LETTER XXX
MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE SATURDAY, APRIL 2.
I ought yesterday to have acknowledged the receipt of your parcel. Robin tells me, that the Joseph Leman, whom you mention as the traitor, saw him. He was in the poultry-yard, and spoke to Robin over the bank which divides that from the green-lane. 'What brings you hither, Mr. Robert?—But I can tell. Hie away, as fast as you can.'
No doubt but their dependence upon this fellow's vigilance, and upon Betty's, leaves you more at liberty in your airings, than you would otherwise be. But you are the only person I ever heard of, who in such circumstances had not some faithful servant to trust little offices to. A poet, my dear, would not have gone to work for an Angelica, without giving her her Violetta, her Cleante, her Clelia, or some such pretty-named confidant—an old nurse at the least.
I read to my mother several passages of your letters. But your last paragraph, in your yesterday's quite charmed her. You have won her heart by it, she told me. And while her fit of gratitude for it lasted, I was thinking to make my proposal, and to press it with all the earnestness I could give it, when Hickman came in, making his legs, and stroking his cravat and ruffles.
I could most freely have ruffled him for it. As it was—Sir, said I, saw you not some of the servants?—Could not one of them have come in before you?
He begged pardon: looked as if he knew not whether he had best keep his ground, or withdraw:—Till my mother, his fast friend, interposed—Why, Nancy, we are not upon particulars.—Pray, Mr. Hickman, sit down.
By your le—ave, good Madam, to me. You know his drawl, when his muscles give him the respectful hesitation.—
Ay, ay, pray sit down, honest man, if you are weary—but by mamma, if you please. I desire my hoop may have its full circumference. All they're good for, that I know, is to clean dirty shoes, and to keep fellows at a distance.
Strange girl! cried my mother, displeased; but with a milder turn, ay, ay, Mr. Hickman, sit down by me: I have no such forbidding folly in my dress.
I looked serious; and in my heart was glad this speech of hers was not made to your uncle Antony.
My mother, with the true widow's freedom, would mighty prudently have led into the subject we had been upon; and would have had read to him, I question not, that very paragraph in your letter which is so much in his favour. He was highly obliged to dear Miss Harlowe, she would assure him; that she did say—
But I asked him, if he had any news by his last letters from London?—A question which he always understands to be a subject changer; for otherwise I never put it. And so if he be but silent, I am not angry with him that he answers it not.
I choose not to mention my proposal before him, till I know how it will be relished by my mother. If it be not well received, perhaps I may employ him on the occasion. Yet I don't like to owe him an obligation, if I could help it. For men who have his views in their heads, do so parade it, so strut about, if a woman condescend to employ them in her affairs, that one has no patience with them.
However, if I find not an opportunity this day, I will make one to-morrow.
I shall not open either of your sealed-up parcels, but in your presence. There is no need. Your conduct is out of all question with me: and by the extracts you have given me from his letters and your own, I know all that relates to the present situation of things between you.
I was going to give you a little flippant hint or two. But since you wish to be thought superior to all our sex in the command of yourself; and since indeed you deserve to be thought so; I will spare you. You are, however, at times, more than half inclined to speak out. That you do not, is only owing to a little bashful struggle between you and yourself, as I may say. When that is quite got over, I know you will favour me undisguisedly with the result.
I cannot forgive your taking upon me (at so extravagant a rate too) to pay my mother's servants. Indeed I am, and I will be, angry with you for it. A year's wages at once well nigh! only as, unknown to my mother, I make it better for the servants according to their merits—how it made the man stare!—And it may be his ruin too, as far as I know. If he should buy a ring, and marry a sorry body in the neighbourhood with the money, one would be loth, a twelvemonth hence, that the poor old fellow should think he had reason to wish the bounty never conferred.
I MUST give you your way in these things, you say.—And I know there is no contradicting you: for you were ever putting too great a value upon little offices done for you, and too little upon the great ones you do for others. The satisfaction you have in doing so, I grant it, repays you. But why should you, by the nobleness of your mind, throw reproaches upon the rest of the world? particularly, upon your own family—and upon ours too?
If, as I have heard you say, it is a good rule to give WORDS the hearing, but to form our judgment of men and things by DEEDS ONLY; what shall we think of one, who seeks to find palliatives in words, for narrowness of heart in the very persons her deeds so silently, yet so forcibly, reflect upon? Why blush you not, my dear friend, to be thus singular?—When you meet with another person whose mind is like your own, then display your excellencies as you please: but till then, for pity's sake, let your heart and your spirit suffer a little contradiction.
I intended to write but a few lines; chiefly to let you know your parcels are come safe. And accordingly I began in a large hand; and I am already come to the end of my second sheet. But I could write a quire without hesitation upon a subject so copious and so beloved as is your praise. Not for this single instance of your generosity; since I am really angry with you for it; but for the benevolence exemplified in the whole tenor of your life and action; of which this is but a common instance. Heaven direct you, in your own arduous trials, is all I have room to add; and make you as happy, as you think to be
Your own ANNA HOWE.
LETTER XXXI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SUNDAY NIGHT, APRIL 2.
I have many new particulars to acquaint you with, that shew a great change in the behaviour of my friends as I find we have. I will give these particulars to you as they offered.
All the family was at church in the morning. They brought good Dr. Lewen with them, in pursuance of a previous invitation. And the doctor sent up to desire my permission to attend me in my own apartment.
You may believe it was easily granted.
So the doctor came up.
We had a conversation of near an hour before dinner: but, to my surprise, he waved every thing that would have led me to the subject I supposed he wanted to talk about. At last, I asked him, if it were not thought strange I should be so long absent from church? He made me some handsome compliments upon it: but said, for his part, he had ever made it a rule to avoid interfering in the private concerns of families, unless desired to do so.
I was prodigiously disappointed; but supposing that he was thought too just a man to be made a judge of in this cause; I led no more to it: nor, when he was called down to dinner, did he take the least notice of leaving me behind him there.
But this was not the first time since my confinement that I thought it a hardship not to dine below. And when I parted with him on the stairs, a tear would burst its way; and he hurried down; his own good-natured eyes glistening; for he saw it.—Nor trusted he his voice, lest the accent I suppose should have discovered his concern; departing in silence; though with his usual graceful obligingness.
I hear that he praised me, and my part in the conversation that passed between us. To shew them, I suppose, that it was not upon the interesting subjects which I make no doubt he was desired not to enter upon.
