CHAPTER I. A COGITATION.

LADY Margaret Monckton received Cecilia with the moſt gloomy cold⯑neſs: ſhe apologiſed for the liberty ſhe had taken in making uſe of her lady⯑ſhip's houſe, but, meeting no return of civility, ſhe withdrew to the room which had been prepared for her, and reſolved as much as poſſible to keep out of her ſight.

It now became neceſſary without further delay to ſettle her plan of life, and fix her place of reſidence. The forbidding looks of Lady Margaret made her haſten her reſolves, which otherwiſe would for a while [4] have given way to grief for her recent mis⯑fortune.

She ſent for the ſurveyor who had the ſuperintendance of her eſtates, to enquire how ſoon her own houſe would be fit for her reception; and heard there was yet work for near two months.

This anſwer made her very uncomforta⯑ble. To continue two months under the roof with Lady Margaret was a penance ſhe could not enjoin herſelf, nor was ſhe at all ſure Lady Margaret would ſubmit to it any better: ſhe determined, therefore, to re⯑leaſe herſelf from the conſcious burthen of being an unwelcome viſitor, by boarding with ſome creditable family at Bury, and devoting the two months in which ſhe was to be kept from her houſe, to a general ar⯑rangement of her affairs, and a final ſettling with her guardians.

For theſe purpoſes it would be neceſſary ſhe ſhould go to London: but with whom, or in what manner, ſhe could not decide. She deſired, therefore, another conference with Mr. Monckton, who met her in the parlour.

She then communicated to him her ſchemes; and begged his counſel in her perplexities.

He was delighted at the application, and extremely well pleaſed with her deſign of [5] boarding at Bury, well knowing, he could then watch and viſit her at his pleaſure, and have far more comfort in her ſociety than even in his own houſe, where all the vigi⯑lance with which he obſerved her, was ſhort of that with which he was himſelf obſerved by Lady Margaret. He endeavoured, how⯑ever, to diſſuade her from going to town, but her eagerneſs to pay the large ſum ſhe owed him, was now too great to be con⯑quered. Of age, her fortune wholly in her power, and all attendance upon Mrs. Charl⯑ton at an end, ſhe had no longer any excuſe for having a debt in the world, and would ſuffer no perſuaſion to make her begin her career in life, with a negligence in ſettling her accounts which ſhe had ſo often cen⯑ſured in others. To go to London there⯑fore ſhe was fixed, and all that ſhe deſired was his advice concerning the journey.

He then told her that in order to ſettle with her guardians, ſhe muſt write to them in form, to demand an account of the ſums that had been expended during her minority, and announce her intention for the future to take the management of her fortune into her own hands.

She immediately followed his directions, and conſented to remain at the grove till their anſwers arrived.

Being now, therefore, unavoidably fixed [6] for ſome time at the houſe, ſhe thought it proper and decent to attempt ſoftening Lady Margaret in her favour. She exerted all her powers to pleaſe and to oblige her; but the exertion was neceſſarily vain, not only from the diſpoſition, but the ſituation of her ladyſhip, ſince every effort made for this conciliatory purpoſe, rendered her doubly amiable in the eyes of her huſband, and conſequently to herſelf more odious than ever. Her jealouſy, already but too well founded, received every hour the poi⯑ſonous nouriſhment of freſh conviction, which ſo much ſoured and exaſperated a temper naturally harſh, that her malignity and ill-humour grew daily more acrimo⯑nious. Nor would ſhe have contented her⯑ſelf with diſplaying this iraſcibility by ge⯑neral moroſeneſs, had not the ſame ſuſpicious watchfulneſs which diſcovered to her the paſ⯑ſion of her huſband, ſerved equally to make manifeſt the indifference and innocence of Cecilia; to reproach her therefore, ſhe had not any pretence, though her knowledge how much ſhe had to dread her, paſt cur⯑rent in her mind for ſufficient reaſon to hate her. The Angry and the Violent uſe little diſcrimination; whom they like, they en⯑quire not if they approve; but whoever, no matter how unwittingly, ſtands in their way, [7] they ſcruple not to ill uſe, and conclude they may laudably deteſt.

Cecilia, though much diſguſted, gave not over her attempt, which ſhe conſidered but as her due while ſhe continued in her houſe. Her general character, alſo, for peeviſhneſs and haughty ill-breeding, ſkil⯑fully, from time to time, diſplayed, and artfully repined at by Mr. Monckton, ſtill kept her from ſuſpecting any peculiar ani⯑moſity to herſelf, and made her impute all that paſſed to the mere rancour of ill-hu⯑mour. She confined herſelf, however, as much as poſſible to her own apartment, where her ſorrow for Mrs. Charlton almoſt hourly encreaſed, by the compariſon ſhe was forced upon making of her houſe with the grove.

That worthy old lady left her grand⯑daughters her co-heireſſes and ſole execu⯑trixes. She bequeathed from them nothing conſiderable, though ſhe left ſome donations for the poor, and ſeveral of her friends were remembered by ſmall legacies. Among them Cecilia had her picture, and favourite trinkets, with a paragraph in her will, that as there was no one ſhe ſo much loved, had her fortune been leſs ſplendid, ſhe ſhould have ſhared with her grand-daughters what⯑ever ſhe had to beſtow.

Cecilia was much affected by this laſt and [8] ſolemn remembrance. She more than ever coveted to be alone, that ſhe might grieve undiſturbed, and ſhe lamented without ceaſ⯑ing the fatigue and the illneſs which, in ſo late a period, at it proved, of her life, ſhe had herſelf been the means of occaſioning to her.

Mr. Monckton had too much prudence to interrupt this deſire of ſolitude, which indeed coſt him little pain, as he conſidered her leaſt in danger when alone. She re⯑ceived in about a week anſwers from both her guardians. Mr. Delvile's letter was cloſely to the purpoſe, without a word but of buſineſs, and couched in the haughtieſt terms. As he had never, he ſaid, acted, he had no accounts to ſend in; but as he was going to town in a few days, he would ſee her for a moment in the preſence of Mr. Briggs, that a joint releaſe might be ſigned, to prevent any future application to him.

Cecilia much lamented there was any neceſſity for her ſeeing him at all, and looked forward to the interview as the greateſt mor⯑tification ſhe could ſuffer.

Mr. Briggs, though ſtill more conciſe, was far kinder in his language: but he ad⯑viſed her to defer her ſcheme of taking the money into her own hands, aſſuring her ſhe would be cheated, and had better leave it to him.

[9] When ſhe communicated theſe epiſtles to Mr. Monckton, he failed not to read, with an emphaſis, by which his arrogant meaning was ſtill more arrogantly enforced, the letter of Mr. Delvile aloud. Nor was he ſparing in comments that might render it yet more offenſive. Cecilia neither concurred in what he ſaid, nor oppoſed it, but contented her⯑ſelf, when he was ſilent, with producing the other letter.

Mr. Monckton read not this with more favour. He openly attacked the character of Briggs, as covetous, rapacious, and over⯑reaching, and warned her by no means to abide by his counſel, without firſt taking the opinion of ſome diſintereſted perſon. He then ſtated the various arts which might be practiſed upon her inexperience, enumerat⯑ed the dangers to which her ignorance of buſineſs expoſed her, and annotated upon the cheats, double dealings, and tricks of ſtock jobbing, to which he aſſured her Mr. Briggs owed all he was worth, till, per⯑plexed and confounded, ſhe declared her⯑ſelf at a loſs how to proceed, and earneſtly regretted that ſhe could not have his coun⯑ſel upon the ſpot.

This was his aim: to draw the wiſh from her, drew all ſuſpicion of ſelfiſh views from himſelf: and he told her that he con⯑ſidered her preſent ſituation as ſo critical, [10] the future confuſion or regularity of her money tranſactions ſeeming to depend upon it, that he would endeavour to arrange his affairs for meeting her in London.

Cecilia gave him many thanks for the kind intention, and determined to be to⯑tally guided by him in the diſpoſal and di⯑rection of her fortune.

Mean time he had now another part to act; he ſaw that with Cecilia nothing more remained to be done, and that, harbouring not a doubt of his motives, ſhe thought his deſign in her favour did her nothing but honour; but he had too much knowledge of the world to believe it would judge him in the ſame manner, and too much con⯑ſciouſneſs of duplicity to ſet its judgment at defiance. To parry, therefore, the con⯑jectures which might follow his attending her, he had already prepared Lady Marga⯑ret to wiſh herſelf of the party: for how⯑ever diſagreeable to him was her preſence and her company, he had no other means to be under the ſame roof with Cecilia.

Miſs Bennet, the wretched tool of his various ſchemes, and the mean ſycophant of his lady, had been employed by him to work upon her jealouſy, by ſecretly inform⯑ing her of his intention to go to town, at the ſame time that Cecilia went thither to meet her guardians. She pretended to have [11] learned this intelligence by accident, and to communicate it from reſpectful regard; and adviſed her to go to London herſelf at the ſame time, that ſhe might ſee into his de⯑ſigns, and be ſome check upon his pleaſure.

The encreaſing infirmities of Lady Mar⯑garet made this counſel by no means palat⯑able: but Miſs Bennet, following the artful inſtructions which ſhe received, put in her way ſo ſtrong a motive, by aſſuring her how little her company was wiſhed, that in the madneſs of her ſpite ſhe determined upon the journey. And little heeding how ſhe tormented herſelf while ſhe had any view of tormenting Mr. Monckton, ſhe was led on by her falſe confident to invite Cecilia to her town houſe.

Mr. Monckton, in whom by long prac⯑tice, artifice was almoſt nature, well know⯑ing his wife's perverſeneſs, affected to look much diſconcerted at the propoſal; while Cecilia, by no means thinking it neceſſary to extend her compliance to ſuch a puniſh⯑ment, inſtantly made an apology, and de⯑clined the invitation.

Lady Margaret, little verſed in civility, and unuſed to the arts of perſuaſion, could not, even for a favourite project, prevail upon herſelf to uſe entreaty, and therefore, thinking her ſcheme defeated, looked gloo⯑mily diſappointed, and ſaid nothing more.

[12] Mr. Monckton, ſaw with delight how much this difficulty inflamed her, though the moment he could ſpeak alone with Cecilia he made it his care to remove it.

He repreſented to her that, however pri⯑vately ſhe might live, ſhe was too young to be in London lodgings by herſelf, and gave an hint which ſhe could not but underſtand, that in going or in ſtaying with only ſer⯑vants, ſuſpicions might ſoon be raiſed, that the plan and motive of her journey were different to thoſe given out.

She knew he meant to inſinuate that it would be conjectured ſhe deſigned to meet Delvile, and though colouring, vext and provoked at the ſuggeſtion, the idea was ſufficient to frighten her into his plan.

In a few days, therefore, the matter was wholly arranged, Mr. Monckton, by his ſkill and addreſs, leading every one whi⯑ther he pleaſed, while, by the artful coolneſs of his manner, he appeared but to follow himſelf. He ſat out the day before, though earneſtly wiſhing to accompany them, but having as yet in no ſingle inſtance gone to town in the ſame carriage with Lady Mar⯑garet, he dared truſt neither the neighbour⯑hood nor the ſervants with ſo dangerous a ſubject for their comments.

Cecilia, compelled thus to travel with only her Ladyſhip and Miſs Bennet, had a [13] journey the moſt diſagreeable, and deter⯑mined, if poſſible, to ſtay in London but two days. She had already fixed upon a houſe in which ſhe could board at Bury when ſhe returned, and there ſhe meant quietly to reſide till ſhe could enter her own.

Lady Margaret herſelf, exhilarated by a notion of having outwitted her huſband, was in unuſual good ſpirits, and almoſt in good humour. The idea of thwarting his deſigns, and being in the way of his en⯑tertainment, gave to her a delight ſhe had ſeldom received from any thing; and the belief that this was effected by the ſupe⯑riority of her cunning, doubled her con⯑tentment, and raiſed it to exultation. She owed him, indeed, much provocation and uneaſineſs, and was happy in this opportu⯑nity of paying her arrears.

Mean while that conſummate maſter in every ſpecies of hypocriſy, indulged her in this notion, by the air of diſſatisfaction with which he left the houſe. It was not that ſhe meant by her preſence to obviate any im⯑propriety: early and long acquainted with the character of Cecilia, ſhe well knew, that during her life the paſſion of her huſband muſt be confined to his own breaſt: but conſcious of his averſion to herſelf, which ſhe reſented with the bittereſt ill-will, and [14] knowing how little, at any time, he deſired her company, ſhe conſoled herſelf for her inability to give pleaſure by the power ſhe poſſeſſed of giving pain, and bore with the fatigue of a journey diſagreeable and incon⯑venient to her, with no other view than the hope of breaking into his plan of avoiding her. Little imagining that the whole time ſhe was forwaring his favourite purſuit, and only acting the part which he had ap⯑pointed her to perform.

CHAP. II. A SURPRIZE.

LADY Margaret's town houſe was in Soho Square; and ſcarcely had Cecilia entered it, before her deſire to ſpeed her departure, made her ſend a note to each of her guardians, acquainting them of her ar⯑rival, and begging, if poſſible, to ſee them the next day.

She had ſoon the two following anſwers:

Theſe characteriſtic letters, which at ano⯑ther time might have diverted Cecilia, now merely ſerved to torment her. She was eager to quit town, ſhe was more eager to have her meeting with Mr. Delvile over, who, oppreſſive to her even when he meant to be kind, ſhe foreſaw, now he was in wrath, would be imperious even to rude⯑neſs. Deſirous, however, to make one in⯑terview ſuffice for both, and to ſettle what⯑ever buſineſs might remain unfiniſhed by letters, ſhe again wrote to Mr. Briggs, whom ſhe had not ſpirits to encounter with⯑out abſolute neceſſity, and informing him of Mr. Delvile's delay, begged he would not trouble himſelf to call till he heard from her adain.

Two days paſſed without any meſſage from them; they were ſpent chiefly alone, and very uncomfortably, Mr. Monckton being content to ſee little of her, while he knew ſhe ſaw nothing of any body elſe. On the third morning, weary of her own thoughts, weary of Lady Margaret's ill⯑humoured looks, and ſtill more weary of [17] Miſs Bennet's paraſitical converſation, ſhe determined, for a little relief to the heavi⯑neſs of her mind, to go to her book⯑ſeller, and look over and order into the country ſuch new publications as ſeemed to promiſe her any pleaſure.

She ſent therefore, for a chair, and glad to have deviſed for herſelf any amuſement, ſet out in it immediately.

Upon entering the ſhop, ſhe ſaw the Book⯑ſeller engaged in cloſe conference with a man meanly dreſſed, and much muffled up, who ſeemed talking to him with uncommon earneſtneſs, and juſt as ſhe was approaching, ſaid, ‘"To terms I am indifferent, for writ⯑ing is no labour to me; on the contrary, it is the firſt delight of my life, and therefore, and not for dirty pelf, I wiſh to make it my profeſſion."’

The ſpeech ſtruck Cecilia, but the voice ſtruck her more, it was Belfield's! and her amazement was ſo great, that ſhe ſtopt ſhort to look at him, without heeding a man who attended her, and deſired to know her com⯑mands.

The bookſeller now perceiving her, came forward, and Belfield, turning to ſee who interrupted them, ſtarted as if a ſpectre had croſſed his eyes, flapped his hat over his face, and haſtily went out of the ſhop.

Cecilia checking her inclination to ſpeak [18] to him, from obſerving his eagerneſs to eſcape her, ſoon recollected her own errand, and employed herſelf in looking over new books.

Her ſurprize, however, at a change ſo ſudden in the condition of this young man, and at a declaration of a paſſion for writing, ſo oppoſite to all the ſentiments which he had profeſſed at their late meeting in the cottage, awakened in her a ſtrong curioſity to be informed of his ſituation; and after putting aſide ſome books which ſhe deſired to have packed up for her, ſhe aſked if the gentleman who had juſt left the ſhop, and who, ſhe found by what he had ſaid, was an Author, had written any thing that was publiſhed with his name?

‘"No, ma'am,"’ anſwered the Bookſel⯑ler, ‘"nothing of any conſequence; he is known, however, to have written ſeveral things that have appeared as anonymous; and I fancy, now, ſoon, we ſhall ſee ſome⯑thing conſiderable from him."’

‘"He is about ſome great work, then?"’

‘"Why no, not exactly that, perhaps, at preſent; we muſt feel our way, with ſome little ſmart jeu d'eſprit before we undertake a great work. But he is a very great genius, and I doubt not will produce ſome⯑thing extraordinary."’

‘"Whatever he produces,"’ ſaid Cecilia, [19] ‘"as I have now chanced to ſee him, I ſhall be glad you will, at any time, ſend to me."’

‘"Certainly, ma'am; but it muſt be among other things, for he does not chuſe, juſt now, to be known: and it is a rule in our buſineſs never to tell people's names when they deſire to be ſecret. He is a lit⯑tle out of caſh, juſt now, as you may ſup⯑poſe by his appearance, ſo inſtead of buy⯑ing books, he comes to ſell them. How⯑ever, he has taken a very good road to bring himſelf home again, for we pay very handſomely for things of any merit, eſpe⯑cially if they deal ſmartly in a few touches of the times."’

Cecilia choſe not to riſk any further queſ⯑tions, leſt her knowledge of him ſhould be ſuſpected, but got into her chair, and re⯑turned to Lady Margaret's.

The ſight of Belfield reminded her not only of himſelf; the gentle Henrietta again took her place in her memory, whence her various diſtreſſes and ſuſpences had of late driven from it every body but Delvile, and thoſe whom Delvile brought into it. But her regard for that amiable girl, though ſunk in the buſy ſcenes of her calamitous uncertainties, was only ſunk in her own boſom, and ready, upon their removal, to revive with freſh vigour. She was now in⯑deed more unhappy than even in the period [20] of her forgetfulneſs, yet her mind was no longer filled with the reſtleſs turbulence of hope, which ſtill more than deſpondency unfitted it for thinking of others.

This remembrance thus awakened, a⯑wakened alſo a deſire of renewing the con⯑nection ſo long neglected. All ſcruples concerning Delvile had now loſt their foun⯑dation, ſince the doubts from which they aroſe were both explained and removed: ſhe was certain alike of his indifference to Henrietta, and his ſeparation from herſelf; ſhe knew that nothing was to be feared from painful or offenſive rivalry, and ſhe reſolved, therefore, to loſe no time in ſeeking the firſt pleaſure to which ſince her diſappointment ſhe had voluntarily looked forward.

Early in the evening, ſhe told Lady Mar⯑garet ſhe was going out for an hour or two, and ſending again for a chair, was carried to Portland-Street.

She enquired for Miſs Belfield, and was ſhewn into a parlour, where ſhe found her drinking tea with her mother, and Mr. Hobſon, their landlord.

Henrietta almoſt ſcreamed at her ſight, from a ſudden impulſe of joy and ſurprize, and, running up to her, flung her arms round her neck, and embraced her with the moſt rapturous emotion: but then, drawing back with a look of timidity and ſhame, [21] ſhe baſhfully apologized for her freedom, ſaying, ‘"Indeed, deareſt Miſs Beverley, it is no want of reſpect, but I am ſo very glad to ſee you it makes me quite forget myſelf!"’

Cecilia, charmed at a reception ſo in⯑genuouſly affectionate, ſoon ſatisfied her doubting diffidence by the warmeſt thanks that ſhe had preſerved ſo much regard for her, and by doubling the kindneſs with which ſhe returned her careſſes.

‘"Mercy on me, madam,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, who during this time had been buſily employed in ſweeping the hearth, wiping ſome ſlops upon the table, and ſmoothing her handkerchief and apron, ‘"why the girl's enough to ſmother you. Henny, how can you be ſo troubleſome? I never ſaw you behave in this way before."’

‘"Miſs Beverley, madam,"’ ſaid Henriet⯑ta, again retreating, ‘"is ſo kind as to par⯑don me, and I was ſo much ſurpriſed at ſeeing her, that I hardly knew what I was about."’

‘"The young ladies, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"have a mighty way of ſaluting one another till ſuch time as they get huſ⯑bands: and then I'll warrant you they can meet without any ſalutation at all. That's my remark, at leaſt, and what I've ſeen of the world has ſet me upon making it."’

This ſpeech led Cecilia to check, however [22] artleſs, the tenderneſs of her fervent young friend, whom ſhe was much teized by meeting in ſuch company, but who ſeemed not to dare underſtand the frequent looks which ſhe gave her expreſſive of a wiſh to be alone with her.

‘"Come, ladies,"’ continued the facetious Mr. Hobſon, ‘"what if we were all to ſit down, and have a good diſh of tea? and ſuppoſe, Mrs. Belfield, you was to order us a freſh round of toaſt and butter? do you think the young ladies here would have any objection? and what if we were to have a little more water in the tea-kettle? not forgetting a little more tea in the tea⯑pot. What I ſay is this, let us all be com⯑fortable; that's my notion of things."’

‘"And a very good notion too,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, ‘"for you who have nothing to vex you. Ah, ma'am, you have heard, I ſuppoſe, about my ſon? gone off! no⯑body knows where! left that lord's houſe, where he might have lived like a king, and gone out into the wide world nobody knows for what!"’

‘"Indeed?"’ ſaid Cecilia, who, from ſee⯑ing him in London concluded he was again with his family, ‘"and has he not acquainted you where he is?"’

‘"No, ma'am, no,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘he's never once told me where he is gone, [23] nor let me know the leaſt about the matter, for if I did I would not taſte a diſh of tea again for a twelvemonth till I ſaw him get back again to that lord's! and I believe in my heart there's never ſuch another in the three kingdoms, for he has ſent here after him I dare ſay a ſcore of times. And no wonder, for I will take upon me to ſay he won't find his fellow in a hurry, Lord as he is."’

‘"As to his being a Lord,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I am one of them that lay no great ſtreſs upon that, unleſs he has got a good long purſe of his own, and then, to be ſure, a Lord's no bad thing. But as to the matter of ſaying Lord ſuch a one, how d'ye do? and Lord ſuch a one, what do you want? and ſuch ſort of compliments, why in my mind, it's a mere nothing, in com⯑pariſon of a good income. As to your ſon, ma'am, he did not go the right way to work. He ſhould have begun with buſi⯑neſs, and gone into pleaſure afterwards: and if he had but done that, I'll be bold to ſay we might have had him at this very minute drinking tea with us over this fire⯑ſide."’

‘"My ſon, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, rather angrily, ‘"was another ſort of a perſon than a perſon of buſineſs: he always deſpiſed [24] it from a child, and come of it what may, I am ſure he was born to be a gentleman."’

‘"As to his deſpiſing buſineſs,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, very contemptuouſly, ‘"why ſo much the worſe, for buſineſs is no ſuch de⯑ſpiſeable thing. And if he had been brought up behind a counter, inſtead of dangling after theſe ſame Lords, why he might have had a houſe of his own over his head, and been as good a man as myſelf."’

‘"A houſe over his head?"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, ‘"why he might have had what he would, and have done what he would, if he had but followed my advice, and put himſelf a little forward. I have told him a hundred times to aſk ſome of thoſe great people he lived amongſt for a place at court, for I know they've ſo many they hardly know what to do with them, and it was always my deſign from the beginning that he ſhould be ſomething of a great man; but I never could perſuade him, though, for any thing I know, as I have often told him, if he had but had a little courage he might have been an Ambaſſador by this time. And now, all of a ſudden, to be gone nobody knows where!"—’

‘"I am ſorry, indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, who knew not whether moſt to pity or wonder at her blind folly; ‘"but I doubt not you will hear of him ſoon."’

[25] ‘"As to being an Ambaſſador, ma'am"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"it's talking quite out of character. Thoſe ſort of great people keep things of that kind for their own poor relations and couſins. What I ſay is this; a man's beſt way is to take care of himſelf. The more thoſe great people ſee you want them, the leſs they like your company. Let every man be brought up to buſi⯑neſs, and then when he's made his for⯑tune, he may walk with his hat on. Why now there was your friend, ma'am,"’ turn⯑ing to Cecilia, ‘"that ſhot out his brains without paying any body a ſouſe; pray how was that being more genteel than ſtanding behind a counter, and not owing a ſhilling?"’

‘"Do you think a young lady,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield warmly, ‘"can bear to hear of ſuch a thing as ſtanding behind a counter? I am ſure if my ſon had ever done it, I ſhould not expect any lady would ſo much as look at him. And yet, though I ſay it, ſhe might look a good while, and not ſee many ſuch perſons, let her look where ſhe pleaſed. And then he has ſuch a winning manner into the bargain, that I believe in my heart there's never a lady in the land could ſay no to him. And yet he has ſuch a prodigious ſhyneſs, I never could make him own he had ſo much as [26] aſked the queſtion. And what lady can begin firſt?"’

‘"Why no,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"that would be out of character another way. Now my notion is this; let every man be agreeable! and then he may aſk what lady he pleaſes. And when he's a mind of a lady, he ſhould look upon a frown or two as nothing; for the ladies frown in court⯑ſhip as a thing of courſe; it's juſt like a man's ſwearing at a coachman; why he's not a bit more in a paſſion, only he thinks he ſha'n't be minded without it."’

