Clarissa Harlowe, Volume 9 (of 9) by Samuel Richardson

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It was well we were with him when your note came. Your showed your true
friendship in your foresight. Why, Jack, the poor fellow was quite
beside himself--mad as any man ever was in Bedlam.

Will. brought him the letter just after we had joined him at the Bohemia
Head; where he had left word at the Rose at Knightsbridge he should be;
for he had been sauntering up and down, backwards and forwards, expecting
us, and his fellow. Will., as soon as he delivered it, got out of his
way; and, when he opened it, never was such a piece of scenery. He
trembled like a devil at receiving it: fumbled at the seal, his fingers
in a palsy, like Tom. Doleman's; his hand shake, shake, shake, that he
tore the letter in two, before he could come at the contents: and, when
he had read them, off went his hat to one corner of the room, his wig to
the other--D--n--n seize the world! and a whole volley of such-like
excratious wishes; running up and down the room, and throwing up the
sash, and pulling it down, and smiting his forehead with his double fist,
with such force as would have felled as ox, and stamping and tearing,
that the landlord ran in, and faster out again. And this was the
distraction scene for some time.

In vain was all Jemmy or I could say to him. I offered once to take hold
of his hands, because he was going to do himself a mischief, as I
believed, looking about for his pistols, which he had laid upon the
table, but which Will., unseen, had taken out with him, [a faithful,
honest dog, that Will.! I shall for ever love the fellow for it,] and he
hit me a d--d dowse of the chops, as made my nose bleed. 'Twas well
'twas he, for I hardly knew how to take it.

Jemmy raved at him, and told him, how wicked it was in him, to be so
brutish to abuse a friend, and run mad for a woman. And then he said he
was sorry for it; and then Will. ventured in with water and a towel; and
the dog rejoiced, as I could see by his look, that I had it rather than
he.

And so, by degrees, we brought him a little to his reason, and he
promised to behave more like a man. And so I forgave him: and we rode on
in the dark to here at Doleman's. And we all tried to shame him out of
his mad, ungovernable foolishness: for we told him, as how she was but a
woman, and an obstinate perverse woman too; and how could he help it?

And you know, Jack, (as we told him, moreover,) that it was a shame to
manhood, for a man, who had served twenty and twenty women as bad or
worse, let him have served Miss Harlowe never so bad, should give himself
such obstropulous airs, because she would die: and we advised him never
to attempt a woman proud of her character and virtue, as they call it,
any more: for why? The conquest did not pay trouble; and what was there
in one woman more than another? Hay, you know, Jack!--And thus we
comforted him, and advised him.

But yet his d--d addled pate runs upon this lady as much now she's dead
as it did when she was living. For, I suppose, Jack, it is no joke: she
is certainly and bona fide dead: I'n't she? If not, thou deservest to be
doubly d--d for thy fooling, I tell thee that. So he will have me write
for particulars of her departure.

He won't bear the word dead on any account. A squeamish puppy! How love
unmans and softens! And such a noble fellow as this too! Rot him for an
idiot, and an oaf! I have no patience with the foolish duncical dog
--upon my soul, I have not!

So send the account, and let him howl over it, as I suppose he will.

But he must and shall go abroad: and in a month or two Jemmy, and you,
and I, will join him, and he'll soon get the better of this
chicken-hearted folly, never fear; and will then be ashamed of himself:
and then we'll not spare him; though now, poor fellow, it were pity to
lay him on so thick as he deserves. And do thou, till then, spare all
reflections upon him; for, it seems, thou hast worked him unmercifully.

I was willing to give thee some account of the hand we have had with the
tearing fellow, who had certainly been a lost man, had we not been with
him; or he would have killed somebody or other. I have no doubt of it.
And now he is but very middling; sits grinning like a man in straw;
curses and swears, and is confounded gloomy; and creeps into holes and
corners, like an old hedge-hog hunted for his grease.

And so, adieu, Jack. Tourville, and all of us, wish for thee; for no one
has the influence upon him that thou hast.

R. MOWBRAY.

As I promised him that I would write for the particulars abovesaid, I
write this after all are gone to bed; and the fellow is set out
with it by day-break.

LETTER VII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
THURSDAY NIGHT.

