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<h2> LETTER XVII </h2>
<h3> MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY MORNING, 7 O'CLOCK </h3>
<p>My uncle has vouchsafed to answer me. These that follow are the contents
of his letter; but just now brought me, although written last night—late
I suppose.</p>
<p>MONDAY NIGHT. MISS CLARY,</p>
<p>Since you are grown such a bold challenger, and teach us all our duty,
though you will not practise your own, I must answer you. Nobody wants you
estate from you. Are you, who refuse ever body's advice, to prescribe a
husband to your sister? Your letter to Mr. Solmes is inexcusable. I blamed
you for it before. Your parents will be obeyed. It is fit they should.
Your mother has nevertheless prevailed to have your going to your uncle
Antony's put off till Thursday: yet owns you deserve not that, or any
other favour from her. I will receive no more of your letters. You are too
artful for me. You are an ungrateful and unreasonable child: Must you have
your way paramount to every body's? How are you altered.</p>
<p>Your displeased uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.</p>
<hr />
<p>To be carried away on Thursday—To the moated house—To the
chapel—To Solmes! How can I think of this!—They will make me
desperate.</p>
<p>TUESDAY MORNING, 8 O'CLOCK.</p>
<p>I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. I opened it with the expectation
of its being filled with bold and free complaints, on my not writing to
prevent his two nights watching, in weather not extremely agreeable. But,
instead of complaints, he is 'full of tender concern lest I may have been
prevented by indisposition, or by the closer confinement which he has
frequently cautioned me that I may expect.'</p>
<p>He says, 'He had been in different disguises loitering about our garden
and park wall, all the day on Sunday last; and all Sunday night was
wandering about the coppice, and near the back door. It rained; and he has
got a great cold, attended with feverishness, and so hoarse, that he has
almost lost his voice.'</p>
<p>Why did he not flame out in his letter?—Treated as I am treated by
my friends, it is dangerous to be laid under the sense of an obligation to
an addresser's patience; especially when such a one suffers in health for
my sake.</p>
<p>'He had no shelter, he says, but under the great overgrown ivy, which
spreads wildly round the heads of two or three oaklings; and that was soon
wet through.'</p>
<p>You remember the spot. You and I, my dear, once thought ourselves obliged
to the natural shade which those ivy-covered oaklings afforded us, in a
sultry day.</p>
<p>I can't help saying, I am sorry he has suffered for my sake; but 'tis his
own seeking.</p>
<p>His letter is dated last night at eight: 'And, indisposed as he is, he
tells me that he will watch till ten, in hopes of my giving him the
meeting he so earnestly request. And after that, he has a mile to walk to
his horse and servant; and four miles then to ride to his inn.'</p>
<p>He owns, 'That he has an intelligencer in our family; who has failed him
for a day or two past: and not knowing how I do, or how I may be treated,
his anxiety is increased.'</p>
<p>This circumstance gives me to guess who this intelligencer is: Joseph
Leman: the very creature employed and confided in, more than any other, by
my brother.</p>
<p>This is not an honourable way of proceeding in Mr. Lovelace. Did he learn
this infamous practice of corrupting the servants of other families at the
French court, where he resided a good while?</p>
<p>I have been often jealous of this Leman in my little airings and
poultry-visits. Doubly obsequious as he was always to me, I have thought
him my brother's spy upon me; and although he obliged me by his hastening
out of the garden and poultry-yard, whenever I came into either, have
wondered, that from his reports my liberties of those kinds have not been
abridged.* So, possibly, this man may be bribed by both, yet betray both.