‘"Well, for my part,"’ ſaid Mrs. Bel⯑field, ‘"I am ſure if I was a young lady, and moſt eſpecially if I was a young lady of fortune, and all that, I ſhould like a modeſt young gentleman, ſuch as my ſon, for example, better by half than a bold ſwearing young fellow, that would make a point to have me whether I would or no."’

‘"Ha! Ha! Ha!"’ cried Mr. Hobſon; ‘"but the young ladies are not of that way of thinking; they are all for a little life and ſpirit. Don't I ſay right, young ladies?"’

Cecilia, who could not but perceive that theſe ſpeeches was levelled at herſelf, felt offended and tired; and finding ſhe had no chance of any private converſation with Henrietta, aroſe to take leave: but while [27] ſhe ſtopped in the paſſage to enquire when ſhe could ſee her alone, a footman knocked at the door, who, having aſked if Mr. Belfield lodged there, and been anſwered in the affirmative, begged to know whether Miſs Beverley was then in the houſe?

Cecilia, much ſurpriſed, went forward, and told him who ſhe was.

‘"I have been, madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"with a meſſage to you at Mr. Monckton's, in Soho-Square: but nobody knew where you was; and Mr. Monckton came out and ſpoke to me himſelf, and ſaid that all he could ſuppoſe was that you might be at this houſe. So he directed me to come here."’

‘"And from whom, Sir, is your meſ⯑ſage?"’

‘"From the honourable Mr. Delvile, madam, in St. James's-Square. He deſires to know if you ſhall be at home on Satur⯑day morning, the day after to-morrow, and whether you can appoint Mr. Briggs to meet him by twelve o'clock exactly, as he ſha'n't be able to ſtay above three minutes."’

Cecilia gave an anſwer as cold as the meſſage; that ſhe would be in Soho-Square at the time he mentioned, and acquaint Mr. Briggs of his intention.

The footman then went away; and Henriet⯑ta told her, that if ſhe could call ſome morn⯑ing ſhe might perhaps contrive to be alone [28] with her, and added, ‘"indeed I wiſh much to ſee you, if you could poſſibly do me ſo great an honour; for I am very miſerable, and have nobody to tell ſo! Ah, Miſs Be⯑verley! you that have ſo many friends, and that deſerve as many again, you little know what a hard thing it is to have none!—but my brother's ſtrange diſappearing has half broke our hearts!"’

Cecilia was beginning a conſolatory ſpeech, in which ſhe meant to give her pri⯑vate aſſurances of his health and ſafety, when ſhe was interrupted by Mr. Albany, who came ſuddenly into the paſſage.

Henrietta received him with a look of pleaſure, and enquired why he had ſo long been abſent; but, ſurpriſed by the ſight of Cecilia, he exclaimed, without anſwering her, ‘"why didſt thou fail me? why ap⯑point me to a place thou wert quitting thy⯑ſelf?—thou thing of [...]air profeſſions! thou inveigler of eſteem! thou vain, deluſive promiſer of pleaſure!"’

‘"You condemn me too haſtily,"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"if I failed in my promiſe, it was not owing to caprice or inſincerity, but to real and bitter misfortune which incapa⯑citated me from keeping it. I ſhall ſoon, however,—nay, I am already at your diſ⯑poſal, if you have any commands for me."’

‘"I have always,"’ anſwered he, ‘"commands [29] for the rich, for I have always com⯑paſſion for the poor."’

‘"Come to me, then, at Mr. Monck⯑ton's in Soho-Square,"’ cried ſhe, and haſ⯑tened into her chair, impatient to end a con⯑ference which ſhe ſaw excited the wonder of the ſervants, and which alſo now drew out from the parlour Mr. Hobſon and Mrs. Belfield. She then kiſſed her hand to Hen⯑rietta, and ordered the chairmen to carry her home.

It had not been without difficulty that ſhe had reſtrained herſelf from mentioning what ſhe knew of Belfield, when ſhe found his mother and ſiſter in a ſtate of ſuch pain⯑ful uncertainty concerning him. But her utter ignorance of his plans, joined to her undoubted knowledge of his wiſh of con⯑cealment, made her fear doing miſchief by officiouſneſs, and think it wiſer not to be⯑tray what ſhe had ſeen of him, till better informed of his own views and intentions. Yet, willing to ſhorten a ſuſpence ſo un⯑eaſy to them, ſhe determined to entreat Mr. Monckton would endeavour to find him out, and acquaint him with their anxiety.

That gentleman, when ſhe returned to his houſe, was in a ſtate of mind by no means enviable. Miſſing her at tea, he had aſked Miſs Bennet where ſhe was, and hearing [30] ſhe had not left word, he could ſcarce conceal his chagrin. Knowing, however, how few were her acquaintances in town, he ſoon concluded ſhe was with Miſs Bel⯑field, but, not ſatisfied with ſending Mr. Delvile's meſſenger after her, he privately employed one in whom he truſted for him⯑ſelf, to make enquiries at the houſe without ſaying whence he came.

But though this man was returned, and he knew her ſafety, he ſtill felt alarmed; he had flattered himſelf, from the length of time in which ſhe had now done nothing without conſulting him, ſhe would ſcarce even think of any action without his pre⯑vious concurrence. And he had hoped, by a little longer uſe, to make his counſel become neceſſary, which he knew to be a very ſhort ſtep from rendering it abſo⯑lute.

Nor was he well pleaſed to perceive, by this voluntary excurſion, a ſtruggle to caſt off her ſadneſs, and a wiſh to procure her⯑ſelf entertainment: it was not that he de⯑ſired her miſery, but he was earneſt that all relief from it ſhould ſpring from himſelf: and though far from diſpleaſed that Delvile ſhould loſe his ſovereignty over her thoughts, he was yet of opinion that, till his own liberty was reſtored, he had leſs to appre⯑hend from grief indulged, than grief allayed; [31] one could but lead her to repining retirement, the other might guide her to a conſolatory rival.

He well knew, however, it was as eſ⯑ſential to his cauſe to diſguiſe his diſap⯑pointments as his expectations, and, certain that by pleaſing alone he had any chance of acquiring power, he cleared up when Ceci⯑lia returned, who as unconſcious of feeling, as of owing any ſubjection to him, pre⯑ſerved uncontrolled the right of acting for herſelf, however deſirous and glad of oc⯑caſional inſtruction.

She told him where ſhe had been, and related her meeting Belfield, and the un⯑happineſs of his friends, and hinted her wiſh that he could be informed what they ſuffered. Mr. Monckton, eager to oblige her, went inſtantly in ſearch of him, and returning to ſupper, told her he had traced him through the Bookſeller, who had not the dexterity to parry his artful enquiries, and had actually appointed him to break⯑faſt in Soho-Square the next morning.

He had found him, he ſaid, writing, but in high ſpirits and good humour. He had reſiſted, for a while, his invitation on ac⯑count of his dreſs, all his clothes but the very coat which he had on being packed up and at his mother's: but, when laughed at by Mr. Monckton for ſtill retaining ſome foppery, [32] he gayly proteſted what remained of it ſhould be extinguiſhed; and acknow⯑ledging that his ſhame was no part of his philoſophy, declared he would throw it wholly aſide, and, in ſpite of his degrada⯑tion, renew his viſits at his houſe.

‘"I would not tell him,"’ Mr. Monckton continued, ‘"of the anxiety of his family; I thought it would come more powerfully from yourſelf, who, having ſeen, can bet⯑ter enforce it."’

Cecilia was very thankful for this com⯑pliance with her requeſt, and anticipated the pleaſure ſhe hoped ſoon to give Hen⯑rietta, by the reſtoration of a brother ſo much loved and ſo regretted.

She ſent, mean time, to Mr. Briggs the meſſage ſhe had received from Mr. Delvile, and had the ſatisfaction of an anſwer that he would obſerve the appointment.

CHAP. III. A CONFABULATION.

THE next morning, while the family was at breakfaſt, Belfield, according to his promiſe, made his viſit.

A high colour overſpread his face as he entered the room, reſulting from a ſenſa⯑tion of grief at his fallen fortune, and ſhame at his altered appearance, which though he endeavoured to cover under an air of gaiety and unconcern, gave an awkwardneſs to his manners, and a viſible diſtreſs to his coun⯑tenance: Mr. Monckton received him with pleaſure, and Cecilia, who ſaw the conflict of his philoſophy with his pride, dreſſed her features once more in ſmiles, which however faint and heartleſs, ſhewed her deſire to re-aſſure him. Miſs Bennet, as uſual when not called upon by the maſter or lady of the houſe, ſat as a cypher; and Lady Margaret, always diſagreeable and repulſive to the friends of her huſband, though ſhe was not now more than com⯑monly ungracious, ſtruck the quick-feeling and irritable Belfield, to wear an air of rude [34] ſuperiority meant to reproach him with his diſgrace.

This notion, which ſtrongly affected him, made him, for one inſtant, heſitate whether he ſhould remain another in the ſame room with her: but the friendlineſs of Mr. Monckton, and the gentleneſs and good breeding of Cecilia, ſeemed ſo ſtudious to make amends for her moroſeneſs, that he checked his too ready indignation, and took his ſeat at the table. Yet was it ſome time before he could recover even the aſſumed vivacity which this ſuſpected inſult had robbed him of, ſufficiently to enter into converſation with any appearance of eaſe or pleaſure. But, after a while, ſoothed by the attentions of Cecilia and Mr. Monck⯑ton, his uneaſineſs wore off, and the native ſpirit and livelineſs of his character broke forth with their accuſtomed energy.

‘"This good company, I hope,"’ ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf, however, only to Ceci⯑lia, ‘"will not ſo much miſtake the thing as to criticiſe my dreſs of this morning; ſince it is perfectly according to rule, and to rule eſtabliſhed from time immemo⯑rial: but leſt any of you ſhould ſo much err as to fancy ſhabby what is only charac⯑teriſtic, I muſt endeavour to be beforehand with the malice of conjecture, and have the honour to inform you, that I am enliſted in [35] the Grub-Street regiment, of the third ſtory, and under the tattered banner of ſcribbling volunteers! a race which, if it boaſts not the courage of heroes, at leaſt equals them in enmity. This coat, therefore, is merely the uniform of my corps, and you will all, I hope, reſpect it as emblematical of wit and erudition."’

‘"We muſt at leaſt reſpect you,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"who thus gaily can ſport with it."’

‘"Ah, madam!"’ ſaid he, more ſeriouſly, ‘"it is not from you I ought to look for reſpect! I muſt appear to you the moſt unſteady and coward-hearted of beings. But lately I bluſhed to ſee you from pover⯑ty, though more worthily employed than when I had been ſeen by you in affluence; that ſhame vanquiſhed, another equally nar⯑row took its place, and yeſterday I bluſhed again that you detected me in a new pur⯑ſuit, though I had only quitted my former one from a conviction it was ill choſen. There ſeems in human nature a worthleſs⯑neſs not to be conquered! yet I will ſtrug⯑gle with it to the laſt, and either die in the attempt, or dare ſeem that which I am, without adding to the miſeries of life, the ſting, the envenomed ſting of daſtardly falſe ſhame!"’

‘"Your language is wonderfully altered [36] within this twelvemonth,"’ ſaid Mr. Monck⯑ton; ‘"the worthleſſneſs of human nature! the miſeries of life! this from you! ſo lately the champion of human nature, and the panegyriſt of human life!"’

‘"Soured by perſonal diſappointment,"’ anſwered he, ‘"I may perhaps ſpeak with too much acrimony; yet, ultimately, my opinions have not much changed. Happi⯑neſs is given to us with more liberality than we are willing to confeſs; it is judg⯑ment only that is dealt us ſparingly, and of that we have ſo little, that when felicity is before us, we turn to the right or left, or when at the right or left, we proceed ſtrait forward. It has been ſo with me; I have ſought it at a diſtance, amidſt difficulty and danger, when all that I could wiſh has been immediately within my graſp."’

‘"It muſt be owned,"’ ſaid Mr. Monck⯑ton, ‘"after what you have ſuffered from this world you were wont to defend, there is little reaſon to wonder at ſome change in your opinion."’

‘"Yet whatever have been my ſufferings,"’ he anſwered, ‘"I have generally been in⯑volved in them by my own raſhneſs or ca⯑price. My laſt enterpriſe eſpecially, from which my expectations were higheſt, was the moſt ill judged of any. I conſidered not how little my way of life had fitted me [37] for the experiment I was making, how ir⯑reparably I was enervated by long ſedentary habits, and how inſufficient for bodily ſtrength was mental reſolution. We may fight againſt partial prejudices, and by ſpi⯑rit and fortitude we may over come them; but it will not do to war with the general tenor of education. We may blame, de⯑ſpiſe, regret as we pleaſe, but cuſtoms long eſtabliſhed, and habits long indulged, aſ⯑ſume an empire deſpotic, though their power is but preſcriptive. Oppoſing them is vain; Nature herſelf, when forced aſide, is not more elaſtic in her rebound."’

‘"Will you not then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſince your experiment has failed, return again to your family, and to the plan of life you formerly ſettled?"’

‘"You ſpeak of them together,"’ ſaid he, with a ſmile, ‘"as if you thought them in⯑ſeparable; and indeed my own apprehenſion they would be deemed ſo, has made me thus fear to ſee my friends, ſince I love not reſiſtance, yet cannot again attempt the plan of life they would have me purſue. I have given up my cottage, but my inde⯑pendence is as dear to me as ever; and all that I have gathered from experience, is to maintain it by thoſe employments for which my education has fitted me, inſtead of ſeeking [38] it injudiciouſly by the very road for which it has unqualified me."’

‘"And what is this independence,"’ cried Mr. Monckton, ‘"which has thus bewitched your imagination? a mere idle dream of romance and enthuſiaſm; without exiſtence in nature, without poſſibility in life. In unciviliſed countries, or in lawleſs times, independence, for a while, may perhaps ſtalk abroad; but in a regular government, 'tis only the viſion of a heated brain; one part of a community muſt inevitably hang upon another, and 'tis a farce to call either independent, when to break the chain by which they are linked would prove deſtruc⯑tion to both. The ſoldier wants not the officer more than the officer the ſoldier, nor the tenant the landlord, more than the land⯑lord the tenant. The rich owe their diſ⯑tinction, their luxuries, to the poor, as much as the poor owe their rewards, their neceſſa⯑ries, to the rich."’

‘"Man treated as an Automaton,"’ an⯑ſwered Belfield, ‘"and conſidered merely with reſpect to his bodily operations, may indeed be called dependent, ſince the food by which he lives, or, rather, without which he dies, cannot wholly be cultivated and prepared by his own hands: but conſidered [...]n a nobler ſenſe, he deſerves not the de⯑grading epithet; ſpeak of him, then, as a [39] being of feeling and underſtanding, with pride to alarm, with nerves to tremble, with honour to ſatisfy, and with a ſoul to be im⯑mortal!—as ſuch, may he not claim the freedom of his own thoughts? may not that claim be extended to the liberty of ſpeak⯑ing, and the power of being governed by them? and when thoughts, words, and actions are exempt from controul, will you brand him with dependency merely becauſe the Grazier feeds his meat, and the Baker kneeds his bread?"’

‘"But who is there in the whole world,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, ‘"extenſive as it is, and diſſimilar as are it inhabitants, that can pretend to aſſert, his thoughts, words, and actions, are exempt from controul? even where intereſt, which you ſo much diſdain, interferes not,—though where that is I con⯑feſs I cannot tell!—are we not kept ſilent where we wiſh to reprove by the fear of offending? and made ſpeak where we wiſh to be ſilent by the deſire of obliging? do we not bow to the ſcoundrel as low as to the man of honour? are we not by mere forms kept ſtanding when tired? made give place to thoſe we deſpiſe? and ſmiles to thoſe we hate? or if we refuſe theſe atten⯑tions, are we not regarded as ſavages, and ſhut out of ſociety?"’

‘"All theſe,"’ anſwered Belfield, ‘"are [40] ſo merely matters of ceremony, that the conceſſion can neither coſt pain to the proud, nor give pleaſure to the vain. The bow is to the coat, the attention is to the rank, and the fear of offending ought to extend to all mankind. Homage ſuch as this infringes not our ſincerity, ſince it is as much a mat⯑ter of courſe as the dreſs that we wear, and has as little reaſon to flatter a man as the ſhadow which follows him. I no more, therefore, hold him deceitful for not op⯑poſing this pantomimical parade, than I hold him to be dependent for eating corn he has not ſown."’

‘"Where, then, do you draw the line? and what is the boundary beyond which your independence muſt not ſtep?"’

‘"I hold that man,"’ cried he, with energy, ‘"to be independent, who treats the Great as the Little, and the Little as the Great, who neither exults in riches nor bluſhes in po⯑verty, who owes no man a groat, and who ſpends not a ſhilling he has not earned."’

‘"You will not, indeed, then, have a very numerous acquaintance, if this is the deſcription of thoſe with whom you pur⯑poſe to aſſociate! but is it poſſible you imagine you can live by ſuch notions? why the Carthuſian in his monaſtery, who is at leaſt removed from temptation, is not mor⯑tified ſo ſeverely as a man of ſpirit living in [41] the world, who would preſcribe himſelf ſuch rules."’

‘"Not merely have I preſcribed,"’ re⯑turned Belfield, ‘"I have already put them in practice; and far from finding any pen⯑nance, I never before found happineſs. I have now adopted, though poor, the very plan of life I ſhould have elected if rich; my pleaſure, therefore, is become my buſi⯑neſs, and my buſineſs my pleaſure."’

‘"And is this plan,"’ cried Monckton, ‘"nothing more than turning Knight-errant to the Bookſellers?"’

‘"'Tis a Knight-errantry,"’ anſwered Bel⯑field, laughing, ‘"which, however ludicrous it may ſeem to you, requires more ſoul and more brains than any other. Our giants may, indeed, be only windmills, but they muſt be attacked with as much ſpirit, and con⯑quered with as much bravery, as any fort or any town, in time of war ſhould be demoliſhed; and though the ſiege, I muſt confeſs, may be of leſs national utility, the aſſailants of the quill have their honour as much at heart as the aſſailants of the ſword."’

‘"I ſuppoſe then,"’ ſaid Monckton, archly, ‘"if a man wants a biting lampoon, or an handſome panegyric, ſome news-paper ſcan⯑dal, or a a ſonnet for a lady—"’

‘"No, no,"’ interrupted Belfield eagerly, [42] ‘"if you imagine me a hireling ſcribble [...] for the purpoſes of defamation or of flat⯑tery, you as little know my ſituation as my character. My ſubjects ſhall be my own, and my ſatire ſhall be general. I would as much diſdain to be perſonal with an anony⯑mous pen, as to attack an unarmed man in the dark with a dagger I had kept con⯑cealed."’

A reply of rallying incredulity was riſing to the lips of Mr. Monckton, when read⯑ing in the looks of Cecilia an entire appro⯑bation of this ſentiment, he checked his deſire of ridicule, and exclaimed, ‘"ſpoken like a man of honour, and one whoſe works may profit the world!"’

‘"From my earlieſt youth to the preſent hour,"’ continued Belfield, ‘"literature has been the favourite object of my purſuit, my recreation in leiſure, and my hope in em⯑ployment. My propenſity to it, indeed, has been ſo ungovernable, that I may pro⯑perly call it the ſource of my ſeveral miſ⯑carriages throughout life. It was the bar to my preferment, for it gave me a diſtaſte to other ſtudies; it was the cauſe of my unſteadineſs in all my undertakings, becauſe to all I preferred it. It has ſunk me to diſtreſs, it has involved me in difficulties; it has brought me to the brink of ruin by making me neglect the means of living, [43] yet never, till now, did I diſcern it might itſelf be my ſupport."’

‘"I am heartily glad, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"your various enterprizes and ſtruggles have at length ended in a project which promiſes you ſo much ſatisfaction. But you will ſurely ſuffer your ſiſter and your mother to partake of it? for who is there that your proſperity will make ſo happy?"’

‘"You do them infinite honour, madam, by taking any intereſt in their affairs; but to own to you the truth, what to me appears proſperity, will to them wear another aſ⯑pect. They have looked forward to my elevation with expectations the moſt impro⯑bable, and thought every thing within my graſp, with a ſimplicity incredible. But though their hopes were abſurd, I am pained by their diſappointment, and I have not courage to meet their tears, which I am ſure will not be ſpared when they ſee me."’

‘"'Tis from tenderneſs, then,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, half ſmiling, ‘"that you are cruel, and from affection to your friends that you make them believe you have forgotten them?"’

There was a delicacy in this reproach exactly ſuited to work upon Belfield, who feeling it with quickneſs, ſtarted up, and cried, ‘"I believe I am wrong!—I will go to them this moment!"’

[44] Cecilia felt eager to ſecond the generous impulſe; but Mr. Monckton, laughing at his impetuoſity, inſiſted he ſhould firſt finiſh his breakfaſt.

‘"Your friends,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"can have no mortification ſo hard to bear as your voluntary abſence; and if they ſee but that you are happy, they will ſoon be reconciled to whatever ſituation you may chuſe."’

‘"Happy!"’ repeated he, with animation, ‘"Oh I am in Paradiſe! I am come from a region in the firſt rude ſtate of nature, to civilization and refinement! the life I led at the cottage was the life of a ſavage; no intercourſe with ſociety, no conſolation from books; my mind locked up, every ſource dried of intellectual delight, and no enjoy⯑ment in my power but from ſleep and from food. Weary of an exiſtence which thus levelled me with a brute, I grew aſhamed of the approximation, and liſtening to the remonſtrance of my underſtanding, I gave up the precipitate plan, to purſue one more conſonant to reaſon. I came to town, hired a room, and ſent for pen, ink and paper: what I have written are trifles, but the Bookſeller has not rejected them. I was ſettled, therefore, in a moment, and comparing my new occupation with that I had juſt quitted, I ſeemed exalted on the ſudden from a mere creature of inſtinct, to [45] a rational and intelligent being. But when firſt I opened a book, after ſo long an ab⯑ſtinence from all mental nouriſhment,—Oh it was rapture! no half-famiſhed beggar regaled ſuddenly with food, ever ſeized on his repaſt with more hungry avidity."’

‘"Let fortune turn which way it will,"’ cried Monckton, ‘"you may defy all its malice, while poſſeſſed of a ſpirit of en⯑joyment which nothing can ſubdue!"’

‘"But were you not, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"as great an enthuſiaſt the other day for your cottage, and for labour?"’

‘"I was, madam; but there my philoſo⯑phy was erroneous: in my ardour to fly from meanneſs and from dependence, I I thought in labour and retirement I ſhould find freedom and happineſs; but I forgot that my body was not ſeaſoned for ſuch work, and conſidered not that a mind which had once been opened by knowledge, could ill endure the contraction of dark and per⯑petual ignorance. The approach, however, of winter, brought me acquainted with my miſtake. It grew cold, it grew bleak; lit⯑tle guarded againſt the inclemency of the weather, I felt its ſeverity in every limb, and miſſed a thouſand indulgencies which in poſſeſſion I had never valued. To riſe at break of day, chill, freezing, and com⯑fortleſs! no ſun abroad, no fire at home! [46] to go out in all weather to work, that work rough, coarſe and laborious!—unuſed to ſuch hardſhips, I found I could not bear them, and, however unwillingly, was com⯑pelled to relinquiſh the attempt."’

Breakfaſt now being over, he again aroſe to take leave.

‘"You are going, then, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"immediately to your friends?"’

‘"No, madam,"’ anſwered he heſitating, ‘"not juſt this moment; to-morrow morn⯑ing perhaps,—but it is now late, and I have buſineſs for the reſt of the day."’

‘"Ah, Mr. Monckton!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"what miſchief have you done by occa⯑ſioning this delay!’

‘"This goodneſs, madam,"’ ſaid Belfield, ‘"my ſiſter can never ſufficiently acknow⯑ledge. But I will own, that though, juſt now, in a warm moment, I felt eager to preſent myſelf to her and my mother, I rather wiſh, now I am cooler, to be ſaved the pain of telling them in perſon my ſitu⯑ation. I mean, therefore, firſt to write to them."’

‘"You will not fail, then, to ſee them to-morrow?"’

‘"Certainly—I think not."’

‘"Nay, but certainly you muſt not, for I ſhall call upon them to-day, and aſſure them they may expect you. Can I ſoften [47] your taſk of writing by giving them any meſſage from you?"’

‘"Ah, madam, have a care!"’ cried he; ‘"this condeſcenſion to a poor author may be more dangerous than you have any ſuſ⯑picion! and before you have power to help yourſelf, you may ſee your name prefixed to the Dedication of ſome trumpery pam⯑phlet!"’

‘"I will run,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"all riſks; remember, therefore, you will be reſponſi⯑ble for the performance of my promiſe."’

‘"I will be ſure,"’ anſwered he, ‘"not to forget what reflects ſo much honour upon myſelf."’

Cecilia was ſatisfied by this aſſent, and he then went away.

