Then, Cousin James, interrupted the other gentleman, that which is your
protection, it seems, is mine. I am not used to bear defiances thus--
you are my Cousin, Sir, and the son and nephew of persons as dear as near
to me--There he paused--
Are we, said your father, to be made still more unhappy among ourselves,
when the villain lives that ought to be the object of every one's
resentment who has either a value for the family, or for this ungrateful
girl?
That's the man, said your cousin, whom last Monday, as you know, I went
purposely to make the object of mine. But what could I say, when I found
him so willing to repair his crime?--And I give it as my opinion, and
have written accordingly to my poor cousin, that it is best for all round
that his offer should be accepted; and let me tell you--
Tell me nothing, said your father, quite enraged, or that very vile
fellow! I have a rivetted hatred to him. I would rather see the rebel
die an hundred deaths, were it possible, than that she should give such a
villain as him a relation to my family.
Well, but there is no room to think, said you mother, that she will give
us such a relation, my dear. The poor girl will lessen, I fear, the
number of our relations not increase it. If she be so ill as we are told
she is, let us send Mrs. Norton up to her.--That's the least we can do--
let us take her, however, out of the hands of that Belford.
Both your uncles supported this motion; the latter part of it especially.
Your brother observed, in his ill-natured way, what a fine piece of
consistency it was in you to refuse the vile injurer, and the amends he
offered; yet to throw yourself upon the protection of his fast friend.
Miss Harlowe was apprehensive, she said, that you would leave all you
could leave to that pert creature, Miss Howe, [so she called her,] if you
should die.
O do not, do not suppose that, my Bella, said your poor mother. I cannot
think of parting with my Clary--with all her faults, she is my child--her
reasons for her conduct are not heard--it would break my heart to lose
her.--I think, my dear, to your father, none so fit as I to go up, if you
will give me leave, and Mrs. Norton shall accompany me.
This was a sweet motion, and your father paused upon it. Mr. Morden
offered his service to escort her; your uncles seemed to approve of it;
but your brother dashed all. I hope, Sir, said he, to his father--I
hope, Madam, to his mother--that you will not endeavour to recover a
faulty daughter by losing an unculpable son. I do declare, that if ever
my sister Clary darkens these doors again, I never will. I will set out,
Madam, the same hour you go to London, (on such an errand,) to Edinburgh;
and there I will reside, and try to forget that I have relations in
England, so near and so dear as you are now all to me.
Good God, said the Colonel, what a declaration is this! And suppose,
Sir, and suppose, Madam, [turning to your father and mother,] this should
be the case, whether it is better, think you, that you should lose for
ever such a daughter as my cousin Clary, or that your son should go to
Edinburgh, and reside there upon an estate which will be the better for
his residence upon it?--
Your brother's passionate behaviour hereupon is hardly to be described.
He resented it as promising an alienation of the affection of the family
to him. And to such an height were resentments carried, every one siding
with him, that the Colonel, with hands and eyes lifted up, cried out,
What hearts of flint am I related to!--O, Cousin Harlowe, to your father,
are you resolved to have but one daughter?--Are you, Madam, to be taught,
by a son, who has no bowels, to forget you are a mother?
The Colonel turned from them to draw out his handkerchief, and could not
for a minute speak. The eyes of every one, but the hard-hearted brother,
caught tears from his.
But then turning to them, (with the more indignation, as it seemed, as he
had been obliged to show a humanity, which, however, no brave heart
should be ashamed of,) I leave ye all, said he, fit company for one
another. I will never open my lips to any of you more upon this subject.
I will instantly make my will, and in me shall the dear creature have the
father, uncle, brother, she has lost. I will prevail upon her to take
the tour of France and Italy with me; nor shall she return till ye know
the value of such a daughter.
And saying this, he hurried out of the room, went into the court-yard,
and ordered his horse.
Mr. Antony Harlowe went to him there, just as he was mounting, and said
he hoped he should find him cooler in the evening, (for he, till then,
had lodged at his house,) and that then they would converse calmly, and
every one, mean time, would weigh all matters well.--But the angry
gentleman said, Cousin Harlowe, I shall endeavour to discharge the
obligations I owe to your civility since I have been in England; but I
have been so treated by that hot-headed young man, (who, as far as I
know, has done more to ruin his sister than Lovelace himself, and this
with the approbation of you all,) that I will not again enter into your
doors, or theirs. My servants shall have orders whither to bring what
belongs to me from your house. I will see my dear cousin Clary as soon
as I can. And so God bless you altogether!--only this one word to your
nephew, if you please--That he wants to be taught the difference between
courage and bluster; and it is happy for him, perhaps, that I am his
kinsman; though I am sorry he is mine.
I wondered to hear your uncle, on his return to them all, repeat this;
because of the consequences it may be attended with, though I hope it
will not have bad ones; yet it was considered as a sort of challenge, and
so it confirmed every body in your brother's favour; and Miss Harlowe
forgot not to inveigh against that error which had brought on all these
evils.
I took the liberty again, but with fear and trembling, to desire leave to
attend you.
Before any other person could answer, your brother said, I suppose you
look upon yourself, Mrs. Norton, to be your own mistress. Pray do you
want our consents and courtship to go up?--If I may speak my mind, you
and my sister Clary are the fittest to be together.--Yet I wish you would
not trouble your head about our family matters, till you are desired to
do so.
