<p>My uncle was very much displeased. But he had not the opportunity to
express his displeasure, as he seemed preparing to do; for in came my
brother in exceeding great wrath; and called me several vile names. His
success hitherto, in his device against me, had set him above keeping even
decent measures.</p>
<p>Was this my spiteful construction? he asked—Was this the
interpretation I put upon his brotherly care of me, and concern for me, in
order to prevent my ruining myself?</p>
<p>It is, indeed it is, said I: I know no other way to account for your late
behaviour to me: and before your face, I repeat my request to my uncle,
and I will make it to my other uncle whenever I am permitted to see him,
that they will confer all their favours upon you, and upon my sister; and
only make me happy (it is all I wish for!) in their kind looks, and kind
words.</p>
<p>How they all gazed upon one another!—But could I be less peremptory
before the man?</p>
<p>And, as to your care and concern for me, Sir, turning to my brother; once
more I desire it not. You are but my brother. My father and mother, I
bless God, are both living; and were they not, you have given me abundant
reason to say, that you are the very last person I would wish to have any
concern for me.</p>
<p>How, Niece! And is a brother, an only brother, of so little consideration
with you, as this comes to? And ought he to have no concern for his
sister's honour, and the family's honour.</p>
<p>My honour, Sir!—I desire none of his concern for that! It never was
endangered till it had his undesired concern!—Forgive me, Sir—but
when my brother knows how to act like a brother, or behave like a
gentleman, he may deserve more consideration from me than it is possible
for me now to think he does.</p>
<p>I thought my brother would have beat me upon this: but my uncle stood
between us.</p>
<p>Violent girl, however, he called me—Who, said he, who would have
thought it of her?</p>
<p>Then was Mr. Solmes told, that I was unworthy of his pursuit.</p>
<p>But Mr. Solmes warmly took my part: he could not bear, he said, that I
should be treated so roughly.</p>
<p>And so very much did he exert himself on this occasion, and so patiently
was his warmth received by my brother, that I began to suspect, that it
was a contrivance to make me think myself obliged to him; and that this
might perhaps be one end of the pressed-for interview.</p>
<p>The very suspicion of this low artifice, violent as I was thought to be
before, put me still more out of patience; and my uncle and my brother
again praising his wonderful generosity, and his noble return of good for
evil, You are a happy man, Mr. Solmes, said I, that you can so easily
confer obligations upon a whole family, except upon one ungrateful person
of it, whom you seem to intend most to oblige; but who being made unhappy
by your favour, desires not to owe to you any protection from the violence
of a brother.</p>
<p>Then was I a rude, an ungrateful, and unworthy creature.</p>
<p>I own it all—all, all you can call me, or think me, Brother, do I
own. I own my unworthiness with regard to this gentleman. I take your word
for his abundant merit, which I have neither leisure nor inclination to
examine into—it may perhaps be as great as your own—but yet I
cannot thank him for his great mediation: For who sees not, looking at my
uncle, that this is giving himself a merit with every body at my expense?</p>
<p>Then turning to my brother, who seemed surprised into silence by my
warmth, I must also acknowledge, Sir, the favour of your superabundant
care for me. But I discharge you of it; at least, while I have the
happiness of nearer and dearer relations. You have given me no reason to
think better of your prudence, than of my own. I am independent of you,
Sir, though I never desire to be so of my father: and although I wish for
the good opinion of my uncles, it is all I wish for from them: and this,
Sir, I repeat, to make you and my sister easy.</p>
<p>Instantly almost came in Betty, in a great hurry, looking at me as
spitefully as if she were my sister: Sir, said she to my brother, my
master desires to speak with you this moment at the door.</p>
<p>He went to that which led into my sister's parlour; and this sentence I
heard thundered from the mouth of one who had a right to all my reverence:
Son James, let the rebel be this moment carried away to my brother's—this
very moment—she shall not stay one hour more under my roof!</p>
<p>I trembled; I was ready to sink. Yet, not knowing what I did, or said, I
flew to the door, and would have opened it: but my brother pulled it to,
and held it close by the key—O my Papa!—my dear Papa! said I,
falling upon my knees, at the door—admit your child to your
presence!—Let me but plead my cause at your feet!—Oh!