He left me so dissatisfied, yet so perplexed with this new way of treatment, that I never found myself so much disconcerted, and out of my train.
But I was to be more so. This was to be a day of puzzle to me. Pregnant puzzle, if I may say so: for there must great meaning lie behind it.
In the afternoon, all but my brother and sister went to church with the good doctor; who left his compliments for me. I took a walk in the garden. My brother and sister walked in it too, and kept me in their eye a good while, on purpose, as I thought, that I might see how gay and good-humoured they were together. At last they came down the walk that I was coming up, hand-in-hand, lover-like.
Your servant, Miss—your servant, Sir—passed between my brother and me.
Is it not coldish, Clary! in a kinder voice than usual, said my sister, and stopped.—I stopped and courtesied low to her half-courtesy.—I think not, Sister, said I.
She went on. I courtesied without return; and proceeded, turning to my poultry-yard.
By a shorter turn, arm-in-arm, they were there before me.
I think, Clary, said my brother, you must present me with some of this breed, for Scotland.
If you please, Brother.
I'll choose for you, said my sister.
And while I fed them, they pointed to half a dozen: yet intending nothing by it, I believe, but to shew a deal of love and good-humour to each other before me.
My uncles next, (at their return from church) were to do me the honour of their notice. They bid Betty tell me, they would drink tea with me in my own apartment. Now, thought I, shall I have the subject of next Tuesday enforced upon me.
But they contradicted the order for tea, and only my uncle Harlowe came up to me.
Half-distant, half-affectionate, at his entering my chamber, was the air he put on to his daughter-niece, as he used to call me; and I threw myself at his feet, and besought his favour.
None of these discomposures, Child. None of these apprehensions. You will now have every body's favour. All is coming about, my dear. I was impatient to see you. I could no longer deny myself this satisfaction. He then raised me, and kissed me, and called me charming creature!
But he waved entering into any interesting subject. All will be well now. All will be right!—No more complainings! every body loves you!—I only came to make my earliest court to you! [were his condescending words] and to sit and talk of twenty and twenty fond things, as I used to do. And let every past disagreeable thing be forgotten; as if nothing had happened.
He understood me as beginning to hint at the disgrace of my confinement—No disgrace my dear can fall to your lot: your reputation is too well established.—I longed to see you, repeated me—I have seen nobody half so amiable since I saw you last.
And again he kissed my cheek, my glowing cheek; for I was impatient, I was vexed, to be thus, as I thought, played upon: And how could I be thankful for a visit, that (it was now evident) was only a too humble artifice, to draw me in against the next Tuesday, or to leave me inexcusable to them all?
O my cunning brother!—This is his contrivance. And then my anger made me recollect the triumph in his and my sister's fondness for each other, as practised before me; and the mingled indignation flashing from their eyes, as arm-in-arm they spoke to me, and the forced condescension playing upon their lips, when they called me Clary, and Sister.
Do you think I could, with these reflections, look upon my uncle Harlowe's visit as the favour he seemed desirous I should think it to be?—Indeed I could not; and seeing him so studiously avoid all recrimination, as I may call it, I gave into the affectation; and followed him in his talk of indifferent things: while he seemed to admire this thing and that, as if he had never seen them before; and now-and then condescendingly kissed the hand that wrought some of the things he fixed his eyes upon; not so much to admire them, as to find subjects to divert what was most in his head, and in my heart.
At his going away—How can I leave you here by yourself, my dear? you, whose company used to enliven us all. You are not expected down indeed: but I protest I had a good mind to surprise your father and mother!—If I thought nothing would arise that would be disagreeable—My dear! my love! [O the dear artful gentleman! how could my uncle Harlowe so dissemble?] What say you? Will you give me your hands? Will you see your father? Can you stand his displeasure, on first seeing the dear creature who has given him and all of us so much disturbance? Can you promise future—
He saw me rising in my temper—Nay, my dear, interrupting himself, if you cannot be all resignation, I would not have you think of it.
My heart, struggling between duty and warmth of temper, was full. You know, my dear, I never could bear to be dealt meanly with!—How—how can you, Sir! you my Papa-uncle—How can you, Sir!—The poor girl!—for I could not speak with connexion.
Nay, my dear, if you cannot be all duty, all resignation—better stay where you are.—But after the instance you have given—
Instance I have given!—What instance, Sir?
Well, well, Child, better stay where you are, if your past confinement hangs so heavy upon you—but now there will be a sudden end to it—Adieu, my dear!—Three words only—Let your compliance be sincere!—and love me, as you used to love me—your Grandfather did not do so much for you, as I will do for you.
Without suffering me to reply, he hurried away, as I thought, like one who has been employed to act a part against his will, and was glad it was over.
Don't you see, my dear Miss Howe, how they are all determined?—Have I not reason to dread next Tuesday?
Up presently after came my sister:—to observe, I suppose, the way I was in.
She found me in tears.
Have you not a Thomas a Kempis, Sister? with a stiff air.
I have, Madam.
Madam!—How long are we to be at this distance, Clary?
No longer, my dear Bella, if you allow me to call you sister. And I took her hand.
No fawning neither, Girl!
I withdrew my hand as hastily, as you may believe I should have done, had I, in feeling for one of your parcels under the wood, been bitten by a viper.
I beg pardon, said I,—Too-too ready to make advances, I am always subjecting myself to contempts.
People who know not how to keep a middle behaviour, said she, must ever do so.
I will fetch you the Kempis, Sister. I did. Here it is. You will find excellent things, Bella, in that little book.
I wish, retorted she, you had profited by them.
I wish you may, said I. Example from a sister older than one's self is a fine thing.
Older! saucy little fool!—And away she flung.
What a captious old woman will my sister make, if she lives to be one!—demanding the reverence, perhaps, yet not aiming at the merit; and ashamed of the years that can only entitle her to the reverence.
It is plain, from what I have related, that they think they have got me at some advantage by obtaining my consent to the interview: but if it were not, Betty's impertinence just now would make it evident. She has been complimenting me upon it; and upon the visit of my uncle Harlowe. She says, the difficulty now is more than half over with me. She is sure I would not see Mr. Solmes, but to have him. Now shall she be soon better employed than of late she has been. All hands will be at work. She loves dearly to have weddings go forward!—Who knows, whose turn will be next?
