I ought to have mentioned, that, before I set out for this place, I
received your kind letter.* Every thing is kind from so dear a friend.
* See Vol. II. Letter XLVII.
I own, that after I had told you of my absolute determination not to go
away with him, you might well be surprised, at your first hearing that
I was actually gone. The Lord bless me, my dear, I myself, at times, can
hardly believe it is I, that have been led to take so strange a step.
I have not the better opinion of Mr. Lovelace for his extravagant
volubility. He is too full of professions. He says too many fine things
of me, and to me. True respect, true value, I think, lies not in words:
words cannot express it: the silent awe, the humble, the doubting eye,
and even the hesitating voice, better shew it by much, than, as our
beloved Shakespeare says,
----The rattling tongue
Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
The man indeed at times is all upon the ecstatic; one of his phrases.
But, to my shame and confusion, I must say, that I know too well to what
to attribute his transports. In one word, it is to his triumph, my
dear. And, to impute it to that perhaps equally exposes my vanity, and
condemns my folly.
We have been alarmed with notions of a pursuit, founded upon a letter
from his intelligencer.
How do different circumstances either sanctify or condemn the same
action!--What care ought we to take not to confound the distinctions of
right and wrong, when self comes in the question!--I condemned in Mr.
Lovelace the corrupting of a servant of my father's; and now I am glad
to give a kind of indirect approbation of that fault, by inquiring of
him what he hears, by that or any other way, of the manner in which my
relations took my flight. A preconcerted, forward, and artful flight, it
must undoubtedly appear to them. How grievous is that to think of! yet
how, as long as I am situated, can I put them right?
Most heavily, he says, they take it; but shew not so much grief as rage.
And he can hardly have patience to hear of the virulence and menaces
of my brother against himself. Then a merit is made to me of his
forbearance.
What a satisfaction am I robbed of, my dearest friend, when I reflect
upon my inconsiderateness! O that I had it still in my power to say I
suffered wrong, rather than did wrong! That others were more wanting in
their kindness to me than I duty (where duty is owing) to them.
Fie upon me! for meeting the seducer!--Let all end as happily as it now
may, I have laid up for myself remorse for my whole life.
What still more concerns me is, that every time I see this man, I am
still at a greater loss than before what to make of him. I watch every
turn of his countenance: and I think I see very deep lines in it. He
looks with more meaning, I verily think, than he used to look; yet not
more serious; not less gay--I don't know how he looks--but with more
confidence a great deal than formerly; and yet he never wanted that.
But here is the thing; I behold him with fear now, as conscious of the
power my indiscretion has given him over me. And well may he look more
elate, when he sees me deprived of all the self-supposed significance,
which adorns and exalts a person who has been accustomed to respect; and
who now, by a conscious inferiority, allows herself to be overcome,
and in a state of obligation, as I may say, to a man who from a humble
suitor to her for her favour, assumes the consequence and airs of a
protector.
I shall send this, as my former, by a poor man, who travels every day
with pedlary matters. He will leave it at Mrs. Knolly's, as you direct.
If you hear any thing of my father and mother, and of their health, and
how my friends were affected by my unhappy step, pray be so good as to
write me a few lines by the messenger, if his waiting for them can be
known to you.
I am afraid to ask you, Whether, upon reading that part of my narrative
already in your hands, you think any sort of extenuation lies for
Your unhappy CLARISSA HARLOWE?