***

Waiting here for Mowbray and Mallory, by whose aid I am to get the license, I took papers out of my pocket, to divert myself; and thy last popt officiously the first into my hand.  I gave it the honour of a re-perusal; and this revived the subject with me, with which I had resolved not to trust myself.

I remember, that the dear creature, in her torn answer to my proposals, says, condescension is not meanness.  She better knows how to make this out, than any mortal breathing.  Condescension indeed implies dignity:  and dignity ever was there in her condescension.  Yet such a dignity as gave grace to the condescension; for there was no pride, no insult, no apparent superiority, indicated by it.—­This, Miss Howe confirms to be a part of her general character.*

* See Vol.  IV.  Letter XXIII.

I can tell her, how she might behave, to make me her own for ever.  She knows she cannot fly me.  She knows she must see me sooner or later; the sooner the more gracious.—­I would allow her to resent [not because the liberties I took with her require resentment, were she not a Clarissa; but as it becomes her particular niceness to resent]:  but would she show more love than abhorrence of me in her resentment; would she seem, if it were but to seem, to believe the fire no device, and all that followed merely accidental; and descend, upon it, to tender expostulation, and upbraiding for the advantage I would have taken of her surprise; and would she, at last, be satisfied (as well she may) that it was attended with no further consequence; and place some generous confidence in my honour, [power loves to be trusted, Jack;] I think I would put an end to all her trials, and pay her my vows at the altar.

Yet, to have taken such bold steps, as with Tomlinson and her uncle—­to have made such a progress—­O Belford, Belford, how I have puzzled myself, as well as her!—­This cursed aversion to wedlock how it has entangled me!—­What contradictions has it made me guilty of!

How pleasing to myself, to look back upon the happy days I gave her; though mine would doubtless have been unmixedly so, could I have determined to lay aside my contrivances, and to be as sincere all the time, as she deserved that I should be!

If I find this humour hold but till to-morrow morning, [and it has now lasted two full hours, and I seem, methinks, to have pleasure in encouraging it,] I will make thee a visit, I think, or get thee to come to me; and then will I—­consult thee upon it.

But she will not trust me.  She will not confide in my honour.  Doubt, in this case, is defiance.  She loves me not well enough to forgive me generously.  She is so greatly above me!  How can I forgive her for a merit so mortifying to my pride!  She thinks, she knows, she has told me, that she is above me.  These words are still in my ears, ’Be gone, Lovelace!—­My soul is above thee, man!—­Thou hast a proud heart to contend