‘"A ſtrange flighty character!"’ cried Mr. Monckton, ‘"yet of uncommon capacity, and full of genius. Were he leſs imagina⯑tive, wild and eccentric, he has abilities for any ſtation, and might fix and diſtinguiſh himſelf almoſt where-ever he pleaſed."’

‘"I knew not,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"the full worth of ſteadineſs and prudence till I knew this young man; for he has every thing elſe; talents the moſt ſtriking, a love of virtue the moſt elevated, and manners the moſt pleaſing; yet wanting ſteadineſs and prudence, he can neither act with conſiſt⯑ency nor proſper with continuance."’

[48] ‘"He is well enough,"’ ſaid Lady Mar⯑garet, who had heard the whole argument in ſullen taciturnity, ‘"he is well enough, I ſay; and there comes no good from young women's being ſo difficult."’

Cecilia, offended by a ſpeech which im⯑plied a rude deſire to diſpoſe of her, went up ſtairs to her own room; and Mr. Monck⯑ton, always enraged when young men and Cecilia were alluded to in the ſame ſentence, retired to his library.

She then ordered a chair, and went to Portland-Street, to fulfil what ſhe had offered to Belfield, and to revive his mother and ſiſter by the pleaſure of the promiſed interview.

She found them together: and her intel⯑ligence being of equal conſequence to both, ſhe did not now repine at the preſence of Mrs. Belfield. She made her communica⯑tion with the moſt cautious attention to their characters, ſoftening the ill ſhe had to relate with reſpect to Belfield's preſent way of living, by endeavouring to awaken affection and joy from the proſpect of the approach⯑ing meeting. She counſelled them as much as poſſible to reſtrain their chagrin at his misfortunes, which he would but conſtrue into reproach of his ill management; and ſhe repreſented that when once he was re⯑ſtored to his family, he might almoſt imperceptibly [49] be led into ſome leſs wild and more profitable ſcheme of buſineſs.

When ſhe had told all ſhe thought proper to relate, kindly interſperſing her account with the beſt advice and beſt com⯑fort ſhe could ſuggeſt, ſhe made an end of her viſit; for the affliction of Mrs. Bel⯑field upon hearing the actual ſituation of her ſon, was ſo clamorous and unappeaſe⯑able, that, little wondering at Belfield's want of courage to encounter it, and having no opportunity in ſuch a ſtorm to conſole the ſoft Henrietta, whoſe tears flowed abund⯑antly that her brother ſhould thus be fallen, ſhe only promiſed before ſhe left town to ſee her again, and beſeeching Mrs. Belfield to moderate her concern, was glad to leave the houſe, where her preſence had no power to quiet their diſtreſs.

She paſſed the reſt of the day in ſad re⯑flections upon the meeting ſhe was herſelf to have the next morning with Mr. Delvile. She wiſhed ardently to know whether his ſon was gone abroad, and whether Mrs. Delvile was recovered, whoſe health, in her own letter, was mentioned in terms the moſt melancholy: yet neither of theſe enquiries could ſhe even think of making, ſince rea⯑ſonably, without them, apprehenſive of ſome reproach.

CHAP. IV. A WRANGLING.

MR. Monckton, the next day, as ſoon breakfaſt was over, went out, to avoid ſhowing, even to Cecilia, the anxiety he felt concerning the regulation of her for⯑tune, and arrangement of her affairs. He ſtrongly, however, adviſed her not to men⯑tion her large debt, which, though con⯑tracted in the innocence of the pureſt be⯑nevolence, would incur nothing but reproof and diſapprobation, from all who only heard of it, when they heard of its inutility.

At eleven o'clock, though an hour before the time appointed, while Cecilia was ſitting in Lady Margaret's dreſſing-room, ‘"with ſad civility and an aching head,"’ ſhe was ſummoned to Mr. Briggs in the parlour.

He immediately began reproaching her with having eloped from him, in the ſum⯑mer, and with the various expences ſhe had cauſed him from uſeleſs purchaſes and ſpoilt proviſions. He then complained of Mr. Delvile, whom he charged with defrauding him of his dues; but obſerving in the midſt [51] of his railing her dejection of countenance, he ſuddenly broke off, and looking at her with ſome concern, ſaid, ‘"what's the mat⯑ter, Ducky? a'n't well? look as if you could not help it."’

‘"O yes,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"I thank you, Sir, I am very well."’

‘"What do look ſo blank for, then?"’ ſaid he, ‘"hay? what are fretting for?—croſſed in love?—loſt your ſweet-heart?"’

‘"No, no, no,"’ cried ſhe, with quickneſs.

‘"Never mind, my chick, never mind,"’ ſaid he, pinching her cheek, with reſumed good humour, ‘"more to be had; if one won't ſnap, another will; put me in a paſſion by going off from me with that old grandee, or would have got one long ago. Hate that old Don; uſed me very ill; wiſh I could trounce him. Thinks more of a fuſty old parchment than the price of ſtocks. Fit for nothing but to be ſtuck upon an old monument for a Death's head."’

He then told her that her accounts were all made out, and he was ready at any time to produce them; he approved much of her finiſhing wholly with the old Don, who had been a mere cypher in the executorſhip; but he adviſed her not to think of taking her money into her own hands, as he was wil⯑ling to keep the charge of it himſelf till ſhe was married.

[52] Cecilia, thanking him for the offer, ſaid ſhe meant now to make her acknowledg⯑ments for all the trouble he had already taken, but by no means purpoſed to give him any more.

He debated the matter with her warmly, told her ſhe had no chance to ſave herſelf from knaves and cheats, but by truſting to nobody but himſelf, and informing her what intereſt he had already made of her money, enquired how ſhe would ſet about getting more?

Cecilia, though prejudiced againſt him by Mr. Monckton, knew not how to com⯑bat his arguments; yet conſcious that ſcarce any part of the money to which he alluded was in fact her own, ſhe could not yield to them. He was, however, ſo ſtubborn and ſo difficult to deal with, that ſhe at length let him talk without troubling herſelf to anſwer, and privately determined to beg Mr. Monckton would fight her battle.

She was not, therefore, diſpleaſed by his interruption, though very much ſurpriſed by the ſight of his perſon, when, in the midſt of Mr. Briggs's oratory, Mr. Hobſon entered the parlour.

‘"I aſk pardon, ma'am,"’ cried he, ‘"if I intrude; but I made free to call upon the account of two ladies that are acquaintances [53] of yours, that are quite, as one may ſay, at their wit's ends."’

‘"What is the matter with them, Sir?"’

‘"Why, ma'am, no great matter, but mothers are ſoon frightened, and when once they are upon the fret, one may as well talk to the boards! they know no more of rea⯑ſoning and arguing, than they do of a ſhop ledger! however, my maxim is this; every body in their way; one has no more right to expect courageouſneſs from a lady in them caſes, than one has from a child in arms; for what I ſay is, they have not the proper uſe of their heads, which makes it very excuſable."’

‘"But what has occaſioned any alarm? nothing, I hope, is the matter with Miſs Belfield?"’

‘"No, ma'am; thank God, the young lady enjoys her health very well: but ſhe is taking on juſt in the ſame way as her mamma, as what can be more natural? Example, ma'am, is apt to be catching, and one lady's crying makes another think ſhe muſt do the ſame, for a little thing ſerves for a lady's tears, being they can cry at any time: but a man is quite of another nature, let him but have a good conſcience, and be clear of the world, and I'll engage he'll not waſh his face without ſoap! that's what I ſay!"’

[54] ‘"Will, will!"’ cried Mr. Briggs, ‘"do it myſelf! never uſe ſoap; nothing but waſte; take a little ſand; does as well."’

‘"Let every man have his own propo⯑ſal;"’ anſwered Hobſon; ‘"for my part, I take every morning a large bowl of water, and ſouſe my whole head in it; and then when I've rubbed it dry, on goes my wig, and I am quite freſh and agreeable: and then I take a walk in Tottenham Court Road as far as the Tabernacle, or there⯑abouts, and ſnuff in a little freſh country air, and then I come back, with a good wholeſome appetite, and in a fine breathing heat, aſking the young lady's pardon; and I enjoy my pot of freſh tea, and my round of hot toaſt and butter, with as good a reliſh as if I was a Prince."’

‘"Pot of freſh tea,"’ cried Briggs, ‘"bring a man to ruin; toaſt and butter! never ſuf⯑fer it in my houſe. Breakfaſt on water⯑gruel, ſooner done; fills one up in a ſecond. Give it my ſervants; can't eat much of it. bob 'em there!"’ nodding ſignificantly.

‘"Water-gruel!"’ exclaimed Mr. Hob⯑ſon, ‘"why I could not get it down if I might have the world for it! it would make me quite ſick, aſking the young lady's pardon, by reaſon I ſhould always think I was preparing for the ſmall-pox. My notion is quite of another nature; the firſt thing I [55] do is to have a good fire; for what I ſay is this, if a man is cold in his fingers, it's odds if ever he gets warm in his purſe! ha! ha! warm, you take me, Sir? I mean a pun. Though I ought to aſk pardon, for I ſuppoſe the young lady don't know what I am a ſaying."’

‘"I ſhould indeed be better pleaſed, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"to hear what you have to ſay about Miſs Belfield."’

‘"Why, ma'am, the thing is this; we have been expecting the young 'Squire, as I call him, all the morning, and he has never come; ſo Mrs. Belfield, not knowing where to ſend after him, was of opinion he might be here, knowing your kindneſs to him, and that."’

‘"You make the enquiry at the wrong place, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, much provoked by the implication it conveyed; ‘"if Mr. Belfield is in this houſe, you muſt ſeek him with Mr. Monckton."’

‘"You take no offence, I hope, ma'am, at my juſt aſking of the queſtion? for Mrs. Belfield crying, and being in that dilemma, I thought I could do no leſs than oblige her by coming to ſee if the young gentle⯑man was here."’

‘"What's this? what's this?"’ cried Mr. Briggs eagerly; ‘"who are talking of? hay? [56] —who do mean? is this the ſweet-heart? eh, Duck?"’

‘"No, no, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia.

‘"No tricks! won't be bit! who is it? will know; tell me, I ſay!"’

‘"I'll tell you, Sir,"’ cried Mr. Hobſon; ‘"it's a very handſome young gentleman, with as fine a perſon, and as genteel a way of behaviour, and withal, as pretty a man⯑ner of dreſſing himſelf, and that, as any lady need deſire. He has no great head for buſineſs, as I am told, but the ladies don't ſtand much upon that topic, being they know nothing of it themſelves."’

‘"Has got the ready?"’ cried Mr. Briggs, impatiently; ‘"can caſt an account? that's the point; can come down handſomely? eh?"’

‘"Why as to that, Sir, I'm not bound to ſpeak to a gentleman's private affairs. What's my own, is my own, and what is another perſon's, is another perſon's; that's my way of arguing, and that's what I call talking to the purpoſe."’

‘"Dare ſay he's a rogue! don't have him, chick. Bet a wager i'n't worth two ſhil⯑lings; and that will go for powder and po⯑matum; hate a plaiſtered pate; commonly a numſcull: love a good bob jerom."’

‘"Why this is talking quite wide of the mark,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"to ſuppoſe a [57] young lady of fortunes would marry a man with a bob-jerom. What I ſay is, let every body follow their nature; that's the way to be comfortable; and then if they pay every one his own, who's a right to call 'em to account, whether they wear a bob-jerom, or a pig-tail down to the calves of their legs?"’

‘"Ay ay,"’ cried Briggs, ſneeringly, ‘"or whether they ſtuff their gullets with hot rounds of toaſt and butter."’

‘"And what if they do, Sir?"’ returned Hobſon, a little angrily; ‘"when a man's got above the world, where's the harm of living a little genteel? as to a round of toaſt and butter, and a few oyſters, freſh opened, by way of a damper before dinner, no man need be aſhamed of them, provided he pays as he goes: and as to living upon water⯑gruel, and ſcrubbing one's fleſh with ſand, one might as well be a galley-ſlave at once. You don't underſtand life, Sir, I ſee that."’

‘"Do! do!"’ cried Briggs, ſpeaking through his ſhut teeth; ‘"you're out there! oyſters!—come to ruin, tell you! bring you to jail!"’

‘"To jail, Sir?"’ exclaimed Hobſon, ‘"this is talking quite ungenteel! let every man be civil; that's what I ſay, for that's the way to make every thing agreeable: but as to telling a man he'll go to jail, and that, it's tantamount to affronting him."’

[58] A rap at the ſtreet-door gave now a new relief to Cecilia, who began to grow very apprehenſive leſt the delight of ſpending money, thus warmly conteſted with that of hoarding it, ſhould give riſe to a quarrel, which, between two ſuch ſturdy champions for their own opinions, might lead to a con⯑cluſion rather more rough and violent than ſhe deſired to witneſs: but when the parlour⯑door opened, inſtead of Mr. Delvile, whom ſhe now fully expected, Mr. Albany made his entrance.

This was rather diſtreſſing, as her real buſineſs with her guardians made it proper her conference with them ſhould be undiſ⯑turbed: and Albany was not a man with whom a hint that ſhe was engaged could be riſked: but ſhe had made no preparation to guard againſt interruption, as her little ac⯑quaintance in London had prevented her expecting any viſitors.

He advanced with a ſolemn air to Cecilia, and, looking as if hardly determined whe⯑ther to ſpeak with ſeverity or gentleneſs, ſaid, ‘"once more I come to prove thy ſin⯑cerity; now wilt thou go with me where ſorrow calls thee? ſorrow thy charity can mitigate?"’

‘"I am very much concerned,"’ ſhe an⯑ſwered, ‘"but indeed at preſent it is utterly impoſſible."’

[59] ‘"Again,"’ cried he, with a look at once ſtern and diſappointed, ‘"again thou faileſt me? what wanton trifling! why ſhouldſt thou thus elate a worn-out mind, only to make it feel its lingering credulity? or why, teaching me to think I had found an angel, ſo unkindly undeceive me?"’

‘"Indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, much affected by this reproof, ‘"if you knew how heavy a loſs I had perſonally ſuffered—"’

‘"I do know it,"’ cried he, ‘"and I grieved for thee when I heard it. Thou haſt loſt a faithful old friend, a loſs which with every ſetting ſun thou may'ſt mourn, for the riſing ſun will never repair it! but was that a reaſon for ſhunning the duties of humanity? was the ſight of death a motive for neglecting the claims of benevolence? ought it not rather to have haſtened your fulfilling them? and ſhould not your own ſuffering experience of the brevity of life, have taught you the vanity of all things but preparing for its end?’

‘"Perhaps ſo, but my grief at that time made me think only of myſelf.’

‘"And of what elſe doſt thou think now?"’

‘"Moſt probably of the ſame perſon ſtill!"’ ſaid ſhe, half ſmiling, ‘"but yet believe me, I have real buſineſs to tranſact."’

‘"Frivolous, unmeaning, ever-ready ex⯑cuſes! what buſineſs is ſo important as the relief of a fellow-creature?"’

[60] ‘"I ſhall not, I hope, there,"’ anſwered ſhe, with alacrity, ‘"be backward; but at leaſt for this morning I muſt beg to make you my Almoner."’

She then took out her purſe.

Mr. Briggs and Mr. Hobſon, whoſe quarrel had been ſuſpended by the appear⯑ance of a third perſon, and who had ſtood during this ſhort dialogue in ſilent amaze⯑ment, having firſt loſt their anger in their mutual conſternation, now loſt their con⯑ſternation in their mutual diſpleaſure: Mr. Hobſon felt offended to hear buſineſs ſpoken of ſlightly, and Mr. Briggs felt enraged at the ſight of Cecilia's ready purſe. Neither of them, however, knew which way to in⯑terfere, the ſtern gravity of Albany, joined to a language too lofty for their compre⯑henſion, intimidating them both. They took, however, the relief of communing with one another, and Mr. Hobſon ſaid in a whiſper ‘"This, you muſt know, is, I am told, a very particular old gentleman; quite what I call a genius. He comes often to my houſe, to ſee my lodger Miſs Henny Belfield, though I never happened to light upon him myſelf, except once in the paſ⯑ſage: but what I hear of him is this; he makes a practice, as one may ſay, of going about into people's houſes, to do nothing but find fault."’

[61] ‘"Shan't get into mine!"’ returned Briggs; ‘"promiſe him that! don't half like him; be bound he's an old ſharper."’

Cecilia, mean time, enquired what he deſired to have.

Half a guinea, he anſwered.

‘"Will that do?"’

‘"For thoſe who have nothing,"’ ſaid he, ‘"it is much. Hereafter, you may aſſiſt them again. Go but and ſee their diſtreſſes, and you will wiſh to give them every thing."’

Mr. Briggs now, when actually between her fingers he ſaw the half guinea, could contain no longer; he twitched the ſleeve of her gown, and pinching her arm, with a look of painful eagerneſs, ſaid in a whiſper ‘"Don't give it! don't let him have it! chouſe him, chouſe him! nothing but an old bite!"’

‘"Pardon me, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, in a low voice, ‘"his character is very well known to me."’ And then, diſengaging her arm from him, ſhe preſented her little offering.

At this ſight, Mr. Briggs was almoſt out⯑rageous, and loſing in his wrath, all fear of the ſtranger, he burſt forth with fury into the following outcries, ‘"Be ruined! ſee it plainly; be fleeced! be ſtript! be robbed! won't have a gown to your back! [62] won't have a ſhoe to your foot! won't have a rag in the world! be a beggar in the ſtreet! come to the pariſh! rot in a jail?—half a guinea at a time!—enough to break the Great Mogul!’

‘"Inhuman ſpirit of ſelfiſh parſimony!"’ exclaimed Albany, ‘"repineſt thou at this loan, given from thouſands to thoſe who have worſe than nothing? who pay to day in hunger for bread they borrowed yeſter⯑day from pity? who to ſave themſelves from the deadly pangs of famine, ſolicit but what the rich know not when they poſ⯑ſeſs, and miſs not when they give?"’

‘"Anan!"’ cried Briggs; recovering his temper from the perplexity of his under⯑ſtanding, at a diſcourſe to which his ears were wholly unaccuſtomed, ‘"what d'ye ſay?"’

‘"If to thyſelf diſtreſs may cry in vain,"’ continued Albany, ‘"if thy own heart reſiſts the ſuppliant's prayer, callous to entreaty, and hardened in the world, ſuffer, at leaſt, a creature yet untainted, who melts at ſor⯑row, and who glows with charity, to pay from her vaſt wealth a generous tax of thankfulneſs, that fate has not reverſed her doom, and thoſe whom ſhe relieves, relieve not her!"’

‘"Anan!"’ was again all the wondering Mr. Briggs could ſay.

[63] ‘"Pray, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon to Cecilia, ‘"if its no offence, was the Gen⯑tleman ever a player?"’

‘"I fancy not, indeed!"’

‘"I aſk pardon, then, ma'am; I mean no harm; but my notion was the gentleman might be ſpeaking ſomething by heart."’

‘"Is it but on the ſtage, humanity exiſts?"’ cried Albany, indignantly; ‘"Oh thither haſten, then, ye monopolizers of plenty! ye ſelfiſh, unfeeling engroſſers of wealth, which ye diſſipate without enjoying, and of abundance, which ye waſte while ye refuſe to diſtribute! thither, thither haſte, if there humanity exiſts!"’

‘"As to engroſſing,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, happy to hear at laſt a word with which he was familiar, ‘"it's what I never approved myſelf. My maxim is this; if a man makes a fair penny, without any under⯑hand dealings, why he has as much a title to enjoy his pleaſure as the Chief Juſtice, or the Lord Chancellor: and its odds but he's as happy as a greater man. Though what I hold to be beſt of all, is a clear con⯑ſcience, with a neat income of 2 or 3000 a year. That's my notion; and I don't think it's a bad one."’

‘"Weak policy of ſhort-ſighted igno⯑rance!"’ cried Albany, ‘"to wiſh for what, if uſed, brings care, and if neglected, remorſe! [64] have you not now beyond what nature craves? why then ſtill ſigh for more?"’

‘"Why?"’ cried Mr Briggs, who by dint of deep attention began now better to com⯑prehend him, ‘"why to buy in, to be ſure! ever hear of ſtocks, eh? know any thing of money"’

‘"Still to make more and more,"’ cried Albany, ‘"and wherefore? to ſpend in vice and idleneſs, or hoard in chearleſs miſery! not to give ſuccour to the wretched, not to ſup⯑port the falling; all is for ſelf, however little wanted, all goes to added ſtores, or added luxury; no fellow-creature ſerved, nor even one beggar relieved!’

‘"Glad of it!"’ cried Briggs, ‘"glad of it; would not have 'em relieved; don't like 'em; hate a beggar; ought to be all whipt; live upon ſpunging."’

‘"Why as to a beggar, I muſt needs ſay,"’ cried Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I am by no means an approver of that mode of pro⯑ceeding; being I take 'em all for cheats: for what I ſay is this, what a man earns, he earns, and it's no man's buſineſs to enquire what he ſpends, for a free-born Engliſhman is his own maſter by the nature of the law, and as to his being a ſubject, why a Duke is no more, nor a Judge, nor the Lord High Chancellor, and the like of thoſe; [65] which makes it tantamount to nothing, being he is anſwerable to nobody by the right of Magna Charta: except in caſes of treaſon, felony, and that. But as to a beg⯑gar, it's quite another thing; he comes and aſks me for money; but what has he to ſhew for it? what does he bring me in ex⯑change? why a long ſtory that he i'n't worth a penny! what's that to me? nothing at all. Let every man have his own; that's my way of arguing."’

‘"Ungentle mortals!"’ cried Albany, ‘"in wealth exulting; even in inhumanity! think you theſe wretched outcaſts have leſs ſenſibility than yourſelves? think you, in cold and hunger, they loſe thoſe feelings which even in voluptuous proſperity from time to time diſturb you? you ſay they are all cheats? 'tis but the niggard cant of avarice, to lure away remorſe from obdu⯑racy. Think you the naked wanderer begs from choice? give him your wealth and try."’

‘"Give him a whip!"’ cried Briggs, ſha'n't have a ſouſe! ſend him to Bridewell! nothing but a pauper; hate 'em; hate 'em all! full of tricks; break their own legs, put out their arms, cut off their fingers, ſnap their own ancles,—all for what? to get at the chink! to chouſe us of caſh! [66] ought to be well flogged; have 'em all ſent to the Thames; worſe than the Convicts.

‘"Poor ſubterfuge of callous cruelty! you cheat yourſelves, to ſhun the fraud of others! and yet, how better do you uſe the wealth ſo guarded? what nobler purpoſe can it anſwer to you, than even a chance to ſnatch ſome wretch from ſinking? think leſs how much ye ſave, and more for what; and then conſider how thy full coffers may hereafter make reparation, for the empty catalogue of thy virtues."’

‘"Anan!"’ ſaid Mr. Briggs, again loſt in perplexity and wonder.

‘"Oh yet,"’ continued Albany, turning towards Cecilia, ‘"preach not here the hard⯑neſs which ye practice; rather amend your⯑ſelves than corrupt her; and give with liberality what ye ought to receive with gratitude!"’

‘"This is not my doctrine,’ "cried Hob⯑ſon; ‘"I am not a near man, neither, but as to giving at that rate, it's quite out of character. I have as good a right to my own ſavings, as to my own gettings; and what I ſay is this, who'll give to me? let me ſee that, and it's quite another thing: and begin who will, I'll be bound to go on with him, pound for pound, or pence for pence. But as to giving to them beggars, it's what I don't approve; I pay the poor's [67] rate, and that's what I call charity enough for any man. But for the matter of living well, and ſpending one's money hand⯑ſomely, and having one's comforts about one, why it's a thing of another nature, and I can ſay this for myſelf, and that is, I never grudged myſelf any thing in my life. I always made myſelf agreeable, and lived on the beſt. That's my way."’

‘"Bad way too,"’ cried Briggs, ‘"never get on with it, never ſee beyond your noſe; won't be worth a plum while your head wags!"’ then, taking Cecilia apart, ‘"hark'ee, my duck,"’ he added, pointing to Albany, ‘"who is that Mr. Bounce, eh? what is he?"’

‘"I have known him but a ſhort time, Sir; but I think of him very highly."’

‘"Is he a good man? that's the point, is he a good man?"’

‘"Indeed he appears to me uncom⯑monly benevolent and charitable."’

‘"But that i'n't the thing; is he warm? that's the point, is he warm?"’

‘"If you mean paſſionate,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I believe the energy of his manner is merely to enforce what he ſays."’

‘"Don't take me, don'ttake me,"’ cried he, impatiently; ‘"can come down with the ready, that's the matter; can chink the little gold boys? eh?"’

[68] ‘"Why I rather fear not by his appear⯑ance; but I know nothing of his affairs."’

‘"What does come for? eh? come a courting?"’

‘"Mercy on me, no!"’

‘"What for then? only a ſpunging?"’

‘"No, indeed. He ſeems to have no wiſh but to aſſiſt and plead for others."’

‘"All fudge! think he i'n't touched? ay, ay; nothing but a trick! only to get at the chink: ſee he's as poor as a rat, talks of nothing but giving money; a bad ſign! if he'd got any, would not do it. Wanted to make us come down; warrant thought to bam us all! out there! a'n't ſo ſoon gulled."’