reprobate not thus your distressed daughter!</p>
<p>My uncle put his handkerchief to his eyes. Mr. Solmes made a still more
grievous face than he had before. But my brother's marble heart was
untouched.</p>
<p>I will not stir from my knees, continued I, without admission; at this
door I beg it!—Oh! let it be the door of mercy! and open it to me,
honoured Sir, I beseech you!—But this once, this once! although you
were afterwards to shut it against me for ever!</p>
<p>The door was endeavoured to be opened on the inside, which made my brother
let go the key on a sudden; and I pressing against it, (all the time
remaining on my knees,) fell flat on my face into the other parlour;
however without hurting myself. But every body was gone, except Betty, who
I suppose was the person that endeavoured to open the door. She helped to
raise me up; and when I was on my feet, I looked round that apartment, and
seeing nobody there, re-entered the other, leaning upon her; and then
threw myself into the chair which I had sat in before; and my eyes
overflowed, to my great relief: while my uncle Antony, my brother, and Mr.
Solmes, left me, and went to my other relations.</p>
<p>What passed among them, I know not: but my brother came in by the time I
had tolerably recovered myself, with a settled and haughty gloom upon his
brow—Your father and mother command you instantly to prepare for
your uncle Antony's. You need not be solicitous about what you shall take
with you: you may give Betty your keys—Take them, Betty, if the
perverse one has them about her, and carry them to her mother. She will
take care to send every thing after you that you shall want—but
another night you will not be permitted to stay in this house.</p>
<p>I don't choose to give my keys to any body, except to my mother, and into
her own hands.—You see how much I am disordered. It may cost me my
life, to be hurried away so suddenly. I beg to be indulged till next
Monday at least.</p>
<p>That will not be granted you. So prepare for this very very night. And
give up your keys. Give them to me, Miss. I'll carry them to your mother.</p>
<p>Excuse me, Brother. Indeed I won't.</p>
<p>Indeed you must. Have you any thing you are afraid should be seen by your
mother?</p>
<p>Not if I be permitted to attend her.</p>
<p>I'll make a report accordingly.</p>
<p>He went out.</p>
<p>In came Miss Dolly Hervey: I am sorry, Madam, to be the messenger—but
your mamma insists upon your sending up all the keys of your cabinet,
library, and drawers.</p>
<p>Tell my mother, that I yield them up to her commands: tell her, I make no
conditions with my mother: but if she finds nothing she shall disapprove
of, I beg that she will permit me to tarry here a few days longer.—Try,
my Dolly, [the dear girl sobbing with grief;] try if your gentleness
cannot prevail for me.</p>
<p>She wept still more, and said, It is sad, very sad, to see matters thus
carried!</p>
<p>She took the keys, and wrapped her arms about me; and begged me to excuse
her for her message; and would have said more; but Betty's presence awed
her, as I saw.</p>
<p>Don't pity me, my dear, said I. It will be imputed to you as a fault. You
see who is by.</p>
<p>The insolent wench scornfully smiled: One young lady pitying another in
things of this nature, looks promising in the youngest, I must needs say.</p>
<p>I bid her begone from my presence.</p>
<p>She would most gladly go, she said, were she not to stay about me by my
mother's order.</p>
<p>It soon appeared for what she staid; for I offering to go up stairs to my
apartment when my cousin went from me with the keys, she told me she was
commanded (to her very great regret, she must own) to desire me not to go
up at present.</p>
<p>Such a bold face, as she, I told her, should not hinder me.</p>
<p>She instantly rang the bell, and in came my brother, meeting me at the
door.</p>
<p>Return, return, Miss—no going up yet.</p>
<p>I went in again, and throwing myself upon the window-seat, wept bitterly.</p>
<p>Shall I give you the particulars of a ridiculously-spiteful conversation
that passed between my brother and me, in the time that he (with Betty)
was in office to keep me in the parlour while my closet was searching!—But
I think I will not. It can answer no good end.</p>
<p>I desired several times, while he staid, to have leave to retire to my
apartment; but was denied. The search, I suppose, was not over.</p>
<p>Bella was one of those employed in it. They could not have a more diligent
searcher. How happy it was they were disappointed!</p>
