She is very earnest, you say, that I will not offer to molest her.  That, let me tell her, will absolutely depend upon herself, and the answer she returns, whether by pen and ink, or the contemptuous one of silence, which she bestowed upon my last four to her:  and I will write it in such humble, and in such reasonable terms, that, if she be not a true Harlowe, she shall forgive me.  But as to the executorship which she is for conferring upon thee—­thou shalt not be her executor:  let me perish if thou shalt.—­Nor shall she die.  Nobody shall be any thing, nobody shall dare to be any thing, to her, but I—­thy happiness is already too great, to be admitted daily to her presence; to look upon her, to talk to her, to hear her talk, while I am forbid to come within view of her window—­ What a reprobation is this, of the man who was once more dear to her than all the men in the world!—­And now to be able to look down upon me, while her exalted head is hid from me among the stars, sometimes with scorn, at other times with pity; I cannot bear it.

This I tell thee, that if I have not success in my effort by letter, I will overcome the creeping folly that has found its way to my heart, or I will tear it out in her presence, and throw it at her’s, that she may see how much more tender than her own that organ is, which she, and you, and every one else, have taken the liberty to call callous.

Give notice of the people who live back and edge, and on either hand, of the cursed mother, to remove their best effects, if I am rejected:  for the first vengeance I shall take will be to set fire to that den of serpents.  Nor will there be any fear of taking them when they are in any act that has the relish of salvation in it, as Shakspeare says—­so that my revenge, if they perish in the flames I shall light up, will be complete as to them.

LETTER LXXIX

Mr. Lovelace to miss Clarissa Harlowe
Monday, Aug. 7.

Little as I have reason to expect either your patient ear, or forgiving heart, yet cannot I forbear to write to you once more, (as a more pardonable intrusion, perhaps, than a visit would be,) to beg of you to put it in my power to atone, as far as it is possible to atone, for the injuries I have done you.

Your angelic purity, and my awakened conscience, are standing records of your exalted merit, and of my detestable baseness:  but your forgiveness will lay me under an eternal obligation to you.—­Forgive me then, my dearest life, my earthly good, the visible anchor of my future hope!—­As you, (who believe you have something to be forgiven for,) hope for pardon yourself, forgive me, and consent to meet me, upon your own conditions, and in whose company you please, at the holy altar, and to give yourself a title to the most repentant and affectionate heart that ever beat in a human bosom.