I may as well try to write; since, were I to go to bed, I shall not
sleep. I never had such a weight of grief upon my mind in my life, as
upon the demise of this admirable woman; whose soul is now rejoicing
in the regions of light.

You may be glad to know the particulars of her happy exit. I will try
to proceed; for all is hush and still; the family retired; but not one
of them, and least of all her poor cousin, I dare say, to rest.

At four o'clock, as I mentioned in my last, I was sent for down; and,
as thou usedst to like my descriptions, I will give thee the woeful scene
that presented itself to me, as I approached the bed.

The Colonel was the first that took my attention, kneeling on the side of
the bed, the lady's right hand in both his, which his face covered,
bathing it with his tears; although she had been comforting him, as the
women since told me, in elevated strains, but broken accents.

On the other side of the bed sat the good widow; her face overwhelmed
with tears, leaning her head against the bed's head in a most
disconsolate manner; and turning her face to me, as soon as she saw me,
O Mr. Belford, cried she, with folded hands--the dear lady--A heavy sob
permitted her not to say more.

Mrs. Smith, with clasped fingers, and uplifted eyes, as if imploring help
from the only Power which could give it, was kneeling down at the bed's
feet, tears in large drops trickling down her cheeks.

Her nurse was kneeling between the widow and Mrs. Smith, her arms
extended. In one hand she held an ineffectual cordial, which she had
just been offering to her dying mistress; her face was swoln with weeping
(though used to such scenes as this); and she turned her eyes towards me,
as if she called upon me by them to join in the helpless sorrow; a fresh
stream bursting from them as I approached the bed.

The maid of the house with her face upon her folded arms, as she stood
leaning against the wainscot, more audibly exprest her grief than any of
the others.

The lady had been silent a few minutes, and speechless, as they thought,
moving her lips without uttering a word; one hand, as I said, in her
cousin's. But when Mrs. Lovick, on my approach, pronounced my name, O
Mr. Belford, said she, with a faint inward voice, but very distinct
nevertheless--Now!--Now! [in broken periods she spoke]--I bless God for
his mercies to his poor creature--all will soon be over--a few--a very
few moments--will end this strife--and I shall be happy!

Comfort here, Sir--turning her head to the Colonel--comfort my cousin
--see! the blame--able kindness--he would not wish me to be happy
--so soon!

Here she stopt for two or three minutes, earnestly looking upon him.
Then resuming, My dearest Cousin, said she, be comforted--what is dying
but the common lot?--The mortal frame may seem to labour--but that is
all!--It is not so hard to die as I believed it to be!--The preparation
is the difficulty--I bless God, I have had time for that--the rest is
worse to beholders, than to me!--I am all blessed hope--hope itself. She
looked what she said, a sweet smile beaming over her countenance.

After a short silence, Once more, my dear Cousin, said she, but still in
broken accents, commend me most dutifully to my father and mother--There
she stopt. And then proceeding--To my sister, to my brother, to my
uncles--and tell them, I bless them with my parting breath--for all their
goodness to me--even for their displeasure, I bless them--most happy has
been to me my punishment here! Happy indeed!

She was silent for a few moments, lifting up her eyes, and the hand her
cousin held not between his. Then, O Death! said she, where is thy
sting! [the words I remember to have heard in the burial-service read
over my uncle and poor Belton.] And after a pause--It is good for me
that I was afflicted! Words of scripture, I suppose.

Then turning towards us, who were lost in speechless sorrow--O dear, dear
gentlemen, said she, you know not what foretastes--what assurances--And
there she again stopped, and looked up, as if in a thankful rapture,
sweetly smiling.

Then turning her head towards me--Do you, Sir, tell your friend that I
forgive him!--And I pray to God to forgive him!--Again pausing, and
lifting up her eyes as if praying that He would. Let him know how
happily I die:--And that such as my own, I wish to be his last hour.

She was again silent for a few moments: and then resuming--My sight
fails me!--Your voices only--[for we both applauded her christian, her
divine frame, though in accents as broken as her own]; and the voice of
grief is alike in all. Is not this Mr. Morden's hand? pressing one of
his with that he had just let go. Which is Mr. Belford's? holding out
the other. I gave her mine. God Almighty bless you both, said she, and
make you both--in your last hour--for you must come to this--happy as I
am.

