This alarming hurry I mentioned under my date of last night, and Betty's saucy dark hints, come out to be owing to what I guessed they were; that is to say, to the private intimation Mr. Lovelace contrived our family should have of his insolent resolution [insolent I must call it] to prevent my being carried to my uncle's.
I saw at the time that it was as wrong with respect to answering his own view, as it was insolent: For, could he think, as Betty (I suppose from her betters) justly observed, that parents would be insulted out of their right to dispose of their own child, by a violent man, whom they hate; and who could have no pretension to dispute that right with them, unless what he had from her who had none over herself? And how must this insolence of his, aggravated as my brother is able to aggravate it, exasperate them against me?
The rash man has indeed so far gained his point, as to intimidate them from attempting to carry me away: but he has put them upon a surer and a more desperate measure: and this has driven me also into one as desperate; the consequence of which, although he could not foresee it,* may perhaps too well answer his great end, little as he deserves to have it answered.
* She was mistaken in this. Mr. Lovelace did foresee this
consequence. All his contrivances led to it, and the whole
family, as he boasts, unknown to themselves, were but so
many puppets danced by his wires. See Vol.I. Letter XXXI.
In short, I have done, as far as I know, the most rash thing that ever I did in my life.
But let me give you the motive, and then the action will follow of course.
About six o'clock this evening, my aunt (who stays here all night, on my account, no doubt) came up and tapped at my door; for I was writing; and had locked myself in. I opened it; and she entering, thus delivered herself:
I come once more to visit you, my dear; but sorely against my will; because it is to impart to you matters of the utmost concern to you, and to the whole family.
What, Madam, is now to be done with me? said I, wholly attentive.
You will not be hurried away to your uncle's, child; let that comfort you.—They see your aversion to go.—You will not be obliged to go to your uncle Antony's.
How you revive me, Madam! this is a cordial to my heart!
I little thought, my dear, what was to follow this supposed condescension.
And then I ran over with blessings for this good news, (and she permitted me so to do, by her silence); congratulating myself, that I thought my father could not resolve to carry things to the last extremity.—
Hold, Niece, said she, at last—you must not give yourself too much joy upon the occasion neither.—Don't be surprised, my dear.—Why look you upon me, child, with so affecting an earnestness?—but you must be Mrs. Solmes, for all that.
I was dumb.
She then told me, that they had undoubted information, that a certain desperate ruffian (I must excuse her that word, she said) had prepared armed men to way-lay my brother and uncles, and seize me, and carry me off.—Surely, she said, I was not consenting to a violence that might be followed by murder on one side or the other; perhaps on both.
I was still silent.
That therefore my father (still more exasperated than before) had changed his resolution as to my going to my uncle's; and was determined next Tuesday to set out thither himself with my mother; and that (for it was to no purpose to conceal a resolution so soon to be put into execution)—I must not dispute it any longer—on Wednesday I must give my hand—as they would have me.
She proceeded, that orders were already given for a license: that the ceremony was to be performed in my own chamber, in presence of all my friends, except of my father and mother; who would not return, nor see me, till all was over, and till they had a good account of my behaviour.
The very intelligence, my dear!—the very intelligence this, which Lovelace gave me!
I was still dumb—only sighing, as if my heart would break.
She went on, comforting me, as she thought. 'She laid before me the merit of obedience; and told me, that if it were my desire that my Norton should be present at the ceremony, it would be complied with: that the pleasure I should receive from reconciling al my friends to me, and in their congratulations upon it, must needs overbalance, with such a one as me, the difference of persons, however preferable I might think the one man to the other: that love was a fleeting thing, little better than a name, where mortality and virtue did not distinguish the object of it: that a choice made by its dictates was seldom happy; at least not durably so: nor was it to be wondered at, when it naturally exalted the object above its merits, and made the lover blind to faults, that were visible to every body else: so that when a nearer intimacy stript it of its imaginary perfections, it left frequently both parties surprised, that they could be so grossly cheated; and that then the indifference became stronger than the love ever was. That a woman gave a man great advantages, and inspired him with great vanity, when she avowed her love for him, and preference of him; and was generally requited with insolence and contempt: whereas the confessedly-obliged man, it was probable, would be all reverence and gratitude'—and I cannot tell what.