I found in the afternoon a reply to my answer to Mr. Lovelace's letter. It is full of promises, full of vows of gratitude, of eternal gratitude, is his word, among others still more hyperbolic. Yet Mr. Lovelace, the least of any man whose letters I have seen, runs into those elevated absurdities. I should be apt to despise him for it, if he did. Such language looks always to me, as if the flatterer thought to find a woman a fool, or hoped to make her one.
'He regrets my indifference to him; which puts all the hope he has in my favour upon the shocking usage I receive from my friends.
'As to my charge upon him of unpoliteness and uncontroulableness—What [he asks] can he say? since being unable absolutely to vindicate himself, he has too much ingenuousness to attempt to do so: yet is struck dumb by my harsh construction, that his acknowledging temper is owing more to his carelessness to defend himself, than to his inclination to amend. He had never before met with the objections against his morals which I had raised, justly raised: and he was resolved to obviate them. What is it, he asks, that he has promised, but reformation by my example? And what occasion for the promise, if he had not faults, and those very great ones, to reform? He hopes acknowledgement of an error is no bad sign; although my severe virtue has interpreted it into one.
'He believes I may be right (severely right, he calls it) in my judgment against making reprisals in the case of the intelligence he receives from my family: he cannot charge himself to be of a temper that leads him to be inquisitive into any body's private affairs; but hopes, that the circumstances of the case, and the strange conduct of my friends, will excuse him; especially when so much depends upon his knowing the movements of a family so violently bent, by measures right or wrong, to carry their point against me, in malice to him. People, he says, who act like angels, ought to have angels to deal with. For his part, he has not yet learned the difficult lesson of returning good for evil: and shall think himself the less encouraged to learn it by the treatment I have met with from the very persons who would trample upon him, as they do upon me, were he to lay himself under their feet.
'He excuses himself for the liberties he owns he has heretofore taken in ridiculing the marriage-state. It is a subject, he says, that he has not of late treated so lightly. He owns it to be so trite, so beaten a topic with all libertines and witlings; so frothy, so empty, so nothing meaning, so worn-out a theme, that he is heartily ashamed of himself, ever to have made it his. He condemns it as a stupid reflection upon the laws and good order of society, and upon a man's own ancestors: and in himself, who has some reason to value himself upon his descent and alliances, more censurable, than in those who have not the same advantages to boast of. He promises to be more circumspect than ever, both in his words and actions, that he may be more and more worthy of my approbation; and that he may give an assurance before hand, that a foundation is laid in his mind for my example to work upon with equal reputation and effect to us both;—if he may be so happy to call me his.
'He gives me up, as absolutely lost, if I go to my uncle Antony's; the close confinement; the moated house; the chapel; the implacableness of my brother and sister; and their power over the rest of the family, he sets forth in strong lights; and plainly says, that he must have a struggle to prevent my being carried thither.'
Your kind, your generous endeavours to interest your mother in my behalf, will, I hope, prevent those harsher extremities to which I might be otherwise driven. And to you I will fly, if permitted, and keep all my promises, of not corresponding with any body, not seeing any body, but by your mother's direction and yours.
I will close and deposit at this place. It is not necessary to say, how much I am
Your ever affectionate and obliged CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER XXXII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
I am glad my papers are safe in your hands. I will make it my endeavour to deserve your good opinion, that I may not at once disgrace your judgment, and my own heart.
I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. He is extremely apprehensive of the meeting I am to have with Mr. Solmes to-morrow. He says, 'that the airs that wretch gives himself on the occasion add to his concern; and it is with infinite difficulty that he prevails upon himself not to make him a visit to let him know what he may expect, if compulsion be used towards me in his favour. He assures me, that Solmes has actually talked with tradesmen of new equipages, and names the people in town with whom he has treated: that he has even' [Was there ever such a horrid wretch!] 'allotted this and that apartment in his house, for a nursery, and other offices.'
How shall I bear to hear such a creature talk of love to me? I shall be out of all patience with him. Besides, I thought that he did not dare to make or talk of these impudent preparations.—So inconsistent as such are with my brother's views—but I fly the subject.
Upon this confidence of Solmes, you will less wonder at that of Lovelace, 'in pressing me in the name of all his family, to escape from so determined a violence as is intended to be offered to me at my uncle's: that the forward contriver should propose Lord M.'s chariot and six to be at the stile that leads up to the lonely coppice adjoining to our paddock. You will see how audaciously he mentions settlements ready drawn; horsemen ready to mount; and one of his cousins Montague to be in the chariot, or at the George in the neighbouring village, waiting to accompany me to Lord M.'s, or to Lady Betty's or Lady Sarah's, or to town, as I please; and upon such orders, or conditions, and under such restrictions, as to himself, as I shall prescribe.'
You will see how he threatens, 'To watch and waylay them, and to rescue me as he calls it, by an armed force of friends and servants, if they attempt to carry me against my will to my uncle's; and this, whether I give my consent to the enterprise, or not:—since he shall have no hopes if I am once there.'
O my dear friend! Who can think of these things, and not be extremely miserable in her apprehensions!
This mischievous sex! What had I to do with any of them; or they with me?—I had deserved this, were it by my own seeking, by my own giddiness, that I had brought myself into this situation—I wish with all my heart—but how foolish we are apt to wish when we find ourselves unhappy, and know not how to help ourselves!
On your mother's goodness, however, is my reliance. If I can but avoid being precipitated on either hand, till my cousin Morden arrives, a reconciliation must follow; and all will be happy.
I have deposited a letter for Mr. Lovelace; in which 'I charge him, as he would not disoblige me for ever, to avoid any rash step, any visit to Mr. Solmes, which may be followed by acts of violence.'
I re-assure him, 'That I will sooner die than be that man's wife.
'Whatever be my usage, whatever shall be the result of the apprehended interview, I insist upon it that he presume not to offer violence to any of my friends: and express myself highly displeased, that he should presume upon such an interest in my esteem, as to think himself entitled to dispute my father's authority in my removal to my uncle's; although I tell him, that I will omit neither prayers nor contrivance, even to the making myself ill, to avoid going.'
To-morrow is Tuesday! How soon comes upon us the day we dread!—Oh that a deep sleep of twenty four hours would seize my faculties!—But then the next day would be Tuesday, as to all the effects and purposes for which I so much dread it. If this reach you before the event of the so much apprehended interview can be known, pray for
Your CLARISSA HARLOWE.
LETTER XXXIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY MORNING, SIX O'CLOCK.
The day is come!—I wish it were happily over. I have had a wretched night. Hardly a wink have I slept, ruminating upon the approaching interview. The very distance of time to which they consented, has added solemnity to the meeting, which otherwise it would not have had.
