LETTER 248: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

Sunday morning

I HAVE had the honour of my charmer’s company for two complete hours. We met before six in Mrs Moore’s garden: a walk on the heath refused me.

The sedateness of her aspect, and her kind compliance in this meeting, gave me hopes. And all that either the captain or I had urged yesterday to obtain a full and free pardon, that re-urged I; and I told her besides, that Captain Tomlinson was gone down with hopes to prevail upon her uncle Harlowe to come up in person, in order to present me with the greatest blessing that man ever received.

But the utmost I could obtain was, that she would take no resolution in my favour till she received Miss Howe’s next letter.

I will not repeat the arguments used by me: but I will give thee the substance of what she said in answer to them.

She had considered of everything, she-told me. My whole conduct was before her. The house I carried her to must be a vile house. The people early showed what they were capable of, in the earnest attempt made to fasten Miss Partington upon her; as she doubted not, with my approbation—(Surely, thought I, she has not received a duplicate of Miss Howe’s letter of detection!) They heard her cries. My insult was undoubtedly premeditated. By my whole recollected behaviour to her, previous to it, it must be so. I had the vilest of views, no question. And my treatment of her put it out of all doubt.

Soul all over, Belford! She seems sensible of liberties that my passion made me insensible of having taken.

She besought me to give over all thoughts of her. Sometimes, she said, she thought herself cruelly treated by her nearest and dearest relations: atsuch times, a spirit of repining, and even of resentment, took place, and the reconciliation, at other times so desirable, was not then so much the favourite wish of her heart, as was the scheme she had formerly planned—of taking her good Norton for her directress and guide, and living upon her own estate in the manner her grandfather had intended she should live.

This scheme she doubted not that her cousin Morden, who was one of her trustees for that estate, would enable her (and that as she hoped, without litigation) to pursue. And if he can, and does, what, sir, let me ask you, said she, have I seen in your conduct that should make me prefer to it an union of interests, where there is such a disunion in minds?

So thou seest, Jack, there is reason , as well as resentment , in the preference she makes against me!—Thou seest that she presumes to think that she can be happy without me; and that she must be unhappy with me!

I had besought her, in the conclusion of my re-urged arguments, to write to Miss Howe before Miss Howe’s answer could come, in order to lay before her the

present state of things; and if she would defer to her judgement, to let her have an opportunity to give it on the full knowledge of the case—

So I would, Mr Lovelace, was the answer, if I were in doubt myself which I would prefer; marriage, or the scheme I have mentioned. You cannot think, sir, but the latter must be my choice. I wish to part with you with temper—don’t put me upon repeating—

Part with me , madam, interrupted I!—I cannot bear those words!—But let me beseech you, however, to write to Miss Howe. I hope, if Miss Howe is not my enemy—

She is not the enemy of your person , sir—as you would be convinced if you saw her last letter to me.  But were she not an enemy to youractions , she would not be my friend, nor the friend of virtue . Why will you provoke from me, Mr Lovelace, the harshness of expression, which, however deserved by you, I am unwilling just now to use; having suffered enough in the two past days from my own vehemence?

I bit my lip for vexation. I was silent.

Miss Howe, proceeded she, knows the full state of matters already, sir. The answer I expect from her respects myself , not you. Her heart is too warm in the cause of friendship, to leave me in suspense one moment longer than is necessary as to what I want to know. Nor does her answer depend absolutely upon herself. She must see a person first; and that person perhaps must see others.

The cursed smuggler-woman, Jack!—Miss Howe’s Townsend, I doubt not!—Plot, contrivance, intrigue, stratagem!—Underground moles these ladies—But let the earth cover me! let me be a mole too, thought I, if they carry their point!—and if this lady escape me now.

She frankly owned that she had once thought of embarking out of all our ways for some one of our American colonies. But now that she had beencompelled to see me (which had been her greatest dread, and which she would have given her life to avoid), she thought she might be happiest in the resumption of her former favourite scheme, if Miss Howe could find her a reputable and private asylum till her cousin Morden could come. But if he came not soon, and if she had a difficulty to get to a place of refuge, whether from her brother or from anybody else (meaning me, I suppose), she might yet perhaps go abroad: for, to say the truth, she could not think of returning to her father’s house; since her brother’s rage, her sister’s upbraidings, her father’s anger, her mother’s still more affecting sorrowings, and her own consciousness under them all, would be insupportable to her.