A knock at the ſtreet-door gave now a new interruption, and Mr. Delvile at length appeared.

Cecilia, whom his ſight could not fail to diſconcert, felt doubly diſtreſſed by the unneceſſary preſence of Albany and Hob⯑ſon; ſhe regretted the abſence of Mr. Monckton, who could eaſily have taken them away; for though without ſcruple ſhe could herſelf have acquainted Mr. Hobſon ſhe had buſineſs, ſhe dreaded offending Albany, whoſe eſteem ſhe was ambitious of obtaining.

Mr. Delvile entered the room with an air ſtately and erect; he took off his hat, but [69] deigned not to make the ſmalleſt inclina⯑tion of his head, nor offered any excuſe to Mr. Briggs for being paſt the hour of his appointment: but having advanced a few paces, without looking either to the right or left, ſaid, ‘"as I have never acted, my coming may not, perhaps, be eſſential; but as my name is in the Dean's Will, and I have once or twice met the other executors mentioned in it, I think it a duty I owe to my own heirs to prevent any poſſible future enquiry or trouble to them."’

This ſpeech was directly addreſſed to no one, though meant to be attended to by every one, and ſeemed proudly uttered as a mere apology to himſelf for not having declined the meeting.

Cecilia, though ſhe recovered from her confuſion by the help of her averſion to this ſelf-ſufficiency, made not any anſwer. Albany retired to a corner of the room; Mr. Hobſon began to believe it was time for him to depart; and Mr. Briggs think⯑ing only of the quarrel in which he had ſeparated with Mr. Delvile in the ſummer, ſtood ſwelling with venom, which he longed for an opportunity to ſpit out.

Mr. Delvile, who regarded this ſilence as the effect of his awe-inſpiring preſence, became rather more complacent; but caſt⯑ing his eyes round the room, and perceiving [70] the two ſtrangers, he was viſibly ſurpriſed, and looking at Cecilia for ſome explanation, ſeemed to ſtand ſuſpended from the purpoſe of his viſit till he heard one [...]

Cecilia, earnet to have the buſineſs con⯑cluded, turned to Mr. Briggs, and ſaid, ‘"Sir, here is pen and ink [...] to write, or am I? or what is to be done?"’

‘"No, no,"’ ſaid he, with a ſneer, ‘"give it t'other; all in our turn; don't come before his Grace the Right Honourable Mr. Vampus."’

‘"Before whom, Sir?"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, reddening.

‘"Before my Lord Don Pedigree,"’ an⯑ſwered Briggs, with a ſpiteful grin, ‘"know him? eh? ever hear of ſuch a perſon?"’

Mr. Delvile coloured ſtill deeper, but turning contemptuouſly from him, diſdained making any reply.

Mr. Briggs, who now regarded him as a defeated man, ſaid exultingly to Mr. Hob⯑ſon, ‘"what do ſtand here for?—hay?—fall o' your marrowbones; don't ſee 'Squire High and Mighty?"’

‘"As to falling on my marrowbones,"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, ‘"it's what I ſhall do to no man, except he was the King himſelf, or the like of that, and going to make me Chancellor of the Exchequer, or Commiſſioner of Exciſe. Not that I mean [71] the gentleman any offence; but a man's a man, and for one man to worſhip another is quite out of law."’

‘"Muſt, muſt!"’ cried Briggs, ‘"tell all his old grand-dads elſe: keeps 'em in a roll; locks 'em in a cloſet; ſays his prayers to 'em; can't live without 'em: likes 'em better than caſh!—wiſh had 'em here! pop 'em all in the ſink!"’

‘"If your intention, Sir,"’ cried Mr Delvile, fiercely, ‘"is only to inſult me, I am prepared for what meaſures I ſhall take. I declined ſeeing you in my own houſe, that I might not be under the ſame reſtraint as when it was my unfortunate lot to meet you laſt."’

‘"Who cares?"’ cried Briggs, with an air of defiance, ‘"what can do, eh? poke me into a family vault? bind me o' top of an old monument? tie me to a ſtinking car⯑caſe? make a corpſe of me, and call it one of your famous couſins?—"’

‘"For heaven's ſake, Mr. Briggs,"’ in⯑terrupted Cecilia, who ſaw that Mr. Delvile, trembling with paſſion, ſcarce refrained lift⯑ing up his ſtick, ‘"be appeaſed, and let us finiſh our buſineſs!"’

"Albany now, hearing in Cecilia's voice the alarm with which ſhe was ſeized, came forward and exclaimed, ‘"whence this un⯑meaning diſſention? to what purpoſe this [72] irritating abuſe? Oh vain and fooliſh! live ye ſo happily, laſt ye ſo long, that time and peace may thus be trifled with?"’

‘"There, there!"’ cried Briggs, holding up his finger at Mr. Delvile, ‘"have it now! got old Mr. Bounce upon you! give you enough of it; promiſe you that!"’

‘"Reſtrain,"’ continued Albany, ‘"this idle wrath; and if ye have ardent paſſions, employ them to nobler uſes; let them ſtimulate acts of virtue, let them animate deeds of beneficence! Oh waſte not ſpirits that may urge you to good, lead you to honour, warm you to charity, in poor and angry words, in unfriendly, unmanly de⯑bate!"’

Mr. Delvile, who from the approach of Albany, had given him his whole attention, was ſtruck with aſtoniſhment at this ad⯑dreſs, and almoſt petrified with wonder at his language and exhortations.

‘"Why I muſt own,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"as to this matter I am much of the ſame mind myſelf; for quarreling's a thing I don't uphold; being it advances one no way; for what I ſay is this, if a man gets the better, he's only where he was before, and if he gets worſted, why it's odds but the laugh's againſt him: ſo, if I may make bold to give my verdict, I would have one of theſe gentlemen take the other by the [73] hand, and ſo put an end to bad words. That's my maxim, and that's what I call being agreeable."’

"Mr. Delvile, at the words one of theſe gentlemen take the other by the hand, looked ſcornfully upon Mr. Hobſon, with a frown that expreſſed his higheſt indignation, at being thus familiarly coupled with Mr. Briggs. And then, turning from him to Cecilia, haughtily ſaid, ‘"Are theſe two perſons,"’ pointing towards Albany and Hobſon, ‘"waiting here to be witneſſes to any tranſaction?"’

‘"No, Sir, no,"’ cried Hobſon, ‘"I don't mean to intrude, I am going directly. So you can give me no inſight, ma'am,"’ ad⯑dreſſing Cecilia, ‘"as to where I might light upon Mr. Belfield?"’

‘"Me? no!"’ cried ſhe, much provoked by obſerving that Mr. Delvile ſuddenly looked at her.

‘"Well, ma'am, well, I mean no harm: only I hold it that the right way to hear of a young gentleman, is to aſk for him of a young lady: that's my maxim. Come, Sir,"’ to Mr. Briggs, ‘"you and I had like to have fallen out, but what I ſay is this; let no man bear malice; that's my way: ſo I hope we part without ill blood?"’

‘"Ay, ay;"’ ſaid Mr. Briggs, giving him a nod.

[74] ‘"Well, then,"’ added Hobſon, ‘"I hope the good-will may go round, and that not only you and I, but theſe two good old gentlemen will alſo lend a hand."’

Mr. Delvile now was at a loſs which way to turn for very rage; but after looking at every one with a face flaming with ire, he ſaid to Cecilia, ‘"If you have collected to⯑gether theſe perſons for the purpoſe of af⯑fronting me, I muſt beg you to remember I am not one to be affronted with impu⯑nity!"’

Cecilia, half frightened, was beginning an anſwer that diſclaimed any ſuch inten⯑tion, when Albany, with the moſt indig⯑nant energy, called out, ‘"Oh pride of heart, with littleneſs of ſoul! check this vile arrogance, too vain for man, and ſpare to others ſome part of that lenity thou nou⯑riſheſt for thyſelf, or juſtly beſtow on thy⯑ſelf that contempt thou nouriſheſt for others!"’

And with theſe words he ſternly left the houſe.

The thunderſtruck Mr. Delvile began now to fancy that all the demons of tor⯑ment were deſignedly let looſe upon him, and his ſurpriſe and reſentment operated ſo powerfully that it was only in broken ſentences he could expreſs either. ‘"Very extraordinary!—a new method of conduct! [75] —liberties to which I am not much uſed!—impertinences I ſhall not haſtily forget,—treatment that would ſcarce be pardon⯑able to a perſon wholly unknown!—"’

‘"Why indeed, Sir,"’ ſaid Hobſon, ‘"I can't but ſay it was rather a cut up; but the old gentleman is what one may call a genius, which makes it a little excuſable; for he does things all his own way, and I am told it's the ſame thing who he ſpeaks to, ſo he can but find fault, and that."’

‘"Sir,"’ interrupted the ſtill more highly offended Mr. Delvile, ‘"what you may be told is extremely immaterial to me; and I muſt take the liberty to hint to you, a con⯑verſation of this eaſy kind is not what I am much in practice in hearing."’

‘"Sir, I aſk pardon,"’ ſaid Hobſon, ‘"I meant nothing but what was agreeable, however, I have done, and I wiſh you good day. Your humble ſervant, ma'am, and I hope, Sir,"’ to Mr. Briggs, ‘"you won't begin bad words again?"’

‘"No, no,"’ ſaid Briggs, ‘"ready to make up; all at end; only don't much like Spa [...], that's all!"’ winking ſignificantly, ‘"not [...] over fond of a ſkeleton!"’

Mr. Hobſon now retired; and Mr. Del⯑ville and Mr. Briggs, being both [...] and [...], in haſte to have done, ſettled [...] five minutes all for which they [...], [76] after paſſing more than an hour in agreeing what that was.

Mr. Briggs then, ſaying he had an en⯑gagement upon buſineſs, declined ſettling his own accounts till another time, but promiſed to ſee Cecilia again ſoon, and added, ‘"be ſure take care of that old Mr. Bounce! cracked in the noddle; ſee that with half an eye! better not truſt him! break out ſome day: do you a miſchief!"’

He then went away: but while the par⯑lour-door was ſtill open, to the no little ſurpriſe of Cecilia, the ſervant announced Mr. Belfield. He hardly entered the room, and his countenance ſpoke haſte and eager⯑neſs. ‘"I have this moment, madam,"’ he ſaid, ‘"been informed a complaint has been lodged againſt me here, and I could not reſt till I had the honour of aſſuring you, that though I have been rather dilatory, I have not neglected my appointment, nor has the condeſcenſion of your interference been thrown away."’

He then bowed, ſhut the door, and ran off. Cecilia, though happy to underſtand by this ſpeech that he was actually reſtored to his family, was ſorry at theſe repeated intruſions in the preſence of Mr. Delvile, who was now the only one that remained.

She expected every inſtant that he would ring for his chair, which he kept in waiting; [77] but, after a pauſe of ſome continaunce, to her equal ſurpriſe and diſturbance, he made the following ſpeech. ‘"As it is probable I am now for the laſt time alone with you, ma'am, and as it is certain we ſhall meet no more upon buſineſs, I cannot, in juſtice to my own character, and to the reſpect I retain for the memory of the Dean, your uncle, take a final leave of the office with which he was pleaſed to inveſt me, without firſt fulfilling my own ideas of the duty it requires from me, by giving you ſome counſel relating to your future eſta⯑bliſhment."’

This was not a preface much to enliven Cecilia; it prepared her for ſuch ſpeeches as ſhe was leaſt willing to hear, and gave to her the mixt and painful ſenſation of ſpirits depreſſed, with pride alarmed.

‘"My numerous engagements,"’ he con⯑tinued, ‘"and the appropriation of my time, already ſettled, to their various claims, muſt make me brief in what I have to re⯑preſent, and ſomewhat, perhaps, abrupt in coming to the purpoſe. But that you will excuſe."’

Cecilia diſdained to humour this arro⯑gance by any compliments or conceſſions: ſhe was ſilent, therefore; and when they were both ſeated, he went on.

‘"You are now at a time of life when it [78] is natural for young women to wiſn for ſome connection: and the largeneſs of your for⯑tune will remove from you ſuch difficulties as prove bars to the pretenſions, in this ex⯑penſive age, of thoſe who poſſeſs not ſuch advantages. It would have been ſome plea⯑ſure to me, while I yet conſidered you as my Ward, to have ſeen you properly diſ⯑poſed of: but as that time is paſt, I can only give you ſome general advice, which you may follow or neglect as you think fit. By giving it, I ſhall ſatisfy myſelf; for the reſt, I am not reſponſible."’

He pauſed; but Cecilia felt leſs and leſs inclination to make uſe of the opportunity by ſpeaking in her turn.

‘"Yet though, as I juſt now hinted, young women of large fortunes may have little trouble in finding themſelves eſtabliſh⯑ments, they ought not, therefore, to trifle when proper ones are in their power, nor to ſuppoſe themſelves equal to any they may chance to deſire,"’

Cecilia coloured high at this pointed re⯑prehenſion; but feeling her diſguſt every moment encreaſe, determined to ſuſtain her⯑ſelf with dignity, and at leaſt not ſuffer him to perceive the triumph of his oſtentation and rudeneſs.

‘"The propoſals,"’ he continued ‘"of the Earl of Ernolf had always my approbation; [79] it was certainly an ill-judged thing to neglect ſuch an opportunity of being honourably ſettled. The clauſe of the name was, to him, immaterial; ſince his own name half a century ago was unheard of, and ſince he is himſelf only known by his title. He is ſtill, however, I have au⯑thority to acquaint you, perfectly well diſ⯑poſed to renew his application to you."’

‘"I am ſorry, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia coldly, ‘"to hear it."’

‘"You have, perhaps, ſome other better offer in view?"’

‘"No, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, with ſpirit, ‘"nor even in deſire."’

‘"Am I, then, to infer that ſome infe⯑rior offer has more chance of your appro⯑bation?"’

‘"There is no reaſon, Sir, to infer any thing; I am content with my actual ſitua⯑tion, and have, at preſent, neither proſpect nor intention of changing it."’

‘"I perceive, but without ſurpriſe, your unwillingneſs to diſcuſs the ſubject; nor do I mean to preſs it: I ſhall merely offer to your conſideration one caution, and then relieve you from my preſence. Young women of ample fortunes, who are early independent, are ſometimes apt to preſume they may do every thing with impunity; but they are miſtaken; they are as liable to [80] cenſure as thoſe who are wholly unprovided for."’

‘"I hope, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſtaring, ‘"this at leaſt is a caution rather drawn from my ſituation than my behaviour?"’

‘"I mean not, ma'am, narrowly to go into, or inveſtigate the ſubject; what I have ſaid you may make your own uſe of; I have only to obſerve further, that when young women, at your time of life, are at all negligent of ſo nice a thing as reputa⯑tion, they commonly live to repent it."’

He then aroſe to go, but Cecilia, not more offended than amazed, ſaid, ‘"I muſt beg, Sir, you will explain yourſelf!"’

‘"Certainly this matter,"’ he anſwered, ‘"muſt be immaterial to me: yet, as I have once been your guardian by the nomination of the Dean your uncle, I cannot forbear making an effort towards preventing any indiſcretion: and frequent viſits to a young man—"’

‘"Good God! Sir,"’ interrupted Cecilia, ‘"what is it you mean?"’

‘"It can certainly, as I ſaid before, be nothing to me, though I ſhould be glad to ſee you in better hands: but I cannot ſup⯑poſe you have been led to take ſuch ſteps without ſome ſerious plan; and I would adviſe you, without loſs of time, to think better of what you are about."’

[81] ‘"Should I think, Sir, to eternity,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"I could never conjecture what you mean!"’

‘"You may not chuſe,"’ ſaid he, proudly, ‘"to underſtand me; but I have done. If it had been in my power to have interfered in your ſervice with my Lord Derford, not⯑withſtanding my reluctance to being in⯑volved in any freſh employment, I ſhould have made a point of not refuſing it: but this young man is nobody,—a very impru⯑dent connection—"’

‘"What young man, Sir?"’

‘"Nay, I know nothing of him! it is by no means likely I ſhould: but as I had already been informed of your attention to him, the corroborating incidents of my ſervant's following you to his houſe, his friend's ſeeking him at yours, and his own waiting upon you this morning; were not well calculated to make me withdraw my credence to it."’

‘"Is it, then, Mr. Belfield, Sir, con⯑cerning whom you draw theſe inferences, from circumſtances the moſt accidental and unmeaning?"’

‘"It is by no means my practice,"’ cried he, haughtily, and with evident marks of high diſpleaſure at this ſpeech, ‘"to believe any thing lightly, or without even unqueſ⯑tionable authority; what once, therefore, I [82] have credited, I do not often find erro⯑neous. Miſtake not, however, what I have ſaid into ſuppoſing I have any objection to your marrying; on the contrary, it had been for the honour of my family had you been married a year ago: I ſhould not then have ſuffered the degradation of ſeeing a ſon of the firſt expectations in the kingdom upon the point of renouncing his birth, nor a woman of the firſt diſtinction ruined in her health, and broken for ever in her conſtitution."’

The emotions of Cecilia at this ſpeech were too powerful for concealment; her colour varied, now reddening with indigna⯑tion, now turning pale with apprehenſion; ſhe aroſe, ſhe trembled and ſat down, ſhe aroſe again, but not knowing what to ſay or what to do, again ſat down.

Mr. Delvile then, making a ſtiff bow, wiſhed her good morning.

‘"Go not ſo, Sir!"’ cried ſhe, in falter⯑ing accents; ‘"let me at leaſt convince you of the miſtake with regard to Mr. Belfield—"’

‘"My miſtakes, ma'am,"’ ſaid he, with a contemptuous ſmile, ‘"are perhaps not eaſily convicted: and I may poſſibly labour under others that would give you no leſs trouble: it may therefore be better to avoid any further diſquiſition."’

‘"No, not better,"’ anſwered ſhe, again [83] recovering her courage from this freſh pro⯑vocation; ‘"I fear no diſquiſition; on the contrary, it is my intereſt to ſolicit one."’

‘"This intrepidity in a young woman,"’ ſaid he, ironically, ‘"is certainly very com⯑mendable; and doubtleſs, as you are your own miſtreſs, your having run out great part of your fortune, is nothing beyond what you have a right to do."’

‘"Me!"’ cried Cecilia, aſtoniſhed, ‘"run out great part of my fortune!"’

‘"Perhaps that is another miſtake! I have not often been ſo unfortunate; and you are not, then, in debt?"’

‘"In debt, Sir?"’

‘"Nay, I have no intention to enquire into your affairs. Good morning to you, ma'am."’

‘"I beg, I entreat, Sir, that you will ſtop!—make me, at leaſt, underſtand what you mean, whether you deign to hear my juſtification or not."’

‘"O, I am miſtaken, it ſeems! miſin⯑formed, deceived; and you have neither ſpent more than you have received, nor taken up money of Jews? your minority has been clear of debts? and your fortune, now you are of age, will be free from in⯑combrances?"’

Cecilia, who now began to underſtand [84] him, eagerly anſwered, ‘"do you mean, Sir, the money which I took up laſt ſpring?"’

‘"O no; by no means, I conceive the whole to be a miſtake!"’

And he went to the door.

‘"Hear me but a moment, Sir!"’ cried ſhe haſtily, following him; ‘"ſince you know of that tranſaction, do not refuſe to liſten to its occaſion; I took up the money for Mr. Harrel; it was all, and ſolely for him."’

‘"For Mr. Harrel, was it?"’ ſaid he, with an air of ſupercilious incredulity; ‘"that was rather an unlucky ſtep. Your ſervant, ma'am."’

And he opened the door.

‘"You will not hear me, then? you will not credit me?"’ cried ſhe in the cruelleſt agitation.

‘"Some other time, ma'am; at preſent my avocations are too numerous to permit me."’

And again, ſtiffly bowing, he called to his ſervants, who were waiting in the hall, and put himſelf into his chair.

CHAP. V. A SUSPICION.

CECILIA was now left in a ſtate of perturbation that was hardly to be in⯑dured. The contempt with which ſhe had been treated during the whole viſit was nothing ſhort of inſult, but the accuſations with which it was concluded did not more irritate than aſtoniſh her.

That ſome ſtrange prejudice had been taken againſt her, even more than belonged to her connection with young Delvile, the meſſage brought her by Dr. Lyſter had given her reaſon to ſuppoſe: what that pre⯑judice was ſhe now knew, though how ex⯑cited ſhe was ſtill ignorant; but ſhe found Mr. Delvile had been informed ſhe had taken up money of a Jew, without having heard it was for Mr. Harrel, and that he had been acquainted with her viſits in Portland⯑Street, without ſeeming to know Mr. Bel⯑field had a ſiſter. Two charges ſuch as theſe, ſo ſerious in their nature, and ſo diſ⯑tructive of her character, filled her with horror and conſternation, and even ſomewhat [86] ſerved to palliate his illiberal and in⯑jurious behaviour.

But how reports thus falſe and thus diſ⯑graceful ſhould be raiſed, and by what dark work of ſlander and malignity they had been ſpread, remained a doubt inexplica⯑ble. They could not, ſhe was certain, be the mere rumour of chance, ſince in both the aſſertions there was ſome foundation of truth, however cruelly perverted, or baſely over-charged.

This led her to conſider how few people there were not only who had intereſt, but who had power to propagate ſuch calum⯑nies; even her acquaintance with the Bel⯑field's ſhe remembered not ever mention⯑ing, for ſhe knew none of their friends, and none of her own knew them. How, then, ſhould it be circulated, that ſhe ‘"viſited often at the houſe?"’ how ever be invented that it was from her ‘"attention to the young man?"’ Henrietta, ſhe was ſure, was too good and too innocent to be guilty of ſuch perfidy; and the young man him⯑ſelf had always ſhewn a modeſty and pro⯑priety that manifeſted his total freedom from the vanity of ſuch a ſuſpicion, and an ele⯑vation of ſentiment that would have taught him to ſcorn the boaſt, even if he believed the partiality.

The mother, however, had neither been [87] ſo modeſt nor ſo rational; ſhe had openly avowed her opinion that Cecilia was in love with her ſon; and as that ſon, by never offering himſelf, had never been refuſed, her opinion had received no check of ſuf⯑ficient force, for a mind ſo groſs and literal, to change it.

This part, therefore, of the charge ſhe gave to Mrs. Belfield, whoſe officious and loquacious forwardneſs ſhe concluded had induced her to narrate her ſuſpicions, till, ſtep by ſtep, they had reached Mr. Delvile.

But though able, by the probability of this conjecture, to account for the report concerning Belfield, the whole affair of the debt remained a difficulty not to be ſolved. Mr. Harrel, his wife, Mr. Arnott, the Jew and Mr. Monckton, were the only perſons to whom the tranſaction was known; and though from five, a ſecret, in the courſe of ſo many months, might eaſily be ſuppoſed likely to tranſpire, thoſe five were ſo parti⯑cularly bound to ſilence, not only for her intereſt but their own, that it was not un⯑reaſonable to believe it as ſafe among them all, as if ſolely conſigned to one. For her⯑ſelf, ſhe had revealed it to no creature but Mr. Monckton; not even to Delvile; though, upon her conſenting to marry him, he had an undoubted right to be acquainted with the true ſtate of her affairs; but ſuch [88] had been the hurry, diſtreſs, confuſion and irreſolution of her mind at that period, that this whole circumſtance had been driven from it entirely, and ſhe had, ſince, frequently blamed herſelf for ſuch want of recollection. Mr. Harrel, for a thouſand reaſons, ſhe was certain had never named it; and had the communication come from his widow or from Mr. Arnott, the motives would have been related as well as the debt, and ſhe had been ſpared the reproach of contracting it for purpoſes of her own extravagance. The Jew, indeed, was, to her, under no obligation of ſecrecy, but he had an obligation far more binding,—he was tied to himſelf.

A ſuſpicion now aroſe in her mind which made it thrill with horror; ‘good God!’ ſhe exclaimed, ‘can Mr. Monckton—"’

She ſtopt, even to herſelf;—ſhe checked the idea;—ſhe drove it haſtily from her;—ſhe was certain it was falſe and cruel;—ſhe hated herſelf for having ſtarted it.

‘"No, cried ſhe, he is my friend, the confirmed friend of many years, my well⯑wiſher from childhood, my zealous coun⯑ſellor and aſſiſtant almoſt from my birth to this hour:—ſuch perfidy from him would not even be human!"’

Yet ſtill her perplexity was undiminiſhed; the affair was undoubtedly known, and it [89] only could be known by the treachery of ſome one entruſted with it: and however ear⯑neſtly her generoſity combated her riſing ſuſpicions, ſhe could not wholly quell them; and Mr. Monckton's ſtrange averſion to the Delviles, his earneſtneſs to break off her connexion with them, occurred to her remembrance, and haunted her perforce with ſurmiſes to his diſadvantage.

That gentleman, when he came home, found her in this comfortleſs and fluctuating ſtate, endeavouring to form conjectures upon what had happened, yet unable to ſucceed, but by ſuggeſtions which one moment ex⯑cited her abhorrence of him, and the next of herſelf.

