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 handsthe dear ladyA 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 neverthelessNow!Now! [in broken periods she spoke]I bless God for his mercies to his poor creatureall will soon be overa fewa very few momentswill end this strifeand I shall be happy!
Comfort here, Sirturning her head to the Colonelcomfort my cousin see! the blameable kindnesshe 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 comfortedwhat is dying but the common lot?The mortal frame may seem to labourbut that is all!It is not so hard to die as I believed it to be!The preparation is the difficultyI bless God, I have had time for thatthe rest is worse to beholders, than to me!I am all blessed hopehope 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 motherThere she stopt. And then proceedingTo my sister, to my brother, to my unclesand tell them, I bless them with my parting breathfor all their goodness to meeven for their displeasure, I bless themmost 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 pauseIt is good for me that I was afflicted! Words of scripture, I suppose.
Then turning towards us, who were lost in speechless sorrowO dear, dear gentlemen, said she, you know not what foretasteswhat assurancesAnd there she again stopped, and looked up, as if in a thankful rapture, sweetly smiling.
Then turning her head towards meDo 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 resumingMy 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 bothin your last hourfor you must come to thishappy as I am.
She paused again, her breath growing shorter; and, after a few minutes And now, my dearest Cousin, give me your handnearerstill nearer drawing it towards her; and she pressed it with her dying lipsGod protect you, dear, dear Sirand once more, receive my best and most grateful thanksand tell my dear Miss Howeand vouchsafe to see, and to tell my worthy Nortonshe will be one day, I fear not, though now lowly in her fortunes, a saint in Heaventell 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 accentAnd you, Mr. Belford, pressing my hand, may God preserve you, and make you sensible of all your errorsyou see, in me, how all endsmay you beAnd 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 inwardlyBlessblessblessyou allandnowand now[holding up her almost lifeless hands for the last time] comeO comeblessed 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.
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 pausingAnd must we no morenever more!My blessed, blessed Cousin! uttering some other words, which his sighs made inarticulate.And then, as if recollecting himselfForgive me, Sir!Excuse me, Mr. Belford! And sliding by me, Anon I hope to see you, SirAnd 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,1 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.2
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.