MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [REFERRED TO IN LETTER XII.]
THURSDAY NIGHT.
He had found me out at Hampstead: strangely found me out; for I am
still at a loss to know by what means.
I was loth, in my billet of the 6th,* to tell you so, for fear of
giving you apprehensions for me; and besides, I hoped then to have a
shorter and happier issue to account to you for, through your
assistance, than I met with.
* See Vol. V. Letter XXXI.
[She then gives a narrative of all that passed at Hampstead between
herself, Mr. Lovelace, Capt. Tomlinson, and the women there, to the
same effect with that so amply given by Mr. Lovelace.]
Mr. Lovelace, finding all he could say, and all Captain Tomlinson could
urge, ineffectual, to prevail upon me to forgive an outrage so
flagrantly premeditated; rested all his hopes on a visit which was to
be paid me by Lady Betty Lawrance and Miss Montague.
In my uncertain situation, my prospects all so dark, I knew not to whom
I might be obliged to have recourse in the last resort: and as those
ladies had the best of characters, insomuch that I had reason to regret
that I had not from the first thrown myself upon their protection,
(when I had forfeited that of my own friends,) I thought I would not
shun an interview with them, though I was too indifferent to their
kinsman to seek it, as I doubted not that one end of their visit would
be to reconcile me to him.
On Monday, the 12th of June, these pretended ladies came to Hampstead;
and I was presented to them, and they to me by their kinsman.
They were richly dressed, and stuck out with jewels; the pretended Lady
Betty’s were particularly very fine.
They came in a coach-and-four, hired, as was confessed, while their own
was repairing in town: a pretence made, I now perceive, that I should
not guess at the imposture by the want of the real lady’s arms upon it.
Lady Betty was attended by her woman, who she called Morrison; a modest
country-looking person.
I had heard, that Lady Betty was a fine woman, and that Miss Montague
was a beautiful young lady, genteel, and graceful, and full of
vivacity.—Such were these impostors: and having never seen either of
them, I had not the least suspicion, that they were not the ladies they
personated; and being put a little out of countenance by the richness
of their dresses, I could not help, (fool that I was!) to apologize for
my own.
The pretended Lady Betty then told me, that her nephew had acquainted
them with the situation of affairs between us. And although she could
not but say, that she was very glad that she had not put such a slight
upon his Lordship and them, as report had given them cause to
apprehend, (the reasons for which report, however, she must have
approved of;) yet it had been matter of great concern to her, and to
her niece Montague, and would to the whole family, to find so great a
misunderstanding subsisting between us, as, if not made up, might
distance all their hopes.
She could easily tell who was in fault, she said. And gave him a look
both of anger and disdain; asking him, How it was possible for him to
give an offence of such a nature to so charming a lady, [so she called
me,] as should occasion a resentment so strong?
He pretended to be awed into shame and silence.
My dearest niece, said she, and took my hand, (I must call you niece,
as well from love, as to humour your uncle’s laudable expedient,)
permit me to be, not an advocate, but a mediatrix for him; and not for
his sake, so much as for my own, my Charlotte’s, and all our family’s.
The indignity he has offered to you, may be of too tender a nature to
be inquired into. But as he declares, that it was not a premeditated
offence; whether, my dear, [for I was going to rise upon it in my
temper,] it were or not; and as he declares his sorrows for it, (and
never did creature express a deeper sorrow for any offence than he);
and as it is a repairable one; let us, for this one time, forgive him;
and thereby lay an obligation upon this man of errors—Let US, I say, my
dear: for, Sir, [turning to him,] an offence against such a peerless
lady as this, must be an offence against me, against your cousin here,
and against all the virtuous of our sex.
See, my dear, what a creature he had picked out! Could you have thought
there was a woman in the world who could thus express herself, and yet
be vile? But she had her principal instructions from him, and those
written down too, as I have reason to think: for I have recollected
since, that I once saw this Lady Betty, (who often rose from her seat,
and took a turn to the other end of the room with such an emotion, as
if the joy of her heart would not let her sit still) take out a paper
from her stays, and look into it, and put it there again. She might
oftener, and I not observe it; for I little thought that there could be
such impostors in the world.
