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

But I shall call thee seriously to account, when I see thee, for the extracts thou hast given the lady from my letters, notwithstanding what I said in my last; especially if she continue to refuse me. An hundred times have I myself known a woman deny, yet comply at last: but, by these extracts, thou hast, I doubt, made her bar up the door of her heart, as she used to do her chamber-door, against me.⁠—This therefore is a disloyalty that friendship cannot bear, nor honour allow me to forgive.

London, Aug. 21, Monday

I believe I am bound to curse thee, Jack. Nevertheless I won’t anticipate, but proceed to write thee a longer letter than thou hast had from me for some time past. So here goes.

That thou mightest have as little notice as possible of the time I was resolved to be in town, I set out in my Lord’s chariot-and-six yesterday, as soon as I had dispatched my letter to thee, and arrived in town last night: for I knew I could have no dependence on thy friendship where Miss Harlowe’s humour was concerned.

I had no other place so ready, and so was forced to go to my old lodgings, where also my wardrobe is; and there I poured out millions of curses upon the whole crew, and refused to see either Sally or Polly; and this not only for suffering the lady to escape, but for the villanous arrest, and for their detestable insolence to her at the officer’s house.

I dressed myself in a never-worn suit, which I had intended for one of my wedding-suits; and liked myself so well, that I began to think, with thee, that my outside was the best of me.

I took a chair to Smith’s, my heart bounding in almost audible thumps to my throat, with the assured expectations of seeing my beloved. I clasped my fingers, as I was danced along: I charged my eyes to languish and sparkle by turns: I talked to my knees, telling them how they must bend; and, in the language of a charming describer, acted my part in fancy, as well as spoke it to myself.

Tenderly kneeling, thus will I complain:
Thus court her pity; and thus plead my pain:
Thus sigh for fancy’d frowns, if frowns should rise;
And thus meet favour in her soft’ning eyes.

In this manner entertained I myself till I arrived at Smith’s; and there the fellows set down their gay burden. Off went their hats; Will ready at hand in a new livery; up went the head; out rushed my honour; the woman behind the counter all in flutters, respect and fear giving due solemnity to her features, and her knees, I doubt not, knocking against the inside of her wainscot-fence.

Your servant, Madam⁠—Will let the fellows move to some distance, and wait.

You have a young lady lodges here; Miss Harlowe, Madam: Is she above?

Sir, Sir, and please your Honour: (the woman is struck with my figure, thought I): Miss Harlowe, Sir! There is, indeed, such a young lady lodges here⁠—But, but⁠—

But, what, Madam?⁠—I must see her.⁠—One pair of stairs; is it not?⁠—Don’t trouble yourself⁠—I shall find her apartment. And was making towards the stairs.

Sir, Sir, the lady, the lady is not at home⁠—she is abroad⁠—she is in the country⁠—

In the country! Not at home!⁠—Impossible! You will not pass this story upon me, good woman. I must see her. I have business of life and death with her.

Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home! Indeed, Sir, she is abroad!⁠—

She then rung a bell: John, cried she, pray step down!⁠—Indeed, Sir, the lady is not at home.

Down came John, the good man of the house, when I expected one of his journeymen, by her saucy familiarity.

My dear, said she, the gentleman will not believe Miss Harlowe is abroad.

John bowed to my fine clothes: Your servant, Sir⁠—indeed the lady is abroad. She went out of town this morning by six o’clock⁠—into the country⁠—by the doctor’s advice.

Still I would not believe either John or his wife. I am sure, said I, she cannot be abroad. I heard she was very ill⁠—she is not able to go out in a coach. Do you know Mr. Belford, friend?

Yes, Sir; I have the honour to know ’Squire Belford. He is gone into the country to visit a sick friend. He went on Saturday, Sir.

This had also been told from thy lodgings to Will whom I sent to desire to see thee on my first coming to town.

Well, and Mr. Belford wrote me word that she was exceeding ill. How then can she be gone out?

O Sir, she is very ill; very ill, indeed⁠—she could hardly walk to the coach.

Belford, thought I, himself knew nothing of the time of my coming; neither can he have received my letter of yesterday: and so ill, ’tis impossible she would go out.

Where is her servant? Call her servant to me.

Her servant, Sir, is her nurse: she has no other. And she is gone with her.

Well, friend, I must not believe you. You’ll excuse me; but I must go upstairs myself. And was stepping up.

John hereupon put on a serious, and a less respectful face⁠—Sir, this house is mine; and⁠—

And what, friend? not doubting then but she was above.⁠—I must and will see her. I have authority for it. I am a justice of the peace. I have a search warrant.

And up I went; they following me, muttering, and in a plaguey flutter.

The first door I came to was locked. I tapped at it.

The lady, Sir, has the key of her own apartment.

On the inside, I question not, my honest friend; tapping again. And being assured, if she heard my voice, that her timorous and soft temper would make her betray herself, by some flutters, to my listening ear, I said aloud, I am confident Miss Harlowe is here: dearest Madam, open the door: admit me but for