Mr. Harlowe!—Not my father!—Have I not then a father!—thought I.
Sit down when I bid you.
I sat down.
You look very sullen, Clary.
I hope not, Madam.
If children would always be children—parents—And there she stopped.
She then went to her toilette, and looked into the glass, and gave half a sigh—the other half, as if she would not have sighed if she could have helped it, she gently hem’d away.
I don’t love to see the girl look so sullen.
Indeed, Madam, I am not sullen.—And I arose, and, turning from her, drew out my handkerchief; for the tears ran down my cheeks.
I thought, by the glass before me, I saw the mother in her softened eye cast towards me. But her words confirmed not the hoped-for tenderness.
One of the most provoking things in this world is, to have people cry for what they can help!
I wish to heaven I could, Madam!—And I sobbed again.
Tears of penitence and sobs of perverseness are mighty well suited!—You may go up to your chamber. I shall talk with you by-and-by.
I courtesied with reverence.
Mock me not with outward gestures of respect. The heart, Clary, is what I want.
Indeed, Madam, you have it. It is not so much mine as my Mamma’s!
Fine talking!—As somebody says, If words were to pass for duty, Clarissa Harlowe would be the dutifulest child breathing.
God bless that somebody!—Be it whom it will, God bless that somebody!—And I courtesied, and, pursuant to her last command, was going.
She seemed struck; but was to be angry with me.
So turning from me, she spoke with quickness, Whither now, Clary Harlowe?
You commanded me, Madam, to go to my chamber.
I see you are very ready to go out of my presence.—Is your compliance the effect of sullenness, or obedience?—You are very ready to leave me.
I could hold no longer; but threw myself at her feet: O my dearest Mamma! Let me know all I am to suffer! Let me know what I am to be!—I will bear it, if I can bear it: but your displeasure I cannot bear!
Leave me, leave me, Clary Harlowe!—No kneeling!—Limbs so supple! Will so stubborn!—Rise, I tell you.
I cannot rise! I will disobey my Mamma, when she bids me leave her without being reconciled to me! No sullens, my Mamma: no perverseness: but, worse than either: this is direct disobedience!—Yet tear not yourself from me! (wrapping my arms about her as I kneeled; she struggling to get from me; my face lifted up to hers, with eyes running over, that spoke not my heart if they were not all humility and reverence) You must not, must not, tear yourself from me! (for still the dear lady struggled, and looked this way and that, all in a sweet disorder, as if she knew not what to do).—I will neither rise, nor leave you, nor let you go, till you say you are not angry with me.
O thou ever-moving child of my heart! (folding her dear arms about my neck, as mine embraced her knees) Why was this task—But leave me!—You have discomposed me beyond expression! Leave me, my dear!—I won’t be angry with you—if I can help it—if you’ll be good.
I arose trembling, and, hardly knowing what I did, or how I stood or walked, withdrew to my chamber. My Hannah followed me as soon as she heard me quit my mother’s presence, and with salts and spring-water just kept me from fainting; and that was as much as she could do. It was near two hours before I could so far recover myself as to take up my pen, to write to you how unhappily my hopes have ended.
My mother went down to breakfast. I was not fit to appear: but if I had been better, I suppose I should not have been sent for; since the permission for my attending her down, was given by my father (when in my chamber) only on condition that she found me worthy of the name of daughter
. That, I doubt, I shall never be in his opinion, if he be not brought to change his mind as to this Mr. Solmes.
Letter 19
Miss Clarissa Harlowe, to Miss Howe
[In answer to Letter 15]
Sat.
Hannah has just now brought me from the usual place your favour of yesterday. The contents of it have made me very thoughtful; and you will have an answer in my gravest style.—I to have that Mr. Solmes!—No indeed!—I will sooner—But I will write first to those passages in your letter which are less concerning, that I may touch upon this part with more patience.
As to what you mention of my sister’s value for Mr. Lovelace, I am not very much surprised at it. She takes such officious pains, and it is so much her subject, to have it thought that she never did, and never could like him, that she gives but too much room to suspect that she does. She never tells the story of their parting, and of her refusal of him, but her colour rises, she looks with disdain upon me, and mingles anger with the airs she gives herself:—anger as well as airs, demonstrating, that she refused a man whom she thought worth accepting: Where else is the reason either for anger or boast?—Poor Bella! She is to be pitied—she cannot either like or dislike with temper! Would to heaven she had been mistress of all her wishes!—Would to heaven she had!
As to what you say of my giving up to my father’s control the estate devised me, my motives at the time, as you acknowledge, were not blamable. Your advice to me on the subject was grounded, as I remember, on your good opinion of me; believing that I should not make a bad use of the power willed me. Neither you nor I, my dear, although you now assume the air of a diviner, (pardon me) could have believed that would have happened which