'You, my dear, said she, believe you shall be unhappy, if you have Mr. Solmes: your parents think the contrary; and that you will be undoubtedly so, were you to have Mr. Lovelace, whose morals are unquestionably bad: suppose it were your sad lot to consider, what great consolation you will have on one hand, if you pursue your parents' advice, that you did so; what mortification on the other, that by following your own, you have nobody to blame but yourself.'
This, you remember, my dear, was an argument enforced upon me by Mrs. Norton.
These and other observations which she made were worthy of my aunt Hervey's good sense and experience, and applied to almost any young creature who stood in opposition to her parents' will, but one who had offered to make the sacrifices I have offered to make, ought to have had their due weight. But although it was easy to answer some of them in my own particular case; yet having over and over, to my mother, before my confinement, and to my brother and sister, and even to my aunt Hervey, since, said what I must now have repeated, I was so much mortified and afflicted at the cruel tidings she brought me, that however attentive I was to what she said, I had neither power nor will to answer one word; and, had she not stopped of herself, she might have gone on an hour longer, without interruption from me.
Observing this, and that I only sat weeping, my handkerchief covering my face, and my bosom heaving ready to burst; What! no answer, my dear?—Why so much silent grief? You know I have always loved you. You know, that I have no interest in the affair. You would not permit Mr. Solmes to acquaint you with some things which would have set your heart against Mr. Lovelace. Shall I tell you some of the matters charged against him?—shall I, my dear?
Still I answered only by my tears and sighs.
Well, child, you shall be told these things afterwards, when you will be in a better state of mind to hear them; and then you will rejoice in the escape you will have had. It will be some excuse, then, for you to plead for your behaviour to Mr. Solmes, that you could not have believed Mr. Lovelace had been so very vile a man.
My heart fluttered with impatience and anger at being so plainly talked to as the wife of this man; but yet I then chose to be silent. If I had spoken, it would have been with vehemence.
Strange, my dear, such silence!—Your concern is infinitely more on this side the day, than it will be on the other.—But let me ask you, and do not be displeased, Will you choose to see what generous stipulations for you there are in the settlements?—You have knowledge beyond your years—give the writings a perusal: do, my dear: they are engrossed, and ready for signing, and have been for some time. Excuse me, my love—I mean not to disorder you:—your father would oblige me to bring them up, and to leave them with you. He commands you to read them. But to read them, Niece—since they are engrossed, and were before you made them absolutely hopeless.
And then, to my great terror, she drew some parchments form her handkerchief, which she had kept, (unobserved by me,) under her apron; and rising, put them in the opposite window. Had she produced a serpent, I could not have been more frightened.
Oh! my dearest Aunt, turning away my face, and holding out my hands, hide from my eyes those horrid parchments!—Let me conjure you to tell me—by all the tenderness of near relationship, and upon your honour, and by your love for me, say, Are they absolutely resolved, that, come what will, I must be that man's?
My dear, you must have Mr. Solmes: indeed you must.
Indeed I never will!—This, as I have said over and over, is not originally my father's will.—Indeed I never will—and that is all I will say!
It is your father's will now, replied my aunt: and, considering how all the family is threatened by Mr. Lovelace, and the resolution he has certainly taken to force you out of their hands, I cannot but say they are in the right, not to be bullied out of their child.
Well, Madam, then nothing remains for me to say. I am made desperate. I care not what becomes of me.
Your piety, and your prudence, my dear, and Mr. Lovelace's immoral character, together with his daring insults, and threatenings, which ought to incense you, as much as any body, are every one's dependence. We are sure the time will come, when you'll think very differently of the steps your friends take to disappoint a man who has made himself so justly obnoxious to them all.