She paused again, her breath growing shorter; and, after a few minutes
--And now, my dearest Cousin, give me your hand--nearer--still nearer
--drawing it towards her; and she pressed it with her dying lips--God
protect you, dear, dear Sir--and once more, receive my best and most
grateful thanks--and tell my dear Miss Howe--and vouchsafe to see, and to
tell my worthy Norton--she will be one day, I fear not, though now lowly
in her fortunes, a saint in Heaven--tell them both, that I remember them
with thankful blessings in my last moments!--And pray God to give them
happiness here for many, many years, for the sake of their friends and
lovers; and an heavenly crown hereafter; and such assurances of it, as I
have, through the all-satisfying merits of my blessed Redeemer.

Her sweet voice and broken periods methinks still fill my ears, and never
will be out of my memory.

After a short silence, in a more broken and faint accent--And you, Mr.
Belford, pressing my hand, may God preserve you, and make you sensible of
all your errors--you see, in me, how all ends--may you be--And down sunk
her head upon her pillow, she fainting away, and drawing from us her
hands.

We thought she was then gone; and each gave way to a violent burst of
grief.

But soon showing signs of returning life, our attention was again
engaged; and I besought her, when a little recovered, to complete in my
favour her half-pronounced blessing. She waved her hand to us both, and
bowed her head six several times, as we have since recollected, as if
distinguishing every person present; not forgetting the nurse and the
maid-servant; the latter having approached the bed, weeping, as if
crowding in for the divine lady's blessing; and she spoke faltering and
inwardly--Bless--bless--bless--you all--and--now--and now--[holding up
her almost lifeless hands for the last time] come--O come--blessed Lord
--JESUS!

And with these words, the last but half-pronounced, expired:--such a
smile, such a charming serenity overspreading her sweet face at the
instant, as seemed to manifest her eternal happiness already begun.

O Lovelace!--But I can write no more!

***

I resume my pen to add a few lines.

While warm, though pulseless, we pressed each her hand with our lips;
and then retired into the next room.

We looked at each other, with intent to speak: but, as if one motion
governed, as one cause affected both, we turned away silent.

The Colonel sighed as if his heart would burst: at last, his face and
hands uplifted, his back towards me, Good Heaven! said he to himself,
support me!--And is it thus, O flower of nature!--Then pausing--And must
we no more--never more!--My blessed, blessed Cousin! uttering some other
words, which his sighs made inarticulate.--And then, as if recollecting
himself--Forgive me, Sir!--Excuse me, Mr. Belford! And sliding by me,
Anon I hope to see you, Sir--And down stairs he went, and out of the
house, leaving me a statue.

When I recovered, I was ready to repine at what I then called an unequal
dispensation; forgetting her happy preparation, and still happier
departure; and that she had but drawn a common lot; triumphing in it, and
leaving behind her every one less assured of happiness, though equally
certain that the lot would one day be their own.

She departed exactly at forty minutes after six o'clock, as by her watch
on the table.

And thus died Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, in the blossom of her youth and
beauty: and who, her tender years considered, had not left behind her her
superior in extensive knowledge and watchful prudence; nor hardly her
equal for unblemished virtue, exemplary piety, sweetness of manners,
discreet generosity, and true christian charity: and these all set off by
the most graceful modesty and humility; yet on all proper occasions,
manifesting a noble presence of mind, and true magnanimity: so that she
may be said to have been not only an ornament to her sex, but to human
nature.

A better pen than mine may do her fuller justice. Thine, I mean, O
Lovelace! For well dost thou know how much she excelled in the graces of
both mind and person, natural and acquired, all that is woman. And thou
also can best account for the causes of her immature death, through those
calamities which in so short a space of time, from the highest pitch of
felicity, (every one in a manner adoring her,) brought he to an exit so
happy for herself, but, that it was so early, so much to be deplored by
all who had the honour of her acquaintance.

This task, then, I leave to thee: but now I can write no more, only that
I am a sympathizer in every part of thy distress, except (and yet it is
cruel to say it) in that which arises from thy guilt.

ONE O'CLOCK, FRIDAY MORNING.

LETTER VIII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
NINE, FRIDAY MORN.

I have no opportunity to write at length, having necessary orders to give
on the melancholy occasion. Joel, who got to me by six in the morning,
and whom I dispatched instantly back with the letter I had ready from
last night, gives me but an indifferent account of the state of your
mind. I wonder not at it; but time (and nothing else can) will make it
easier to you: if (that is to say) you have compounded with your
conscience; else it may be heavier every day than other.