<p>But when my sister could not find the cunning creature's papers, I was to
stand another visit from Mr. Solmes—preceded now by my aunt Hervey,
solely against her will, I could see that; accompanied by my uncle Antony,
in order to keep her steady, I suppose.</p>
<p>But being a little heavy (for it is now past two in the morning) I will
lie down in my clothes, to indulge the kind summons, if it will be
indulged.</p>
<p>THREE O'CLOCK, WEDNESDAY MORNING.</p>
<p>I could not sleep—Only dozed away one half-hour.</p>
<p>My aunt Hervey accosted me thus:—O my dear child, what troubles do
you give to your parents, and to every body!—I wonder at you!</p>
<p>I am sorry for it, Madam.</p>
<p>Sorry for it, child!—Why then so very obstinate?—Come, sit
down, my dear. I will sit next to you; taking my hand.</p>
<p>My uncle placed Mr. Solmes on the other side of me: himself over-against
me, almost close to me. Was I not finely beset, my dear?</p>
<p>Your brother, child, said my aunt, is too passionate—his zeal for
your welfare pushes him on a little too vehemently.</p>
<p>Very true, said my uncle: but no more of this. We would now be glad to see
if milder means will do with you—though, indeed, they were tried
before.</p>
<p>I asked my aunt, If it were necessary, that the gentleman should be
present?</p>
<p>There is a reason that he should, said my aunt, as you will hear by-and
by.—But I must tell you, first, that, thinking you was a little too
angrily treated by your brother, your mother desired me to try what
gentler means would do upon a spirit so generous as we used to think
yours.</p>
<p>Nothing can be done, Madam, I must presume to say, if this gentleman's
address be the end.</p>
<p>She looked upon my uncle, who bit his lip; and looked upon Mr. Solmes, who
rubbed his cheek; and shaking her head, Good, dear creature, said she, be
calm. Let me ask you, If something would have been done, had you been more
gently used, than you seem to think you have been?</p>
<p>No, Madam, I cannot say it would, in this gentleman's favour. You know,
Madam, you know, Sir, to my uncle, I ever valued myself upon my sincerity:
and once indeed had the happiness to be valued for it.</p>
<p>My uncle took Mr. Solmes aside. I heard him say, whispering, She must, she
shall, still be yours.—We'll see, who'll conquer, parents or child,
uncles or niece. I doubt not to be witness to all this being got over, and
many a good-humoured jest made of this high phrensy!</p>
<p>I was heartily vexed.</p>
<p>Though we cannot find out, continued he, yet we guess, who puts her upon
this obstinate behaviour. It is not natural to her, man. Nor would I
concern myself so much about her, but that I know what I say to be true,
and intend to do great things for her.</p>
<p>I will hourly pray for that happy time, whispered as audibly Mr. Solmes. I
never will revive the remembrance of what is now so painful to me.</p>
<p>Well, but, Niece, I am to tell you, said my aunt, that the sending up of
the keys, without making any conditions, has wrought for you what nothing
else could have done. That, and the not finding any thing that could give
them umbrage, together with Mr. Solmes's interposition—</p>
<p>O Madam, let me not owe an obligation to Mr. Solmes. I cannot repay it,
except by my thanks; and those only on condition that he will decline his
suit. To my thanks, Sir, [turning to him,] if you have a heart capable of
humanity, if you have any esteem for me for my own sake, I beseech you to
entitle yourself!—I beseech you, do—!</p>
<p>O Madam, cried he, believe, believe, believe me, it is impossible. While
you are single, I will hope. While that hope is encouraged by so many
worthy friends, I must persevere. I must not slight them, Madam, because
you slight me.</p>
<p>I answered him only with a look; but it was of high disdain; and turning
from him,—But what favour, dear Madam, [to my aunt,] has the
instance of duty you mention procured me?</p>
<p>Your mother and Mr. Solmes, replied my aunt, have prevailed, that your
request to stay here till Monday next shall be granted, if you will
promise to go cheerfully then.</p>
<p>Let me but choose my own visiters, and I will go to my uncle's house with
pleasure.</p>
<p>Well, Niece, said my aunt, we must wave this subject, I find. We will now
proceed to another, which will require your utmost attention. It will give
you the reason why Mr. Solmes's presence is requisite—</p>
<p>Ay, said my uncle, and shew you what sort of a man somebody is. Mr.