She withdrew; leaving me full of grief and indignation:—and as much out of humour with Mr. Lovelace as with any body; who, by his conceited contrivances, has made things worse for me than before; depriving me of the hopes I had of gaining time to receive your advice, and private assistance to get to town; and leaving me not other advice, in all appearance, than either to throw myself upon his family, or to be made miserable for ever with Mr. Solmes. But I was still resolved to avoid both these evils, if possible.
I sounded Betty, in the first place, (whom my aunt sent up, not thinking it proper, as Betty told me, that I should be left by myself, and who, I found, knew their designs,) whether it were not probable that they would forbear, at my earnest entreaty, to push matters to the threatened extremity.
But she confirmed all my aunt said; rejoicing (as she said they all did) that Mr. Lovelace had given them so good a pretence to save me from him now, and for ever.
She ran on about equipages bespoken; talked of my brother's and sister's exultations that now the whole family would soon be reconciled to each other: of the servants' joy upon it: of the expected license: of a visit to be paid me by Dr. Lewen, or another clergyman, whom they named not to her; which was to crown the work: and of other preparations, so particular, as made me dread that they designed to surprise me into a still nearer day than Wednesday.
These things made me excessively uneasy. I knew not what to resolve upon.
At one time, What have I to do, thought I, but to throw myself at once into the protection of Lady Betty Lawrance?—But then, in resentment of his fine contrivances, which had so abominably disconcerted me, I soon resolved to the contrary: and at last concluded to ask the favour of another half-hour's conversation with my aunt.
I sent Betty to her with my request.
She came.
I put it to her, in the most earnest manner, to tell me, whether I might not obtain the favour of a fortnight's respite?
She assured me, it would not be granted.
Would a week? Surely a week would?
She believed a week might, if I would promise two things: the first, upon my honour, not to write a line out of the house, in that week: for it was still suspected, she said, that I found means to write to somebody. And, secondly, to marry Mr. Solmes, at the expiration of it.
Impossible! Impossible! I said with a passion—What! might not I be obliged with one week, without such a horrid condition as the last?
She would go down, she said, that she might not seem of her own head to put upon me what I thought a hardship so great.
She went down: and came up again.
Did I want, was the answer, to give the vilest of men an opportunity to put his murderous schemes into execution?—It was time for them to put an end to my obstinacy (they were tired out with me) and to his hopes at once. And an end should be put on Tuesday or Wednesday next, at furthest; unless I would give my honour to comply with the condition upon which my aunt had been so good as to allow me a longer time.
I even stamped with impatience!—I called upon her to witness, that I was guiltless of the consequence of this compulsion; this barbarous compulsion, I called it; let that consequence be what it would.
My aunt chid me in a higher strain than ever she did before.
While I, in a half phrensy, insisted upon seeing my father; such usage, I said, set me above fear. I would rejoice to owe my death to him, as I did my life.
I did go down half way of the stairs, resolved to throw myself at his feet wherever he was.—My aunt was frighted. She owned, that she feared for my head.—Indeed I was in a perfect phrensy for a few minutes—but hearing my brother's voice, as talking to somebody in my sister's apartment just by, I stopt; and heard the barbarous designer say, speaking to my sister, This works charmingly, my dear Arabella!
It does! It does! said she, in an exulting accent.
Let us keep it up, said my brother.—The villain is caught in his own trap!—Now must she be what we would have her be.
Do you keep my father to it; I'll take care of my mother, said Bella.
Never fear, said he!—and a laugh of congratulation to each other, and derision of me (as I made it out) quite turned my frantic humour into a vindictive one.
My aunt then just coming down to me, and taking my hand led me up; and tried to sooth me.
My raving was turned into sullenness.
She preached patience and obedience to me.
I was silent.
At last she desired me to assure her, that I would offer no violence to myself.