A thoughtful mind is not a blessing to be coveted, unless it had such a happy vivacity with it as yours: a vivacity, which enables a person to enjoy the present, without being over-anxious about the future.
TUESDAY, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.
I have had a visit from my aunt Hervey. Betty, in her alarming way, told me, I should have a lady to breakfast with me, whom I little expected; giving me to believe it was my mother. This fluttered me so much, on hearing a lady coming up-stairs, supposing it was she, (and not knowing how to account for her motives in such a visit, after I had been so long banished from her presence,) that my aunt, at her entrance, took notice of my disorder; and, after her first salutation,
Why, Miss, said she, you seem surprised.—Upon my word, you thoughtful young ladies have strange apprehensions about nothing at all. What, taking my hand, can be the matter with you?—Why, my dear, tremble, tremble, tremble, at this rate? You'll not be fit to be seen by any body. Come, my love, kissing my cheek, pluck up a courage. By this needless flutter on the approaching interview, when it is over you will judge of your other antipathies, and laugh at yourself for giving way to so apprehensive an imagination.
I said, that whatever we strongly imagined, was in its effect at the time more than imaginary, although to others it might not appear so: that I had not rested one hour all night: that the impertinent set over me, by giving me room to think my mother was coming up, had so much disconcerted me, that I should be very little qualified to see any body I disliked to see.
There was no accounting for these things, she said. Mr. Solmes last night supposed he should be under as much agitation as I could be.
Who is it, then, Madam, that so reluctant an interview on both sides, is to please?
Both of you, my dear, I hope, after the first flurries are over. The most apprehensive beginnings, I have often known, make the happiest conclusions.
There can be but one happy conclusion to the intended visit; and that is, That both sides may be satisfied it will be the last.
She then represented how unhappy it would be for me, if I did not suffer myself to be prevailed upon: she pressed me to receive Mr. Solmes as became my education: and declared, that his apprehensions on the expectation he had of seeing me, were owing to his love and his awe; intimating, That true love is ever accompanied by fear and reverence; and that no blustering, braving lover could deserve encouragement.
To this I answered, That constitution was to be considered: that a man of spirit would act like one, and could do nothing meanly: that a creeping mind would creep into every thing, where it had a view to obtain a benefit by it; and insult, where it had power, and nothing to expect: that this was not a point now to be determined with me: that I had said as much as I could possibly say on the subject: that this interview was imposed upon me: by those, indeed, who had a right to impose it: but that it was sorely against my will complied with: and for this reason, that there was aversion, not wilfulness, in the case; and so nothing could come of it, but a pretence, as I much apprehended, to use me still more severely than I had been used.
She was then pleased to charge me with prepossession and prejudice. She expatiated upon the duty of a child. She imputed to me abundance of fine qualities; but told me, that, in this case, that of persuadableness was wanting to crown all. She insisted upon the merit of obedience, although my will were not in it. From a little hint I gave of my still greater dislike to see Mr. Solmes, on account of the freedom I had treated him with, she talked to me of his forgiving disposition; of his infinite respect for me; and I cannot tell what of this sort.
I never found myself so fretful in my life: and so I told my aunt; and begged her pardon for it. But she said, it was well disguised then; for she saw nothing but little tremors, which were usual with young ladies when they were to see their admirers for the first time; and this might be called so, with respect to me; since it was the first time I had consented to see Mr. Solmes in that light—but that the next—
How, Madam, interrupted I—Is it then imagined, that I give this meeting on that footing?
To be sure it is, Child.
To be sure it is, Madam! Then I do yet desire to decline it.—I will not, I cannot, see him, if he expects me to see him upon those terms.
Niceness, punctilio, mere punctilio, Niece!—Can you think that your appointment, (day, place, hour,) and knowing what the intent of it was, is to be interpreted away as a mere ceremony, and to mean nothing?—Let me tell you, my dear, your father, mother, uncles, every body, respect this appointment as the first act of your compliance with their wills: and therefore recede not, I desire you; but make a merit of what cannot be avoided.
O the hideous wretch!—Pardon me, Madam.—I to be supposed to meet such a man as that, with such a view! and he to be armed with such an expectation!—But it cannot be that he expects it, whatever others may do.—It is plain he cannot, by the fears he tell you all he shall have to see me. If his hope were so audacious, he could not fear so much.
Indeed, he has this hope; and justly founded too. But his fear arises from his reverence, as I told you before.
His reverence!—his unworthiness!—'Tis so apparent, that even he himself sees it, as well as every body else. Hence his offers to purchase me! Hence it is, that settlements are to make up for acknowledged want of merit!
His unworthiness, say you!—Not so fast, my dear. Does not this look like setting a high value upon yourself?—We all have exalted notions of your merit, Niece; but nevertheless, it would not be wrong, if you were to arrogate less to yourself; though more were to be your due than your friends attribute to you.
I am sorry, Madam, it should be thought arrogance in me, to suppose I am not worthy of a better man than Mr. Solmes, both as to person and mind: and as to fortune, I thank God I despise all that can be insisted upon in his favour from so poor a plea.
She told me, It signified nothing to talk: I knew the expectation of every one.
Indeed I did not. It was impossible I could think of such a strange expectation, upon a compliance made only to shew I would comply in all that was in my power to comply with.
I might easily, she said, have supposed, that every one thought I was beginning to oblige them all, by the kind behaviour of my brother and sister to me in the garden, last Sunday; by my sister's visit to me afterwards in my chamber (although both more stiffly received by me, than were either wished or expected); by my uncle Harlowe's affectionate visit to me the same afternoon, not indeed so very gratefully received as I used to receive his favours:—but this he kindly imputed to the displeasure I had conceived at my confinement, and to my intention to come off by degrees, that I might keep myself in countenance for my past opposition.
See, my dear, the low cunning of that Sunday-management, which then so much surprised me! And see the reason why Dr. Lewen was admitted to visit me, yet forbore to enter upon a subject about which I thought he came to talk to me!—For it seems there was no occasion to dispute with me on the point I was to be supposed to have conceded to.—See, also, how unfairly my brother and sister must have represented their pretended kindness, when (though the had an end to answer by appearing kind) their antipathy to me seems to have been so strong, that they could not help insulting me by their arm-in-arm lover-like behaviour to each other; as my sister afterwards likewise did, when she came to borrow my Kempis.