Worthy views want not such obliquities as these on either side. An honest
mind must rise into indignation both at the traitor-maker and the traitor.</p>
<p>* Mr. Lovelace accounts for this, Vol. I, Letter XXXV.<br/></p>
<p>'He presses with the utmost earnestness for an interview. He would not
presume, he says, to disobey my last personal commands, that he should not
endeavour to attend me again in the wood-house. But says, he can give me
such reasons for my permitting him to wait upon my father or uncles, as he
hopes will be approved by me: for he cannot help observing, that it is no
more suitable to my own spirit than to his, that he, a man of fortune and
family, should be obliged to pursue such a clandestine address, as would
only become a vile fortune-hunter. But, if I will give my consent for his
visiting me like a man, and a gentleman, no ill treatment shall provoke
him to forfeit his temper.</p>
<p>'Lord M. will accompany him, if I please: or Lady Betty Lawrance will
first make the visit to my mother, or to my aunt Hervey, or even to my
uncles, if I choose it. And such terms shall be offered, as shall have
weight upon them.</p>
<p>'He begs, that I will not deny him making a visit to Mr. Solmes. By all
that's good, he vows, that it shall not be with the least intention either
to hurt or affront him; but only to set before him, calmly and rationally,
the consequences that may possibly flow from so fruitless a perseverance,
as well as the ungenerous folly of it, to a mind as noble as mine. He
repeats his own resolution to attend my pleasure, and Mr. Morden's arrival
and advice, for the reward of his own patience.</p>
<p>'It is impossible, he says, but one of these methods must do. Presence, he
observes, even of a disliked person, takes off the edge of resentments
which absence whets, and makes keen.</p>
<p>'He therefore most earnestly repeats his importunities for the supplicated
interview.' He says, 'He has business of consequence in London: but cannot
stir from the inconvenient spot where he has for some time resided, in
disguises unworthy of himself, until he can be absolutely certain, that I
shall not be prevailed upon, either by force or otherwise; and until he
finds me delivered from the insults of my brother. Nor ought this to be an
indifferent point to one, for whose sake all the world reports me to be
used unworthily. But one remark, he says, he cannot help making: that did
my friends know the little favour I shew him, and the very great distance
I keep him at, they would have no reason to confine me on his account. And
another, that they themselves seem to think him entitled to a different
usage, and expect that he receives it; when, in truth, what he meets with
from me is exactly what they wish him to meet with, excepting in the
favour of my correspondence I honour him with; upon which, he says, he
puts the highest value, and for the sake of which he has submitted to a
thousand indignities.</p>
<p>'He renews his professions of reformation. He is convinced, he says, that
he has already run a long and dangerous course; and that it is high time
to think of returning. It must be from proper conviction, he says, that a
person who has lived too gay a life, resolves to reclaim, before age or
sufferings come upon him.</p>
<p>'All generous spirits, he observes, hate compulsion. Upon this observation
he dwells; but regrets, that he is likely to owe all his hopes to this
compulsion; this injudicious compulsion, he justly calls it; and none to
my esteem for him. Although he presumes upon some merit—in this
implicit regard to my will—in the bearing the daily indignities
offered not only to him, but to his relations, by my brother—in the
nightly watchings, his present indisposition makes him mention, or he had
not debased the nobleness of his passion for me, by such a selfish
instance.'</p>
<p>I cannot but say, I am sorry the man is not well.</p>
<p>I am afraid to ask you, my dear, what you would have done, thus situated.
But what I have done, I have done. In a word, I wrote, 'That I would, if
possible, give him a meeting to-morrow night, between the hours of nine
and twelve, by the ivy summer-house, or in it, or near the great cascade,
at the bottom of the garden; and would unbolt the door, that he might come
in by his own key. But that, if I found the meeting impracticable, or
should change my mind, I would signify as much by another line; which he
must wait for until it were dark.'</p>
<p>TUESDAY, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.</p>
<p>I am just returned from depositing my billet. How diligent is this man! It
is plain he was in waiting: for I had walked but a few paces, after I had
deposited it, when, my heart misgiving me, I returned, to have taken it
back, in order to reconsider it as I walked, and whether I should or
should not let it go. But I found it gone.</p>
<p>In all probability, there was but a brick wall, of a few inches thick,
between Mr. Lovelace and me, at the very time I put the letter under the
brick!</p>
<p>I am come back dissatisfied with myself. But I think, my dear, there can
be no harm in meeting him. If I do not, he may take some violent measures.
What he knows of the treatment I meet with in malice to him, and with the
view to frustrate all his hopes, may make him desperate. His behaviour
last time I saw him, under the disadvantages of time and place, and
surprised as I was, gives me no apprehension of any thing but discovery.
What he requires is not unreasonable, and cannot affect my future choice
and determination: it is only to assure him from my own lips, that I never
will be the wife of a man I hate. If I have not an opportunity to meet
without hazard or detection, he must once more bear the disappointment.
All his trouble, and mine too, is owing to his faulty character. This,
although I hate tyranny and arrogance in all shapes, makes me think less
of the risques he runs, and the fatigues he undergoes, than otherwise I
should do; and still less, as my sufferings (derived from the same source)
are greater than his.</p>
<p>Betty confirms this intimation, that I must go to my uncle's on Thursday.
She was sent on purpose to direct me to prepare myself for going, and to
help me to get every thing up in order for my removal.</p>
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