God, I said, had given me more grace, I hoped, than to permit me to be guilty of so horrid a rashness, I was his creature, and not my own.
She then took leave of me; and I insisted upon her taking down with her the odious parchments.
Seeing me in so ill an humour, and very earnest that she should take them with her, she took them; but said, that my father should not know that she did: and hoped I would better consider of the matter, and be calmer next time they were offered to my perusal.
I revolved after she was gone all that my brother and sister had said. I dwelt upon their triumphings over me; and found rise in my mind a rancour that was new to me; and which I could not withstand.—And putting every thing together, dreading the near day, what could I do?—Am I in any manner excusable for what I did do?—If I shall be condemned by the world, who know not my provocations, may I be acquitted by you?—If not, I am unhappy indeed!—for this I did.
Having shaken off the impertinent Betty, I wrote to Mr. Lovelace, to let him know, 'That all that was threatened at my uncle Antony's, was intended to be executed here. That I had come to a resolution to throw myself upon the protection of either of his two aunts, who would afford it me—in short, that by endeavouring to obtain leave on Monday to dine in the ivy summer-house, I would, if possible, meet him without the garden-door, at two, three, four, or five o'clock on Monday afternoon, as I should be able. That in the mean time he should acquaint me, whether I might hope for either of those ladies' protection: and if I might, I absolutely insisted that he should leave me with either, and go to London himself, or remain at Lord M.'s; nor offer to visit me, till I were satisfied that nothing could be done with my friends in an amicable way; and that I could not obtain possession of my own estate, and leave to live upon it: and particularly, that he should not hint marriage to me, till I consented to hear him upon that subject.—I added, that if he could prevail upon one of the Misses Montague to favour me with her company on the road, it would make me abundantly more easy in the thoughts of carrying into effect a resolution which I had not come to, although so driven, but with the utmost reluctance and concern; and which would throw such a slur upon my reputation in the eye of the world, as perhaps I should never be able to wipe off.'
This was the purport of what I wrote; and down into the garden I slid with it in the dark, which at another time I should not have had the courage to do; and deposited it, and came up again unknown to any body.
My mind so dreadfully misgave me when I returned, that, to divert in some measure my increasing uneasiness, I had recourse to my private pen; and in a very short time ran this length.
And now, that I am come to this part, my uneasy reflections begin again to pour in upon me. Yet what can I do?—I believe I shall take it back again the first thing in the morning—Yet what can I do?
And who knows but they may have a still earlier day in their intention, than that which will too soon come?
I hope to deposit this early in the morning for you, as I shall return from resuming my letter, if I do resume it as my inwardest mind bids me.
Although it is now near two o'clock, I have a good mind to slide down once more, in order to take back my letter. Our doors are always locked and barred up at eleven; but the seats of the lesser hall-windows being almost even with the ground without, and the shutters not difficult to open, I could easily get out.
Yet why should I be thus uneasy, since, should the letter go, I can but hear what Mr. Lovelace says to it? His aunts live at too great a distance for him to have an immediate answer from them; so I can scruple going to them till I have invitation. I can insist upon one of his cousins meeting me in the chariot; and may he not be able to obtain that favour from either of them. Twenty things may happen to afford me a suspension at least: Why should I be so very uneasy?—When likewise I can take back my letter early, before it is probable he will have the thought of finding it there. Yet he owns he spends three parts of his days, and has done for this fortnight past, in loitering about sometimes in one disguise, sometimes in another, besides the attendance given by his trusty servant when he himself is not in waiting, as he calls it.
But these strange forebodings!—Yet I can, if you advise, cause the chariot he shall bring with him, to carry me directly to town, whither in my London scheme, if you were to approve it, I had proposed to go: and this will save you the trouble of procuring for me a vehicle; as well as prevent any suspicion from your mother of your contributing to my escape.
But, solicitous of your advice, and approbation too, if I can have it, I will put an end to this letter.
Adieu, my dearest friend, adieu!
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg