Chapter 47

MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TUESDAY, NINE O'CLOCK.

I write, because you enjoin me to do so. Love you still!--How can I help it, if I would? You may believe how I stand aghast, your letter communicating the first news--Good God of Heaven and Earth!--But what shall I say?--I am all impatient for particulars.

Lord have mercy upon me!--But can it be?

My mother will indeed be astonished!--How can I tell it her!--It was but last night (upon some jealousies put into her head by your foolish uncle) that I assured her, and this upon the strength of your own assurances, that neither man nor devil would be able to induce you to take a step that was in the least derogatory to the most punctilious honour.

But, once more, can it be? What woman at this rate!--But, God preserve you!

Let nothing escape you in your letters. Direct them for me, however, to Mrs. Knolly's, till further notice.

*****

Observe, my dear, that I don't blame you by all this--Your relations only are in fault!--Yet how you came to change your mind is the surprising thing.

How to break it to my mother, I know not. Yet if she hear it first from any other, and find I knew it before, she will believe it to be my connivance!--Yet, as I hope to live, I know not how to break it to her.

But this is teasing you.--I am sure, without intention.

Let me now repeat my former advice--If you are not married by this time, be sure delay not the ceremony. Since things are as they are, I wish it were thought that you were privately married before you went away. If these men plead AUTHORITY to our pain, when we are theirs--Why should we not, in such a case as this, make some good out of the hated word, for our reputation, when we are induced to violate a more natural one?

Your brother and sister [that vexes me almost as much as any thing!] have now their ends. Now, I suppose, will go forward alterations of wills, and such-like spiteful doings.

*****

Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph this moment send up their names. They are out of breath, Kitty says, to speak to me--easy to guess their errand;--I must see my mother, before I see them. I have no way but to shew her your letter to clear myself. I shall not be able to say a word, till she has run herself out of her first breath.--Forgive me, my dear--surprise makes me write thus. If your messenger did not wait, and were not those young ladies below, I could write it over again, for fear of afflicting you.

I send what you write for. If there be any thing else you want that is in my power, command without reserve

Your ever affectionate ANNA HOWE.