I lifted up my hands and eyes! I cannot, said I, give this treatment a name! The end so unlikely to be answered by means so low! I know whose the whole is! He that could get my uncle Harlowe to contribute his part, and to procure the acquiescence of the rest of my friends to it, must have the power to do any thing with them against me.
Again my aunt told me, that talking and invective, now I had given the expectation, would signify nothing. She hoped I would not shew every one, that they had been too forward in their constructions of my desire to oblige them. She could assure me, that it would be worse for me, if now I receded, than if I had never advanced.
Advanced, Madam! How can you say advanced? Why, this is a trick upon me! A poor low trick! Pardon me, Madam, I don't say you have a hand in it.—But, my dearest Aunt, tell me, Will not my mother be present at this dreaded interview? Will she not so far favour me? Were it but to qualify—
Qualify, my dear, interrupted she—your mother, and your uncle Harlowe would not be present on this occasion for the world—
O then, Madam, how can they look upon my consent to this interview as an advance?
My aunt was displeased at this home-push. Miss Clary, said she, there is no dealing with you. It would be happy for you, and for every body else, were your obedience as ready as your wit. I will leave you—
Not in anger, I hope, Madam, interrupted I—all I meant was, to observe, that let the meeting issue as it may, and as it must issue, it cannot be a disappointment to any body.
O Miss! you seem to be a very determined young creature. Mr. Solmes will be here at your time: and remember once more, that upon the coming afternoon depend upon the peace of your whole family, and your own happiness.
And so saying, down she hurried.
Here I will stop. In what way I shall resume, or when, is not left to me to conjecture; much less determine. I am excessively uneasy!—No good news from your mother, I doubt!—I will deposit thus far, for fear of the worst.
Adieu, my best, rather, my only friend! CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER XXXIV
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY EVENING; AND CONTINUED THROUGH THE NIGHT.
Well, my dear, I am alive, and here! but how long I shall be either here, or alive, I cannot say. I have a vast deal to write; and perhaps shall have little time for it. Nevertheless, I must tell you how the saucy Betty again discomposed me, when she came up with this Solmes's message; although, as you will remember from my last, I was in a way before that wanted no additional surprises.
Miss! Miss! Miss! cried she, as fast as she could speak, with her arms spread abroad, and all her fingers distended, and held up, will you be pleased to walk down into your own parlour?—There is every body, I will assure you in full congregation!—And there is Mr. Solmes, as fine as a lord, with a charming white peruke, fine laced shirt and ruffles, coat trimmed with silver, and a waistcoat standing on end with lace!—Quite handsome, believe me!—You never saw such an alteration!—Ah! Miss, shaking her head, 'tis pity you have said so much against him! but you will know how to come off for all that!—I hope it will not be too late!
Impertinence! said I—Wert thou bid to come up in this fluttering way?—and I took up my fan, and fanned myself.
Bless me! said she, how soon these fine young ladies will be put into flusterations!—I mean not either to offend or frighten you, I am sure.—
Every body there, do you say?—Who do you call every body?
Why, Miss, holding out her left palm opened, and with a flourish, and a saucy leer, patting it with the fore finger of the other, at every mentioned person, there is your papa!—there is your mamma!—there is your uncle Harlowe!—there is your uncle Antony!—your aunt Hervey!—my young lady!—and my young master!—and Mr. Solmes, with the air of a great courtier, standing up, because he named you:—Mrs. Betty, said he, [then the ape of a wench bowed and scraped, as awkwardly as I suppose the person did whom she endeavoured to imitate,] pray give my humble service to Miss, and tell her, I wait her commands.
Was not this a wicked wench?—I trembled so, I could hardly stand. I was spiteful enough to say, that her young mistress, I supposed, bid her put on these airs, to frighten me out of a capacity of behaving so calmly as should procure me my uncles' compassion.
What a way do you put yourself in, Miss, said the insolent!—Come, dear Madam, taking up my fan, which I had laid down, and approaching me with it, fanning, shall I—
None of thy impertinence!—But say you, all my friends are below with him? And am I to appear before them all?
I can't tell if they'll stay when you come. I think they seemed to be moving when Mr. Solmes gave me his orders.—But what answer shall I carry to the 'squire?
Say, I can't go!—but yet when 'tis over, 'tis over!—Say, I'll wait upon—I'll attend—I'll come presently—say anything; I care not what—but give me my fan, and fetch me a glass of water—
She went, and I fanned myself all the time; for I was in a flame; and hemmed, and struggled with myself all I could; and, when she returned, drank my water; and finding no hope presently of a quieter heart, I sent her down, and followed her with precipitation; trembling so, that, had I not hurried, I question if I could have got down at all.—Oh my dear, what a poor, passive machine is the body when the mind is disordered!
There are two doors to my parlour, as I used to call it. As I entered one, my friends hurried out the other. I just saw the gown of my sister, the last who slid away. My uncle Antony went out with them: but he staid not long, as you shall hear; and they all remained in the next parlour, a wainscot partition only parting the two. I remember them both in one: but they were separated in favour of us girls, for each to receive her visitors in at her pleasure.
Mr. Solmes approached me as soon as I entered, cringing to the ground, a visible confusion in every feature of his face. After half a dozen choaked-up Madams,—he was very sorry—he was very much concerned—it was his misfortune—and there he stopped, being unable presently to complete a sentence.
This gave me a little more presence of mind. Cowardice in a foe begets courage in one's self—I see that plainly now—yet perhaps, at bottom, the new-made bravo is a greater coward than the other.
I turned from him, and seated myself in one of the fireside chairs, fanning myself. I have since recollected, that I must have looked very saucily. Could I have had any thoughts of the man, I should have despised myself for it. But what can be said in the case of an aversion so perfectly sincere?
He hemmed five or six times, as I had done above; and these produced a sentence—that I could not but see his confusion. This sentence produced two or three more. I believe my aunt had been his tutoress; for it was his awe, his reverence for so superlative a Lady [I assure you!] And he hoped—he hoped—three times he hoped, before he told me what—at last it came out, that I was too generous (generosity, he said, was my character) to despise him for such—for such—for such—true tokens of his love.
I do indeed see you under some confusion, Sir; and this gives me hope, that although I have been compelled, as I may call it, to give way to this interview, it may be attended with happier effects than I had apprehended from it.
He had hemmed himself into more courage.
You could not, Madam, imagine any creature so blind to your merits, and so little attracted by them, as easily to forego the interest and approbation he was honoured with by your worthy family, while he had any hope given him, that one day he might, by his perseverance and zeal, expect your favour.
