Say not all the blame and all the punishment is yours. I am as much
blamed, and as much punished, as you are; yet am more innocent. When
your obstinacy is equal to any other person's passion, blame not your
brother. We judged right, that Hannah carried on your correspondencies.
Now she is gone, and you cannot write [we think you cannot] to Miss
Howe, nor she to you, without our knowledge, one cause of uneasiness and
jealousy is over.
I had no dislike of Hannah. I did not tell her so; because somebody was
within hearing when she desired to pay her duty to me at going. I gave
her a caution, in a raised voice, To take care, wherever she went to
live next, if there were any young ladies, how she made parties, and
assisted in clandestine correspondencies. But I slid two guineas into
her hand: nor was I angry to hear that you were still more bountiful to
her. So much for Hannah.
I don't know what to write, about your answering that man of violence.
What can you think of it, that such a family as ours, should have such
a rod held over it?--For my part, I have not owned that I know you have
corresponded. By your last boldness to me [an astonishing one it was,
to pursue before Mr. Solmes the subject I was forced to break from
above-stairs!] you may, as far as I know, plead, that you had my
countenance for your correspondence with him; and so add to the
uneasiness between your father and me. You were once my comfort,
Clarissa; you made all my hardships tolerable:--But now!--However,
nothing, it is plain, can move you; and I will say no more on that head:
for you are under your father's discipline now; and he will neither be
prescribed to, nor entreated.
I should have been glad to see the letter you tell me of, as I saw the
rest. You say, both honour and prudence forbid you to shew it to me.--O
Clarissa! what think you of receiving letters that honour and prudence
forbid you to shew to a mother!--But it is not for me to see it, if you
would choose to shew it me. I will not be in your secret. I will not
know that you did correspond. And, as to an answer, take your own
methods. But let him know it will be the last you will write. And, if
you do write, I won't see it: so seal it up (if you do) and give it to
Shorey; and she--Yet do not think I give you license to write.
We will be upon no conditions with him, nor will you be allowed to be
upon any. Your father and uncles would have no patience were he to come.
What have you to do to oblige him with your refusal of Mr. Solmes?--Will
not that refusal be to give him hope? And while he has any, can we be
easy or free from his insults? Were even your brother in fault, as that
fault cannot be conquered, is a sister to carry on a correspondence that
shall endanger her brother? But your father has given his sanction to
your brother's dislikes, your uncles', and every body's!--No matter to
whom owing.
As to the rest, you have by your obstinacy put it out of my power to do
any thing for you. Your father takes it upon himself to be answerable
for all consequences. You must not therefore apply to me for favour.
I shall endeavour to be only an observer: Happy, if I could be an
unconcerned one!--While I had power, you would not let me use it as I
would have used it. Your aunt has been forced to engage not to interfere
but by your father's direction. You'll have severe trials. If you have
any favour to hope for, it must be from the mediation of your uncles.
And yet, I believe, they are equally determined: for they make it a
principle, [alas! they never had children!] that that child, who in
marriage is not governed by her parents, is to be given up as a lost
creature!
I charge you, let not this letter be found. Burn it. There is too much
of the mother in it, to a daughter so unaccountably obstinate.
Write not another letter to me. I can do nothing for you. But you can do
every thing for yourself.
***
Now, my dear, to proceed with my melancholy narrative.
After this letter, you will believe, that I could have very little
hopes, that an application directly to my father would stand me in any
stead: but I thought it became me to write, were it but to acquit myself
to myself, that I have left nothing unattempted that has the least
likelihood to restore me to his favour. Accordingly I wrote to the
following effect:
I presume not, I say, to argue with my Papa; I only beg his mercy and
indulgence in this one point, on which depends my present, and perhaps
my future, happiness; and beseech him not to reprobate his child for an
aversion which it is not in her power to conquer. I beg, that I may not
be sacrificed to projects, and remote contingencies. I complain of the
disgraces I suffer in this banishment from his presence, and in being
confined to my chamber. In every thing but this one point, I promise
implicit duty and resignation to his will. I repeat my offers of a
single life; and appeal to him, whether I have ever given him cause to
doubt my word. I beg to be admitted to his, and to my mamma's, presence,
and that my conduct may be under their own eye: and this with the more
earnestness, as I have too much reason to believe that snares are laid
for me; and tauntings and revilings used on purpose to make a handle of
my words against me, when I am not permitted to speak in my own defence.
I conclude with hoping, that my brother's instigations may not rob an
unhappy child of her father.
***
This is the answer, sent without superscription, and unsealed, although
by Betty Barnes, who delivered it with an air, as if she knew the
contents.