—but, oh madam, next Wednesday, and you are Mr Solmes’s. Fly me not so eagerly!—hear me but a few words.
When near the garden door I stopped; and was the more satisfied, as I saw the key there, by which I could let myself in again at pleasure. But, being uneasy lest I should be missed, I told him I could stay no longer: I had already stayed too long: that I would write to him all my reasons. And depend upon it, Mr Lovelace, said I, just upon the point of stooping for the key, in order to return, I will die rather than have that man. You know what I have promised if I find myself in danger.
One word, madam, however, one word more, approaching me, his arms still folded as if (as I thought) he would not be tempted to mischief. Remember only that I come at your appointment, to redeem you at the hazard of my life from your gaolers and persecutors, with a resolution, God is my witness, or may He for ever blast me! (that was his shocking imprecation), to be a father, uncle, brother, and as I humbly hoped, in your own good time, a husband to you, all in one. But since I find you are so ready to cry out for help against me, which must bring down upon me the vengeance of all your family, I am contented to run all risks. I will not ask you to retreat with me; I will attend you into the garden, and into the house, if I am not intercepted.
Had he offered to draw his sword upon himself, I was prepared to have despised him for supposing me such a poor novice as to be intimidated by an artifice so common. But this resolution, uttered with so serious an air, of accompanying me in to my friends, made me gasp almost with terror.
What can you mean, Mr Lovelace, said I? Would you thus expose yourself? Would you thus expose me? Is this your generosity? Is everybody to take advantage thus of the weakness of my temper?
And I wept. I could not help it.
He threw himself upon his knees at my feet.
I bid him rise: he rose and I told him that were I not thus unaccountably hurried by his impatience, I doubted not to convince him that both he and I had looked upon next Wednesday with greater apprehension than was necessary: and was proceeding to give him my reasons; but he broke in upon me—
Had I, madam, but the shadow of a probability to hope what you hope, I would be all obedience and resignation. But the licence is actually got: the parson is provided. Oh my dearest creature, do these preparations mean only a trial?
I was sure, I said, of procuring a delay at least. Many ways I had to procure delay. Nothing could be so fatal to us both, as for me now to be found with him. My apprehensions on this score, I told him, grew too strong for my heart. I should think very hardly of him if he sought to detain me longer. But his acquiescence should engage my gratitude.
And then stooping to take up the key to let myself into the garden, he started and looked as if he had heard somebody near the door, on the inside, clapping his hand on his sword.
This frighted me so, that I thought I should have sunk down at his feet. But he instantly reassured me: he thought, he said, he had heard a rustling against the door: but had it been so, the noise would have been stronger. It was only the effect of his apprehension for my mind’s sake.
And then taking up the key, he presented it to me. If you will go, madam—yet I cannot, cannot leave you! I must enter the garden with you—forgive me, but I must enter the garden with you.
And will you, will you, thus ungenerously, sir, take advantage of my fears!—of my wishes to prevent mischief? I, vain fool, to be concerned for everyone; nobody for me!
I was offering the key to the lock, when, starting from his knees, with a voice of affrightment loudly whispering, and as if out of breath, They are at the door, my beloved creature! And taking the key from me, he flew to it, and fluttered with it as if he would double-lock it. And instantly a voice from within cried out, bursting against the door, as if to break it open, and, repeating its violent pushes: Are you there? Come up this moment!—this moment! Here they are—Here they are both together! Your pistol this moment! your gun! Then another push, and another. He at the same moment drew his sword, and clapping it naked under his arm, took both my trembling hands in his; and, drawing me swiftly after him: Fly, my charmer; this moment is all you have for it! said he. Your brother!—your uncles! or this S
olmes!—they will instantly burst the door! Fly, my dearest life! if you would not be more cruelly used than ever!—if you would not see two or three murders committed at your feet, fly, fly, I beseech you!
Now behind me, now before me, now on this side, now on that, turned I my affrighted face in the same moment; expecting a furious brother here, armed servants there, an enraged sister screaming and a father armed with terror in his countenance, more dreadful than even the drawn sword which I saw or those I apprehended. I ran as fast as he, yet knew not that I ran; my fears at the same time that they took all power of thinking from me adding wings to my feet: my fears, which probably would not have suffered me to know what course to take, had I not had him to urge and draw me after him: especially as I beheld a man, who must have come out of the garden door, keeping us in his eye, running backward and forward, beckoning and calling out to others, whom I supposed he saw, although the turning of the wall hindered me from seeing them; and whom I imagined to be my brother, my father and their servants.
Thus terrified, I was got out of sight of the door in a very few minutes: and then, although quite breathless between running and apprehension, he put my arm under his, his drawn sword in the other hand, and hurried me on still faster: my voice, however, contradicting my action; crying, No, no, no, all the while, straining my neck to look back as long as the walls of the garden and park were within sight, and till he brought me to his uncle’s chariot: where attending were two armed servants of his own, and two of Lord M.’s on horseback.
• • •
Here I must suspend my relation for a while: for now I am come to this sad period of it, my indiscretion stares me in the face: and my shame and my grief give me a compunction that is more poignant, methinks, than if I had a dagger in my heart. To have it to reflect, that I should so inconsiderately give in to an interview which, had I known either myself or him, or in the least considered the circumstances of the case, I might have supposed would put me into the power of his resolution and out of that of my own reason.
Clarissa--Or the History of a Young Lady Page 17