I am but too much aware, Sir, that it is upon the interest and approbation you mention, that you build such hope. It is impossible otherwise, that a man, who has any regard for his own happiness, would persevere against such declarations as I have made, and think myself obliged to make, in justice to you, as well as to myself.
He had seen many instances, he told me, and had heard of more, where ladies had seemed as averse, and yet had been induced, some by motives of compassion, others by persuasion of friends, to change their minds; and had been very happy afterwards: and he hoped this might be the case here.
I have no notion, Sir, of compliment, in an article of such importance as this: yet I am sorry to be obliged to speak my mind so plainly as I am going to do.—Know then, that I have invincible objections, Sir, to your address. I have avowed them with an earnestness that I believe is without example: and why?—because I believe it is without example that any young creature, circumstanced as I am, was ever treated as I have been treated on your account.
It is hoped, Madam, that your consent may in time be obtained—that is the hope; and I shall be a miserable man if it cannot.
Better, Sir, give me leave to say, you were miserable by yourself, than that you should make two so.
You may have heard, Madam, things to my disadvantage. No man is without enemies. Be pleased to let me know what you have heard, and I will either own my faults, and amend; or I will convince you that I am basely bespattered: and once I understand you overheard something that I should say, that gave you offence: unguardedly, perhaps; but nothing but what shewed my value, and that I would persist so long as I have hope.
I have indeed heard many things to your disadvantage:—and I was far from being pleased with what I overheard fall from your lips: but as you were not any thing to me, and never could be, it was not for me to be concerned about the one or the other.
I am sorry, Madam, to hear this. I am sure you should not tell me of my fault, that I would be unwilling to correct in myself.
Then, Sir, correct this fault—do not wish to have a young creature compelled in the most material article of her life, for the sake of motives she despises; and in behalf of a person she cannot value: one that has, in her own right, sufficient to set her above all your offers, and a spirit that craves no more than what it has, to make itself easy and happy.
I don't see, Madam, how you would be happy, if I were to discontinue my address: for—
That is nothing to you, Sir, interrupted I: do you but withdraw your pretensions: and if it will be thought fit to start up another man for my punishment, the blame will not lie at your door. You will be entitled to my thanks, and most heartily will I thank you.
He paused, and seemed a little at a loss: and I was going to give him still stronger and more personal instances of my plain-dealing; when in came my uncle Antony.
So, Niece, so!—sitting in state like a queen, giving audience! haughty audience!—Mr. Solmes, why stand you thus humbly?—Why this distance, man? I hope to see you upon a more intimate footing before we part.
I arose, as soon as he entered—and approached him with a bend knee: Let me, Sir, reverence my uncle, whom I have not for so long time seen!—Let me, Sir, bespeak your favour and compassion.
You will have the favour of every body, Niece, when you know how to deserve it.
If ever I deserved it, I deserve it now.—I have been hardly used!—I have made proposals that ought to be accepted, and such as would not have been asked of me. What have I done, that I must be banished and confined thus disgracefully? that I must not be allowed to have any free-will in an article that concerns my present and future happiness?—
Miss Clary, replied my uncle, you have had your will in every thing till now; and this makes your parents' will sit so heavy upon you.
My will, Sir! be pleased to allow me to ask, what was my will till now, but my father's will, and yours and my uncle Harlowe's will?—Has it not been my pride to obey and oblige?—I never asked a favour, that I did not first sit down and consider, if it were fit to be granted. And now, to shew my obedience, have I not offered to live single?—Have I not offered to divest myself of my grandfather's bounty, and to cast myself upon my father's! and that to be withdrawn, whenever I disoblige him? Why, dear, good Sir, am I to be made unhappy in a point so concerning my happiness?
Your grandfather's estate is not wished from you. You are not desired to live a single life. You know our motives, and we guess at yours. And, let me tell you, well as we love you, we should much sooner choose to follow you to the grave, than that yours should take place.
I will engage never to marry any man, without my father's consent, and yours, Sir, and every body's. Did I ever give you cause to doubt my word?—And here I will take the solemnest oath that can be offered me—
That is the matrimonial one, interrupted he, with a big voice—and to this gentleman.—It shall, it shall, cousin Clary!—And the more you oppose it, the worse it shall be for you.
This, and before the man, who seemed to assume courage upon it, highly provoked me.
Then, Sir, you shall sooner follow me to the grave indeed.—I will undergo the cruelest death—I will even consent to enter into that awful vault of my ancestors, and have that bricked up upon me, rather than consent to be miserable for life. And, Mr. Solmes, turning to him, take notice of what I say: This or any death, I will sooner undergo [that will quickly be over] than be yours, and for ever unhappy!
My uncle was in a terrible rage upon this. He took Mr. Solmes by the hand, shocked as the man seemed to be, and drew him to the window—Don't be surprised, Mr. Solmes, don't be concerned at this. We know, and rapt out a sad oath, what women will say in their wrath: the wind is not more boisterous, nor more changeable; and again he swore to that.—If you think it worthwhile to wait for such an ungrateful girl as this, I'll engage she'll veer about; I'll engage she shall. And a third time violently swore to it.
Then coming up to me (who had thrown myself, very much disordered by my vehemence, into the most distant window) as if he would have beat me; his face violently working, his hands clinched, and his teeth set—Yes, yes, yes, you shall, Cousin Clary, be Mr. Solmes's wife; we will see that you shall; and this in one week at farthest.—And then a fourth time he confirmed it!—Poor gentleman! how he swore!
I am sorry, Sir, said I, to see you in such a passion. All this, I am but too sensible, is owing to my brother's instigation; who would not himself give the instance of duty that is sought to be exacted from me. It is best for me to withdraw. I shall but provoke you farther, I fear: for although I would gladly obey you if I could, yet this is a point determined with me; and I cannot so much as wish to get over it.
How could I avoid making these strong declarations, the man in presence?
I was going out at the door I came in at; the gentlemen looking upon one another, as if referring to each other what to do, or whether to engage my stay, or suffer me to go; and whom should I meet at the door but my brother, who had heard all that had passed!
