I will have patience, if I can, for a while, to see if these bustlings in my mother will subside—but upon my word, I will not long bear this usage.
Sometimes I am ready to think, that my mother carries it thus on purpose to tire me out, and to make me the sooner marry. If I find it to be so, and that Hickman, in order to make a merit with me, is in the low plot, I will never bear him in my sight.
Plotting wretch, as I doubt your man is, I wish to heaven that you were married, that you might brave them all, and not be forced to hide yourself, and be hurried from one inconvenient place to another. I charge you, omit not to lay hold on any handsome opportunity that may offer for that purpose.
Here again comes my mother—
We look mighty glum upon each other, I can tell you. She had not best Harlowe me at this rate—I won’t bear it.
I have a vast deal to write. I know not what to write first. Yet my mind is full, and ready to run over.
I am got into a private corner of the garden, to be out of her way.—Lord help these mothers!—Do they think they can prevent a daughter’s writing, or doing anything she has a mind to do, by suspicion, watchfulness, and scolding?—They had better place a confidence in one by half—A generous mind scorns to abuse a generous confidence.
You have a nice, a very nice part to act with this wretch—who yet has, I think, but one plain path before him. I pity you—but you must make the best of the lot you have been forced to draw. Yet I see your difficulties.—But, if he do not offer to abuse your confidence, I would have you seem at least to place some in him.
If you think not of marrying soon, I approve of your resolution to fix somewhere out of his reach. And if he know not where to find you, so much the better. Yet I verily believe, they would force you back, could they but come at you, if they were not afraid of him.
I think, by all means, you should demand of both your trustees to be put in possession of your own estate. Meantime I have sixty guineas at your service. I beg you will command them. Before they are gone, I’ll take care you shall be further supplied. I don’t think you’ll have a shilling or a shilling’s worth of your own from your relations, unless you extort it from them.
As they believe you went away by your own consent, they are, it seems, equally surprised and glad that you have left your jewels and money behind you, and have contrived for clothes so ill. Very little likelihood this shows of their answering your requests.
Indeed everyone who knows not what I now know, must be at a loss to account for your flight
, as they will call it. And how, my dear, can one report it with any tolerable advantage to you?—To say, you did not intend it
when you met him, who will believe it?—To say, that a person of your known steadiness and punctilio was over-persuaded
when you gave him the meeting, how will that sound?—To say, you were tricked out of yourself
, and people were given credit to it, how disreputable!—And while unmarried, and yet with him, the man a man of such a character, what would it not lead a censuring world to think?
I want to see how you put it in your letter for your clothes.
As you may depend upon all the little spiteful things they can offer, instead of sending what you write for, pray accept the sum that I tender. What will seven guineas do?—And I will find a way to send you also any of my clothes and linen for present supply. I beg, my dear Clarissa, that you will not put your Anna Howe upon a footing with Lovelace, in refusing to accept of my offer. If you do not oblige me, I shall be apt to think you rather incline to be obliged to him, than to favour me. And if I find this, I shall not know how to reconcile it with your delicacy in other respects.
Pray inform me of everything that passes between you and him. My cares for you (however needless, from your own prudence) make me wish you to continue to be every minute. If anything occur that you would tell me of if I were present, fail not to put it down in writing, although from your natural diffidence, it should not appear to you altogether so worthy of your pen, or my knowing. A stander-by may see more of the game than one that plays. Great consequences, like great folks, generally owe their greatness to small causes, and little incidents.
Upon the whole, I do not now think it is in your power to dismiss him when you please. I apprised you beforehand, that it would not. I repeat, therefore, that were I you, I would at least seem to place some confidence in him. So long as he is decent, you may. Very visibly observable, to such delicacy as yours, must be that behaviour in him, which will make him unworthy of some confidence.
Your relations, according to what old Antony says to my mother, and she to me, (by way of threatening, that you will not gain your supposed ends