Solmes, pray favour us, in the first place, with the letter you received
from your anonymous friend.</p>
<p>I will, Sir. And out he pulled a letter-case, and taking out a letter, it
is written in answer to one, sent to the person. It is superscribed, To
Roger Solmes, Esq. It begins thus: Honoured Sir—</p>
<p>I beg your pardon, Sir, said I: but what, pray, is the intent of reading
this letter to me?</p>
<p>To let you know what a vile man you are thought to have set your heart
upon, said my uncle, in an audible whisper.</p>
<p>If, Sir, it be suspected, that I have set my heart upon any other, why is
Mr. Solmes to give himself any further trouble about me?</p>
<p>Only hear, Niece, said my aunt; only hear what Mr. Solmes has to read and
to say to you on this head.</p>
<p>If, Madam, Mr. Solmes will be pleased to declare, that he has no view to
serve, no end to promote, for himself, I will hear any thing he shall
read. But if the contrary, you must allow me to say, that it will abate
with me a great deal of the weight of whatever he shall produce.</p>
<p>Hear it but read, Niece, said my aunt—</p>
<p>Hear it read, said my uncle. You are so ready to take part with—</p>
<p>With any body, Sir, that is accused anonymously, and from interested
motives.</p>
<p>He began to read; and there seemed to be a heavy load of charges in this
letter against the poor criminal: but I stopped the reading of it, and
said, It will not be my fault, if this vilified man be not as indifferent
to me, as one whom I never saw. If he be otherwise at present, which I
neither own, nor deny, it proceed from the strange methods taken to
prevent it. Do not let one cause unite him and me, and we shall not be
united. If my offer to live single be accepted, he shall be no more to me
than this gentleman.</p>
<p>Still—Proceed, Mr. Solmes—Hear it out, Niece, was my uncle's
cry.</p>
<p>But to what purpose, Sir! said I—Had not Mr. Solmes a view in this?
And, besides, can any thing worse be said of Mr. Lovelace, than I have
heard said for several months past?</p>
<p>But this, said my uncle, and what Mr. Solmes can tell you besides, amounts
to the fullest proof—</p>
<p>Was the unhappy man, then, so freely treated in his character before,
without full proof? I beseech you, Sir, give me not too good an opinion of
Mr. Lovelace; as I may have, if such pains be taken to make him guilty, by
one who means not his reformation by it; nor to do good, if I may presume
to say so in this case, to any body but himself.</p>
<p>I see very plainly, girl, said my uncle, your prepossession, your fond
prepossession, for the person of a man without morals.</p>
<p>Indeed, my dear, said my aunt, you too much justify all your apprehension.
Surprising! that a young creature of virtue and honour should thus esteem
a man of a quite opposite character!</p>
<p>Dear Madam, do not conclude against me too hastily. I believe Mr. Lovelace
is far from being so good as he ought to be: but if every man's private
life was searched into by prejudiced people, set on for that purpose, I
know not whose reputation would be safe. I love a virtuous character, as
much in man as in woman. I think it is requisite, and as meritorious, in
the one as in the other. And, if left to myself, I would prefer a person
of such a character to royalty without it.</p>
<p>Why then, said my uncle—</p>
<p>Give me leave, Sir—but I may venture to say, that many of those who
have escaped censure, have not merited applause.</p>
<p>Permit me to observe further, That Mr. Solmes himself may not be
absolutely faultless. I never head of his virtues. Some vices I have heard
of—Excuse me, Mr. Solmes, I speak to your face—The text about
casting the first stone affords an excellent lesson.</p>
<p>He looked down; but was silent.</p>
<p>Mr. Lovelace may have vices you have not. You may have others, which he
has not. I speak not this to defend him, or to accuse you. No man is bad,
no one is good, in every thing. Mr. Lovelace, for example, is said to be