He bolted upon me so unexpectedly, that I was surprised. He took my hand, and grasped it with violence: Return, pretty Miss, said he; return, if you please. You shall not yet be bricked up. Your instigating brother shall save you from that!—O thou fallen angel, said he, peering up to my downcast face—such a sweetness here!—and such an obstinacy there! tapping my neck—O thou true woman—though so young!—But you shall not have your rake: remember that; in a loud whisper, as if he would be decently indecent before the man. You shall be redeemed, and this worthy gentleman, raising his voice, will be so good as to redeem you from ruin—and hereafter you will bless him, or have reason to bless him, for his condescension; that was the brutal brother's word!
He had led me up to meet Mr. Solmes, whose hand he took, as he held mine. Here, Sir, said he, take the rebel daughter's hand: I give it you now: she shall confirm the gift in a week's time; or will have neither father, mother, nor uncles, to boast of.
I snatched my hand away.
How now, Miss—!
And how now, Sir!—What right have you to dispose of my hand?—If you govern every body else, you shall not govern me; especially in a point so immediately relative to myself, and in which you neither have, nor ever shall have, any thing to do.
I would have broken from him; but he held my hand too fast.
Let me go, Sir!—Why am I thus treated?—You design, I doubt not, with your unmanly gripings, to hurt me, as you do: But again I ask, wherefore is it that I am to be thus treated by you?
He tossed my hand from him with a whirl, that pained my very shoulder. I wept, and held my other hand to the part.
Mr. Solmes blamed him. So did my uncle.
He had no patience, he said, with such a perverse one; and to think of the reflections upon himself, before he entered. He had only given me back the hand I had not deserved he should touch. It was one of my arts to pretend to be so pained.
Mr. Solmes said, he would sooner give up all his hopes of me, than that I should be used unkindly.—And he offered to plead in my behalf to them both; and applied himself with a bow, as if for my approbation of his interposition.
Interpose not, Mr. Solmes, said I, to save me from my brother's violence. I cannot wish to owe an obligation to a man whose ungenerous perseverance is the occasion of that violence, and of all my disgraceful sufferings.
How generous in you, Mr. Solmes, said my brother, to interpose so kindly in behalf of such an immovable spirit! I beg of you to persist in your address—the unnatural brother called it address!—For all our family's sake, and for her sake too, if you love her, persist!—Let us save her, if possible, from ruining herself. Look at her person! [and he gazed at me, from head to foot, pointing at me, as he referred to Mr. Solmes,] think of her fine qualities!—all the world confesses them, and we all gloried in her till now. She is worth saving; and, after two or three more struggles, she will be yours, and take my word for it, will reward your patience. Talk not, therefore, of giving up your hopes, for a little whining folly. She has entered upon a parade, which she knows not how to quit with a female grace. You have only her pride and her obstinacy to encounter: and depend upon it, you will be as happy a man in a fortnight, as a married man can be.
You have heard me say, my dear, that my brother has always taken a liberty to reflect upon our sex, and upon matrimony!—He would not, if he did not think it wit to do so!—Just as poor Mr. Wyerley, and others, whom we both know, profane and ridicule scripture; and all to evince their pretensions to the same pernicious talent, and to have it thought they are too wise to be religious.
Mr. Solmes, with a self-satisfied air, presumptuously said, he would suffer every thing, to oblige my family, and to save me: and doubted not to be amply rewarded, could he be so happy as to succeed at last.
Mr. Solmes, said I, if you have any regard for your own happiness, (mine is out of the question with you, you have not generosity enough to make that any part of your scheme,) prosecute no father your address, as my brother calls it. It is but too just to tell you, that I could not bring my heart so much as to think of you, without the utmost disapprobation, before I was used as I have been:—And can you think I am such a slave, such a poor slave, as to be brought to change my mind by the violent usage I have met with?
And you, Sir, turning to my brother, if you think that meekness always indicates tameness; and that there is no magnanimity without bluster; own yourself mistaken for once: for you shall have reason to judge from henceforth, that a generous mind is not to be forced; and that—
No more, said the imperious wretch, I charge you, lifting up his hands and eyes. Then turning to my uncle, Do you hear, Sir? this is your once faultless niece! This is your favourite!
Mr. Solmes looked as if he know not what to think of the matter; and had I been left alone with him, I saw plainly I could have got rid of him easily enough.
My uncle came to me, looking up also to my face, and down to my feet: and is it possible this can be you? All this violence from you, Miss Clary?
Yes, it is possible, Sir—and, I will presume to say, this vehemence on my side is but the natural consequence of the usage I have met with, and the rudeness I am treated with, even in your presence, by a brother, who has no more right to controul me, than I have to controul him.
This usage, cousin Clary, was not till all other means were tried with you.
Tried! to what end, Sir?—Do I contend for any thing more than a mere negative? You may, Sir, [turning to Mr. Solmes,] possibly you may be induced the rather to persevere thus ungenerously, as the usage I have met with for your sake, and what you have now seen offered to me by my brother, will shew you what I can bear, were my evil destiny ever to make me yours.
Lord, Madam, cried Solmes, [all this time distorted into twenty different attitudes, as my brother and my uncle were blessing themselves, and speaking only to each other by their eyes, and by their working features; Lord, Madam,] what a construction is this!
A fair construction, Sir, interrupted I: for he that can see a person, whom he pretends to value, thus treated, and approve of it, must be capable of treating her thus himself. And that you do approve of it, is evident by your declared perseverance, when you know I am confined, banished, and insulted, in order to make me consent to be what I never can be: and this, let me tell you, as I have often told others, not from motives of obstinacy, but aversion.
Excuse me, Sir, turning to my uncle—to you, as to my father's brother, I owe duty. I beg your pardon, but my brother; he shall not constrain me.—And [turning to the unnatural wretch—I will call him wretch] knit your brows, Sir, and frown all you will, I will ask you, would you, in my case, make the sacrifices I am willing to make, to obtain every one's favour? If not, what right have you to treat me thus; and to procure me to be treated as I have been for so long a time past?
I had put myself by this time into great disorder: they were silent, and seemed by their looks to want to talk to one another (walking about in violent disorders too) between whiles. I sat down fanning myself, (as it happened, against the glass,) and I could perceive my colour go and come; and being sick to the very heart, and apprehensive of fainting, I rung.
Betty came in. I called for a glass of water, and drank it: but nobody minded me. I heard my brother pronounce the words, Art! Female Art! to Solmes; which, together with the apprehension that he would not be welcome, I suppose kept him back. Else I could see the man was affected. And (still fearing I should faint) I arose, and taking hold of Betty's arm, let me hold by you, Betty, said I: let me withdraw. And moved with trembling feet towards the door, and then turned about, and made a courtesy to my uncle—Permit me, Sir, said I, to withdraw.
