Miss Howe, proceeded she, knows the full state of matters already, Sir.
The answer I expect from her respects myself, not you. Her heart is too
warm in the cause of friendship, to leave me in suspense one moment
longer than is necessary as to what I want to know. Nor does her answer
absolutely depend upon herself. She must see a person first, and that
person perhaps see others.
The cursed smuggler-woman, Jack!—Miss Howe’s Townsend, I doubt
not—Plot, contrivance, intrigue, stratagem!—Underground-moles these
women—but let the earth cover me!—let me be a mole too, thought I, if
they carry their point!—and if this lady escape me now!
She frankly owned that she had once thought of embarking out of all our
ways for some one of our American colonies. But now that she had been
compelled to see me, (which had been her greatest dread), and which she
might be happiest in the resumption of her former favourite scheme, if
Miss Howe could find her a reputable and private asylum, till her
cousin Morden could come.—But if he came not soon, and if she had a
difficulty to get to a place of refuge, whether from her brother or
from any body else, [meaning me, I suppose,] she might yet perhaps go
abroad; for, to say the truth, she could not think of returning to her
father’s house, since her brother’s rage, her sister’s upbraidings, her
father’s anger, her mother’s still-more-affecting sorrowings, and her
own consciousness under them all, would be unsupportable to her.
O Jack! I am sick to death, I pine, I die, for Miss Howe’s next letter!
I would bind, gag, strip, rob, and do any thing but murder, to
intercept it.
But, determined as she seems to be, it was evident to me, nevertheless,
that she had still some tenderness for me.
She often wept as she talked, and much oftener sighed. She looked at me
twice with an eye of undoubted gentleness, and three times with an eye
tending to compassion and softness; but its benign rays were as often
snatched back, as I may say, and her face averted, as if her sweet eyes
were not to be trusted, and could not stand against my eager eyes;
seeking, as they did, for a lost heart in her’s, and endeavouring to
penetrate to her very soul.
More than once I took her hand. She struggled not much against the
freedom. I pressed it once with my lips—she was not very angry. A frown
indeed—but a frown that had more distress in it than indignation.
How came the dear soul, (clothed as it is with such a silken vesture,)
by all its steadiness?* Was it necessary that the active gloom of such
a tyrant of a father, should commix with such a passive sweetness of a
will-less mother, to produce a constancy, an equanimity, a steadiness,
in the daughter, which never woman before could boast of? If so, she is
more obliged to that despotic father than I could have imagined a
creature to be, who gave distinction to every one related to her beyond
what the crown itself can confer.
* See Vol. I. Letters IX. XIV. and XIX. for what she herself says on
that steadiness which Mr. Lovelace, though a deserved sufferer by it,
cannot help admiring.
I hoped, I said, that she would admit of the intended visit, which I
had so often mentioned, of the two ladies.
She was here. She had seen me. She could not help herself at present.
She even had the highest regard for the ladies of my family, because of
their worthy characters. There she turned away her sweet face, and
vanquished an half-risen sigh.
I kneeled to her then. It was upon a verdant cushion; for we were upon
the grass walk. I caught her hand. I besought her with an earnestness
that called up, as I could feel, my heart to my eyes, to make me, by
her forgiveness and example, more worthy of them, and of her own kind
and generous wishes. By my soul, Madam, said I, you stab me with your
goodness—your undeserved goodness! and I cannot bear it!
Why, why, thought I, as I did several times in this conversation, will
she not generously forgive me? Why will she make it necessary for me to
bring Lady Betty and my cousin to my assistance? Can the fortress
expect the same advantageous capitulation, which yields not to the
summons of a resistless conqueror, as if it gave not the trouble of
bringing up and raising its heavy artillery against it?
What sensibilities, said the divine creature, withdrawing her hand,
must thou have suppressed! What a dreadful, what a judicial hardness of
heart must thine be! who canst be capable of such emotions, as
sometimes thou hast shown; and of such sentiments, as sometimes have
flowed from thy lips; yet canst have so far overcome them all as to be
able to act as thou hast acted, and that from settled purpose and
premeditation; and this, as it is said, throughout the whole of thy
life, from infancy to this time!
I told her, that I had hoped, from the generous concern she had
expressed for me, when I was so suddenly and dangerously taken ill—[the
ipecacuanha experiment, Jack!]
She interrupted me—Well have you rewarded me for the concern you speak
of!—However, I will frankly own, now that I am determined to think no
more of you, that you might, (unsatisfied as I nevertheless was with
you,) have made an interest—
She paused. I besought her to proceed.