***

Tourville tells us what a way you are in. I hope you will not think of
coming hither. The lady in her will desires you may not see her. Four
copies are making of it. It is a long one; for she gives her reasons for
all she wills. I will write to you more particularly as soon as possibly
I can.

***

Three letters are just brought by a servant in livery, directed To Miss
Clarissa Harlowe. I will send copies of them to you. The contents are
enough to make one mad. How would this poor lady have rejoiced to
receive them!--And yet, if she had, she would not have been enabled to
say, as she nobly did,* That God would not let her depend for comfort
upon any but Himself.--And indeed for some days past she had seemed to
have got above all worldly considerations.--Her fervent love, even for
her Miss Howe, as she acknowledged, having given way to supremer
fervours.**

* See Letter I. of this volume.
** See Vol. VIII. Letter LXII.

LETTER IX

MRS. NORTON, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 6.

At length, my best beloved Miss Clary, every thing is in the wished
train: for all your relations are unanimous in your favour. Even your
brother and your sister are with the foremost to be reconciled to you.

I knew it must end thus! By patience, and persevering sweetness, what a
triumph have you gained!

This happy change is owing to letters received from your physician, from
your cousin Morden, and from Mr. Brand.

Colonel Morden will be with you, no doubt, before this can reach you,
with his pocket-book filled with money-bills, that nothing may be wanting
to make you easy.

And now, all our hopes, all our prayers, are, that this good news may
restore you to spirits and health; and that (so long withheld) it may not
come too late.

I know how much your dutiful heart will be raised with the joyful tidings
I write you, and still shall more particularly tell you of, when I have
the happiness to see you: which will be by next Sunday, at farthest;
perhaps on Friday afternoon, by the time you can receive this.

For this day, being sent for by the general voice, I was received by
every one with great goodness and condescension, and entreated (for that
was the word they were pleased to use, when I needed no entreaty, I am
sure,) to hasten up to you, and to assure you of all their affectionate
regards to you: and your father bid me say all the kind things that were
in my heart to say, in order to comfort and raise you up, and they would
hold themselves bound to make them good.

How agreeable is this commission to your Norton! My heart will overflow
with kind speeches, never fear! I am already meditating what I shall
say, to cheer and raise you up, in the names of every one dear and near
to you. And sorry I am that I cannot this moment set out, as I might,
instead of writing, would they favour my eager impatience with their
chariot; but as it was not offered, it would be a presumption to have
asked for it: and to-morrow a hired chaise and pair will be ready; but at
what hour I know not.

How I long once more to fold my dear, precious young lady to my fond, my
more than fond, my maternal bosom!

Your sister will write to you, and send her letter, with this, by a
particular hand.

I must not let them see what I write, because of my wish about the
chariot.

Your uncle Harlowe will also write, and (I doubt not) in the kindest
terms: for they are all extremely alarmed and troubled at the dangerous
way your doctor represents you to be in; as well as delighted with the
character he gives you. Would to Heaven the good gentleman had written
sooner! And yet he writes, that you know not he has now written. But it
is all our confidence, and our consolation, that he would not have
written at all, had he thought it too late.

They will prescribe no conditions to you, my dear young lady; but will
leave all to your own duty and discretion. Only your brother and sister
declare they will never yield to call Mr. Lovelace brother; nor will your
father, I believe, be easily brought to think of him for a son.

I am to bring you down with me as soon as your health and inclination
will permit. You will be received with open arms. Every one longs to
see you. All the servants please themselves that they shall be permitted
to kiss your hands. The pert Betty's note is already changed; and she
now runs over in your just praises. What friends does prosperity make!
What enemies adversity! It always was, and always will be so, in every
state of life, from the throne to the cottage.--But let all be forgotten
now on this jubilee change: and may you, my dearest Miss, be capable of
rejoicing in this good news; as I know you will rejoice, if capable of
any thing.

God preserve you to our happy meeting! And I will, if I may say so,
weary Heaven with my incessant prayers to preserve and restore you
afterwards!

I need not say how much I am, my dear young lady,
Your ever-affectionate and devoted,
JUDITH NORTON.