He enquired, with his uſual appearance of eaſy friendlineſs, into what had paſſed with her two guardians, and how ſhe had ſettled her affairs. She anſwered without heſitation all his queſtions, but her manner was cold and reſerved, though her com⯑munication was frank.

This was not unheeded by Mr. Monck⯑ton, who, after a ſhort time, begged to know if any thing had diſturbed her.

Cecilia aſhamed of her doubts, though unable to get rid of them, then endeavoured to brighten up, and changed the ſubject to the difficulties ſhe had had to encounter from the obſtinacy of Mr. Briggs.

[90] Mr. Monckton for a while humoured this evaſion; but when, by her own exer⯑tion, her ſolemnity began to wear off, he repeated his interrogatory, and would not be ſatisfied without an anſwer.

Cecilia, earneſt that ſurmiſes ſo inju⯑rious ſhould be removed, then honeſtly, but without comments, related the ſcene which had juſt paſt between Mr. Delvile and herſelf.

No comments were, however, wanting to explain to Mr. Monckton the change of her behaviour: ‘"I ſee,"’ he cried haſtily, ‘"what you cannot but ſuſpect; and I will go myſelf to Mr. Delvile, and inſiſt upon his clearing me."’

Cecilia, ſhocked to have thus betrayed what was paſſing within her, aſſured him his vindication required not ſuch a ſtep, and begged he would counſel her how to diſcover this treachery, without drawing from her concern at it a concluſion ſo of⯑fenſive to himſelf.

He was evidently, however, and greatly diſturbed; he declared his own wonder equal to her's how the affair had been be⯑trayed, expreſſed the warmeſt indignation at the malevolent inſinuations againſt her conduct, and lamented with mingled acri⯑mony and grief, that there ſhould exiſt even [91] the poſſibility of caſting the odium of ſuch villainy upon himſelf.

Cecilia, diſtreſſed, perplexed, and aſhamed at once, again endeavoured to appeaſe him, and though a lurking doubt obſtinately clung to her underſtanding, the purity of her own principles, and the ſoftneſs of her heart, pleaded ſtrongly for his innocence, and urged her to deteſt her ſuſpicion, though to conquer it they were unequal.

‘"It is true,"’ ſaid he, with an air inge⯑nuous though mortified, ‘"I diſlike the Delvile's, and have always diſliked them; they appear to me a jealous, vindictive, and inſolent race, and I ſhould have thought I betrayed the faithful regard I profeſſed for you, had I concealed my opinion when I ſaw you in danger of forming an alliance with them; I ſpoke to you, therefore, with honeſt zeal, thoughtleſs of any enmity I might draw upon myſelf; but though it was an interference from which I hoped, by preventing the connection, to contribute to your happineſs, it was not with a deſign to ſtop it at the expence of your character,—a deſign black, horrible and diabolical! a deſign which muſt be formed by a Daemon, but which even a Daemon could never, I think, execute!"’

The candour of this ſpeech, in which his averſion to the Delvile's was openly acknowledged, [92] and rationally juſtified, ſomewhat quieted the ſuſpicions of Cecilia, which far more anxiouſly ſought to be confuted than confirmed: ſhe began, therefore, to con⯑clude that ſome accident, inexplicable as unfortunate, had occaſioned the partial diſ⯑covery to Mr. Delvile, by which her own goodneſs proved the ſource of her defama⯑tion: and though ſomething ſtill hung upon her mind that deſtroyed that firm con⯑fidence ſhe had hitherto felt in the friend⯑ſhip of Mr. Monckton, ſhe held it utterly unjuſt to condemn him without proof, which ſhe was not more unable to procure, than to ſatisfy herſelf with any reaſon why ſo perfidiouſly he ſhould calumniate her.

Comfortleſs, however, and tormented with conjectures equally vague and afflicting, ſhe could only clear him to be loſt in perplexity, ſhe could only accuſe him to be penetrated with horror. She endeavoured to ſuſ⯑pend her judgment till time ſhould deve⯑lop the myſtery, and only for the preſent ſought to finiſh her buſineſs and leave London.

She renewed, therefore, again, the ſub⯑ject of Mr. Briggs, and told him how vain had been her effort to ſettle with him. Mr. Monckton inſtantly offered his ſervices in aſſiſting her, and the next morning they went together to his houſe, where, after an [93] obſtinate battle, they gained a complete vic⯑tory: Mr. Briggs gave up all his accounts, and, in a few days, by the active interfe⯑rence of Mr. Monckton, her affairs were wholly taken out of his hands. He ſtormed, and propheſied all ill to Cecilia, but it was not to any purpoſe; he was ſo diſagreeable to her, by his manners, and ſo unintelligi⯑ble to her in matters of buſineſs, that ſhe was happy to have done with him; even though, upon inſpecting his accounts, they were all found clear and exact, and his deſire to retain his power over her fortune, proved to have no other motive than a love of money ſo potent, that to manage it, even for another, gave him a ſatisfaction he knew not how to relinquiſh.

Mr. Monckton, who, though a man of pleaſure, underſtood buſineſs perfectly well, now inſtructed and directed her in making a general arrangement of her affairs. The eſtate which devolved to her from her uncle, and which was all in landed property, ſhe con⯑tinued to commit to the management of the ſteward who was employed in his life-time; and her own fortune from her father, which was all in the ſtocks, ſhe now diminiſhed to nothing by ſelling out to pay Mr. Monck⯑ton the principal and intereſt which ſhe owed him, and by ſettling with her Book⯑ſeller.

[94] While theſe matters were tranſacting, which, notwithſtanding her eagerneſs to leave town, could not be brought into ſuch a train as to permit her abſence in leſs than a week, ſhe paſſed her time chiefly alone. Her wiſhes all inclined her to beſtow it upon Henrietta, but the late attack of Mr. Delvile had frightened her from keeping up that connection, ſince however carefully ſhe might confine it to the daughter, Mrs. Belfield, ſhe was certain, would impute it all to the ſon,

That attack reſted upon her mind, in de⯑fiance of all her endeavours to baniſh it; the contempt with which it was made ſeemed intentionally offenſive, as if he had been happy to derive from her ſuppoſed ill con⯑duct, a right to triumph over as well as reject her. She concluded, alſo, that Del⯑vile would be informed of theſe calumnies, yet ſhe judged his generoſity by her own, and was therefore convinced he would not credit them: but what chiefly at this time encreaſed her ſadneſs and uneaſineſs, was the mention of Mrs. Delvile's broken con⯑ſtitution and ruined health. She had always preſerved for that lady the moſt affectionate reſpect, and could not conſider herſelf as the cauſe of her ſufferings, without feeling the utmoſt concern, however conſcious ſhe had not wilfully occaſioned them.

[95] Nor was this ſcene the only one by which her efforts to forget this family were de⯑feated; her watchful monitor, Albany, failed not again to claim her promiſe; and though Mr. Monckton earneſtly exhorted her not to truſt herſelf out with him, ſhe preferred a little riſk to the keenneſs of his reproaches, and the weather being good on the morning that he called, ſhe conſented to accompany him in his rambles: only charging her footman to follow where-ever they went, and not to fail enquiring for her if ſhe ſtayed long out of his ſight. Theſe precautions were rather taken to ſatisfy Mr. Monckton than herſelf, who, having now procured intelligence of the former diſorder of his intellects, was fearful of ſome ex⯑travagance, and apprehenſive for her ſafety.

He took her to a miſerable houſe in a court leading into Piccadilly, where, up three pair of ſtairs, was a wretched woman ill in bed, while a large family of children were playing in the room.

‘"See here,"’ cried he, ‘"what human nature can endure! look at that poor wretch, diſtracted with torture, yet lying in all this noiſe! unable to ſtir in her bed, yet with⯑out any aſſiſtant! ſuffering the pangs of acute diſeaſe, yet wanting the neceſſaries of life!"’

Cecilia went up to the bed-ſide, and enquired [96] more particularly into the ſituation of the invalid; but finding ſhe could hardly ſpeak from pain, ſhe ſent for the woman of the houſe, who kept a Green Grocer's ſhop on the ground floor, and deſired her to hire a nurſe for her ſick lodger, to call all the children down ſtairs, and to ſend for an apothecary, whoſe bill ſhe promiſed to pay. She then gave her ſome money to get what neceſſaries might be wanted, and ſaid ſhe would come again in two days to ſee how they went on.

Albany, who liſtened to theſe directions with ſilent, yet eager attention, now claſped both his hands with a look of rapture, and exclaimed ‘"Virtue yet lives,—and I have found her?"’

Cecilia, proud of ſuch praiſe, and ambi⯑tious to deſerve it, chearfully ſaid, ‘"where, Sir, ſhall we go now?"’

‘"Home;"’ anſwered he with an aſpect the moſt benign; ‘"I will not wear out thy pity by rendering woe familiar to it."’

Cecilia, though at this moment more diſ⯑poſed for acts of charity than for buſineſs or for pleaſure, remembered that her for⯑tune however large was not unlimited, and would not preſs any further bounty for ob⯑jects ſhe knew not, certain that occaſions and claimants, far beyond her ability of an⯑ſwering, would but too frequently ariſe [97] among thoſe with whom ſhe was more con⯑nected, ſhe therefore yielded herſelf to his direction, and returned to Soho-Square.

Again, however, he failed not to call at the time ſhe had appointed for re-viſiting the invalid, to whom, with much glad⯑neſs, he conducted her.

The poor woman, whoſe diſeaſe was a rheumatic fever, was already much better; ſhe had been attended by an apothecary who had given her ſome alleviating medi⯑cine; ſhe had a nurſe at her bed-ſide, and the room being cleared of the children, ſhe had had the refreſhment of ſome ſleep.

She was now able to raiſe her head, and make her acknowledgments to her bene⯑factreſs; but not a little was the ſurpriſe of Cecilia, when, upon looking in her face, ſhe ſaid, ‘"Ah, madam, I have ſeen you before!"’

‘"Cecilia, who had not the ſmalleſt re⯑collection of her, in return deſired to know when, or where?"’

‘"When you were going to be married, madam, I was the Pew-Opener at — Church."’

Cecilia ſtarted with ſecret horror, and in⯑voluntarily retreated from the bed; while Albany with a look of aſtoniſhment ex⯑claimed, ‘"Married!—why, then, is it un⯑known?"’

[98] ‘Aſk me not!"’ cried ſhe, haſtily; ‘"it is all a miſtake."’

‘"Poor thing!"’ cried he, ‘"this, then, is the ſtring thy nerves endure not to have touched! ſooner will I expire than a breath of mine ſhall make it vibrate! Oh ſacred be thy ſorrow, for thou canſt melt at that of the indigent!"’

Cecilia then made a few general enqui⯑ries, and heard that the poor woman, who was a widow, had been obliged to give up her office, from the frequent attacks which ſhe ſuffered of the rheumatiſm; that ſhe had received much aſſiſtance both from the Rector and the Curate of — Church, but her continual illneſs, with the largeneſs of her family, kept her diſtreſſed in ſpite of all help.

Cecilia promiſed to conſider what ſhe could do for her, and then giving her more money, returned to Lady Margaret's.

Albany, who found that the unfortunate recollection of the Pew-Opener had awak⯑ened in his young pupil a melancholy train of reflections, ſeemed now to compaſſionate the ſadneſs which hitherto he had reproved, and walking ſilently by her ſide till ſhe came to Soho-Square, ſaid in accents of kindneſs, ‘"Peace light upon thy head, and diſſipate thy woes!"’ and left her.

[99] ‘"Ah when!"’ cried ſhe to herſelf, ‘"if thus they are to be revived for-ever!"’

Mr. Monckton, who obſerved that ſome⯑thing had greatly affected her, now expoſtu⯑lated warmly againſt Albany and his wild ſchemes; ‘"You trifle with your own hap⯑pineſs,"’ he cried, ‘"by witneſſing theſe ſcenes of diſtreſs, and you will trifle away your fortune upon projects you can never fulfil: the very air in thoſe miſerable houſes is unwholeſome for you to breathe; you will ſoon be infected with ſome of the diſ⯑eaſes to which you ſo incautiouſly expoſe yourſelf, and while not half you give in charity will anſwer the purpoſe you wiſh, you will be plundered by cheats and ſharp⯑ers till you have nothing left to beſtow. You muſt be more conſiderate for yourſelf, and not thus governed by Albany, whoſe in⯑ſanity is but partially cured, and whoſe pro⯑jects are ſo boundleſs, that the whole capital of the Eaſt India Company would not ſuf⯑fice to fulfil them."’

Cecilia, though ſhe liked not the ſeve⯑rity of this remonſtrance, acknowledged there was ſome truth in it, and promiſed to be diſcreet, and take the reins into her own hands.

There remained for her, however, no other ſatisfaction; and the path which had thus been pointed out to her, grew more [100] and more alluring every ſtep. Her old friends, the poor Hills, now occurred to her memory, and ſhe determined to ſee herſelf in what manner they went on.

The ſcene which this enquiry preſented to her, was by no means calculated to ſtrengthen Mr. Monckton's doctrine, for the proſperity in which ſhe found this lit⯑tle family, amply rewarded the liberality ſhe had ſhewn to it, and proved an irre⯑ſiſtible encouragement to ſimilar actions. Mrs. Hill wept for joy in recounting how well ſhe ſucceeded, and Cecilia, delighted by the power of giving ſuch pleaſure, for⯑got all cautions and promiſes in the gene⯑roſity which ſhe diſplayed. She paid Mrs. Roberts the arrears that were due to her, ſhe diſcharged all that was owing for the children who had been put to ſchool, de⯑ſired they might ſtill be ſent to it ſolely at her expence, and gave the mother a ſum of money to be laid out in preſents for them all.

To perform her promiſe with the Pew⯑Opener was however more difficult; her ill health, and the extreme youth of her children making her utterly helpleſs: but theſe were not conſiderations for Cecilia to deſert her, but rather motives for regarding her as more peculiarly an object of charity. She found ſhe had once been a clearſtarcher, [101] and was a tolerable plain work⯑woman; ſhe reſolved, therefore, to ſend her into the country, where ſhe hoped to be able to get her ſome buſineſs, and knew that at leaſt, ſhe could help her, if unſuc⯑ceſsful, and ſee that her children were brought up to uſeful employments. The woman herſelf was enchanted at the plan, and firmly perſuaded the country air would reſtore her health. Cecilia told her only to wait till ſhe was well enough to travel, and promiſed, in the mean time, to look out ſome little habitation for her. She then gave her money to pay her bills, and for her journey, and writing a full direction where ſhe would hear of her at Bury, took leave of her till that time.

Theſe magnificent donations and deſigns, being communicated to Albany, ſeemed a renovation to him of youth, ſpirit, and joy! while their effect upon Mr. Monckton reſembled an annihilation of all three! to ſee money thus ſported away, which he had long conſidered as his own, to behold thoſe ſums which he had deſtined for his plea⯑ſures, thus laviſhly beſtowed upon beggars, excited a rage he could with difficulty con⯑ceal, and an uneaſineſs he could hardly endure; and he languiſhed, he ſickened for the time, when he might put a period to ſuch romantic proceedings.

[102] Such were the only occupations which interrupted the ſolitude of Cecilia, except thoſe which were given to her by actual buſineſs; and the moment her affairs were in ſo much forwardneſs that they could be managed by letters, ſhe prepared for re⯑turning into the country. She acquainted Lady Margaret and Mr. Monckton with her deſign, and gave orders to her ſervants to be ready to ſet off the next day.

Mr. Monckton made not any oppoſition, and refuſed himſelf the ſatisfaction of ac⯑companying her: and Lady Margaret, whoſe purpoſe was now anſwered, and who wiſhed to be in the country herſelf, deter⯑mined to follow her.

CHAP. VI. A DISTURBANCE.

THIS matter being ſettled at breakfaſt, Cecilia, having but one day more to ſpend in London, knew not how to let it paſs without taking leave of Henrietta, though ſhe choſe not again to expoſe her⯑ſelf to the forward inſinuations of her mo⯑ther; ſhe ſent her, therefore, a ſhort note, begging to ſee her at Lady Margaret's, and acquainting her that the next day ſhe was going out of town.

Henrietta returned the following anſwer.

This artleſs remonſtrance, joined to the intelligence that ſhe could ſee her alone, made Cecilia inſtantly order a chair, and go herſelf to Portland-ſtreet: for ſhe found by this letter there was much doubt if ſhe could otherwiſe ſee her, and the earneſtneſs of Henrietta made her now not endure to diſ⯑appoint her. ‘"She has much, cried ſhe, [105] to ſay to me, and I will no longer refuſe to hear her; ſhe ſhall unboſom to me her gentle heart, for we have now nothing to fear from each other. She promiſes herſelf pleaſure from the communication, and doubtleſs it muſt be ſome relief to her. Oh were there any friendly boſom, in which I might myſelf confide!—happier Henriet⯑ta! leſs fearful of thy pride, leſs tenacious of thy dignity! thy ſorrows at leaſt ſeek the conſolation of ſympathy,—mine, alas! fettered by prudence, muſt fly it!"’

She was ſhewn into the parlour, which ſhe had the pleaſure to find empty; and, in an inſtant, the warm-hearted Henrietta was in her arms. ‘"This is ſweet of you indeed,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"for I did not know how to aſk it, though it rains ſo hard I could not have walked to you, and I don't know what I ſhould have done, if you had gone away and quite forgot me."’

She then took her into the back parlour, which ſhe ſaid they had lately hired, and, as it was made but little uſe of, ſhe had it al⯑moſt entirely to herſelf.

There had paſſed a ſad ſcene, ſhe told her, at the meeting with her brother, though now they were a little more comfortable; yet, her mother, ſhe was ſure, would never be at reſt till he got into ſome higher way of life; ‘"And, indeed, I have ſome hopes,"’ [106] ſhe continued, ‘"that we ſhall be able by and bye to do ſomething better for him; for he has got one friend in the world, yet, thank God, and ſuch a noble friend!—in⯑deed I believe he can do whatever he pleaſes for him,—that is I mean I believe if he was to aſk any thing for him, there's nobody would deny him. And this is what I want⯑ed to talk to you about."—’

Cecilia, who doubted not but ſhe meant Delvile, ſcarce knew how to preſs the ſub⯑ject, though ſhe came with no other view: Henrietta, however, too eager to want ſoli⯑citation, went on.

‘"But the queſtion is whether we ſhall be able to prevail upon my brother to accept any thing, for he grows more and more un⯑willing to be obliged, and the reaſon is, that being poor, he is afraid, I believe, people ſhould think he wants to beg of them: though if they knew him as well as I do, they would not long think that, for I am ſure he would a great deal rather be ſtarved to death. But indeed, to ſay the truth, I am afraid he has been ſadly to blame in this affair, and quarrelled when there was no need to be affronted; for I have ſeen a gentleman who knows a great deal better than my brother what people ſhould do, and he ſays he took every thing [107] wrong that was done, all the time he was at Lord Vannelt's."’

‘"And how does this gentleman know it?"’

‘"O becauſe he went himſelf to enquire about it; for he knows Lord Vannelt very well, and it was by his means my brother came acquainted with him. And this gen⯑tleman would not have wiſhed my brother to be uſed ill any more than I ſhould my⯑ſelf, ſo I am ſure I may believe what he ſays. But my poor brother, not being a lord himſelf, thought every body meant to be rude to him, and becauſe he knew he was poor, he ſuſpected they all behaved diſreſpectfully to him. But this gentleman gave me his word that every body liked him and eſteemed him, and if he would not have been ſo ſuſpicious, they would all have done any thing for him in the world."’

‘"You know this gentleman very well, then?"’

‘O no, madam!’ "ſhe anſwered haſtily," ‘I don't know him at all! he only comes here to ſee my brother; it would be very impertinent for me to call him an acquain⯑tance of mine."’

‘"Was it before your brother, then, he held this converſation with you?"’

‘"O no, my brother would have been [108] affronted with him, too, if he had! but he called here to enquire for him at the time when he was loſt to us, and my mother quite went down upon her knees to him to beg him to go to Lord Vannelt's, and make excuſes for him, if he had not behaved pro⯑perly: but if my brother was to know this, he would hardly ſpeak to her again! ſo when this gentleman came next, I begged him not to mention it, for my mother hap⯑pened to be out, and ſo I ſaw him alone."’

‘"And did he ſtay with you long?"’

‘"No, ma'am, a very ſhort time in⯑deed; but I aſked him queſtions all the while, and kept him as long as I could, that I might hear all he had to ſay about my brother."’

‘"Have you never ſeen him ſince?"’

‘"No, ma'am, not once! I ſuppoſe he does not know my brother is come back to us. Perhaps when he does, he will call."’

‘"Do you wiſh him to call?"’

‘"Me?"’ cried ſhe, bluſhing, ‘"a little;—ſometimes I do;—for my brother's ſake."’

‘"For your brother's ſake! Ah my dear Henrietta!—but tell me,—or don't tell me if you had rather not,—did I not once ſee you kiſſing a letter? perhaps it was from this ſame noble friend?"’

‘"It was not a letter, madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, [109] looking down, ‘"it was only the cover of one to my brother."’

‘"The cover of a letter only!—and that to your brother!—is it poſſible you could ſo much value it?"’

‘"Ah madam! You, who are always uſed to the good and the wiſe, who ſee no other ſort of people but thoſe in high life, you can have no notion how they ſtrike thoſe that they are new to!—but I who ſee them ſeldom, and who live with people ſo very unlike them—Oh you cannot gueſs how ſweet to me is every thing that belongs to them! whatever has but once been touched by their hands, I ſhould like to lock up, and keep for ever! though if I was uſed to them, as you are, perhaps I might think leſs of them."’

Alas! thought Cecilia, who by them knew ſhe only meant him, little indeed would further intimacy protect you!

‘"We are all over-ready,"’ continued Henrietta, ‘"to blame others, and that is the way I have been doing all this time my⯑ſelf; but I don't blame my poor brother now for living ſo with the great as I uſed to do, for now I have ſeen a little more of the world, I don't wonder any longer at his behaviour: for I know how it is, and I ſee that thoſe who have had good educations, [110] and kept great company, and mixed with the world,—O it is another thing!—they ſeem quite a different ſpecies!—they are ſo gentle, ſo ſoft-mannered! nothing comes from them but what is meant to oblige! they ſeem as if they only lived to give plea⯑ſure to other people, and as if they never thought at all of themſelves!"’

‘"Ah Henrietta!"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſhaking her head, ‘"you have caught the enthuſi⯑aſm of your brother, though you ſo long condemned it! Oh have a care leſt, like him alſo, you find it as pernicious as it is alluring!"’

‘"There is no danger for me, madam,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"for the people I ſo much admire are quite out of my reach. I hardly ever even ſee them; and perhaps it may ſo happen I may ſee them no more!"’

‘"The people?"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſmiling, ‘"are there, then, many you ſo much diſ⯑tinguiſh?"’

‘"Oh no indeed!"’ cried ſhe, eagerly, ‘"there is only one! there can be—I mean there are only a few—"’ ſhe checked herſelf, and ſtopt.

‘"Whoever you admire,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"your admiration cannot but honour: yet indulge it not too far, leſt it ſhould wander from your heart to your peace, and make you wretched for life."’

[111] ‘"Ah madam!—I ſee you know who is the particular perſon I was thinking of! but indeed you are quite miſtaken if you ſuppoſe any thing bad of me!"’

‘"Bad of you!"’ cried Cecilia, embracing her, ‘"I ſcarce think ſo well of any one!"’

‘"But I mean, madam, if you think I forget he is ſo much above me. But in⯑deed I never do; for I only admire him for his goodneſs to my brother, and never think of him at all, but juſt by way of comparing him, ſometimes, to the other people that I ſee, becauſe he makes me hate them ſo, that I wiſh I was never to ſee them again."’

‘"His acquaintance, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"has done you but an ill office, and happy it would be for you could you forget you had ever made it."’

‘"O, I ſhall never do that! for the more I think of him, the more I am out of hu⯑mour with every body elſe! O Miſs Be⯑verley! we have a ſad acquaintance indeed! I'm ſure I don't wonder my brother was ſo ahamed of them. They are all ſo rude, and ſo free, and put one ſo out of counte⯑nance,—O how different is this perſon you are thinking of! he would not diſtreſs any body, or make one aſhamed for all the world! You only are like him! always gentle, always obliging!—ſometimes I think you muſt be his ſiſter—once, too, I heard—but that was contradicted."’

[112] A deep ſigh eſcaped Cecilia at this ſpeech; ſhe gueſſed too well what ſhe might have heard, and ſhe knew too well how it might be contradicted.

‘"Surely, you cannot be unhappy, Miſs Beverley!"’ ſaid Henrietta, with a look of mingled ſurpriſe and concern.

‘"I have much, I own,"’ cried Cecilia, aſſuming more chearfulneſs, ‘"to be thank⯑ful for, and I endeavour not to forget it."’