implacable, and to hate my friends: that does not make me value him the
more: but give me leave to say, that they hate him as much. Mr. Solmes has
his antipathies, likewise; very strong ones, and those to his own
relations; which I don't find to be the other's fault; for he lives well
with his—yet he may have as bad:—worse, pardon me, he cannot
have, in my poor opinion: for what must be the man, who hates his own
flesh?</p>
<p>You know not, Madam; You know not, Niece; all in one breath. You know not,
Clary;</p>
<p>I may not, nor do I desire to know Mr. Solmes's reasons. It concerns not
me to know them: but the world, even the impartial part of it, accuses
him. If the world is unjust or rash, in one man's case, why may it not be
so in another's? That's all I mean by it. Nor can there by a greater sign
of want of merit, than where a man seeks to pull down another's character,
in order to build up his own.</p>
<p>The poor man's face was all this time overspread with confusion, twisted,
as it were, and all awry, neither mouth nor nose standing in the middle of
it. He looked as if he were ready to cry: and had he been capable of
pitying me, I had certainly tried to pity him.</p>
<p>They all three gazed upon one another in silence.</p>
<p>My aunt, I saw (at least I thought so) looked as if she would have been
glad she might have appeared to approve of what I said. She but feebly
blamed me, when she spoke, for not hearing what Mr. Solmes had to say. He
himself seemed not now very earnest to be heard. My uncle said, There was
no talking to me. And I should have absolutely silenced both gentlemen,
had not my brother come in again to their assistance.</p>
<p>This was the strange speech he made at his entrance, his eyes flaming with
anger; This prating girl, has struck you all dumb, I perceive. Persevere,
however, Mr. Solmes. I have heard every word she has said: and I know of
no other method of being even with her, than after she is yours, to make
her as sensible of your power, as she now makes you of her insolence.</p>
<p>Fie, cousin Harlowe! said my aunt—Could I have thought a brother
would have said this, to a gentleman, of a sister?</p>
<p>I must tell you, Madam, said he, that you give the rebel courage. You
yourself seem to favour too much the arrogance of her sex in her;
otherwise she durst not have thus stopped her uncle's mouth by reflections
upon him; as well as denied to hear a gentleman tell her the danger she is
in from a libertine, whose protection, as she plainly hinted, she intends
to claim against her family.</p>
<p>Stopped my uncle's mouth, by reflections upon him, Sir! said I, how can
that be! how dare you to make such an application as this!</p>
<p>My aunt wept at his reflection upon her.—Cousin, said she to him, if
this be the thanks I have for my trouble, I have done: your father would
not treat me thus—and I will say, that the hint you gave was an
unbrotherly one.</p>
<p>Not more unbrotherly than all the rest of his conduct to me, of late,
Madam, said I. I see by this specimen of his violence, how every body has
been brought into his measures. Had I any the least apprehension of ever
being in Mr. Solmes's power, this might have affected me. But you see,
Sir, to Mr. Solmes, what a conduct is thought necessary to enable you to
arrive at your ungenerous end. You see how my brother courts for you.</p>
<p>I disclaim Mr. Harlowe's violence, Madam, with all my soul. I will never
remind you—</p>
<p>Silence, worthy Sir, said I; I will take care you never shall have the
opportunity.</p>
<p>Less violence, Clary, said my uncle. Cousin James, you are as much to
blame as your sister.</p>
<p>In then came my sister. Brother, said she, you kept not your promise. You
are thought to be to blame within, as well as here. Were not Mr. Solmes's
generosity and affection to the girl well known, what you said would have
been inexcusable. My father desires to speak with you; and with you, Mr.
