Forgive you, my dear!—Most cordially do I forgive you—Will you forgive
me for some sharp things I wrote in return to your’s of the 5th? You
could not have loved me as you do, nor had the concern you have always
shown for my honour, if you had not been utterly displeased with me, on
the appearance which my conduct wore to you when you wrote that letter.
I most heartily thank you, my best and only love, for the opportunity
you gave me of clearing it up; and for being generously ready to acquit
me of intentional blame, the moment you had read my melancholy
narrative.
As you are so earnest to have all the particulars of my sad story
before you, I will, if life and spirits be lent me, give you an ample
account of all that has befallen me, from the time you mention. But
this, it is very probable, you will not see, till after the close of my
last scene: and as I shall write with a view to that, I hope no other
voucher will be wanted for the veracity of the writer, be who will the
reader.
I am far from thinking myself out of the reach of this man’s further
violence. But what can I do? Whither can I fly?—Perhaps my bad state of
health (which must grow worse, as recollection of the past evils, and
reflections upon them, grow heavier and heavier upon me) may be my
protection. Once, indeed, I thought of going abroad; and, had I the
prospect of many years before me, I would go.—But, my dear, the blow is
given.—Nor have you reason now, circumstanced as I am, to be concerned
that it is. What a heart must I have, if it be not broken—and indeed,
my dear friend, I do so earnestly wish for the last closing scene, and
with so much comfort find myself in a declining way, that I even
sometimes ungratefully regret that naturally-healthy constitution,
which used to double upon me all my enjoyments.
As to the earnestly-recommended prosecution, I may possibly touch upon
it more largely hereafter, if ever I shall have better spirits; for
they are at present extremely sunk and low. But just now, I will only
say, that I would sooner suffer every evil (the repetition of the
capital one excepted) than appear publicly in a court to do myself
justice.* And I am heartily grieved that your mother prescribes such a
measure as the condition of our future correspondence: for the
continuance of your friendship, my dear, and the desire I had to
correspond with you to my life’s end, were all my remaining hopes and
consolation. Nevertheless, as that friendship is in the power of the
heart, not of the hand only, I hope I shall not forfeit that.
* Dr. Lewen, in Letter XXIV. of Vol. VIII. presses her to this public
prosecution, by arguments worthy of his character; which she answers in
a manner worthy of her’s. See Letter XXV. of that volume.
O my dear! what would I give to obtain a revocation of my father’s
malediction! a reconciliation is not to be hoped for. You, who never
loved my father, may think my solicitude on this head a weakness: but
the motive for it, sunk as my spirits at times are, is not always weak.
I approve of the method you prescribe for the conveyance of our
letters; and have already caused the porter of the inn to be engaged to
bring to me your’s, the moment that Collins arrives with them. And the
servant of the house where I am will be permitted to carry mine to
Collins for you.
I have written a letter to Miss Rawlins, of Hampstead; the answer to
which, just now received, has helped me to the knowledge of the vile
contrivance, by which the wicked man got your letter of June the 10th.
I will give you the contents of both.
In mine to her, I briefly acquainted her ‘with what had befallen me,
through the vileness of the women who had passed upon me as the aunt
and cousin of the wickedest of men; and own, that I never was married
to him. I desire her to make particular inquiry, and to let me know,
who it was at Mrs. Moore’s that, on Sunday afternoon, June 11, while I
was at church, received a letter from Miss Howe, pretending to be me,
and lying on a couch:—which letter, had it come to my hands, would have
saved me from ruin. I excuse myself (on the score of the delirium,
which the horrid usage I had received threw me into, and from a
confinement as barbarous as illegal) that I had not before applied to
Mrs. Moore for an account of what I was indebted to her: which account
I now desired. And, for fear of being traced by Mr. Lovelace, I
directed her to superscribe her answer, To Mrs. Mary Atkins; to be left
till called for, at the Belle Savage Inn, on Ludgate-hill.’
In her answer, she tells me, ‘that the vile wretch prevailed upon Mrs.
Bevis to personate me, [a sudden motion of his, it seems, on the
appearance of your messenger,] and persuaded her to lie along a couch:
a handkerchief over her neck and face; pretending to be ill; the
credulous woman drawn in by false notions of your ill offices to keep
up a variance between a man and his wife—and so taking the letter from
your messenger as me.
‘Miss Rawlins takes pains to excuse Mrs. Bevis’s intention. She
expresses their astonishment, and concern at what I communicate: but is
glad, however, and so they are all, that they know in time the vileness
of the base man; the two widows and herself having, at his earnest
invitation, designed me a visit at Mrs. Sinclair’s: supposing all to be
happy between him and me; as he assured them was the case. Mr.
Lovelace, she informs me, had handsomely satisfied Mrs. Moore. And Miss
Rawlins concludes with wishing to be favoured with the particulars of
so extraordinary a story, as these particulars may be of use, to let
her see what wicked creatures (women as well as men) there are in the
world.’
I thank you, my dear, for the draughts of your two letters which were
intercepted by this horrid man. I see the great advantage they were of
to him, in the prosecution of his villanous designs against the poor
wretch whom he had so long made the sport of his abhorred inventions.
Let me repeat, that I am quite sick of life; and of an earth, in which
innocent and benevolent spirits are sure to be considered as aliens,
and to be made sufferers by the genuine sons and daughters of that
earth.
How unhappy, that those letters only which could have acquainted me
with his horrid views, and armed me against them, and against the
vileness of the base women, should fall into his hands!—Unhappier
still, in that my very escape to Hampstead gave him the opportunity of
receiving them.
Nevertheless, I cannot but still wonder, how it was possible for that
Tomlinson to know what passed between Mr. Hickman and my uncle
Harlowe:* a circumstance which gave the vile impostor most of his
credit with me.
* See the note in Letter LXX. of this volume.
How the wicked wretch himself could find me out at Hampstead, must also
remain wholly a mystery to me. He may glory in his contrivances—he, who
has more wickedness than wit, may glory in his contrivances!—But, after
all, I shall, I humbly presume to hope, be happy, when he, poor wretch,
will be—alas!—who can say what!——
Adieu, my dearest friend!—May you be happy!—And then your Clarissa
cannot be wholly miserable!