An unhappy delay, as to the chaise, will make it Saturday morning before
I can fold you to my fond heart.

LETTER X

MISS ARAB. HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE
WEDN. MORN. SEPT. 6.

DEAR SISTER,

We have just heard that you are exceedingly ill. We all loved you as
never young creature was loved: you are sensible of that, sister Clary.
And you have been very naughty--but we could not be angry always.

We are indeed more afflicted with the news of your being so very ill than
I can express; for I see not but, after this separation, (as we
understand that your misfortune has been greater than your fault, and
that, however unhappy, you have demeaned yourself like the good young
creature you used to be,) we shall love you better, if possible, than
ever.

Take comfort, therefore, sister Clary, and don't be too much cast down
--whatever your mortifications may be from such noble prospects
over-clouded, and from the reflections you will have from within, on your
faulty step, and from the sullying of such a charming character by it,
you will receive none from any of us; and, as an earnest of your papa's
and mamma's favour and reconciliation, they assure you by me of their
blessing and hourly prayers.

If it will be any comfort to you, and my mother finds this letter is
received as we expect, (which we shall know by the good effect it will
have upon your health,) she will herself go to town to you. Mean-time,
the good woman you so dearly love will be hastened up to you; and she
writes by this opportunity, to acquaint you of it, and of all our
returning love.

I hope you will rejoice at this good news. Pray let us hear that you do.
Your next grateful letter on this occasion, especially if it gives us the
pleasure of hearing you are better upon this news, will be received with
the same (if not greater) delight, than we used to have in all your
prettily-penn'd epistles. Adieu, my dear Clary! I am,

Your loving sister, and true friend,
ARABELLA HARLOWE.

LETTER XI

TO HIS DEAR NIECE, MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 6.

We were greatly grieved, my beloved Miss Clary, at your fault; but we are
still more, if possible, to hear you are so very ill; and we are sorry
things have been carried so far. We know your talents, my dear, and how
movingly you could write, whenever you pleased; so that nobody could ever
deny you any thing; and, believing you depended on your pen, and little
thinking you were so ill, and that you lived so regular a life, and are
so truly penitent, are must troubled every one of us, your brother and
all, for being so severe. Forgive my part in it, my dearest Clary. I
am your second papa, you know. And you used to love me.

I hope you'll soon be able to come down, and, after a while, when your
indulgent parents can spare you, that you will come to me for a whole
month, and rejoice my heart, as you used to do. But if, through illness,
you cannot so soon come down as we wish, I will go up to you; for I long
to see you. I never more longed to see you in my life; and you was
always the darling of my heart, you know.

My brother Antony desires his hearty commendations to you, and joins with
me in the tenderest assurance, that all shall be well, and, if possible,
better than ever; for we now have been so long without you, that we know
the miss of you, and even hunger and thirst, as I may say, to see you,
and to take you once more to our hearts; whence indeed you was never
banished so far as our concern for the unhappy step made us think and you
believe you were. Your sister and brother both talk of seeing you in
town; so does my dear sister, your indulgent mother.

God restore your health, if it be his will; else, I know not what will
become of

Your truly loving uncle, and second papa,
JOHN HARLOWE.

LETTER XII

MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPT. 8, PAST TEN.

I will now take up the account of our proceedings from my letter of last
night, which contained the dying words of this incomparable lady.

As soon as we had seen the last scene closed (so blessedly for herself!)
we left the body to the care of the good women, who, according to the
orders she had given them that very night, removed her into that last
house which she had displayed so much fortitude in providing.

In the morning, between seven and eight o'clock, according to
appointment, the Colonel came to me here. He was very much indisposed.
We went together, accompanied by Mrs. Lovick and Mrs. Smith, into the
deceased's chamber. We could not help taking a view of the lovely
corpse, and admiring the charming serenity of her noble aspect. The
women declared they never say death so lovely before; and that she looked
as if in an easy slumber, the colour having not quite left her cheeks and
lips.

I unlocked the drawer, in which (as I mentioned in a former*) she had
deposited her papers. I told you in mine of Monday last, that she had
the night before sealed up, with three black seals, a parcel inscribed,
As soon as I am certainly dead, this to be broke open by Mr. Belford. I
accused myself for not having done it over-night. But really I was then
incapable of any thing.

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