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

impossible his cousin could recover, he would go abroad again, and resettle himself at Florence or Leghorn.

The lady has been giving orders, with great presence of mind, about her body! directing her nurse and the maid of the house to put her in the coffin as soon as she is cold. Mr. Belford, she said, would know the rest by her will.

She has just now given from her bosom, where she always wore it, a miniature picture, set in gold, of Miss Howe. She gave it to Mrs. Lovick, desiring her to fold it up in white paper, and direct it, To Charles Hickman, Esq. and to give it to me, when she was departed, for that gentleman.

She looked upon the picture, before she gave it her⁠—Sweet and ever-amiable friend!⁠—Companion!⁠—Sister!⁠—Lover! said she⁠—and kissed it four several times, once at each tender appellation.

Your other servant is come.⁠—Well may you be impatient!⁠—Well may you!⁠—But do you think I can leave off, in the middle of a conversation, to run and set down what offers, and send it away piecemeal as I write?⁠—If I could, must I not lose one half, while I put down the other?

This event is nearly as interesting to me as it is to you. If you are more grieved than I, there can be but one reason for it; and that’s at your heart!⁠—I had rather lose all the friends I have in the world, (yourself in the number), than this divine lady; and shall be unhappy whenever I think of her sufferings, and of her merit; though I have nothing to reproach myself by reason of the former.

I say not this, just now, so much to reflect upon you as to express my own grief; though your conscience I suppose, will make you think otherwise.

Your poor fellow, who says that he begs for his life, in desiring to be dispatched back with a letter, tears this from me⁠—else, perhaps, (for I am just sent for down), a quarter of an hour would make you⁠—not easy indeed⁠—but certain⁠—and that, in a state like yours, to a mind like yours, is a relief.

Thursday Afternoon, four o’clock.

Letter 477 Mr. Belford, to Richard Mowbray, Esq.

Thursday Afternoon

Dear Mowbray,

I am glad to hear you are in town. Throw yourself the moment this comes to your hand, (if possible with Tourville), in the way of the man who least of all men deserves the love of the worthy heart; but most that of thine and Tourville; else the news I shall most probably send him within an hour or two, will make annihilation the greatest blessing he has to wish for.

You will find him between Piccadilly and Kensington, most probably on horseback, riding backwards and forwards in a crazy way; or put up, perhaps, at some inn or tavern in the way⁠—a waiter possibly, if so, watching for his servant’s return to him from me.

His man Will is just come to me. He will carry this to you in his way back, and be your director. Hie away in a coach, or anyhow. Your being with him may save either his or a servant’s life. See the blessed effects of triumphant libertinism! Sooner or later it comes home to us, and all concludes in gall and bitterness!

Adieu.

J. Belford.

Letter 478 Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, Esq.

Curse upon the Colonel, and curse upon the writer of the last letter I received, and upon all the world! Thou to pretend to be as much interested in my Clarissa’s fate as myself!⁠—’Tis well for one of us that this was not said to me, instead of written.⁠—Living or dying, she is mine⁠—and only mine. Have I not earned her dearly?⁠—Is not d⁠⸺⁠n⁠—n likely to be the purchase to me, though a happy eternity will be hers?

An eternal separation!⁠—O God! O God!⁠—How can I bear that thought!⁠—But yet there is life!⁠—Yet, therefore, hope⁠—enlarge my hope, and thou shalt be my good genius, and I will forgive thee everything.

For this last time⁠—but it must not, shall not be the last⁠—Let me hear, the moment thou receivest this⁠—what I am to be⁠—for, at present, I am

The most miserable of Men.

Rose, at Knightsbridge, Five o’clock.

My fellow tells me that thou art sending Mowbray and Tourville to me:⁠—I want them not⁠—my soul’s sick of them, and of all the world⁠—but most of myself. Yet, as they send me word they will come to me immediately, I will wait for them, and for thy next. O Belford, let it not be⁠—But hasten it, be what it may!

Letter 479 Mr. Belford, to Robert Lovelace, Esq.

Seven o’clock, Thursday Evening, Sept. 7

I have only to say at present⁠—Thou wilt do well to take a tour to Paris; or wherever else thy destiny shall lead thee!⁠—

John Belford.

Letter 480 Mr. Mowbray, to John Belford, Esq.

Uxbridge, Sept. 7, Between Eleven and Twelve at Night

Dear Jack,

I send by poor Lovelace’s desire, for particulars of the fatal breviate thou sentest him this night. He cannot bear to set pen to paper; yet wants to know every minute passage of Miss Harlowe’s departure. Yet why he should, I cannot see: for if she is gone, she is gone; and who can help it?

I never heard of such a woman in my life. What great matters has she suffered, that grief should kill her thus?

I wish the poor fellow had never known her. From first to last, what trouble she has cost him! The charming fellow had been half lost to us ever since he pursued her. And what is there in one woman more than another, for matter of that?

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