Again I venture to you, (almost against inclination;) and that by your
former conveyance, little as I like it.
I know not how it is with you. It may be bad; and then it would be hard
to upbraid you, for a silence you may not be able to help. But if not,
what shall I say severe enough, that you have not answered either of my
last letters? the first* of which [and I think it imported you too much
to be silent upon it] you owned the receipt of. The other which was
delivered into your own hands,** was so pressing for the favour of a
line from you, that I am amazed I could not be obliged; and still more,
that I have not heard from you since.
* See Vol. V. Letter XX. ** See Vol. VI. Letter VII.
The fellow made so strange a story of the condition he saw you in, and
of your speech to him, that I know not what to conclude from it: only,
that he is a simple, blundering, and yet conceited fellow, who, aiming
at description, and the rustic wonderful, gives an air of bumkinly
romance to all he tells. That this is his character, you will believe,
when you are informed that he described you in grief excessive,* yet so
improved in your person and features, and so rosy, that was his word,
in your face, and so flush-coloured, and so plump in your arms, that
one would conclude you were labouring under the operation of some
malignant poison; and so much the rather, as he was introduced to you,
when you were upon a couch, from which you offered not to rise, or sit
up.
* See Vol. VI. Letter VI.
Upon my word, Miss Harlowe, I am greatly distressed upon your account;
for I must be so free as to say, that in your ready return with your
deceiver, you have not at all answered my expectations, nor acted up to
your own character; for Mrs. Townsend tells me, from the women at
Hampstead, how cheerfully you put yourself into his hands again: yet,
at the time, it was impossible you should be married!—
Lord, my dear, what pity it is, that you took much pains to get from
the man!—But you know best!—Sometimes I think it could not be you to
whom the rustic delivered my letter. But it must too: yet, it is
strange I could not have one line by him:—not one:—and you so soon well
enough to go with the wretch back again!
I am not sure that the letter I am now writing will come to your hands:
so shall not say half that I have upon my mind to say. But, if you
think it worth your while to write to me, pray let me know what fine
ladies his relations those were who visited you at Hampstead, and
carried you back again so joyfully to a place that I had so fully
warned you.—But I will say no more: at least till I know more: for I
can do nothing but wonder and stand amazed.
Notwithstanding all the man’s baseness, ’tis plain there was more than
a lurking love—Good Heaven!—But I have done!—Yet I know not how to have
done neither!—Yet I must—I will.
Only account to me, my dear, for what I cannot at all account for: and
inform me, whether you are really married, or not.—And then I shall
know whether there must or must not, be a period shorter than that of
one of our lives, to a friendship which has hitherto been the pride and
boast of
Your ANNA HOWE.
Dorcas tells me, that she has just now had a searching conversation, as
she calls it, with her lady. She is willing, she tells the wench, still
to place her confidence in her. Dorcas hopes she has re-assured her:
but wishes me not to depend upon it. Yet Captain Tomlinson’s letter
must assuredly weigh with her.
I sent it in just now by Dorcas, desiring her to re-peruse it. And it
was not returned me, as I feared it would be. And that’s a good sign, I
think.
I say I think, and I think; for this charming creature, entangled as I
am in my own inventions, puzzles me ten thousand times more than I her.