M. Yes, I suppose I am an old soul too.
D. He also is for making a wise agreement, or hinting at one, at least.
M. Well, the short and the long I suppose is this: I have not your consent to marry.
D. Indeed, Madam, you have not my wishes to marry.
M. Let me tell you, that if prudence consists in wishing well to one"s self, I see not but the young flirts are as prudent as the old souls.
D. Dear Madam, would you blame me, if to wish you not to marry Mr.
Antony Harlowe, is to wish well to myself?
M. You are mighty witty. I wish you were as dutiful.
D. I am more dutiful, I hope, than witty; or I should be a fool as well as a saucebox.
M. Let me be judge of both--Parents are only to live for their children, let them deserve it or not. That"s their dutiful notion!
D. Heaven forbid that I should wish, if there be two interests between my mother and me, that my mother postpone her own for mine!--or give up any thing that would add to the real comforts of her life to oblige me!-- Tell me, my dear Mamma, if you think the closing with this proposal will?
M. I say, that ten thousand pounds is such an acquisition to one"s family, that the offer of it deserves a civil return.
D. Not the offer, Madam: the chance only!--if indeed you have a view to an increase of family, the money may provide--
M. You can"t keep within tolerable bounds!--That saucy fleer I cannot away with--
D. Dearest, dearest Madam, forgive me; but old soul ran in my head again!--Nay, indeed, and upon my word, I will not be robbed of that charming smile! And again I kissed her hand.
M. Away, bold creature! Nothing can be so provoking as to be made to smile when one would choose, and ought, to be angry.
D. But, dear Madam, if it be to be, I presume you won"t think of it before next winter.
M. What now would the pert one be at?
D. Because he only proposes to entertain you with pretty stories of foreign nations in a winter"s evening.--Dearest, dearest Madam, let me have all the reading of his letter through. I will forgive him all he says about me.
M. It may be a very difficult thing, perhaps, for a man of the best sense to write a love-letter that may not be cavilled at.
D. That"s because lovers in their letters. .h.i.t not the medium. They either write too much nonsense, or too little. But do you call this odd soul"s letter [no more will I call him old soul, if I can help it] a love-letter?
M. Well, well, I see you are averse to this matter. I am not to be your mother; you will live single, if I marry. I had a mind to see if generosity govern you in your views. I shall pursue my own inclinations; and if they should happen to be suitable to yours, pray let me for the future be better rewarded by you than hitherto I have been.
And away she flung, without staying for a reply.--Vexed, I dare say, that I did not better approve of the proposal--were it only that the merit of denying might have been all her own, and to lay the stronger obligation upon her saucy daughter.
She wrote such a widow-like refusal when she went from me, as might not exclude hope in any other wooer; whatever it may do in Mr. Tony Harlowe.
It will be my part, to take care to beat her off the visit she half- promises to make him (as you will see in her answer) upon condition that he will withdraw his suit. For who knows what effect the old bachelor"s exotics [far-fetched and dear-bought you know is a proverb] might otherwise have upon a woman"s mind, wanting nothing but unnecessaries, gewgaws, and fineries, and offered such as are not easily to be met with, or purchased?
Well, but now I give you leave to read here, in this place, the copy of my mother"s answer to your uncle"s letter. Not one comment will I make upon it. I know my duty better. And here, therefore, taking the liberty to hope, that I may, in your present less disagreeable, though not wholly agreeable situation, provoke a smile from you, I conclude myself,
Your ever affectionate and faithful, ANNA HOWE.
MRS. ANNABELLA HOWE, TO ANTONY HARLY, ESQ.
MR. ANTONY HARLOWE, FRIDAY, MAY 19.
SIR,
It is not usual I believe for our s.e.x to answer by pen and ink the first letter on these occasions. The first letter! How odd is that! As if I expected another; which I do not. But then I think, as I do not judge proper to encourage your proposal, there is no reason why I should not answer in civility, where so great a civility is intended. Indeed, I was always of opinion that a person was ent.i.tled to that, and not to ill usage, because he had a respect for me. And so I have often and often told my daughter.
