Clarissa, Volume 2 | Page 6

from sister to sister--
Fie, fie, Clary! said my aunt.
My sister was more and more outrageous.

O how much fitter, said I, to be a jest, than a jester!--But now, Bella,
turn the glass to you, and see how poorly sits the robe upon your own
shoulders, which you have been so unmercifully fixing upon mine!
Fie, fie, Miss Clary! repeated my aunt.
And fie, fie, likewise, good Madam, to Miss Harlowe, you would say,
were you to have heard her barbarous insults!
Let us go, Madam, said my sister, with great violence; let us leave the
creature to swell till she bursts with her own poison.--The last time I
will ever come near her, in the mind I am in!
It is so easy a thing, returned I, were I to be mean enough to follow an
example that is so censurable in the setter of it, to vanquish such a
teasing spirit as your's with its own blunt weapons, that I am amazed
you will provoke me!--Yet, Bella, since you will go, (for she had
hurried to the door,) forgive me. I forgive you. And you have a double
reason to do so, both from eldership and from the offence so studiously
given to one in affliction. But may you be happy, though I never shall!
May you never have half the trials I have had! Be this your comfort,
that you cannot have a sister to treat you as you have treated me!--And
so God bless you!
O thou art a--And down she flung without saying what.
Permit me, Madam, said I to my aunt, sinking down, and clasping her
knees with my arms, to detain you one moment--not to say any thing
about my poor sister--she is her own punisher--only to thank you for all
your condescending goodness to me. I only beg of you not to impute to
obstinacy the immovableness I have shown to so tender a friend; and to
forgive me every thing I have said or done amiss in your presence, for
it has not proceeded from inward rancour to the poor Bella. But I will
be bold to say, that neither she, nor my brother, nor even my father
himself, knows what a heart they have set a bleeding.
I saw, to my comfort, what effect my sister's absence wrought for me.
--Rise, my noble-minded Niece!--Charming creature! [those were her
kind words] kneel not to me!--Keep to yourself what I now say to you.
--I admire you more than I can express--and if you can forbear claiming
your estate, and can resolve to avoid Lovelace, you will continue to be
the greatest miracle I ever knew at your years--but I must hasten down
after your sister.--These are my last words to you: 'Conform to your
father's will, if you possibly can. How meritorious will it be in you if

you do so! Pray to God to enable you to conform. You don't know what
may be done.'
Only, my dear Aunt, one word, one word more (for she was
going)--Speak all you can for my dear Mrs. Norton. She is but low in
the world: should ill health overtake her, she may not know how to live
without my mamma's favour. I shall have no means to help her; for I
will want necessaries before I will assert my right: and I do assure you,
she has said so many things to me in behalf of my submitting to my
father's will, that her arguments have not a little contributed to make
me resolve to avoid the extremities, which nevertheless I pray to God
they do not at last force me upon. And yet they deprive me of her
advice, and think unjustly of one of the most excellent of women.
I am glad to hear you say this: and take this, and this, and this, my
charming Niece! (for so she called me almost at every word, kissing me
earnestly, and clasping her arms about my neck:) and God protect you,
and direct you! But you must submit: indeed you must. Some one day
in a month from this is all the choice that is left you.
And this, I suppose, was the doom my sister called for; and yet no
worse than what had been pronounced upon me before.
She repeated these last sentences louder than the former. 'And
remember, Miss,' added she, 'it is your duty to comply.'--And down she
went, leaving me with my heart full, and my eyes running over.
The very repetition of this fills me with almost equal concern to that
which I felt at the time.
I must lay down my pen. Mistiness, which give to the deluged eye the
appearance of all the colours in the rainbow, will not permit me to write