Oh Jack! I am sick to death, I pine, I die, for Miss Howe’s next letter! I would bind, gag, strip, rob, and do anything but murder, to intercept it.

But, determined as she seems to be, it was evident to me, nevertheless, that she had still some tenderness for me.

She often wept as she talked, and much oftener sighed. She looked at me twice with an eye of undoubted gentleness, and three times with an eyetending to compassion and softness: but its benign rays were as often snatched back, as I may say, and her face averted, as if her sweet eye were not to be trusted, and could not stand against my eager eyes; seeking, as they did, for a lost heart in hers, and endeavouring to penetrate to her very soul.

More than once I took her hand. She struggled not much against the freedom.

I pressed it once with my lips. She was not very angry. A frown indeed; but a frown that had more distress in it than indignation.

How came the dear soul (clothed as it is with such a silken vesture) by all its steadiness? —Was it necessary that the active gloom of such a tyrant of a father should commix with such a passive sweetness of a will-less mother , to produce a constancy, an equanimity, a steadiness, in thedaughter , which never woman before could boast of?—If so, she is more obliged to that despotic father than I could have imagined a creature to be, who gave distinction to everyone related to her, beyond what the crown itself can confer.

I hoped, I said, that she would admit of the intended visit of the two ladies, which I had so often mentioned.

She was here . She had seen me. She could not help herself at present. She ever had the highest regard for the ladies of my family, because of their worthy characters. There she turned away her sweet face, and vanquished a half-risen sigh.

I kneeled to her then. It was upon a verdant cushion; for we were upon the grass-walk. I caught her hand. I besought her with an earnestness that called up, as I could feel, my heart to my eyes, to make me by her forgiveness and example more worthy of them, and of her own kind and generous wishes. By my soul, madam, said I, you stab me with your goodness, your undeserved goodness! and I cannot bear it!

Why, why, thought I, as I did several times in this conversation, will she not generously forgive me? Why will she make it necessary for me to bring my aunt and my cousin to my assistance? Can the fortress expect the same advantageous capitulation, which yields not to the summons of a resistless conqueror, as if it gave not the trouble of bringing up, and raising its heavy artillery against it?

What sensibilities , said the divine creature, withdrawing her hand, must thou have suppressed!—What a dreadful, what a judicial hardness of heart must thine be; who canst be capable of such emotions as sometimes thou hast shown; and of such sentiments as sometimes have flowed from thy lips; yet canst have so far overcome them all as to be able to act as thou hast acted, and that from settled purpose and premeditation; and this, as it is said , throughout the whole of thy life, from infancy to this time!

I told her that I had hoped from the generous concern she had expressed for me, when I was so suddenly and dangerously taken ill—(the ipecacuanha experiment, Jack!).

She interrupted me—Well have you rewarded me for the concern you speak of!—However, I will frankly own, that I am determined to think no more of you, that you might (unsatisfied as I nevertheless was with you) have made an interest——

She paused. I besought her to proceed.

Do you suppose, sir, and turned away her sweet face as we walked; do you suppose that I had not thought of laying down a plan to govern myself by, when I found myself so unhappily over-reached, and cheated, as I may say, out of myself?—When I found that I could not be , and do , what I wished to be , and to do , do you imagine that I had not cast about, what was the next proper course to

take?—And do you believe that this next course has not cost me some pain, to be obliged to—:

There again she stopped.

But let us break off discourse, resumed she. The subject grows too—she sighed—Let us break off discourse—I will go in—I will prepare for church—(The devil! thought I.) Well as I can appear in these everyday worn clothes—looking upon herself—I will go to church.

She then turned from me to go into the house.

Bless me, my beloved creature, bless me with the continuance of this affecting conversation—Remorse has seized my heart!—I have been excessively wrong—Give me further cause to curse my heedless folly, by the continuance of this calm, but soul-penetrating conversation.

