LETTER LXVI

Miss Clarissa Harlowe, to miss Howe
Thursday, July 6.

Few young persons have been able to give more convincing proofs than myself how little true happiness lies in the enjoyment of our own wishes.

To produce one instance only of the truth of this observation; what would I have given for weeks past, for the favour of a letter from my dear Miss Howe, in whose friendship I placed all my remaining comfort!  Little did I think, that the next letter she would honour me with, should be in such a style, as should make me look more than once at the subscription, that I might be sure (the name not being written at length) that it was not signed by another A.H.  For surely, thought I, this is my sister Arabella’s style:  surely Miss Howe (blame me as she pleases in other points) could never repeat so sharply upon her friend, words written in the bitterness of spirit, and in the disorder of head; nor remind her, with asperity, and with mingled strokes of wit, of an argument held in the gaiety of a heart elated with prosperous fortunes, (as mine then was,) and very little apprehensive of the severe turn that argument would one day take against herself.

But what have I, sink in my fortunes; my character forfeited; my honour lost, [while I know it, I care not who knows it;] destitute of friends, and even of hope; what have I to do to show a spirit of repining and expostulation to a dear friend, because she is not more kind than a sister?——­

You have till now, my dear, treated me with great indulgence.  If it was with greater than I had deserved, I may be to blame to have built upon it, on the consciousness that I deserve it now as much as ever.  But I find, by the rising bitterness which will mingle with the gall in my ink, that I am not yet subdued enough to my condition.—­I lay down my pen for one moment.

***

Pardon me, my Miss Howe.  I have recollected myself:  and will endeavour to give a particular answer to your letter; although it will take me up too much time to think of sending it by your messenger to-morrow:  he can put off his journey, he says, till Saturday.  I will endeavour to have the whole narrative ready for you by Saturday.

But how to defend myself in every thing that has happened, I cannot tell:  since in some part of the time, in which my conduct appears to have been censurable, I was not myself; and to this hour know not all the methods taken to deceive and ruin me.

You tell me, that in your first letter you gave me such an account of the vile house I was in, and such cautions about that Tomlinson, as made you wonder how I could think of going back.

Alas, my dear!  I was tricked, most vilely tricked back, as you shall hear in its place.