Solmes, if you please.</p>
<p>They all four withdrew into the next apartment.</p>
<p>I stood silent, as not knowing presently how to take this intervention of
my sister's. But she left me not long at a loss—O thou perverse
thing, said she [poking out her angry face at me, when they were all gone,
but speaking spitefully low]—what trouble do you give to us all!</p>
<p>You and my brother, Bella, said I, give trouble to yourselves; yet neither
you nor he have any business to concern yourselves about me.</p>
<p>She threw out some spiteful expressions, still in a low voice, as if she
chose not to be heard without; and I thought it best to oblige her to
raise her tone a little, if I could. If I could, did I say? It is easy to
make a passionate spirit answer all one's views upon it.</p>
<p>She accordingly flamed out in a raised tone: and this brought my cousin
Dolly in to us. Miss Harlowe, your company is desired.</p>
<p>I will come presently, cousin Dolly.</p>
<p>But again provoking a severity from me which she could not bear, and
calling me names! in once more come Dolly, with another message, that her
company was desired.</p>
<p>Not mine, I doubt, Miss Dolly, said I.</p>
<p>The sweet-tempered girl burst out into tears, and shook her head.</p>
<p>Go in before me, child, said Bella, [vexed to see her concern for me,]
with thy sharp face like a new moon: What dost thou cry for? is it to make
thy keen face look still keener?</p>
<p>I believe Bella was blamed, too, when she went in; for I heard her say,
the creature was so provoking, there was no keeping a resolution.</p>
<p>Mr. Solmes, after a little while, came in again by himself, to take leave
of me: full of scrapes and compliments; but too well tutored and
encouraged, to give me hope of his declining his suit. He begged me not to
impute to him any of the severe things to which he had been a sorrowful
witness. He besought my compassion, as he called it.</p>
<p>He said, the result was, that he still had hopes given him; and, although
discouraged by me, he was resolved to persevere, while I remained single.—And
such long and such painful services he talked of, as never before were
heard of.</p>
<p>I told him in the strongest manner, what he had to trust to.</p>
<p>Yet still he determined to persist.—While I was no man's else, he
must hope.</p>
<p>What! said I, will you still persist, when I declare, as I do now, that my
affections are engaged?—And let my brother make the most of it.</p>
<p>He knew my principles, and adored me for them. He doubted not, that it was
in his power to make me happy: and he was sure I would not want the will
to be so.</p>
<p>I assured him, that were I to be carried to my uncle's, it should answer
no end; for I would never see him; nor receive a line from him; nor hear a
word in his favour, whoever were the person who should mention him to me.</p>
<p>He was sorry for it. He must be miserable, were I to hold in that mind.
But he doubted not, that I might be induced by my father and uncles to
change it—</p>
<p>Never, never, he might depend upon it.</p>
<p>It was richly worth his patience, and the trial.</p>
<p>At my expense?—At the price of all my happiness, Sir?</p>
<p>He hoped I should be induced to think otherwise.</p>
<p>And then would he have run into his fortune, his settlements, his
affection—vowing, that never man loved a woman with so sincere a
passion as he loved me.</p>
<p>I stopped him, as to the first part of his speech: and to the second, of
the sincerity of his passion, What then, Sir, said I, is your love to one,
who must assure you, that never young creature looked upon man with a more
sincere disapprobation, than I look upon you? And tell me, what argument
can you urge, that this true declaration answers not before-hand?</p>
<p>Dearest Madam, what can I say?—On my knees I beg—</p>
<p>And down the ungraceful wretch dropped on his knees.</p>
<p>Let me not kneel in vain, Madam: let me not be thus despised.—And he
looked most odiously sorrowful.</p>
<p>I have kneeled too, Mr. Solmes: often have I kneeled: and I will kneel
again—even to you, Sir, will I kneel, if there be so much merit in
kneeling; provided you will not be the implement of my cruel brother's
undeserved persecution.</p>
<p>If all the services, even to worship you, during my whole life—You,
Madam, invoke and expect mercy; yet shew none—</p>
<p>Am I to be cruel to myself, to shew mercy to you; take my estate, Sir,
with all my heart, since you are such a favourite in this house!—only
leave me myself—the mercy you ask for, do you shew to others.</p>
<p>If you mean to my relations, Madam—unworthy as they are, all shall
be done that you shall prescribe.</p>
<p>Who, I, Sir, to find you bowels you naturally have not? I to purchase
their happiness by the forfeiture of my own? What I ask you for, is mercy
to myself: that, since you seem to have some power over my relations, you
will use it in my behalf. Tell them, that you see I cannot conquer my
aversion to you: tell them, if you are a wise man, that you too much value
your own happiness, to risk it against such a determined antipathy: tell
them that I am unworthy of your offers: and that in mercy to yourself, as
well as to me, you will not prosecute a suit so impossible to be granted.</p>
<p>I will risque all consequences, said the fell wretch, rising, with a