‘"O how often do I think,"’ cried Hen⯑rietta, ‘"that you, madam, are the happieſt perſon in the world! with every thing at your own diſpoſal,—with every body in love with you, with all the money that you can wiſh for, and ſo much ſweetneſs that no⯑body can envy you it! with power to keep juſt what company you pleaſe, and every body proud to be one of the number!—Oh if I could chuſe who I would be, I ſhould ſooner ſay Miſs Beverley than any princeſs in the world!"’

Ah, thought Cecilia, if ſuch is my ſitua⯑tion,—how cruel that by one dreadful blow all its happineſs ſhould be thrown away!

‘"Were I a rich lady, like you,"’ con⯑tinued Henrietta, ‘"and quite in my own power, then, indeed, I might ſoon think of nothing but thoſe people that I admire! and that makes me often wonder that you, madam, who are juſt ſuch another as himſelf [113] —but then, indeed, you may ſee ſo many of the ſame ſort, that juſt this one may not ſo much ſtrike you: and for that reaſon I hope with all my heart that he will never be married as long as he lives, for as he muſt take ſome lady in juſt ſuch high life as his own, I ſhould always be afraid that ſhe would never love him as ſhe ought to do!"’

He need not now be ſingle, thought Ce⯑cilia, were that all he had cauſe to appre⯑hend!

‘"I often think,"’ added Henrietta, ‘"that the rich would be as much happier for mar⯑rying the poor, as the poor for marrying the rich, for then they would take ſomebody that would try to deſerve their kindneſs, and now they only take thoſe that know they have a right to it. Often and often have I thought ſo about this very gentle⯑man! and ſometimes when I have been in his company, and ſeen his civility and his ſweetneſs, I have fancied I was rich and grand myſelf, and it has quite gone out of my head that I was nothing but poor Hen⯑rietta Belfield!"’

‘"Did he, then,"’ cried Cecilia a little alarmed, ‘"ever ſeek to ingratiate himſelf into your favour?"’

‘"No, never! but when treated with ſo much ſoftneſs, 'tis hard always to remember [114] ones meanneſs! You, madam, have no no⯑tion of that taſk: no more had I myſelf till lately, for I cared not who was high, nor who was low: but now, indeed, I muſt own I have ſometimes wiſhed myſelf richer! yet he aſſumes ſo little, that at other times, I have almoſt forgot all diſtance between us, and even thought—Oh fooliſh thought!—"’

‘"Tell it, ſweet Henrietta, however!"’

‘"I will tell you, madam, every thing! for my heart has been burſting to open it⯑ſelf, and nobody have I dared truſt. I have thought, then, I have ſometimes thought,—my true affection, my faithful fondneſs, my glad obedience,—might make him, if he did but know them, happier in me than in a greater lady!"’

‘"Indeed,"’ cried Cecilia, extremely af⯑fected by this plaintive tenderneſs, ‘"I be⯑lieve it!—and were I him, I could not, I think, heſitate a moment in my choice!"’

Henrietta now, hearing her mother com⯑ing in, made a ſign to her to be ſilent; but Mrs. Belfield had not been an inſtant in the paſſage, before a thundering knocking at the ſtreet-door occaſioned it to be inſtantly re-opened. A ſervant then enquired if Mrs. Belfield was at home, and being anſwered by herſelf in the affirmative, a chair was brought into the houſe.

[115] But what was the aſtoniſhment of Cecilia, when, in another moment, ſhe heard from the next parlour the voice of Mr. Delvile ſenior, ſaying, ‘"Your ſervant, ma'am; Mrs. Belfield, I preſume?"’

There was no occaſion, now, to make a ſign to her of ſilence, for her own amaze⯑ment was ſufficient to deprive her of ſpeech.

‘"Yes, Sir,"’ anſwered Mrs. Belfield; ‘"but I ſuppoſe, Sir, you are ſome gentle⯑man to my ſon."’

‘"No, madam,"’ he returned, ‘"my buſi⯑neſs is with yourſelf."’

Cecilia now recovering from her ſurpriſe, determined to haſten unnoticed out of the houſe, well knowing that to be ſeen in it would be regarded as a confirmation of all that he had aſſerted. She whiſpered, there⯑fore, to Henrietta, that ſhe muſt inſtantly run away, but, upon ſoftly opening the door leading to the paſſage, ſhe found Mr. Delvile's chairmen, and a footman there in waiting.

She cloſed it again, irreſolute what to do; but after a little deliberation, ſhe concluded to out-ſtay him, as ſhe was known to all his ſervants, who would not fail to mention ſeeing her; and a retreat ſo private was worſe than any other riſk. A chair was alſo in wait⯑ing for herſelf, but it was a hackney one, and ſhe could not be known by it; and her [116] footman ſhe had fortunately diſmiſſed, as he had buſineſs to tranſact for her journey next day.

Mean-while the thinneſs of the partition between the two parlours made her hearing every word that was ſaid unavoidable.

‘"I am ſure, Sir, I ſhall be very willing to oblige you,"’ Mrs. Belfield anſwered; ‘"but pray, Sir, what's your name?"’

‘"My name, ma'am,"’ he replied, in a rather elevated voice, ‘"I am ſeldom oblig⯑ed to announce myſelf; nor is there any preſent neceſſity I ſhould make it known. It is ſufficient I aſſure you, you are ſpeaking to no very common perſon, and probably to one you will have little chance to meet with again."’

‘"But how can I tell your buſineſs, Sir, if I don't ſo much as know your name?"’

‘"My buſineſs, madam, I mean to tell myſelf; your affair is only to hear it. I have ſome queſtions, indeed, to aſk, which I muſt trouble you to anſwer, but they will ſufficiently explain themſelves to prevent any difficulty upon your part. There is no need, therefore, of any introductory cere⯑monial."’

‘"Well, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, wholly inſenſible of this ambiguous greatneſs, ‘"if you mean to make your name a ſecret."’

‘"Few names, I believe, ma'am,"’ cried [117] he, haughtily, ‘"have leſs the advan⯑tage of ſecrecy than mine! on the contrary, this is but one among a very few houſes in this town to which my perſon would not immediately announce it. That, however, is immaterial; and you will be ſo good as to reſt ſatisfied with my aſſurances, that the perſon with whom you are now converſing, will prove no diſgrace to your character."’

Mrs. Belfield, overpowered, though hard⯑ly knowing with what, only ſaid he was very welcome, and begged him to ſit down.

‘"Excuſe me, ma'am,"’ he anſwered, ‘"My buſineſs is but of a moment, and my avocations are too many to ſuffer my in⯑fringing that time. You ſay you have a ſon; I have heard of him, alſo, ſomewhere before; pray will you give me leave to en⯑quire—I don't mean to go deep into the matter,—but particular family occurrences make it eſſential for me to know,—whether there is not a young perſon of rather a ca⯑pital fortune, to whom he is ſuppoſed to make propoſals?"’

‘"Lack-a-day, no, Sir!"’ anſwered Mrs. Belfield, to the infinite relief of Cecilia, who inſtantly concluded this queſtion referred to herſelf.

‘"I beg your pardon, then; good morn⯑ing to you, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, in a tone that ſpoke his diſappointment; but [118] added ‘"And there is no ſuch young per⯑ſon, you ſay, who favours his pretenſions?"’

‘"Dear Sir,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"why there's nobody he'll ſo much as put the queſtion to! there's a young lady at this very time, a great fortune, that has as much a mind to him, I tell him, as any man need deſire to ſee; but there's no making him think it! though he has been brought up at the uni⯑verſity, and knows more about all the things, or as much, as any body in the king's dominions."’

‘"O, then,"’ cried Mr. Delvile, in a voice of far more complacency, ‘"it is not on the ſide of the young woman that the difficulty ſeems to reſt?"’

‘"Lord, no, Sir! he might have had her again and again only for aſking! She came after him ever ſo often; but being brought up, as I ſaid, at the univerſity, he thought he knew better than me, and ſo my preach⯑ing was all as good as loſt upon him."’

The conſternation of Cecilia at theſe ſpeeches could by nothing be equalled but the ſhame of Henrietta, who, though ſhe knew not to whom her mother made them, felt all the diſgrace and the ſhock of them herſelf.

‘"I ſuppoſe, Sir,"’ continued Mrs. Bel⯑field, ‘"you know my ſon?"’

‘"No, ma'am; my acquaintance is—not very univerſal."’

[119] ‘"Then, Sir, you are no judge how well he might make his own terms. And as to this young lady, ſhe found him out, Sir, when not one of his own natural friends could tell where in the world he was gone! She was the firſt, Sir, to come and tell me news of him, though I was his own mother! Love, Sir, is prodigious for quickneſs! it can ſee, I ſometimes think, through bricks and mortar. Yet all this would not do, he was ſo obſtinate not to take the hint!"’

Cecilia now felt ſo extremely provoked, ſhe was upon the point of burſting in upon them to make her own vindication; but as her paſſions, though they tried her reaſon never conquered it, ſhe reſtrained herſelf by conſidering that to iſſue forth from a room in that houſe, would do more towards ſtrengthening what was thus boldly aſſert⯑ed, than all her proteſtations could have chance to deſtroy.

‘"And as to young ladies themſelves,"’ continued Mrs. Belfield, ‘"they know no more how to make their minds known than a baby does: ſo I ſuppoſe he'll ſhilly ſhally till ſomebody elſe will cry ſnap, and take her. It is but a little while ago that it was all the report ſhe was to have young Mr. Delvile, one of her guardians ſons."’

‘"I am ſorry report was ſo impertinent,"’ cried Mr. Delvile, with much diſpleaſure; [120] ‘"young Mr. Delvile is not to be diſpoſed of with ſo little ceremony; he knows bet⯑ter what is due to his family."’

Cecilia here bluſhed from indignation, and Henrietta ſighed from deſpondency.

‘"Lord, Sir,"’ anſwered Mrs. Belfield, ‘"what ſhould his family do better? I ne⯑ver heard they were any ſo rich, and I dare ſay the old gentleman, being her guardian, took care to put his ſon enough in her way, however it came about that they did not make a match of it: for as to old Mr. Del⯑vile, all the world ſays—"’

‘"All the world takes a very great liber⯑ty,"’ angrily interrupted Mr. Delvile, ‘"in ſaying any thing about him: and you will excuſe my informing you that a perſon of his rank and conſideration, is not lightly to be mentioned upon every little occaſion that occurs."’

‘"Lord, Sir,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ſome⯑what ſurpriſed at this unexpected prohibi⯑tion, ‘"I don't care for my part if I never mention the old gentleman's name again! I never heard any good of him in my life, for they ſay he's as proud as Lucifer, and no⯑body knows what it's of, for they ſay—"’

‘"They ſay?"’ cried he, firing with rage, ‘"and who are they? be ſo good as inform me that?"’

‘"Lord, every body, Sir! it's his com⯑mon character."’

[121] ‘"Then every body is extremely inde⯑cent,"’ ſpeaking very loud, ‘"to pay no more reſpect to one of the firſt families in England. It is a licentiouſneſs that ought by no means to be ſuffered with impunity."’

Here, the ſtreet-door being kept open by the ſervants in waiting, a new ſtep was heard in the paſſage, which Henrietta immediately knowing, turned, with uplifted hands to Cecilia, and whiſpered, ‘"How unlucky! it's my brother! I though the would not have returned till night!"’

‘"Surely he will not come in here?"’ re⯑whiſpered Cecilia.

But, at the ſame moment, he opened the door, and entered the room. He was im⯑mediately beginning an apology, and ſtart⯑ing back, but Henrietta catching him by the arm, told him in a low voice, that ſhe had made uſe of his room becauſe ſhe had thought him engaged for the day, but [...]ged him to keep ſtill and quiet, as the [...]ſt noiſe would diſcover them.

Belfield then ſtopt; but the embarraſſ⯑ [...] of Cecilia was extreme; to find her in his room after the ſpeeches ſhe had [...] from his mother, and to continue [...] him in it by connivance, when ſhe [...] ſhe had been repreſented as quite at [...]vice, diſtreſſed and provoked her im⯑ [...]urably; and ſhe felt very angry with [122] Henrietta for not ſooner informing her whoſe apartment ſhe had borrowed. Yet now to remove, and to be ſeen, was not to be thought of; ſhe kept, therefore, fixed to her ſeat, though changing colour every mo⯑ment from the variety of her emotions.

During this painful interruption ſhe loſt Mrs. Belfield's next anſwer, and another ſpeech or two from Mr. Delvile, to whoſe own paſſion and loudneſs was owing Bel⯑field's entering his room unheard: but the next voice that called their attention was that of Mr. Hobſon, who juſt then walked into the parlour.

‘"Why what's to do here?"’ cried he, facetiouſly, ‘"nothing but chairs and livery ſervants! Why ma'am, what is this your rout day? Sir your moſt humble ſervant. I aſk pardon, but I did not know you at firſt. But come, ſuppoſe we were all to ſit down? Sitting's as cheap as ſtanding, and what I ſay is this; when a man's tired, it's more agreeable."’

‘"Have you any thing further, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, with great ſolemnity, ‘"to communicate to me?"’

‘"No, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, rather angrily," ‘it's no buſineſs of mine to be communicating myſelf to a gentleman that I don't know the name of. Why, Mr. Hobſon, how come you to know the gen⯑tleman?"’

[123] ‘"To know me!"’ repeated Mr. Delvile, ſcornfully.

‘"Why I can't ſay much, ma'am,"’ an⯑ſwered Mr. Hobſon, ‘"as to my knowing the gentleman, being I have been in his company but once; and what I ſay is, to know a perſon if one leaves but a quart in a hogſhead, it's two pints too much. That's my notion. But, Sir, that was but an un⯑gain buſineſs at 'Squire Monckton's t'other morning. Every body was no-how, as one may ſay. But, Sir, if I may be ſo free, pray what is your private opinion of that old gen⯑tleman that talked ſo much out of the way?"’

‘"My private opinion, Sir?"’

‘"Yes, Sir; I mean if its no ſecret, for as to a ſecret, I hold it's what no man has a right to enquire into, being of its own na⯑ture it's a thing not to be told. Now as to what I think myſelf, my doctrine is this; I am quite of the old gentleman's mind about ſome things, and about others I hold him to be quite wide of the mark. But as to talking in ſuch a whiſky friſky manner that nobody can underſtand him, why it's tanta⯑mount to not talking at all, being he might as well hold his tongue. That's what I ſay. And then as to that other article, of abuſing a perſon for not giving away all his lawful ga [...]s to every cripple in the ſtreets, juſt [124] becauſe he happens to have but one leg, or one eye, or ſome ſuch matter, why it's knowing nothing of buſineſs! it's what I call talking at random."’

‘"When you have finiſhed, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ‘"you will be ſo good to let me know."’

‘"I don't mean to intrude, Sir; that's not my way, ſo if you are upon buſi⯑neſs—"’

‘"What elſe, Sir, could you ſuppoſe brought me hither? However, I by no means purpoſe any diſcuſſion. I have only a few words more to ſay to this gentlewo⯑man, and as my time is not wholly inconſe⯑quential, I ſhould not be ſorry to have an early opportunity of being heard."’

‘"I ſhall leave you with the lady directly, Sir; for I know buſineſs better than to in⯑terrupt it: but ſeeing chairs in the entry, my notion was I ſhould ſee ladies in the par⯑lour, not much thinking of gentlemen's go⯑ing about in that manner, being I never did it myſelf. But I have nothing to offer againſt that; let every man have his own way; that's what I ſay. Only juſt let me aſk the lady before I go, what's the meaning of my ſeeing two chairs in the entry, and only a perſon for one in the parlour? The gentleman, I ſuppoſe, did not come in both; ha! ha! ha!"’

[125] ‘"Why now you put me in mind,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, ‘"I ſaw a chair as ſoon as I come in; and I was juſt going to ſay who's here, when this gentleman's coming put it out of my head."’

‘"Why this is what I call Hocus Pocus work!"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon; ‘"but I ſhall make free to aſk the chairman who they are waiting for."’

Mrs. Belfield, however, anticipated him; for running into the paſſage, ſhe ang⯑rily called out, ‘"What do you do here, Miſters? do you only come to be out of the rain? I'll have no ſtand made of my entry, I can tell you!"’

‘"Why we are waiting for the lady,"’ cried one of them.

‘"Waiting for a fiddleſtick!"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield; ‘"here's no lady here, nor no com⯑pany; ſo if you think I'll have my entry filled up by two hulking fellows for no⯑thing, I ſhall ſhew you the difference. One's dirt enough of one's own, without taking people out of the ſtreets to help one. Who do you think's to clean after you?"’

‘"That's no buſineſs of ours; the lady bid us wait,"’ anſwered the man.

Cecilia at this diſpute could with plea⯑ſure have caſt herſelf out of the window to avoid being diſcovered; but all plan of [...]ape was too late; Mrs. Belfield called a [...]d for her daughter, and then, returning [126] to the front parlour, ſaid, ‘"I'll ſoon know if there's company come to my houſe with⯑out my knowing it!"’ and opened a door leading to the next room!

Cecilia, who had hitherto ſat fixed to her chair, now haſtily aroſe, but in a confuſion too cruel for ſpeech: Belfield, wondering even at his own ſituation, and equally con⯑cerned and ſurpriſed at her evident diſtreſs, had himſelf the feeling of a culprit, though without the leaſt knowledge of any cauſe: and Henrietta, terrified at the proſpect of her mother's anger, retreated as much as poſ⯑ſible out of ſight.

Such was the ſituation of the diſcovered, abaſhed, perplexed, and embarraſſed! while that of the diſcoverers, far different, was bold, delighted, and triumphant!

‘"So!"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘"why here's Miſs Beverley!—in my ſon's back room!"’ winking at Mr. Delvile.

‘"Why here's a lady, ſure enough!"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"and juſt where ſhe ſhould be, and that is with a gentleman. Ha! ha! that's the right way, according to my notion! that's the true maxim for living agreeable."’

‘"I came to ſee Miſs Belfield,"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, endeavouring, but vainly, to ſpeak with compoſure, ‘"and ſhe brought me in⯑to this room."’

[127] ‘"I am but this moment,"’ cried Belfield, with eagerneſs, ‘"returned home; and un⯑fortunately broke into the room, from total ignorance of the honour which Miſs Bever⯑ley did my ſiſter."’

Theſe ſpeeches, though both literally true, ſounded, in the circumſtances which brought them out, ſo much as mere ex⯑cuſes, that while Mr. Delvile haughtily marked his incredulity by a motion of his chin, Mrs. Belfield continued winking at him moſt ſignificantly, and Mr. Hobſon, with ſtill leſs ceremony, laughed aloud.

‘"I have nothing more, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile to Mrs. Belfield, ‘"to enquire, for the few doubts with which I came to this houſe are now entirely ſatisfied. Good morning to you, ma'am."’

‘"Give me leave, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ad⯑vancing with more ſpirit, ‘"to explain, in preſence of thoſe who can beſt teſtify my veracity, the real circumſtances—"’

‘"I would by no means occaſion you ſuch unneceſſary trouble, ma'am,"’ anſwered he, with an air at once exulting and pompous, ‘"the ſituation in which I ſee you abun⯑dantly ſatisfies my curioſity, and ſaves me from the apprehenſion I was under of being again convicted of a miſtake!"’

He then made her a ſtiff bow, and went to his chair.

[128] Cecilia, colouring deeply at this con⯑temptuous treatment, coldly took leave of Henrietta, and courtſying to Mrs. Belfield, haſtened into the paſſage, to get into her own.

Henrietta was too much intimidated to ſpeak, and Belfield was too delicate to fol⯑low her; Mr. Hobſon only ſaid ‘"The young lady ſeems quite daſhed;"’ but Mrs. Belfield purſued her with entreaties ſhe would ſtay.

She was too angry, however, to make any anſwer but by a diſtant bow of the head, and left the houſe with a reſolution little ſhort of a vow never again to enter it.

Her reflections upon this unfortunate viſit were bitter beyond meaſure; the ſitua⯑tion in which ſhe had been ſurpriſed,—clandeſtinely concealed with only Belfield and his ſiſter,—joined to the poſitive aſſer⯑tions of her partiality for him made by his mother, could not, to Mr. Delvile, but ap⯑pear marks irrefragable that his charge in his former converſation was rather mild than overſtrained, and that the connection he had mentioned, for whatever motives de⯑nied, was inconteſtably formed.

The apparent conviction of this part of the accuſation, might alſo authoriſe, to one but too happy in believing ill of her, an im⯑plicity faith in that which regarded her having [129] run out her fortune. His determina⯑tion not to hear her ſhewed the inflexibility of his character; and it was evident, not⯑withſtanding his parading pretenſions of wiſhing her welfare, that his inordinate pride was inflamed, at the very ſuppoſition he could be miſtaken or deceived for a mo⯑ment.

Even Delvile himſelf, if gone abroad, might now hear this account with exag⯑gerations that would baffle all his confi⯑dence: his mother, too, greatly as ſhe eſteemed and loved her, might have the matter ſo repreſented as to ſtagger her good opinion;—theſe were thoughts the moſt afflicting ſhe could harbour, though their probability was ſuch that to baniſh them was impoſſible.

To apply again to Mr. Delvile to hear her vindication, was to ſubject herſelf to in⯑ſolence, and almoſt to court indignity. She diſdained even to write to him, ſince his be⯑haviour called for reſentment, not conceſ⯑ſion; and ſuch an eagerneſs to be heard, in oppoſition to all diſcouragement, would be practiſing a meanneſs that would almoſt merit repulſion.

Her firſt inclination was to write to Mrs. Delvile, but what now, to her, was either her defence or accuſation? She had ſolemn⯑ly renounced all further intercourſe with her, ſhe had declared againſt writing again, [130] and prohibited her letters: and, therefore, after much fluctuation of opinion, her deli⯑cacy concurred with her judgment, to con⯑clude it would be moſt proper, in a ſitua⯑tion ſo intricate, to leave the matter to chance, and commit her character to time.

In the evening, while ſhe was at tea with Lady Margaret and Miſs Bennet, ſhe was ſuddenly called out to ſpeak to a young woman; and found, to her great ſurpriſe, ſhe was no other than Henrietta.

‘"Ah madam!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"how ang⯑rily did you go away this morning! it has made me miſerable ever ſince, and if you go out of town without forgiving me, I ſhall fret myſelf quite ill! my mother is gone out to tea, and I have run here all alone, and in the dark, and in the wet, to beg and pray you will forgive me, for elſe I don't know what I ſhall do!"’

‘"Sweet, gentle girl!’ cried Cecilia, af⯑fectionately embracing her, ‘"if you had excited all the anger I am capable of feeling, ſuch ſoftneſs as this would baniſh it, and make me love you more than ever!"’

Henrietta then ſaid, in her excuſe, that ſhe had thought herſelf quite ſure of her brother's abſence, who almoſt always ſpent the whole day at the bookſellers, as in writing [131] himſelf he perpetually wanted to conſult other authors, and had very few books at their lodgings: but ſhe would not mention that the room was his, leſt Cecilia ſhould object to making uſe of it, and ſhe knew ſhe had no other chance of having the converſa⯑tion with her ſhe had ſo very long wiſhed for. She then again begged her pardon, and hoped the behaviour of her mother would not induce her to give her up, as ſhe was ſhocked at it beyond meaſure, and as her brother, ſhe aſſured her, was as inno⯑cent of it as herſelf.

Cecilia heard her with pleaſure, and felt for her an encreaſing regard. The open⯑neſs of her confidence in the morning had merited all her affection, and ſhe gave her the warmeſt proteſtations of a friendſhip which ſhe was certain would be laſting as her life.

Henrietta then, with a countenance that ſpoke the lightneſs of her heart, haſtily took her leave, ſaying ſhe did not dare be out longer, leſt her mother ſhould diſcover her excurſion. Cecilia inſiſted, however, upon her going in a chair, which ſhe [...]ed her ſervant to attend, and take care himſelf to diſcharge.

This viſit, joined to the tender and un⯑reſerved converſation of the morning, gave Cecilia the ſtrongeſt deſire invite her to [132] her houſe in the country; but the terror of Mrs. Belfield's inſinuations, added to the cruel interpretations ſhe had to expect from Mr. Delvile, forbid her indulging this wiſh, though it was the only one that juſt now ſhe could form.

CHAP. VII. A CALM.

CECILIA took leave over night of the family, as ſhe would not ſtay their riſing in the morning: Mr. Monckton, though certain not to ſleep when ſhe was going, forbearing to mark his ſolicitude by quitting his apartment at any unu⯑ſual hour. Lady Margaret parted from her with her accuſtomed ungraciouſneſs, and Miſs Bennet, becauſe in her preſence, in a manner ſcarce leſs diſpleaſing.

The next morning, with only her ſervants, the moment it was light, ſhe ſet out. Her journey was without incident or interrup⯑tion, and ſhe went immediately to the houſe of Mrs. Bayley, where ſhe had ſettled to board till her own was finiſhed.

Mrs. Bayley was a mere good ſort of wo⯑man, who lived decently well with her ſer⯑vants, and tolerably well with her neigh⯑bours, upon a ſmall annuity, which made her eaſy and comfortable, though by no means ſuperior to ſuch an addition to her little income as an occaſional boarder might produce.