No, no, Mr Lovelace. I have said too much. Impatience begins to break in upon me. If you can excuse me to the ladies, it will be better for my mind’s sake and for your credit’s sake, that I do not see them. Call me to them over-nice, petulant, prudish; what you please, call me to them. Nobody but Miss Howe, to whom, next to the Almighty, and my own mother, I wish to stand acquitted of wilful error, shall know the whole of what has passed. Be happy, as you may!— Deserve to be happy, and happy you will be, in your own reflection at least, were you to be ever so unhappy in other respects. For myself, if I shall be enabled, on due reflection, to look back upon my own conduct without the great reproach of having wilfully, and against the light of my own judgement, erred, I shall be more happy than if I had all that the world accounts desirable.

The noble creature proceeded; for I could not speak.

This self-acquittal, when spirits are lent me to dispel the darkness which at present too often overclouds my mind, will, I hope, make me superior to all the calamities that can befall me.

Her whole person was informed by her sentiments. She seemed to be taller than before. How the God within her exalted her, not only above me, but above herself.

Divine creature! (as I thought her) I called her. I acknowledged the superiority of her mind; and was proceeding—But she interrupted me—All human excellence, said she, is comparative only. My mind, I believe, is indeed superior to yours, debased as yours is by evil habits. But I had not known it to be so, if you had not taken pains to convince me of the inferiority of yours.

How great, how sublimely great, this creature!—By my soul, I cannot forgive her for her virtues!—There is no bearing the consciousness of the infinite inferiority she charged me with—But why will she break from me, when good resolutions are taking place?—The red-hot iron she refuses to strike—Oh why will she suffer the yielding wax to harden?

We had gone but a few paces towards the house, when we were met by the impertinent women, with notice that breakfast was ready. I could only, with uplifted hands, beseech her to give me hope of a renewed conversation after breakfast.

No; she would go to church.

And into the house she went, and upstairs directly. Nor would she oblige me with her company at the tea-table.

I offered by Mrs Moore to quit both the table and the parlour, rather than she should exclude herself, or deprive the two widows of the favour of her company.

That was not all the matter, she told Mrs Moore. She had been struggling to
keep down her temper. It had cost her some pains to do it. She was desirous to compose herself, in hopes to receive benefit by the divine worship she was going to join in.

Mrs Moore hoped for her presence at dinner.

She had rather be excused. Yet, if she could obtain the frame of mind she hoped for, she might not be averse to show that she had got above those sensibilities, which gave consideration to a man who deserved not to be to her what he had been.

This said, no doubt, to let Mrs Moore know that the garden conversation had not been a reconciling one.

Mrs Moore seemed to wonder that we were not upon a better foot of understanding, after so long a conference; and the more, as she believed that the lady had given in to the proposal for the repetition of the ceremony, which I had told them was insisted upon by her uncle Harlowe. But I accounted for this, by telling both widows that she was resolved to keep on the reserve till she heard from Captain Tomlinson, whether her uncle would be present in person at the solemnity, or would name that worthy gentleman for his proxy.

Again I enjoined strict secrecy as to this particular; which was promised by the widows, as well for themselves as for Miss Rawlins; of whose taciturnity they gave me such an account as showed me that she was secret-keeper-genenal to all the women of fashion at Hampstead.

The Lord, Jack! What a world of mischief, at this rate, must Miss Rawlins know!—What a Pandora’s box must her bosom be!—Yet, had I nothing that was more worthy of my attention to regard, I would engage to open it, and make my uses of the discovery.

And now, Belford, thou perceivest, that all my reliance is upon the mediation of Lady Betty and Miss Montague; and upon the hope of intercepting Miss Howe’s next letter.

THE fair inexorable is actually gone to church, with Mrs Moore and Mrs Bevis. But will closely attends her motions; and I am in the way to receive any occasional intelligence from him.

She did not choose (a mighty word with the sex! as if they were always to have their own wills!) that I should wait upon her. I did not much press it, that she might not apprehend that I thought I had reason to doubt her voluntary return.

I once had it in my head to have found the widow Bevis other employment. And I believe she would have been as well pleased with my company as to go to church; for she seemed irresolute when I told her that two out of a family were enough to go to church for one day. But having her things on, as the women call everything, and her aunt Moore expecting her company, she thought it best to go— Lest it should look oddly, you know , whispered she, to one who was above regarding how it looked.

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