Clarissa Harlowe, Samuel Richardson [black authors fiction .txt] 📗

Miss R. The gentleman neither looks nor talks like a bad man.⁠—Not a very bad man, as men go.

As men go! Poor Miss Rawlins, thought I; and dost thou know how men go?

Cl. O Madam, you know him not! He can put on the appearance of an angel of light; but has a black, a very black heart!

Poor I!⁠—

Miss R. I could not have thought it, truly! But men are very deceitful, nowadays.

Nowadays!⁠—A fool!⁠—Have not her history-books told her that they were always so?

Mrs. Moore, sighing. I have found it so, I am sure, to my cost!⁠—

Who knows but in her time poor goody Moore may have met with a Lovelace, or a Belford, or some such vile fellow? My little harum-scarum beauty knows not what strange histories every woman living, who has had the least independence of will, could tell her, were such to be as communicative as she is. But here’s the thing⁠—I have given her cause enough of offence; but not enough to make her hold her tongue.

Cl. As to the letters he has left with me, I know not what to say to them: but am resolved never to have anything to say to him.

Miss R. If, Madam, I may be allowed to say so, I think you carry matters very far.

Cl. Has he been making a bad cause a good one with you, Madam?⁠—That he can do with those who know him not. Indeed I heard him talking, thought not what he said, and am indifferent about it.⁠—But what account does he give of himself?

I was pleased to hear this. To arrest, to stop her passion, thought I, in the height of its career, is a charming presage.

Then the busy Miss Rawlins fished on, to find out from her either a confirmation or disavowal of my story⁠—Was Lord M. my uncle? Did I court her at first with the allowance of her friends, her brother excepted? Had I a rencounter with that brother? Was she so persecuted in favour of a very disagreeable man, one Solmes, as to induce her to throw herself into my protection?

None of these were denied. All the objections she could have made, were stifled, or kept in, by the considerations, (as she mentioned), that she should stay there but a little while, and that her story was too long; but Miss Rawlins would not be thus easily answered.

Miss R. He says, Madam, that he could not prevail for marriage, till he had consented, under a solemn oath, to separate beds, while your family remained unreconciled.

Cl. O the wretch! What can be still in his head, to endeavour to pass these stories upon strangers?

So no direct denial, thought I.⁠—Admirable!⁠—All will do by-and-by.

Miss R. He has owned that an accidental fire had frightened you very much on Wednesday night⁠—and that⁠—and that⁠—an accidental fire had frightened you⁠—very much frightened you⁠—last Wednesday night!

Then, after a short pause⁠—In short, he owned, that he had taken some innocent liberties, which might have led to a breach of the oath you had imposed upon him; and that this was the cause of your displeasure.

I would have been glad to see how my charmer then looked.⁠—To be sure she was at a loss in her own mind, to justify herself for resenting so highly an offence so trifling.⁠—She hesitated⁠—did not presently speak.⁠—When she did, she wished that she, (Miss Rawlins), might never meet with any man who would take such innocent liberties with her.

Miss Rawlins pushed further.

Your case, to be sure, Madam, is very particular: but if the hope of a reconciliation with your own friends is made more distant by your leaving him, give me leave to say, that ’tis pity⁠—’tis pity⁠—(I suppose the maiden then primm’d, fann’d, and blush’d⁠—’tis pity) the oath cannot be dispensed with; especially as he owns he has not been so strict a liver.

I could have gone in and kissed the girl.

Cl. You have heard his story. Mine, as I told you before, is too long, and too melancholy: my disorder on seeing the wretch is too great; and my time here is too short, for me to enter upon it. And if he has any end to serve by his own vindication, in which I shall not be a personal sufferer, let him make himself appear as white as an angel, with all my heart.

My love for her, and the excellent character I gave her, were then pleaded.

Cl. Specious seducer!⁠—Only tell me if I cannot get away from him by some back way?

How my heart then went pit-a-pat, to speak in the female dialect.

Cl. Let me look out⁠—(I heard the sash lifted up).⁠—Whither does that path lead? Is there no possibility of getting to a coach? Surely he must deal with some fiend, or how could he have found me out? Cannot I steal to some neighbouring house, where I may be concealed till I can get quite away? You are good people!⁠—I have not been always among such!⁠—O help me, help me, Ladies! (with a voice of impatience), or I am ruined!

Then pausing, Is that the way to Hendon? (pointing, I suppose). Is Hendon a private place?⁠—The Hampstead coach, I am told, will carry passengers thither.

Mrs. Moore. I have an honest friend at Mill-Hill, (Devil fetch her! thought I), where, if such be your determination, Madam, and if you think yourself in danger, you may be safe, I believe.

Cl. Anywhere, if I can but escape from this man! Whither does that path lead, out yonder?⁠—What is that town on the right hand called?

Mrs. Moore. Highgate, Madam.

Miss R. On the side of the heath is a little village, called North-end. A kinswoman of mine lives there. But her house is small. I am not sure she could accommodate such a lady.

Devil take her too! thought I⁠—I imagined that I had made