[134] Here Cecilia continued a full month: which time had no other employment than what ſhe voluntarily gave to herſelf by ac⯑tive deeds of benevolence.

At Chriſtmas, to the no little joy of the neighbourhood, ſhe took poſſeſſion of her own houſe, which was ſituated about three miles from Bury.

The better ſort of people were happy to ſee her thus ſettled amongſt them, and the poorer, who by what they already had re⯑ceived, knew well what they ſtill might ex⯑pect, regarded the day in which ſhe fixed herſelf in her manſion, as a day to them⯑ſelves of proſperity and triumph.

As ſhe was no longer, as hitherto, repair⯑ing to a temporary habitation, which at pleaſure ſhe might quit, and to which, at a certain period, ſhe could have no poſſible claim, but to a houſe which was her own for ever, or, at leaſt, could ſolely by her own choice be transferred, ſhe determined, as much as was in her power, in quitting her deſultory dwellings, to empty her mind of the tranſactions which had paſſed in them, and upon entering a houſe where ſhe was permanently to reſide, to make the expul⯑ſion of her paſt ſorrows, the baſis upon which to eſtabliſh her future ſerenity.

And this, though a work of pain and dif⯑ficulty, was not impracticable; her ſenſibility, [135] indeed, was keen, and ſhe had ſuffer⯑ed from it the utmoſt torture; but her feel⯑ings were not more powerful than her un⯑derſtanding was ſtrong, and her fortitude was equal to her trials. Her calamities had ſaddened, but not weakened her mind, and the words of Delvile in ſpeaking of his mother occurred to her now with all the conviction of experience, that ‘"evils ine⯑vitable are always beſt ſupported, becauſe known to be paſt amendment, and felt to give defiance to ſtruggling."^*’

A plan by which ſo great a revolution was to be wrought in her mind, was not to be effected by any ſudden effort of magna⯑nimity, but by a regular and even tenour of courage mingled with prudence. Nothing, therefore, appeared to her ſo indiſpenſable as conſtant employment, by which a variety of new images might force their way in her mind to ſupplant the old ones, and by which no time might be allowed for brood⯑ing over melancholy retroſpections.

Her firſt effort, in this work of mental reformation, was to part with Fidel, whom hitherto ſhe had almoſt involuntarily guard⯑ed, but whom ſhe only could ſee to revive the moſt dangerous recollections. She ſent him, therefore, to the caſtle, but without [136] any meſſage; Mrs. Delvile, ſhe was ſure, would require none to make her rejoice in his reſtoration.

Her next ſtep was writing to Albany, who had given her his direction, to acquaint him ſhe was now ready to put in practice their long concerted ſcheme. Albany inſtantly haſten⯑ed to her, and joyfully accepted the office of becoming at once her Almoner and her Mo⯑nitor. He made it his buſineſs to ſeek ob⯑jects of diſtreſs, and always but too certain to find them, of conducting her himſelf to their habitations, and then leaving to her own liberality the aſſiſtance their ſeveral caſes demanded: and, in the overflowing of his zeal upon theſe occaſions, and the rapture of his heart in thus diſpoſing, almoſt at his pleaſure, of her noble fortune, he ſeemed, at times, to feel an extaſy that, from its novelty and its exceſs, was almoſt too exquiſite to be borne. He joined with the beggars in pouring bleſſings upon her head, he prayed for her with the poor, and he [...]ked her with the ſuccoured.

The pew-opener and her children failed not to keep their appointment, and Cecilia preſently contrived to ſettle them in her neighbourhood: where the poor woman, as ſhe recovered her ſtrength, ſoon got a little work, and all deficiencies in her power of maintaining herſelf were ſupplied by her [137] generous patroneſs. The children, how⯑ever, ſhe ordered to be coarſely brought up, having no intention to provide for them but by helping them to common employ⯑ments.

The promiſe, alſo, ſo long made to Mrs. Harrel of an apartment in her houſe, was now performed. That lady accepted it with the utmoſt alacrity, glad to make any change in her ſituation, which conſtant ſo⯑litude had rendered wholly inſupportable. Mr. Arnott accompanied her to the houſe, and ſpent one day there; but receiving from Cecilia, though extremely civil and ſweet to him, no hint of any invitation for repeating his viſit, he left it in ſadneſs, and returned to his own in deep dejection. Ce⯑cilia ſaw with concern how he nouriſhed his hopeleſs paſſion, but knew that to ſuffer his viſits would almoſt authoriſe his feeding it; and while ſhe pitied unaffectedly the un⯑happineſs ſhe occaſioned, ſhe reſolved to double her own efforts towards avoiding ſimilar wretchedneſs.

This action, however, was a point of ho⯑nour, not of friendſhip, the time being long ſince paſt that the ſociety of Mrs. Harrel could afford her any pleaſure; but the promiſes ſhe had ſo often made to Mr. Harrel in his diſtreſſes, though extorted from her merely by the terrors of the moment, [138] ſtill were promiſes, and, therefore, ſhe held herſelf bound to fulfil them.

Yet far from finding comfort in this ad⯑dition to her family, Mrs. Harrel proved to her nothing more than a trouble and an in⯑cumbrance; with no inherent reſources, ſhe was continually in ſearch of occaſional ſupplies; ſhe fatigued Cecilia with wonder at the privacy of her life, and tormented her with propoſals of parties and entertain⯑ments. She was eternally in amazement that with powers ſo large, ſhe had wiſhes ſo confined, and was evidently diſappointed that upon coming to ſo ample an eſtate, ſhe lived, with reſpect to herſelf and her family, with no more magnificence or ſhew than if Heireſs to only 500l. a year.

But Cecilia was determined to think and to live for herſelf, without regard to un⯑meaning wonder or ſelfiſh remonſtrances; ſhe had neither ambition for ſplendour, nor ſpirits for diſſipation; the recent ſorrow of her heart had deadened it for the preſent to all perſonal taſte of happineſs, and her only chance for regaining it, ſeemed through the medium of beſtowing it upon others. She had ſeen, too, by Mr. Harrel, how wretch⯑edly external brilliancy could cover inward woe, and ſhe had learned at Delvile Caſtle to grow ſick of parade and grandeur. Her equipage, therefore, was without glare, [139] though not without elegance, her table was plain, though hoſpitably plentiful, her ſervants were for uſe, though too numerous to be for labour. The ſyſtem of her oeco⯑nomy, like that of her liberality, was form⯑ed by rules of reaſon, and her own ideas of right, and not by compliance with example, nor by emulation with the gentry in her neighbourhood.

But though thus deviating in her actions from the uſual cuſtoms of the young and rich, ſhe was peculiarly careful not to of⯑fend them by ſingularity of manners. When ſhe mixed with them, ſhe was eaſy, unaffected, and well bred, and though ſhe ſaw them but ſeldom, her good humour and deſire of obliging kept them always her friends. The plan ſhe had early formed at Mrs. Harrel's ſhe now ſtudied daily to put in practice; but that part by which the uſe⯑leſs or frivolous were to be excluded her houſe, ſhe found could only be ſupported by driving from her half her acquaintance.

Another part, alſo, of that project ſhe found ſtill leſs eaſy of adoption, which was ſolacing herſelf with the ſociety of the wiſe, good, and intelligent. Few anſwered this deſcription, and thoſe few were with diffi⯑culty attainable. Many might with joy have ſought out her liberal dwelling, but no one had idly waited till the moment it was at her diſpoſal. All who poſſeſſed at once [140] both talents and wealth, were ſo generally courted they were rarely to be procured; and all who to talents alone owed their con⯑ſequence, demanded, if worth acquiring, time and delicacy to be obtained. Fortune ſhe knew, however, was ſo often at war with Nature, that ſhe doubted not ſhortly meet⯑ing thoſe who would gladly avail them⯑ſelves of her offered protection.

Yet, tired of the murmurs of Mrs. Har⯑rel, ſhe longed for ſome relief from her ſo⯑ciety, and her deſire daily grew ſtronger to owe that relief to Henrietta Belfield. The more ſhe meditated upon this wiſh, the leſs unattainable it appeared to her, till by fre⯑quently combating its difficulties, ſhe be⯑gan to conſider them imaginary: Mrs. Bel⯑field, while her ſon was actually with herſelf, might ſee ſhe took not Henrietta as his ap⯑pendage; and Mr. Delvile, ſhould he make further enquiries, might hear that her real connection was with the ſiſter, ſince ſhe re⯑ceived her in the country, where the brother made no pretence to follow her. She con⯑ſidered, too, how ill ſhe ſhould be rewarded in giving up Henrietta for Mr. Delvile, who was already determined to think ill of her, and whoſe prejudices no ſacrifice would remove.

Having heſitated, therefore, ſome time be⯑tween the deſire of preſent alleviation, and [141] the fear of future miſchief, the conſciouſ⯑neſs of her own innocence at length van⯑quiſhed all dread of unjuſt cenſure, and ſhe wrote an invitation to Henrietta encloſed in a letter to her mother.

The anſwer of Henrietta expreſſed her rapture at the propoſal; and that of Mrs. Belfield made no objection but to the ex⯑pence.

Cecilia, therefore, ſent her own maid to travel with her into Suffolk, with proper directions to pay for the journey.

The gratitude of the delighted Henrietta at the meeting was boundleſs; and her joy at ſo unexpected a mark of favour made her half wild. Cecilia ſuffered it not to lan⯑guiſh for want of kindneſs to ſupport it; ſhe took her to her boſom, became the ſoother of all her cares, and repoſed in her, in return, every thought that led not to Delvile.

There, however, ſhe was uniformly ſilent; ſolemnly and eternally parted from him, far from truſting the ſecret of her former con⯑nexion to Henrietta, the whole ſtudy of her life was to drive the remembrance of it from herſelf.

Henrietta now taſted a happineſs to which as yet her whole life had been a ſtranger; ſhe was ſuddenly removed from turbulent vulgarity to the enjoyment of [142] calm elegance; and the gentleneſs of her diſpoſition, inſtead of being tyrannically impoſed upon, not only made her loved with affection, but treated with the moſt ſcrupulous delicacy. Cecilia had her ſhare in all the comfort ſhe beſtowed; ſhe had now a friend to oblige, and a companion to converſe with. She communicated to her all her ſchemes, and made her the part⯑ner of her benevolent excurſions; ſhe found her diſpoſition as amiable upon trial, as her looks and her manners had been engaging at firſt ſight; and her conſtant preſence and conſtant ſweetneſs, imperceptibly revived her ſpirits, and gave a new intereſt to her exiſtence.

Meantime Mr. Monckton, who returned in about a fortnight to the Grove, obſerved the encreaſing influence of Albany with the moſt ſerious concern. The bounties of Cecilia, extenſive, magnificent, unlimited, were the theme of every tongue, and though ſometimes cenſured and ſometimes admired, they were wondered at univer⯑ſally. He ſuffered her for a while to go on without remonſtrance, hoping her en⯑thuſiaſm would abate, as its novelty wore out: but finding that week following week was ſtill diſtinguiſhed by ſome freſh act of beneficence, he grew ſo alarmed and uneaſy, he could reſtrain himſelf no longer. He ſpoke to her with warmth, he repreſented [143] her conduct as highly dangerous in its conſequence; he ſaid ſhe would but court impoſtors from every corner of the king⯑dom, called Albany a lunatic, whom ſhe ſhould rather avoid than obey; and inſinu⯑ated that if a report was ſpread of her pro⯑ceedings, a charity ſo prodigal, would ex⯑cite ſuch alarm, that no man would think even her large and ſplendid fortune, would enſure him from ruin in ſeeking her al⯑liance.

Cecilia heard this exhortation without either terror or impatience, and anſwered it with the utmoſt ſteadineſs. His influence over her mind was no longer uncontrolled, for though her ſuſpicions were not ſtrength⯑ened, they had never been removed, and friendſhip has no foe ſo dangerous as diſ⯑truſt! She thanked him, however, for his zeal, but aſſured him his apprehenſions were groundleſs, ſince though ſhe acted from inclination, ſhe acted not without thought. Her income was very large, and ſhe was wholly without family or connec⯑tion; to ſpend it merely upon herſelf would be ſomething ſtill worſe than extravagance, it muſt reſult from wilfulneſs the moſt in⯑excuſable, as her diſp [...]ſition was naturally averſe to luxury and expence. She might ſave indeed, but for whom? not a creature had ſuch a claim upon her; and with regard [144] to herſelf, ſhe was ſo provided for it would be unneceſſary. She would never, ſhe de⯑clared, run in debt even for a week, but while her eſtate was wholly clear, ſhe would ſpend it without reſtriction.

To his hint of any future alliance, ſhe only ſaid that thoſe who diſapproved her conduct, would probably be thoſe ſhe ſhould diſapprove in her turn; ſhould ſuch an event however take place, the retrench⯑ing from that time all her preſent peculiar expences, would ſurely, in a clear 3000l. a⯑year, leave her rich enough for any man, without making it incumbent upon her at preſent, to deny herſelf the only pleaſure ſhe could taſte, in beſtowing that money which to her was ſuperfluous, upon thoſe who re⯑ceived it as the prolongation of their exiſ⯑tence.

A firmneſs ſo deliberate in a ſyſtem he ſo much dreaded, greatly ſhocked Mr. Monck⯑ton, though it intmidated him from oppoſ⯑ing it; he ſaw ſhe was too earneſt, and too well ſatiſfied ſhe was right, to venture giving her diſg [...] by controverting her ar⯑guments: the converſation, therefore, end⯑ed with new diſcontent to himſelf, and with an impreſſion upon the mind of Cecilia, that though he was zealous and friendly, he was ſomewhat too worldly and ſuſpicious.

She went on, therefore, as before, diſtributing [145] with a laviſh hand all ſhe could ſpare from her own houſhold; careful of no⯑thing but of guarding againſt impoſition, which, though ſhe ſometimes unavoidably endured, her diſcernment, and the activity of her inveſtigating diligence, ſaved her from ſuffering frequently. And the ſteadi⯑neſs with which ſhe repulſed thoſe whom ſhe detected in deceit, was a check upon tricks and fraud, though it could not whol⯑ly put a ſtop to them.

Money, to her, had long appeared worth⯑leſs and valueleſs; it had failed to procure her the eſtabliſhment for which ſhe once flattered herſelf it ſeemed purpoſely de⯑ſigned; it had been diſdained by the Del⯑viles, for the ſake of whoſe connection ſhe had alone ever truly rejoiced in poſſeſſing it; and after ſuch a conviction of its inef⯑ficacy to ſecure her happineſs, ſhe regard⯑ed it as of little importance to herſelf, and therefore thought it almoſt the due of thoſe whoſe diſtreſſes gave it a conſequence to which with her it was a ſtranger.

In this manner with Cecilia paſſed the firſt winter of her majority. She had ſedu⯑louſly filled it with occupations, and her occupations had proved fertile in keeping her mind from idleneſs, and in reſtoring it to chearfulneſs. Calls upon her attention [146] ſo ſoothing, and avocations ſo various for her time, had anſwered the great purpoſe for which originally ſhe had planned them, in almoſt forcing from her thoughts thoſe ſorrows which, if indulged, would have reſt⯑ed in them inceſſantly.

CHAP. VIII. AN ALARM.

THE ſpring was now advancing, and the weather was remarkably fine; when one morning, while Cecilia was walking with Mrs. Harrel and Henrietta on the lawn before her houſe, to which the laſt dinner bell was juſt ſummoning them, to return, Mrs. Harrel looked round and ſtopt at ſight of a gentleman galloping towards them, who in leſs than a minute ap⯑proached, and diſmounting and leaving his horſe to his ſervant, ſtruck them all at the ſame inſtant to be no other than young Delvile!

A ſight ſo unexpected, ſo unaccountable, ſo wonderful, after an abſence ſo long, and to which they were mutually bound, almoſt wholly over-powered Cecilia from ſurpriſe and a thouſand other feelings, and ſhe caught Mrs. Harrel by the arm, not knowing what ſhe did, as if for ſuccour; while Henrietta with ſcarce leſs, though much more glad emotion, ſuddenly exclaimed, ‘"'tis Mr. Delvile!"’ and ſprang forward to meet him.

[148] He had reached them, and in a voice that ſpoke hurry and perturbation, reſpect⯑fully made his compliments to them all, before Cecilia recovered even the uſe of her feet: but no ſooner were they reſtored to her, than ſhe employed them with the quickeſt motion in her power, ſtill leaning upon Mrs. Harrel, to haſten into the houſe. Her ſolemn promiſe to Mrs. Delvile became uppermoſt in her thoughts, and her ſurpriſe was ſoon ſucceeded by diſpleaſure, that thus, without any preparation, he forced her to break it by an interview ſhe had no means to prevent.

Juſt as they reached the entrance into the houſe, the Butler came to tell Cecilia that dinner was upon the table. Delvile then went up to her, and ſaid, ‘"May I wait upon you for one inſtant before—or after you dine?"’

‘"I am engaged, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, though hardly able to ſpeak, ‘"for the whole day."’

‘"You will not, I hope, refuſe to hear me,"’ cried he, eagerly, ‘"I cannot write what I have to ſay,—"’

‘"There is no occaſion that you ſhould, Sir,"’ interrupted ſhe, ‘"ſince I ſhould ſcarcely find time to read it."’

She then courtſied, though without look⯑ing at him, and went into the houſe; Delvile [149] remaining in utter diſmay, not daring, however wiſhing, to follow her. But when Mrs. Harrel, much ſurpriſed at behaviour ſo unuſual from Cecilia, approached him with ſome civil ſpeeches, he ſtarted, and wiſhing her good day, bowed, and remount⯑ed his horſe: purſued by the ſoft eyes of Henrietta till wholly out of ſight.

They then both followed Cecilia to the dining-parlour.

Had not Mrs. Harrel been of this ſmall party, the dinner would have been ſerved in vain; Cecilia, ſtill trembling with emo⯑tion, bewildered with conjecture, angry with Delvile for thus ſurpriſing her, angry with herſelf for ſo ſeverely receiving him, amazed what had tempted him to ſuch a violation of their joint agreement, and ir⯑reſolute as much what to wiſh as what to think, was little diſpoſed for eating, and with difficulty compelled herſelf to do the honours of her table.

Henrietta, whom the ſight of Delvile had at once delighted and diſturbed, whom the behaviour of Cecilia had filled with wonder and conſternation, and whom the evident inquietude and diſappointment which that behaviour had given to Delvile, had ſtruck with grief and terror, could not ſwallow even a morſel, but having cut her [150] meat about her plate, gave it, untouched, to a ſervant.

Mrs. Harrel, however, though ſhe had had her ſhare in the ſurpriſe, had wholly eſcaped all other emotion; and only con⯑cluded in her own mind, that Cecilia could ſometimes be out of humout and ill bred, as well as the reſt of the world.

While the deſert was ſerving, a note was brought to Henrietta, which a ſervant was waiting in great haſte to have anſwered.

Henrietta, ſtranger to all forms of polite⯑neſs, though by nature ſoft, obliging and de⯑licate, opened it immediately; ſhe ſtarted as ſhe caſt her eye over it, but bluſhed, ſpark⯑led, and looked enchanted, and haſtily riſing, without even a thought of any apo⯑logy, ran out of the room to anſwer it.

Cecilia, whoſe quick eye, by a glance unavoidable, had ſeen the hand of Delvile, was filled with new amazement at the ſight. As ſoon as the ſervants were gone, ſhe begged Mrs. Harrel to excuſe her, and went to her own apartment.

Here, in a few minutes, ſhe was followed by Henrietta, whoſe countenance beamed with pleaſure, and whoſe voice ſpoke tu⯑multuous delight. ‘"My dear, dear Miſs Beverley!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"I have ſuch a thing to tell you!—you would never gueſs it,—I don't know how to believe it myſelf,—but [151] Mr. Delvile has written to me!—he has indeed! that note was from him.—I have been locking it up, for fear of accidents, but I'll run and fetch it, that you may ſee it yourſelf."’

She then ran away; leaving Cecilia much perplexed, much uneaſy for herſelf, and both grieved and alarmed for the too ten⯑der, too ſuſceptible Henrietta, who was thus eaſily the ſport of every airy and credulous hope.

‘"If I did not ſhew it you,"’ cried Hen⯑rietta, running back in a moment, ‘"you would never think it poſſible, for it is to make ſuch a requeſt—that it has frightened me almoſt out of my wits!"’

Cecilia then read the note.

‘"Only think,"’ cried the rapturous Hen⯑rietta, ‘"it was me, poor ſimple me, of all people, that he wanted ſo to ſpeak with!—I am ſure I thought a different thought when he went away! but do, deareſt Miſs [152] Beverley, tell me this one thing, what do you think he can have to ſay to me?"’

‘"Indeed,"’ replied Cecilia, extremely embarraſſed, ‘"it is impoſſible for me to conjecture."’

‘"If you can't, I am ſure, then, it is no wonder I can't! and I have been thinking of a million of things in a minute. It can't be about any buſineſs, becauſe I know nothing in the world of any buſineſs; and it can't be about my brother, becauſe he would go to our houſe in town about him, and there he would ſee him himſelf; and it can't be about my dear Miſs Bever⯑ley, becauſe then he would have written the note to her: and it can't be about any body elſe, becauſe I know nobody elſe of his acquaintance."’

Thus went on the ſanguine Henrietta, ſettling whom and what it could not be about, till ſhe left but the one thing to which her wiſhes pointed that it could be about. Cecilia heard her with true com⯑paſſion, certain that ſhe was deceiving her⯑ſelf with imaginations the moſt pernicious; yet unable to know how to quell them, while in ſuch doubt and darkneſs herſelf.

This converſation was ſoon interrupted, by a meſſage that a gentleman in the par⯑lour begged to ſpeak with Miſs Belfield.

‘"O deareſt, deareſt Miſs Beverley!"’ [153] cried Henrietta, with encreaſing agitation, ‘"what in the world ſhall I ſay to him, adviſe me, pray adviſe me, for I can't think of a ſingle word!"’

‘"Impoſſible, my dear Henrietta, unleſs I knew what he would ſay to you!"’

‘"O but I can gueſs, I can gueſs!"’—cried ſhe, her cheeks glowing, while her whole frame ſhook, ‘"and I ſha'n't know what in the whole world to anſwer him! I know I ſhall behave like a fool,—I know I ſhall diſgrace myſelf ſadly!"’

Cecilia, truly ſorry Delvile ſhould ſee her in ſuch emotion, endeavoured earneſtly to compoſe her, though never leſs tranquil herſelf. But ſhe could not ſucceed, and ſhe went down ſtairs with expectations of happineſs almoſt too potent for her reaſon.

Not ſuch were thoſe of Cecilia; a dread of ſome new conflict took poſſeſſion of her mind, that mind ſo long tortured with ſtruggles, ſo lately reſtored to ſerenity!

Henrietta ſoon returned, but not the ſame Henrietta ſhe went;—the glow, the hope, the flutter were all over; ſhe looked pale and wan, but attempting, as ſhe en⯑tered the room, to call up a ſmile, ſhe failed, and burſt into tears.

Cecilia threw her arms round her neck, and tried to conſole her; but, happy to hide her face in her boſom, ſhe only gave [154] the freer indulgence to her grief, and rather melted than comforted by her tenderneſs, ſobbed aloud.

Cecilia too eaſily conjectured the diſap⯑pointment ſhe had met, to pain her by aſking it; ſhe forbore even to gratify her own curioſity by queſtions that could not but lead to her mortification, and ſuffering her therefore to take her own time for what ſhe had to cummunicate, ſhe hung over her in ſilence with the moſt patient pity.

Henrietta was very ſenſible of this kind⯑neſs, though ſhe knew not half its merit: but it was a long time before ſhe could ar⯑ticulate, for ſobbing, that all Mr. Delvile wanted, at laſt, was only to beg ſhe would acquaint Miſs Beverley, that he had done himſelf the honour of waiting upon her with a meſſage from Mrs. Delvile.

‘"From Mrs. Delvile?"’ exclaimed Ceci⯑lia, all emotion in her turn, ‘"good heaven! how much, then, have I been to blame? where is he now?—where can I ſend to him?—tell me, my ſweet Henrietta, this inſtant!"’

‘Oh madam!"’ cried Henrietta, burſting into a freſh flood of tears, ‘"how fooliſh have I been to open my ſilly heart to you!—he is come to pay his addreſſes to you!—I am ſure he is!—"’

‘"No, no, no!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"indeed [155] he is not!—but I muſt, I ought to ſee him,—where, my love, is he?"’

‘"In the parlour,—waiting for an an⯑ſwer.—"’

Cecilia, who at any other time would have been provoked at ſuch a delay in the delivery of a meſſage ſo important, felt now nothing but concern for Henrietta, whom ſhe haſtily kiſſed, but inſtantly, however, quitted, and hurried to Delvile, with expectations almoſt equally ſanguine as thoſe her poor friend but the moment before had cruſhed.

‘"Oh now, thought ſhe, if at laſt Mrs. Delvile herſelf has relented, with what joy will I give up all reſerve, all diſguiſe, and frankly avow the faithful affection of my heart!"’