I could not forbear paying great attention to what she said. I found my
tears ready to start; I drew out my handkerchief, and was silent. I had
not been so indulgently treated a great while by a person of character
and distinction, [such I thought her;] and durst not trust to the
accent of my voice.
The pretended Miss Montague joined in on this occasion: and drawing her
chair close to me, took my other hand, and besought me to forgive her
cousin; and consent to rank myself as one of the principals of a family
that had long, very long, coveted the honour of my alliance.
I am ashamed to repeat to you, my dear, now I know what wretches they
are, the tender, the obliging, and the respectful things I said to
them.
The wretch himself then came forward. He threw himself at my feet. How
was I beset!—The women grasping, one my right hand, the other my left:
the pretended Miss Montague pressing to her lips more than once the
hand she held: the wicked man on his knees, imploring my forgiveness;
and setting before me my happy and my unhappy prospects, as I should
forgive and not forgive him. All that he thought would affect me in
former pleas, and those of Capt. Tomlinson, he repeated. He vowed, he
promised, he bespoke the pretended ladies to answer for him; and they
engaged their honours in his behalf.
Indeed, my dear, I was distressed, perfectly distressed. I was sorry
that I had given way to this visit. For I knew not how, in tenderness
to relations, (as I thought them,) so worthy, to treat so freely as he
deserved, a man nearly allied to them: so that my arguments and my
resolutions were deprived of their greatest force.
I pleaded, however, my application to you. I expected every hour, I
told them, an answer from you to a letter I had written, which would
decide my future destiny.
They offered to apply to you themselves in person, in their own behalf,
as they politely termed it. They besought me to write to you to hasten
your answer.
I said, I was sure that you would write the moment that the event of an
application to be made to a third person enabled you to write. But as
to the success of their request in behalf of their kinsman, that
depended not upon the expected answer; for that, I begged their pardon,
was out of the question. I wished him well. I wished him happy. But I
was convinced, that I neither could make him so, nor he me.
Then! how the wretch promised!—How he vowed!—How he entreated!—And how
the women pleaded!—And they engaged themselves, and the honour of their
whole family, for his just, his kind, his tender behaviour to me.
In short, my dear, I was so hard set, that I was obliged to come to a
more favourable compromise with them than I had intended. I would wait
for your answer to my letter, I said: and if that made doubtful or
difficult the change of measures I had resolved upon, and the scheme of
life I had formed, I would then consider of the matter; and, if they
would permit me, lay all before them, and take their advice upon it, in
conjunction with your’s, as if the one were my own aunt, and the other
were my own cousin.
They shed tears upon this—of joy they called them:—But since, I
believe, to their credit, bad as they are, that they were tears of
temporary remorse; for, the pretended Miss Montague turned about, and,
as I remember, said, There was no standing it.
But Mr. Lovelace was not so easily satisfied. He was fixed upon his
villanous measures perhaps; and so might not be sorry to have a
pretence against me. He bit his lip—he had been but too much used, he
said, to such indifference, such coldness, in the very midst of his
happiest prospects. I had on twenty occasions shown him, to his
infinite regret, that any favour I was to confer upon him was to be the
result of—there he stopt—and not of my choice.
This had like to have set all back again. I was exceedingly offended.
But the pretended ladies interposed. The elder severely took him to
task. He ought, she told him, to be satisfied with what I had said. She
desired no other condition. And what, Sir, said she, with an air of
authority, would you commit errors, and expect to be rewarded for them?
They then engaged me in a more agreeable conversation—the pretended
lady declared, that she, Lord M. and Lady Sarah, would directly and
personally interest themselves to bring about a general reconciliation
between the two families, and this either in open or private concert
with my uncle Harlowe, as should be thought fit. Animosities on one
side had been carried a great way, she said; and too little care had
been shown on the other to mollify or heal. My father should see that
they could treat him as a brother and a friend; and my brother and
sister should be convinced that there was no room either for the
jealousy or envy they had conceived from motives too unworthy to be
avowed.