Whither go you, Niece? said my uncle: we have not done with you yet. I charge you depart not. Mr. Solmes has something to open to you, that will astonish you—and you shall hear it.
Only, Sir, by your leave, for a few minutes into the air. I will return, if you command it. I will hear all that I am to hear; that it may be over now and for ever.—You will go with me, Betty?
And so, without any farther prohibition, I retired into the garden; and there casting myself upon the first seat, and throwing Betty's apron over my face, leaning against her side, my hands between hers, I gave way to a violent burst of grief, or passion, or both; which, as it seemed, saved my heart from breaking, for I was sensible of an immediate relief.
I have already given you specimens of Mrs. Betty's impertinence. I shall not, therefore, trouble you with more: for the wench, notwithstanding this my distress, took great liberties with me, after she saw me a little recovered, and as I walked farther into the garden; insomuch that I was obliged to silence her by an absolute prohibition of saying another word to me; and then she dropped behind me sullen and gloomy.
It was near an hour before I was sent for in again. The messenger was my cousin Dolly Hervey, who, with an eye of compassion and respect, (for Miss Hervey always loved me, and calls herself my scholar, as you know,) told my company was desired.
Betty left us.
Who commands my attendance, Miss? said I—Have you not been in tears, my dear?
Who can forbid tears? said she.
Why, what is the matter, cousin Dolly?—Sure, nobody is entitled to weep in this family, but me!
Yes, I am, Madam, said she, because I love you.
I kissed her: And is it for me, my sweet Cousin, that you shed tears?—There never was love lost between us: but tell me, what is designed to be done with me, that I have this kind instance of your compassion for me?
You must take no notice of what I tell you, said the dear girl: but my mamma has been weeping for you, too, with me; but durst not let any body see it: O my Dolly, said my mamma, there never was so set a malice in man as in your cousin James Harlowe. They will ruin the flower and ornament of their family.
As how, Miss Dolly?—Did she not explain herself?—As how, my dear?
Yes; she said, Mr. Solmes would have given up his claim to you; for he said, you hated him, and there were no hopes; and your mamma was willing he should; and to have you taken at your word, to renounce Mr. Lovelace and to live single. My mamma was for it too; for they heard all that passed between you and uncle Antony, and cousin James; saying, it was impossible to think of prevailing upon you to have Mr. Solmes. Uncle Harlowe seemed in the same way of thinking; at least, my mamma says he did not say any thing to the contrary. But your papa was immovable, and was angry at your mamma and mine upon it.—And hereupon your brother, your sister, and my uncle Antony, joined in, and changed the scene entirely. In short, she says, that Mr. Solmes had great matters engaged to him. He owned, that you were the finest young lady in England, and he would be content to be but little beloved, if he could not, after marriage, engage your heart, for the sake of having the honour to call you his but for one twelvemonth—I suppose he would break your heart the next—for he is a cruel-hearted man, I am sure.
My friends may break my heart, cousin Dolly; but Mr. Solmes will never have it in his power to break it.
I do not know that, Miss: you will have good luck to avoid having him, by what I can find; for my mamma says, they are all now of one mind, herself excepted; and she is forced to be silent, your papa and brother are both so outrageous.
I am got above minding my brother, cousin Dolly:—he is but my brother. But to my father I owe duty and obedience, if I could comply.
We are apt to be fond of any body that will side with us, when oppressed or provoked. I always loved my cousin Dolly; but now she endeared herself to me ten times more, by her soothing concern for me. I asked what she would do, were she in my case?
Without hesitation, she replied, have Mr. Lovelace out of hand, and take up her own estate, if she were me; and there would be an end to it.—And Mr. Lovelace, she said, was a fine gentleman:—Mr. Solmes was not worthy to buckle his shoes.
Miss Hervey told me further, that her mother was desired to come to me, to fetch me in; but she excused herself. I should have all my friends, she said, she believed, sit in judgment upon me.
I wish it had been so. But, as I have been told since, neither my father for my mother would trust themselves with seeing me: the one it seems for passion sake; my mother for tender considerations.
By this time we entered the house. Miss accompanied me into the parlour, and left me, as a person devoted, I then thought.
Nobody was there. I sat down, and had leisure to weep; reflecting upon what my cousin Dolly had told me.
They were all in my sister's parlour adjoining: for I heard a confused mixture of voices, some louder than others, which drowned the more compassionating accents.
Female accents I could distinguish the drowned ones to be. O my dear! what a hard-hearted sex is the other! Children of the same parents, how came they by their cruelty?—Do they get it by travel?—Do they get it by conversation with one another?—Or how do they get it?—Yet my sister, too, is as hard-hearted as any of them. But this may be no exception neither: for she has been thought to be masculine in her air and her spirit. She has then, perhaps, a soul of the other sex in a body of ours. And so, for the honour of our own, will I judge of every woman for the future, who imitating the rougher manners of men, acts unbeseeming the gentleness of her own sex.
Forgive me, my dear friend, for breaking into my story by these reflections. Were I rapidly to pursue my narration, without thinking, without reflecting, I believe I should hardly be able to keep in my right mind: since vehemence and passion would then be always uppermost; but while I think as I write, I cool, and my hurry of spirits is allayed.
I believe I was about a quarter of an hour enjoying my own comfortless contemplations, before any body came in to me; for they seemed to be in full debate. My aunt looked in first; O my dear, said she, are you there? and withdrew hastily to apprize them of it.
And then (as agreed upon I suppose) in came my uncle Antony, crediting Mr. Solmes with the words, Let me lead you in, my dear friend, having hold of his hand; while the new-made beau awkwardly followed, but more edgingly, as I may say, setting his feet mincingly, to avoid treading upon his leader's heels. Excuse me, my dear, this seeming levity; but those we do not love, appear in every thing ungraceful to us.
I stood up. My uncle looked very surly.—Sit down!—Sit down, Girl, said he.—And drawing a chair near me, he placed his dear friend in it, whether he would or not, I having taken my seat. And my uncle sat on the other side of me.
Well, Niece, taking my hand, we shall have very little more to say to you than we have already said, as to the subject that is so distasteful to you—unless, indeed, you have better considered of the matter—And first let me know if you have?
The matter wants no consideration, Sir.
Very well, very well, Madam! said my uncle, withdrawing his hands from mine: Could I ever have thought of this from you?
For God's sake, dearest Madam, said Mr. Solmes, folding his hands—And there he stopped.