Do you suppose, Sir, and turned away her sweet face as we walked,—Do
you suppose that I had not thought of laying down a plan to govern
myself by, when I found myself so unhappily over-reached and cheated,
as I may say, out of myself—When I found, that I could not be, and do,
what I wished to be, and to do, do you imagine that I had not cast
about, what was the next proper course to take?—And do you believe that
this next course has not caused me some pain to be obliged to—
There again she stopt.
But let us break off discourse, resumed she. The subject grows too—She
sighed—Let us break off discourse—I will go in—I will prepare for
church—[The devil! thought I.] Well, as I can appear in those
every-day-worn clothes—looking upon herself—I will go to church.
She then turned from me to go into the house.
Bless me, my beloved creature, bless me with the continuance of this
affecting conversation.—Remorse has seized my heart!—I have been
excessively wrong—give me farther cause to curse my heedless folly, by
the continuance of this calm but soul-penetrating conversation.
No, no, Mr. Lovelace: I have said too much. Impatience begins to break
in upon me. If you can excuse me to the ladies, it will be better for
my mind’s sake, and for your credit’s sake, that I do not see them.
Call me to them over-nice, petulant, prudish—what you please call me to
them. Nobody but Miss Howe, to whom, next to the Almighty, and my own
mother, I wish to stand acquitted of wilful error, shall know the whole
of what has passed. Be happy, as you may!—Deserve to be happy, and
happy you will be, in your own reflection at least, were you to be ever
so unhappy in other respects. For myself, if I ever shall be enabled,
on due reflection, to look back upon my own conduct, without the great
reproach of having wilfully, and against the light of my own judgment,
erred, I shall be more happy than if I had all that the world accounts
desirable.
The noble creature proceeded; for I could not speak.
This self-acquittal, when spirits are lent me to dispel the darkness
which at present too often over-clouds my mind, will, I hope, make me
superior to all the calamities that can befal me.
Her whole person was informed by her sentiments. She seemed to be
taller than before. How the God within her exalted her, not only above
me, but above herself!
Divine creature! (as I thought her,) I called her. I acknowledged the
superiority of her mind; and was proceeding—but she interrupted me—All
human excellence, said she, is comparative only. My mind, I believe, is
indeed superior to your’s, debased as your’s is by evil habits: but I
had not known it to be so, if you had not taken pains to convince me of
the inferiority of your’s.
How great, how sublimely great, this creature!—By my soul I cannot
forgive her for her virtues! There is no bearing the consciousness of
the infinite inferiority she charged me with.—But why will she break
from me, when good resolutions are taking place? The red-hot iron she
refuses to strike—O why will she suffer the yielding wax to harden?
We had gone but a few paces towards the house, when we were met by the
impertinent women, with notice, that breakfast was ready. I could only,
with uplifted hands, beseech her to give me hope of a renewed
conversation after breakfast.
No—she would go to church.
And into the house she went, and up stairs directly. Nor would she
oblige me with her company at the tea-table.
I offered, by Mrs. Moore, to quit both the table and the parlour,
rather than she should exclude herself, or deprive the two widows of
the favour of her company.
That was not all the matter, she told Mrs. Moore. She had been
struggling to keep down her temper. It had cost her some pains to do
it. She was desirous to compose herself, in hopes to receive benefit by
the divine worship she was going to join in.
Mrs. Moore hoped for her presence at dinner.
She had rather be excused. Yet, if she could obtain the frame of mind
she hoped for, she might not be averse to show, that she had got above
those sensibilities, which gave consideration to a man who deserved not
to be to her what he had been.
This said, no doubt, to let Mrs. Moore know, that the
garden-conversation had not been a reconciling one.
Mrs. Moore seemed to wonder that we were not upon a better foot of
understanding, after so long a conference; and the more, as she
believed that the lady had given in to the proposal for the repetition
of the ceremony, which I had told them was insisted upon by her uncle
Harlowe.—But I accounted for this, by telling both widows that she was
resolved to keep on the reserve till she heard from Captain Tomlinson,
whether her uncle would be present in person at the solemnity, or would
name that worthy gentleman for his proxy.
Again I enjoined strict secresy, as to this particular; which was
promised by the widows, as well as for themselves, as for Miss Rawlins;
of whose taciturnity they gave me such an account, as showed me, that
she was secret-keeper-general to all the women of fashion at Hampstead.
The Lord, Jack! What a world of mischief, at this rate, must Miss
Rawlins know!—What a Pandora’s box must her bosom be!—Yet, had I
nothing that was more worthy of my attention to regard, I would engage
to open it, and make my uses of the discovery.
And now, Belford, thou perceivest, that all my reliance is upon the
mediation of Lady Betty and Miss Montague, and upon the hope of
intercepting Miss Howe’s next letter.