A woman I think makes but a poor figure in a man"s eye afterwards, and does no reputation to her s.e.x neither, when she behaves like a tyrant to him beforehand.
To be sure, Sir, if I were to change my condition, I know not a gentleman whose proposal could be more agreeable. Your nephew and your nieces have enough without you: my daughter has a fine fortune without me, and I should take care to double it, living or dying, were I to do such a thing: so n.o.body need to be the worse for it. But Nancy would not think so.
All the comfort I know of in children, is, that when young they do with us what they will, and all is pretty in them to their very faults; and when they are grown up, they think their parents must live for them only; and deny themselves every thing for their sakes. I know Nancy could not bear a father-in-law. She would fly at the very thought of my being in earnest to give her one. Not that I stand in fear of my daughter neither. It is not fit I should. But she has her poor papa"s spirit.
A very violent one that was. And one would not choose, you know, Sir, to enter into any affair, that, one knows, one must renounce a daughter for, or she a mother--except indeed one"s heart were much in it; which, I bless G.o.d, mine is not.
I have now been a widow these ten years; n.o.body to controul me: and I am said not to bear controul: so, Sir, you and I are best as we are, I believe: nay, I am sure of it: for we want not what either has; having both more than we know what to do with. And I know I could not be in the least accountable for any of my ways.
My daughter indeed, though she is a fine girl, as girls go, (she has too much sense indeed for one of her s.e.x, and knows she has it,) is more a check to me than one would wish a daughter to be: for who would choose to be always snapping at each other? But she will soon be married; and then, not living together, we shall only come together when we are pleased, and stay away when we are not; and so, like other lovers, never see any thing but the best sides of each other.
I own, for all this, that I love her dearly; and she me, I dare say: so would not wish to provoke her to do otherwise. Besides, the girl is so much regarded every where, that having lived so much of my prime a widow, I would not lay myself open to her censures, or even to her indifference, you know.
Your generous proposal requires all this explicitness. I thank you for your good opinion of me. When I know you acquiesce with this my civil refusal [and indeed, Sir, I am as much in earnest in it, as if I had spoken broader] I don"t know but Nancy and I may, with your permission, come to see your fine things; for I am a great admirer of rarities that come from abroad.
So, Sir, let us only converse occasionally as we meet, as we used to do, without any other view to each other than good wishes: which I hope may not be lessened for this declining. And then I shall always think myself
Your obliged servant, ANNABELLA HOWE.
P.S. I sent word by Mrs. Lorimer, that I would write an answer: but would take time for consideration. So hope, Sir, you won"t think it a slight, I did not write sooner.
LETTER XLIV
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
SUNDAY, MAY 21.
I am too much disturbed in my mind to think of any thing but revenge; or I did intend to give thee an account of Miss Harlowe"s observations on the play. Miss Harlowe"s I say. Thou knowest that I hate the name of Harlowe; and I am exceedingly out of humour with her, and with her saucy friend.
What"s the matter now? thou"lt ask.
Matter enough; for while we were at the play, Dorcas, who had her orders, and a key to her lady"s chamber, as well as a master-key to her drawers and mahogany chest, closet-key and all, found means to come at some of Miss Howe"s last-written letters. The vigilant wench was directed to them by seeing her lady take a letter out of her stays, and put it to the others, before she went out with me--afraid, as the women upbraidingly tell me, that I should find it there.
Dorcas no sooner found them, than she a.s.sembled three ready writers of the non-apparents; and Sally, and she, and they employed themselves with the utmost diligence, in making extracts, according to former directions, from these cursed letters, for my use. Cursed, may I well call them-- Such abuses!--Such virulence!--O this little fury Miss Howe!--Well might her saucy friend (who has been equally free with me, or the occasion could not have been given) be so violent as she lately was, at my endeavouring to come at one of these letters.