countenance whitened over, as if with malice, his hollow eyes flashing
fire, and biting his under lip, to shew he could be manly. Your hatred,
Madam, shall be no objection with me: and I doubt not in a few days to
have it in my power to shew you—</p>
<p>You have it in your power, Sir—</p>
<p>He came well off—To shew you more generosity than, noble as you are
said to be to others, you shew to me.</p>
<p>The man's face became his anger: it seems formed to express the passion.</p>
<p>At that instant, again in came my brother—Sister, Sister, Sister,
said he, with his teeth set, act on the termagant part you have so newly
assumed—most wonderfully well does it become you. It is but a short
one, however. Tyraness in your turn, accuse others of your own guilt—But
leave her, leaver her, Mr. Solmes: her time is short. You'll find her
humble and mortified enough very quickly. Then, how like a little tame
fool will she look, with her conscience upbraiding her, and begging of you
[with a whining voice, the barbarous brother spoke] to forgive and forget!</p>
<p>More he said, as he flew out, with a glowing face, upon Shorey's coming in
to recall him on his violence.</p>
<p>I removed from chair to chair, excessively frighted and disturbed at this
brutal treatment.</p>
<p>The man attempted to excuse himself, as being sorry for my brother's
passion.</p>
<p>Leave me, leave me, Sir, fanning—or I shall faint. And indeed I
thought I should.</p>
<p>He recommended himself to my favour with an air of assurance; augmented,
as I thought, by a distress so visible in me; for he even snatched my
trembling, my struggling hand; and ravished it to his odious mouth.</p>
<p>I flung from him with high disdain: and he withdrew, bowing and cringing;
self-gratified, and enjoying, as I thought, the confusion he saw me in.</p>
<p>The wretch is now, methinks, before me; and now I see him awkwardly
striding backward, as he retired, till the edge of the opened door, which
he ran against, remembered him to turn his welcome back upon me.</p>
<p>Upon his withdrawing, Betty brought me word, that I was permitted to go up
to my own chamber: and was bid to consider of every thing: for my time was
short. Nevertheless, she believed I might be permitted to stay till
Saturday.</p>
<p>She tells me, that although my brother and sister were blamed for being so
hasty with me, yet when they made their report, and my uncle Antony his,
of my provocations, they were all more determined than ever in Mr.
Solmes's favour.</p>
<p>The wretch himself, she tells me, pretends to be more in love with me than
before; and to be rather delighted than discouraged with the conversation
that passed between us. He ran on, she says, in raptures, about the grace
wherewith I should dignify his board; and the like sort of stuff, either
of his saying, or of her making.</p>
<p>She closed all with a Now is your time, Miss, to submit with a grace, and
to make your own terms with him:—else, I can tell you, were I Mr.
Solmes, it should be worse for you: And who, Miss, of our sex, proceeded
the saucy creature, would admire a rakish gentleman, when she might be
admired by a sober one to the end of the chapter?</p>
<p>She made this further speech to me on quitting my chamber—You have
had amazing good luck, Miss. I must tell you, to keep your writings
concealed so cunningly. You must needs think I know that you are always at
your pen: and as you endeavour to hide that knowledge from me, I do not
think myself obliged to keep your secret. But I love not to aggravate. I
had rather reconcile by much. Peace-making is my talent, and ever was. And
had I been as much your foe, as you imagine, you had not perhaps been here
now. But this, however, I do not say to make a merit with you, Miss: for,
truly, it will be the better for you the sooner every thing is over with
you. And better for me, and for every one else; that's certain. Yet one
hint I must conclude with; that your pen and ink (soon as you are to go
away) will not be long in your power, I do assure you, Miss. And then,
having lost that amusement, it will be seen, how a mind so active as yours
will be able to employ itself.</p>
<p>This hint alarms me so much, that I shall instantly begin to conceal, in
different places, pens, inks, and paper; and to deposit some in the ivy
summer-house, if I can find a safe place there; and, at the worst, I have
got a pencil of black, and another of red lead, which I use in my
drawings; and my patterns shall serve for paper, if I have no other.</p>
<p>How lucky it was, that I had got away my papers! They made a strict search
for them; that I can see, by the disorderly manner they have left all
things in: for you know that I am such an observer of method, that I can
go to a bit of ribband, or lace, or edging, blindfold. The same in my
books; which they have strangely disordered and mismatched; to look behind
them, and in some of them, I suppose. My clothes too are rumpled not a
little. No place has escaped them. To your hint, I thank you, are they
indebted for their disappointment.</p>
<p>The pen, through heaviness and fatigue, dropt out of my fingers, at the
word indebted. I resumed it, to finish the sentence; and to tell you, that
I am,</p>
<p>Your for ever obliged and affectionate CL. HARLOWE.</p>
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