But don't you know, brother, said Miss Harlowe, that the error of any
branch of a family splits that family into two parties, and makes not
only every common friend and acquaintance, but even servants judges over
both?--This is one of the blessed effects of my sister Clary's fault!
There never was a creature so criminal, said your father, looking with
displeasure at me, who had not some weak heads to pity and side with her.
I wept. Your mother was so good as to take me by the hand; come, good
woman, said she, come along with me. You have too much reason to be
afflicted with what afflicts us, to want additions to your grief.
But, my dearest young lady, I was more touched for your sake than for my
own; for I have been low in the world for a great number of years; and,
of consequence, have been accustomed to snubs and rebuffs from the
affluent. But I hope that patience is written as legibly on my forehead,
as haughtiness on that of any of my obligers.
Your mother led me to her chamber; and there we sat and wept together for
several minutes, without being able to speak either of us one word to the
other. At last she broke silence, asking me, if you were really and
indeed so ill as it was said you were?
I answered in the affirmative; and would have shown her your last letter;
but she declined seeing it.
I would fain have procured from her the favour of a line to you, with her
blessing. I asked, what was intended by your brother and sister? Would
nothing satisfy them but your final reprobation?--I insinuated, how easy
it would be, did not your duty and humility govern you, to make yourself
independent as to circumstances; but that nothing but a blessing, a last
blessing, was requested by you. And many other things I urged in your
behalf. The following brief repetition of what she was pleased to say in
answer to my pleas, will give you a notion of it all; and of the present
situation of things.
She said, 'She was very unhappy!--She had lost the little authority she
once had over her other children, through one child's failing! and all
influence over Mr. Harlowe and his brothers. Your father, she said, had
besought her to leave it to him to take his own methods with you; and,
(as she valued him,) to take no step in your favour unknown to him and
your uncles; yet she owned, that they were too much governed by your
brother. They would, however, give way in time, she knew, to a
reconciliation--they designed no other, for they all still loved you.
'Your brother and sister, she owned, were very jealous of your coming
into favour again;--yet could but Mr. Morden have kept his temper, and
stood her son's first sallies, who (having always had the family grandeur
in view) had carried his resentment so high, that he knew not how to
descend, the conferences, so abruptly broken off just now, would have
ended more happily; for that she had reason to think that a few
concessions on your part, with regard to your grandfather's estate, and
your cousin's engaging for your submission as from proper motives, would
have softened them all.
'Mr. Brand's account of your intimacy with the friend of the obnoxious
man, she said, had, for the time very unhappy effects; for before that
she had gained some ground: but afterwards dared not, nor indeed had
inclination, to open her lips in your behalf. Your continued intimacy
with that Mr. Belford was wholly unaccountable, and as wholly
inexcusable.
'What made the wished-for reconciliation, she said, more difficult, was,
first, that you yourself acknowledged yourself dishonoured; (and it was
too well known, that it was your own fault that you ever were in the
power of so great a profligate;) of consequence, that their and your
disgrace could not be greater than it was; yet, that you refuse to
prosecute the wretch. Next, that the pardon and blessing hoped for must
probably be attended with your marriage to the man they hate, and who
hates them as much: very disagreeable circumstances, she said, I must
allow, to found a reconciliation upon.
'As to her own part, she must needs say, that if there were any hope that
Mr. Lovelace would become a reformed man, the letter her cousin Morden
had read to them from him to you, and the justice (as she hoped it was)
he did your character, though to his own condemnation, (his family and
fortunes being unexceptionable,) and all his relations earnest to be
related to you, were arguments that would weigh with her, could they have
any with your father and uncles.'
To my plea of your illness, 'she could not but flatter herself, she
answered, that it was from lowness of spirits, and temporary dejection.
A young creature, she said, so very considerate as you naturally were,
and fallen so low, must have enough of that. Should they lose you, which
God forbid! the scene would then indeed be sadly changed; for then those
who now most resented, would be most grieved; all your fine qualities
would rise to their remembrance, and your unhappy error would be quite
forgotten.
'She wished you would put yourself into your cousin's protection
entirely, and have nothing to more to say to Mr. Belford.
And I would recommend it to your most serious consideration, my dear Miss
Clary, whether now, as your cousin (who is your trustee for your
grandfather's estate,) is come, you should not give over all thoughts of
Mr. Lovelace's intimate friend for your executor; more especially, as
that gentleman's interfering in the concerns of your family, should the
sad event take place (which my heart aches but to think of) might be
attended with those consequences which you are so desirous, in other
cases, to obviate and prevent. And suppose, my dear young lady, you were
to write one letter more to each of your uncles, to let them know how ill
you are?--And to ask their advice, and offer to be governed by it, in
relation to the disposition of your estate and effects?--Methinks I wish
you would.
I find they will send you up a large part of what has been received from
that estate since it was your's; together with your current cash which
you left behind you: and this by your cousin Morden, for fear you should
have contracted debts which may make you uneasy.
They seem to expect, that you will wish to live at your grandfather's
house, in a private manner, if your cousin prevail not upon you to go
abroad for a year or two.