Yet I dread, I exceedingly dread, the conflicts I know I must encounter with. It is possible, that I may be more unhappy from the due observation of the good doctor’s general precept, than were I to yield the point; since what I call steadiness is deemed stubbornness, obstinacy, prepossession, by those who have a right to put what interpretation they please upon my conduct.
So, my dear, were we perfect (which no one can be) we could not be happy in this life, unless those with whom we have to deal (those more especially who have any control upon us) were governed by the same principles. But then does not the good Doctor’s conclusion recur—That we have nothing to do, but to choose what is right; to be steady in the pursuit of it; and to leave the issue to Providence?
This, if you approve of my motives, (and if you don’t, pray inform me) must be my aim in the present case.
But what then can I plead for a palliation to myself of my mother’s sufferings on my account? Perhaps this consideration will carry some force with it—That her difficulties cannot last long; only till this great struggle shall be one way or other determined—Whereas my unhappiness, if I comply, will (from an aversion not to be overcome) be for life. To which let me add, that as I have reason to think that the present measures are not entered upon with her own natural liking, she will have the less pain, should they want the success which I think in my heart they ought to want.
I have run a great length in a very little time. The subject touched me to the quick. My reflections upon it will give you reason to expect from me a perhaps too steady behaviour in a new conference, which, I find, I must have with my mother. My father and brother, as she was pleased to tell me, dine at my uncle Antony’s; and that, as I have reason to believe, on purpose to give an opportunity for it.
Hannah informs me, that she heard my father high and angry with my mother, at taking leave of her: I suppose for being to favourable to me; for Hannah heard her say, as in tears, “Indeed, Mr. Harlowe, you greatly distress me!—The poor girl does not deserve—” Hannah heard no more, but that he said, he would break somebody’s heart—Mine, I suppose—Not my mother’s, I hope.
As only my sister dines with my mother, I thought I should have been commanded down: but she sent me up a plate from her table. I continued my writing. I could not touch a morsel. I ordered Hannah however to eat of it, that I might not be thought sullen.
Before I conclude this, I will see whether anything offers from either of my private correspondencies, that will make it proper to add to it; and will take a turn in the wood-yard and garden for that purpose.
I am stopped. Hannah shall deposit this. She was ordered by my mother (who asked where I was) to tell me, that she would come up and talk with me in my own closet.—She is coming! Adieu, my dear.
Letter 20
Miss Clarissa Harlowe, to Miss Howe
Sat. Afternoon
The expected conference is over: but my difficulties are increased. This, as my mother was pleased to tell me, being the last persuasory effort that is to be attempted, I will be particular in the account of it as my head and my heart will allow it to be.
I have made, said she, as she entered my room, a short as well as early dinner, on purpose to confer with you: and I do assure you, that it will be the last conference I shall either be permitted or inclined to hold with you on the subject, if you should prove as refractory as it is imagined you will prove by some, who are of opinion, that I have not the weight with you which my indulgence deserves. But I hope you will convince as well them as me of the contrary.
Your father both dines and sups at your uncle’s, on purpose to give us this opportunity; and, according to the report I shall make on his return, (which I have promised shall be a very faithful one), he will take his measures with you.
I was offering to speak—Hear, Clarissa, what I have to tell you, said she, before you speak, unless what you have to say will signify to me your compliance—Say—Will it?—If it will, you may speak.
I was silent.
She looked with concern and anger upon me—No compliance, I find!—Such a dutiful young creature hitherto!—Will you not, can you not, speak as I would have you speak?—Then (rejecting me as it were with her hand) continue silent.—I, no more than your father, will bear your avowed contradiction.
She paused, with a look of expectation, as if she waited for my consenting answer.
I was still silent; looking down; the tears in my eyes.
O thou determined girl!—But say—Speak out—Are you resolved to stand in opposition to us all, in a point our hearts are set upon?
May I, Madam, be permitted to expostulate?—
To what purpose expostulate with me, Clarissa? Your father is determined. Have I not told you there is no receding; that the honour as well as the interest of the family is concerned? Be ingenuous: you used to be so, even occasionally against yourself:—Who at the long run must submit—all of us to you; or you to all of us?—If you intend to yield at last if you find you cannot conquer, yield now,
