Yet I will owe to you this protection, if it be necessary, in the earnest
hope that you will shun, rather than seek mischief, if any further
inquiry after me be made. But what hinders you from leaving me?--Cannot
I send to you? The widow Fretchville, it is plain, knows not her own
mind: the people here are more civil to me every day than other: but I
had rather have lodgings more agreeable to my circumstances. I best know
what will suit them; and am resolved not to be obliged to any body. If
you leave me, I will privately retire to some one of the neighbouring
villages, and there wait my cousin Morden's arrival with patience.
I presume, Madam, replied he, from what you have said, that your
application to Harlowe-place has proved unsuccessful: I therefore hope
that you will now give me leave to mention the terms in the nature of
settlements, which I have long intended to propose to you; and which
having till now delayed to do, through accidents not proceeding from
myself, I had thoughts of urging to you the moment you entered upon your
new house; and upon your finding yourself as independent in appearance
as you are in fact. Permit me, Madam, to propose these matters to you--
not with an expectation of your immediate answer; but for your
consideration.
Were not hesitation, a self-felt glow, a downcast eye, encouragement more
than enough? and yet you will observe (as I now do on recollection) that
he was in no great hurry to solicit for a day; since he had no thoughts
of proposing settlements till I had got into my new house; and now, in
his great complaisance to me, he desired leave to propose his terms, not
with an expectation of my immediate answer; but for my consideration only
--Yet, my dear, your advice was too much in my head at this time. I
hesitated.
He urged on upon my silence; he would call God to witness to the justice,
nay to the generosity of his intentions to me, if I would be so good as
to hear what he had to propose to me, as to settlements.
Could not the man have fallen into the subject without this parade? Many
a point, you know, is refused, and ought to be refused, if leave be asked
to introduce it; and when once refused, the refusal must in honour be
adhered to--whereas, had it been slid in upon one, as I may say, it might
have merited further consideration. If such a man as Mr. Lovelace knows
not this, who should?
But he seemed to think it enough that he had asked my leave to propose
his settlements. He took no advantage of my silence, as I presume men as
modest as Mr. Lovelace would have done in a like case: yet, gazing in my
face very confidently, and seeming to expect my answer, I thought myself
obliged to give the subject a more diffuse turn, in order to save myself
the mortification of appearing too ready in my compliance, after such a
distance as had been between us; and yet (in pursuance of your advice) I
was willing to avoid the necessity of giving him such a repulse as might
again throw us out of the course--a cruel alternative to be reduced to!
You talk of generosity, Mr. Lovelace, said I; and you talk of justice;
perhaps, without having considered the force of the words, in the sense
you use them on this occasion.--Let me tell you what generosity is, in my
sense of the word--TRUE GENEROSITY is not confined to pecuniary
instances: it is more than politeness: it is more than good faith: it is
more than honour; it is more than justice; since all of these are but
duties, and what a worthy mind cannot dispense with. But TRUE GENEROSITY
is greatness of soul. It incites us to do more by a fellow-creature than
can be strictly required of us. It obliges us to hasten to the relief of
an object that wants relief; anticipating even such a one's hope or
expectation. Generosity, Sir, will not surely permit a worthy mind to
doubt of its honourable and beneficent intentions: much less will it
allow itself to shock, to offend any one; and, least of all, a person
thrown by adversity, mishap, or accident, into its protection.
What an opportunity had he to clear his intentions had he been so
disposed, from the latter part of this home observation!--but he ran away
with the first, and kept to that.
Admirably defined! he said--But who, at this rate, Madam, can be said to
be generous to you?--Your generosity I implore, while justice, as it must
be my sole merit, shall be my aim. Never was there a woman of such nice
and delicate sentiments!
It is a reflection upon yourself, Sir, and upon the company you have
kept, if you think these notions either nice or delicate. Thousands of
my sex are more nice than I; for they would have avoided the devious path
I have been surprised into; the consequences of which surprise have laid
me under the sad necessity of telling a man, who has not delicacy enough
to enter into those parts of the female character which are its glory and
distinction, what true generosity is.
His divine monitress, he called me. He would endeavour to form his
manners (as he had often promised) by my example. But he hoped I would
now permit him to mention briefly the justice he proposed to do me, in
the terms of the settlements; a subject so proper, before now, to have
entered upon; and which would have been entered upon long ago, had not
my frequent displeasure [I am ever in fault, my dear!] taken from him the
opportunity he had often wished for: but now, having ventured to lay hold
of this, nothing should divert him from improving it.
I have no spirits, just now, Sir, to attend such weighty points. What
you have a mind to propose, write to me: and I shall know what answer to
return. Only one thing let me remind you of, that if you touch upon a
subject, in which my father has a concern, I shall judge by your
treatment of the father what value you have for the daughter.
He looked as if he would choose rather to speak than write: but had he
said so, I had a severe return to have made upon him; as possibly he
might see by my looks.
***
In this way are we now: a sort of calm, as I said, succeeding a storm.
What may happen next, whether a storm or a calm, with such a spirit as I
have to deal with, who can tell?
But, be that as it will, I think, my dear, I am not meanly off: and that
is a great point with me; and which I know you will be glad to hear: if
it were only, that I can see this man without losing any of that dignity
[What other word can I use, speaking of myself, that betokens decency,
and not arrogance?] which is so necessary to enable me to look up, or
rather with the mind's eye, I may say, to look down upon a man of this
man's cast.
Although circumstance have so offered, that I could not take your advice
as to the manner of dealing with him; yet you gave me so much courage by
it, as has enabled me to conduct things to this issue; as well as
determined me against leaving him: which, before, I was thinking to do,
at all adventures. Whether, when it came to the point, I should have
done so, or not, I cannot say, because it would have depended upon his
behaviour at the time.
But let his behaviour be what it will, I am afraid, (with you,) that
should any thing offer at last to oblige me to leave him, I shall not
mend my situation in the world's eye; but the contrary. And yet I will
not be treated by him with indignity while I have any power to help
myself.
You, my dear, have accused me of having modesty'd away, as you phrase it,
several opportunities of being--Being what, my dear?--Why, the wife of a
libertine: and what a libertine and his wife are my cousin Morden's
letter tells us.--Let me here, once for all, endeavour to account for the
motives of behavior to this man, and for the principles I have proceeded
upon, as they appear to me upon a close self-examination.
Be pleased to allow me to think that my motives on this occasion rise not
altogether from maidenly niceness; nor yet from the apprehension of what
my present tormenter, and future husband, may think of a precipitate
compliance, on such a disagreeable behaviour as his: but they arise
principally from what offers to my own heart; respecting, as I may say,
its own rectitude, its own judgment of the fit and the unfit; as I would,
without study, answer for myself to myself, in the first place; to him,
and to the world, in the second only. Principles that are in my mind;
that I found there; implanted, no doubt, by the first gracious Planter:
which therefore impel me, as I may say, to act up to them, that thereby
I may, to the best of my judgment, be enabled to comport myself worthily
in both states, (the single and the married), let others act as they will
by me.
I hope, my dear, I do not deceive myself, and, instead of setting about
rectifying what is amiss in my heart, endeavour to find excuses for habits
and peculiarities, which I am unwilling to cast off or overcome.
The heart is very deceitful: do you, my dear friend, lay mine open, [but
surely it is always open before you!] and spare me not, if you think it
culpable.
This observation, once for all, as I said, I thought proper to make, to
convince you that, to the best of my judgment, my errors, in matters as
well of lesser moment as of greater, shall rather be the fault of my
judgment than of my will.
I am, my dearest friend,
Your ever obliged,
CLARISSA HARLOWE.