Delvile received her not with the eager⯑neſs with which he had firſt addreſſed her; he looked extremely diſturbed, and, even after her entrance, undetermined how to begin.

She waited, however, his explanation in ſilence; and, after an irreſolute pauſe, he ſaid, with a gravity not wholly free from reſentment, ‘"I preſumed, madam, to wait upon you from the permiſſion of my mother; but I believe I have obtained it ſo late, that the influence I hoped from it is paſt!"’

[156] ‘"I had no means, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, chearfully, ‘"to know that you came from her: I ſhould elſe have received her com⯑mands without any heſitation."’

‘"I would thank you for the honour you do her, were it leſs pointedly excluſive. I have, however, no right of reproach! yet ſuffer me to aſk, could you, madam, after ſuch a parting, after a renunciation ſo ab⯑ſolute of all future claim upon you, which though extorted from me by duty, I was bound, having promiſed, to fulfil by prin⯑ciple,—could you imagine me ſo unſteady, ſo diſhonourable, as to obtrude myſelf into your preſence while that promiſe was ſtill in force?"’

‘"I find,’ cried Cecilia, in whom a ſecret hope every moment grew ſtronger, ‘"I have been too haſty; I did indeed believe Mrs. Delvile would never authoriſe ſuch a viſit; but as you have ſo much ſurpriſed me, I have a right to your pardon for a little doubt."’

‘"There ſpoke Miſs Beverley!"’ cried Delvile, re-animating at this little apology, ‘"the ſame, the unaltered Miſs Beverley I hoped to find!—yet is ſhe unaltered? am I not too precipitate? and is the tale I have heard about Belfield a dream? an error? a falſehood?"’

‘But that ſo quick a ſucceſſion of quarrels,"’ [157] ſaid Cecilia, half ſmiling, ‘"would be endleſs perplexity, I, now, would be affronted that you can aſk me ſuch a queſtion."’

‘"Had I, indeed, thought it a queſtion,"’ cried he, ‘"I would not have aſked it: but never for a moment did I credit it, till the rigour of your repulſe alarmed me. You have condeſcended, now, to account for that, and I am therefore encouraged to make known to you the purpoſe of my venturing this viſit. Yet not with confi⯑dence ſhall I ſpeak if, ſcarce even with hope!—it is a purpoſe that is the offspring of deſpair,—"’

‘One thing, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, who now became frightened again, ‘"let me ſay before you proceed; if your purpoſe has not the ſanction of Mrs. Delvile, as well as your viſit, I would gladly be excuſed hear⯑ing it, ſince I ſhall moſt certainly refuſe it."’

‘I would mention nothing,"’ anſwered he, ‘"without her concurrence; ſhe has given it me: and my father himſelf has permit⯑ted my preſent application."’

‘"Good Heaven!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"is it poſſible!"’ claſping her hands together in the eagerneſs of her ſurpriſe and delight.

‘"Is it poſſible!"’ repeated Delvile, with a look of rapture; ‘"ah Miſs Beverley! [158] —once my own Cecilia!—do you, can you wiſh it poſſible?"’

‘No, no!"’ cried ſhe, while pleaſure and expectation ſparkled in her eyes, ‘"I wiſh nothing about it.—Yet tell me how it has happened,—I am curious,"’ added ſhe, ſmil⯑ing, ‘"though not intereſted in it."’

‘"What hope would this ſweetneſs give me,"’ cried he, ‘"were my ſcheme almoſt any other than it is!—but you cannot,—no, it would be unreaſonable,—it would be madneſs to expect your compliance!—it is next to madneſs even in me to wiſh it,—but how ſhall a man who is deſperate be prudent and circumſpect?"’

‘"Spare, ſpare yourſelf,"’ cried the inge⯑nuous Cecilia, ‘"this unneceſſary pain!—you will find from me no unneceſſary ſcru⯑ples."’

‘"You know not what you ſay!—all no⯑ble as you are, the ſacrifice I have to propoſe—"’

‘"Speak it,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"with confi⯑dence! ſpeak it even with certainty of ſuc⯑ceſs! I will be wholly undiſguiſed, and openly, honeſtly own to you, that no pro⯑poſal, no ſacrifice can be mentioned, to which I will not inſtantly agree, if firſt it has had the approbation of Mrs. Delvile."’

Delvile's gratitude and thanks for a conceſſion never before ſo voluntarily made [15] to him, interrupted for a while, even his power of explaining himſelf. And now, for the firſt time, Cecilia's ſincerity was chearful, ſince now, for the firſt time, it ſeemed oppoſed by no duty.

When ſtill, therefore, he heſitated, ſhe her⯑ſelf held out her hand to him, ſaying, ‘"what muſt I do more? muſt I offer this pledge to you?"’

‘"For my life would I not reſign it!"’ cried he, delightedly receiving it; ‘"but oh, how ſoon will you withdraw it, when the only terms upon which I can hold it, are thoſe of making it ſign from itſelf its natu⯑ral right and inheritance?"’

Cecilia, not comprehending him, only looked amazed, and he proceeded.

‘"Can you, for my ſake, make ſuch a ſa⯑crifice as this? can you for a man who for yours is not permitted to give up his name, give up yourſelf the fortune of your late uncle? conſent to ſuch ſettlements as I can make upon you from my own? part with ſo ſplendid an income wholly and for-ever?—and with only your paternal 10,000l. con⯑deſcend to become mine, as if your uncle had never exiſted, and you had been Heir⯑eſs to no other wealth?"’

This, indeed, was a ſtroke to Cecilia un⯑equalled by any ſhe had met, and more cruel than any ſhe could have in reſerve. [160] At the propoſal of parting with her uncle's fortune, which, deſirable as it was, had as yet been only productive to her of miſery, her heart, diſintereſted, and wholly careleſs of money, was prompt to accede to the con⯑dition; but at the mention of her paternal fortune, that fortune, of which, now, not the ſmalleſt veſtige remained, horror ſeized all her faculties! ſhe turned pale, ſhe trembled, ſhe involuntarily drew back her hand, and betrayed, by ſpeechleſs agi⯑tation, the ſudden agonies of her ſoul!

Delvile, ſtruck by this evident diſmay, inſtantly concluded his plan had diſguſted her. He waited ſome minutes in anxious expectation of an anſwer, but finding her ſilence continue while her emotion encreaſ⯑ed, the deepeſt crimſon dyed his face, and unable to check his chagrin, though not daring to confeſs his diſappointment, he ſuddenly quitted her, and walked, in much diſorder, about the room. But ſoon reco⯑vering ſome compoſure, from the aſſiſtance of pride, ‘"Pardon, madam,"’ he ſaid, ‘"a trial ſuch as no man can be vindicated in making. I have indulged a romantic whim, which your better judgment diſapproves, and I receive but the mortification my pre⯑ſumption deſerved."’

‘"You know not then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, [161] in a faint voice, ‘"my inability to com⯑ply?"’

‘"Your ability, or inability, I preſume are elective?"’

‘"Oh no!—my power is loſt!—my for⯑tune itſelf is gone!"’

‘"Impoſſible! utterly impoſſible!"’ cried he with vehemence.

‘"Oh that it were!—your father knows it but too well."’

‘"My father!"’

‘"Did he, then, never hint it to you?"’

‘"Oh diſtraction!"’ cried Delvile, ‘"what horrible confirmation is coming!"’ and again he walked away, as if wanting cou⯑rage to hear her.

Cecilia was too much ſhocked to force upon him her explanation; but preſently returning to her, he ſaid ‘"you, only, could have made this credible!"’

‘"Had you, then, actually heard it?"’

‘"Oh I had heard it as the moſt infamous of falſhoods! my heart ſwelled with indig⯑nation at ſo villainous a calumny, and had it not come from my father, my reſentment at it had been inveterate!"’

‘"Alas!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"the fact is un⯑deniable! yet the circumſtances you may have heard with it, are I doubt not exag⯑gerated."’

‘"Exaggerated indeed!"’ he anſwered; [162] ‘"I was told you had been ſurpriſed conceal⯑ed with Belfield in a back room, I was told that your parental fortune was totally ex⯑hauſted, and that during your minority you had been a dealer with Jews! I was told all this by my father;—you may believe I had elſe not eaſily been made hear it!"’

‘"Yet thus far,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"he told you but what is true; though—"’

‘"True!"’ interrupted Delvile, with a ſtart almoſt frantic. ‘"Oh never, then, was truth ſo ſcandalouſly wronged!—I denied the whole charge!—I diſbelieved every ſyl⯑lable!—I pledged my own honour to prove every aſſertion falſe!"’

‘Generous Delvile!"’ cried Cecilia, melt⯑ing into tears, ‘"this is what I expected from you! and, believe me, in your inte⯑grity my reliance had been ſimilar!"’

‘"Why does Miſs Beverley weep?"’ cried he, ſoftened, and approaching her, ‘"and why has ſhe given me this alarm? theſe things muſt at leaſt have been miſre⯑preſented, deign, then, to clear up a myſ⯑tery in which ſuſpenſe is torture!"’

Cecilia, then, with what preciſion and clearneſs her agitation allowed her, related the whole hiſtory of her taking up the mo⯑ney of the Jew for Mr. Harrel, and told, without reſerve, the reaſon of her trying to abſcond from his father at Mrs. Belfield's. [163] Delvile liſtened to her account with almoſt an agony of attention, now admiring her conduct; now reſenting her ill uſage; now compaſſionating her loſſes; but though variouſly moved by different parts, receiv⯑ing from the whole the delight he moſt coveted in the eſtabliſhment of her in⯑nocence.

Thanks and applauſe the warmeſt, both accompanied and followed her narration; and then, at her requeſt, he related in re⯑turn the ſeveral incidents and circumſtan⯑ces to which he had owed the permiſſion of this viſit.

He had meant immediately to have gone abroad; but the indiſpoſition of his mo⯑ther made him unwilling to leave the king⯑dom till her health ſeemed in a ſituation leſs precarious. That time, however, came not; the Winter advanced, and ſhe grew evidently worſe. He gave over, therefore, his deſign till the next Spring, when, if ſhe were able, it was her deſire to try the South of France for her recovery, whither he meant to conduct her.

But, during his attendance upon her, the plan he had juſt mentioned occurred to him, and he conſidered how much greater would be his chance of happineſs in mar⯑rying Cecilia with ſcarce any fortune at all, than in marrying another with the largeſt. [164] He was convinced ſhe was far other than expenſive, or a lover of ſhew, and ſoon flattered himſelf ſhe might be prevailed upon to concur with him, that in living together, though comparatively upon little, they ſhould mutually be happier than in living aſunder upon much.

When he ſtarted this ſcheme to his mo⯑ther, ſhe heard it with mingled admiration of his diſintereſtedneſs, and regret at its occaſion: yet the loftineſs of her own mind, her high perſonal value for Cecilia, her anxiety to ſee her ſon finally ſettled while ſhe lived, leſt his diſappointment ſhould keep him ſingle from a laſting diſguſt, joined to a dejection of ſpirits from an appre⯑henſion that her interference had been cruel, all favoured his ſcheme, and forbid her re⯑ſiſtance. She had often proteſted, in their former conflicts, that had Cecilia been por⯑tionleſs, her objections had been leſs than to an eſtate ſo conditioned; and that to give to her ſon a woman ſo exalted in herſelf, ſhe would have conquered the mere oppo⯑ſition of intereſt, though that of family honour ſhe held invincible. Delvile now called upon her to remember thoſe words, and ever ſtrict in fidelity, ſhe ſtill promiſed to abide by them.

Ah! thought Cecilia, is virtue, then, as inconſiſtent as vice? and can the ſame character [165] be thus high-ſouled, thus nobly diſin⯑tereſted with regard to riches, whoſe pride is ſo narrow and ſo inſurmountable, with reſpect to family prejudice!

Yet ſuch a ſacrifice from Cecilia herſelf, whoſe income intitled her to ſettlements the moſt ſplendid, Mrs. Delvile thought ſcarce⯑ly to be ſolicited; but as her ſon was con⯑ſcious he gave up in expectation no leſs than ſhe would give up in poſſeſſion, he reſolved upon making the experiment, and felt an internal aſſurance of ſucceſs.

This matter being finally ſettled with his mother, the harder taſk remained of van⯑quiſhing the father, by whom, and before whom the name of Cecilia was never men⯑tioned, not even after his return from town, though loaded with imaginary charges a⯑gainſt her. Mr. Delvile held it a diminu⯑tion of his own in the honour of his ſon, to ſuppoſe he wanted ſtill freſh motives for reſigning her. He kept, therefore, to himſelf the ill opinion he brought down, as a reſource in caſe of danger, but a re⯑ſource he diſdained to make uſe of, unleſs driven to it by abſolute neceſſity.

But, at the new propoſal of his ſon, the accuſation held in reſerve broke out; he called Cecilia a dabler with Jews, and ſaid ſhe had been ſo from the time of her uncle's death; he charged her with the groſſeſt [166] general extravagance, to which he added a moſt inſiduous attack upon her character, drawn from her viſits at Belfield's of long ſtanding, as well as the particular time when he had himſelf ſurpriſed her conceal⯑ed with the young man in a back parlour: and he aſſerted, that moſt of the large ſums ſhe was continually taking up from her for⯑tune, were laviſhed without ſcruple upon this dangerous and improper favourite.

Delvile had heard this accuſation with a rage ſcarce reſtrained from violence; con⯑fident in her innocence, he boldly pronoun⯑ced the whole a forgery, and demanded the author of ſuch cruel defamation. Mr. Delvile, much offended, refuſed to name any authority, but conſented, with an air of triumph, to abide by the effect of his own propoſal, and gave him a ſuper⯑cilious promiſe no longer to oppoſe the marriage, if the terms he meant to offer to Miſs Beverley, of renouncing her uncle's eſtate, and producing her father's fortune, were accepted.

‘"Oh little did I credit,"’ ſaid Delvile in concluſion, ‘"that he knew indeed ſo well this laſt condition was impracticable! his aſſertions were without proof; I thought them prejudiced ſurmiſes; and I came in the full hope I ſhould convict him of his error. My mother, too, who warmly and [167] even angrily defended you, was as firm⯑ly ſatisfied as myſelf that the whole was a miſtake, and that enquiry would prove your fortune as undiminiſhed as your puri⯑ty. How will ſhe be ſhocked at the tale I have now to unfold! how irritated at your injuries from Harrel! how grieved that your own too great benevolence ſhould be productive of ſuch black aſperſions upon your character!"’

‘"I have been,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"too facile and too unguarded; yet always, at the mo⯑ment, I ſeemed but guided by common humanity. I have ever thought myſelf ſecure of more wealth than I could require, and regarded the want of money as an evil from which I was unavoidably exempted. My own fortune, therefore, appeared to me of ſmall conſequence, while the reve⯑nue of my uncle enſured me perpetual proſperity.—Oh had I foreſeen this mo⯑ment!—"’

‘"Would you, then, have liſtened to my romantic propoſal?"’

‘"Would I have liſtened?—do you not ſee too plainly I could not have heſi⯑tated!"’

‘"Oh yet, then, moſt generous of hu⯑man beings, yet then be mine! By our own oeconomy we will pay off our mort⯑gages; by living a while abroad, we will [168] clear all our eſtates; I will ſtill keep the name to which my family is bigotted, and my gratitude for your compliance ſhall make you forget what you loſe by it!"’

‘"Speak not to me ſuch words!"’ cried Cecilia, haſtily riſing; ‘"your friends will not liſten to them, neither, therefore, muſt I."’

‘"My friends,"’ cried he with energy, ‘"are henceforth out of the queſtion: my father's concurrence with a propoſal he knew you had not power to grant, was in fact a mere permiſſion to inſult you; for if, inſtead of dark charges, he had given any authority for your loſſes, I had myſelf ſpared you the ſhock you have ſo undeſer⯑vedly received from hearing it.—But to conſent to a plan which could not be accept⯑ed!—to make me a tool to offer indignity to Miſs Beverley!—He has releaſed me from his power by ſo erroneous an exertion of it, and my own honour has a claim to which his commands muſt give place. That honour binds me to Miſs Beverley as forcibly as my admiration, and no voice but her own ſhall determine my future deſtiny."’

‘"That voice, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"a⯑gain refers you to your mother. Mr. Del⯑vile, indeed, has not treated me kindly; and this laſt mock conceſſion was unneceſſary [169] cruelty; but Mrs. Delvile merits my utmoſt reſpect, and I will liſten to nothing which has not her previous ſanction."’

‘"But will her ſanction be ſufficient? and may I hope, in obtaining it, the ſecu⯑rity of yours?"’

‘"When I have ſaid I will hear nothing without it, may you not almoſt infer—I will refuſe nothing with it!"’

The acknowledgements he would now have poured forth, Cecilia would not hear, telling him, with ſome gaiety, they were yet unauthorized by Mrs. Delvile. She inſiſt⯑ed upon his leaving her immediately, and never again returning, without his mother's expreſs approbation. With regard to his father, ſhe left him totally to his own in⯑clination; ſhe had received from him nothing but pride and incivility, and determined to ſhew publicly her ſuperior reſpect for Mrs. Delvile, by whoſe diſcretion and deciſion ſhe was content to abide.

‘"Will you not, then, from time to time,"’ cried Delvile, ‘"ſuffer me to conſult with you?"’

‘"No, no,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"do not aſk it! I have never been inſincere with you, never but from motives not to be overcome, re⯑ſerved even for a moment; I have told you I will put every thing into the power of Mrs. Delvile, but I will not a ſecond [170] time riſk my peace by any action unknown to her."’

Delvile gratefully acknowledged her goodneſs, and promiſed to require nothing more. He then obeyed her by taking leave, eager himſelf to put an end to this new un⯑certainty, and ſupplicating only that her good wiſhes might follow his enterpriſe.

And thus, again, was wholly broken the tranquility of Cecilia; new hopes, however faint, awakened all her affections, and ſtrong fears, but too reaſonable, interrupted her repoſe. Her deſtiny, once more, was as unde⯑cided as ever, and the expectations ſhe had cruſhed, retook poſſeſſion of her heart.

The ſuſpicions ſhe had conceived of Mr. Monckton again occurred to her; though unable to aſcertain and unwilling to believe them, ſhe tried to drive them from her thoughts. She lamented, however, with bit⯑terneſs, her unfortunate connexion with Mr. Harrel, whoſe unworthy impoſitions upon her kindneſs of temper and generoſity, now proved to her an evil far more ſerious and extenſive, than in the midſt of her repug⯑nance to them ſhe had ever apprehended.

CHAP. IX. A SUSPENSE.

DELVILE had been gone but a ſhort time, before Henrietta, her eyes ſtill red, though no longer ſtreaming, open⯑ed the parlour door, and aſked if ſhe might come in?

Cecilia wiſhed to be alone, yet could not refuſe her.

‘"Well, madam,"’ cried ſhe, with a forced ſmile, and conſtrained air of bra⯑very, ‘"did not I gueſs right?"’

‘"In what?"’ ſaid Cecilia, unwilling to underſtand her.

‘"In what I ſaid would happen?—I am ſure you know what I mean."’

Cecilia, extremely embarraſſed, made no anſwer; ſhe much regretted the circumſtances which had prevented an earlier communi⯑cation, and was uncertain whether, now, it would prove moſt kind or moſt cruel to acquaint her with what was in agitation, which, ſhould it terminate in nothing, was unneceſſarily wounding her delicacy for the openneſs of her confidence, and which, [172] however ſerviceable it might prove to her in the end, was in the means ſo rough and piercing ſhe felt the utmoſt repugnance to the experiment.

‘"You think me, madam, too free,"’ ſaid Henrietta, ‘"in aſking ſuch a queſtion; and indeed your kindneſs has been ſo great, it may well make me forget myſelf: but if it does, I am ſure I deſerve you ſhould ſend me home directly, and then there is not much fear I ſhall ſoon be brought to my ſenſes!"’

‘"No, my dear Henrietta, I can never think you too free; I have told you al⯑ready every thing I thought you would have pleaſure in hearing; whatever I have concealed, I have been fearful would only pain you."’

‘"I have deſerved, madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, with ſpirit, ‘"to be pained, for I have behaved with the folly of a baby. I am very angry with myſelf indeed! I was old enough to have known better,—and I ought to have been wiſe enough."’

‘"You muſt then be angry with yourſelf, next,"’ ſaid Cecilia, anxious to re-encourage her, ‘"for all the love that I bear you; ſince to your openneſs and frankneſs it was entirely owing."’

‘"But there are ſome things that people ſhould not be frank in; however, I am only [173] come now to beg you will tell me, madam, when it is to be;—and don't think I aſk out of nothing but curioſity, for I have a very great reaſon for it indeed."’

‘"What be, my dear Henrietta?—you are very rapid in your ideas!"’

‘"I will tell you, madam, what my rea⯑ſon is; I ſhall go away to my own home,—and ſo I would if it were ten times a worſe home than it is!—juſt exactly the day before. Becauſe afterwards I ſhall never like to look that gentleman in the face,—never, never!—for married ladies I know are not to be truſted!"’

‘"Be not apprehenſive; you have no oc⯑caſion. Whatever may be my fate, I will never be ſo treacherous as to betray my be⯑loved Henrietta to any body."’

‘"May I aſk you, madam, one queſtion?"’

‘"Certainly."’

‘"Why did all this never happen be⯑fore?"’

‘"Indeed,"’ cried Cecilia, much diſtreſſ⯑ed, ‘"I know not that it will happen now."’

‘"Why what, dear madam, can hinder it?"’

‘"A thouſand, thouſand things! nothing can be leſs ſecure."’

‘"And then I am ſtill as much puzzled as ever. I heard, a good while ago, and we all heard that it was to be; and I thought [174] that it was no wonder, I am ſure, for I uſed often to think it was juſt what was moſt likely; but afterwards we heard it was no ſuch thing, and from that moment I always believed there had been nothing at all in it."’

‘"I muſt ſpeak to you, I find, with ſin⯑cerity; my affairs have long been in ſtrange perplexity: I have not known myſelf what to expect; one day has perpetually reverſ⯑ed the proſpect of another, and my mind has been in a ſtate of uncertainty and diſor⯑der, that has kept it—that ſtill keeps it from comfort and from reſt!"’

‘"This ſurpriſes me indeed, madam! I thought you were all happineſs! but I was ſure you deſerved it, and I thought you had it for that reward. And this has been the thing that has made me behave ſo wrong; for I took it into my head I might tell you every thing, becauſe I concluded it could be nothing to you; for if great people loved one another, I always ſuppoſed they married directly; poor people, indeed, muſt ſtay till they are able to ſettle; but what in the whole world, thought I, if they like one another, ſhould hinder ſuch a rich lady as Miſs Beverley from marrying ſuch a rich gentleman at once?"’

Cecilia now, finding there was no longer any chance for concealment, thought it bet⯑ter to give the poor Henrietta at leaſt the [175] gratification of unreſerved confidence, which might ſomewhat ſooth her uneaſineſs by proving her reliance in her faith. She frankly, therefore, confeſſed to her the whole of her ſituation. Henrietta wept at the recital with bitterneſs, thought Mr. Delvile a monſter, and Mrs. Delvile herſelf ſcarce human; pitied Cecilia with unaffect⯑ed tenderneſs, and wondered that the perſon could exiſt who had the heart to give grief to young Delvile! She thanked her moſt gratefully for repoſing ſuch truſt in her; and Cecilia made uſe of this opportunity, to enforce the neceſſity of her ſtruggling more ſeriouſly to recover her indifferency.

She promiſed ſhe would not fail; and for⯑bore ſteadily from that time to name Del⯑vile any more: but the depreſſion of her ſpirits ſhewed ſhe had ſuffered a diſap⯑pointment ſuch as aſtoniſhed even Cecilia. Thought modeſt and humble, ſhe had con⯑ceived hopes the moſt romantic, and though ſhe denied, even to herſelf, any expectations from Delvile, ſhe involuntarily nouriſhed them with the moſt ſanguine ſimplicity. To compoſe and to ſtrengthen her became the whole buſineſs of Cecilia; who, during her preſent ſuſpenſe, could find no other em⯑ployment in which ſhe could take any in⯑tereſt.

[176] Mr. Monckton, to whom nothing was unknown that related to Cecilia, was ſoon informed of Delvile's viſit, and haſtened in the utmoſt alarm, to learn its event. She had now loſt all the pleaſure ſhe had for⯑merly derived from confiding in him, but though averſe and confuſed, could not withſtand his enquiries.

Unlike the tender Henrietta's was his diſappointment at this relation, and his rage at ſuch repeated trials was almoſt more than he could curb. He ſpared neither the Del⯑viles for their inſolence of mutability in re⯑jecting or ſeeking her at their pleaſure, nor herſelf for her eaſineſs of ſubmiſſion in be⯑ing thus the dupe of their caprices. The ſubject was difficult for Cecilia to dilate up [...] ſhe wiſhed to clear, as he deſerved, Delvile himſelf from any ſhare in the cen⯑ſure, and ſhe felt hurt and offended at the charge of her own improper readineſs; yet ſhame and pride united in preventing much vindication of either, and ſhe heard almoſt in ſilence what with pain ſhe bore to hear at all.

He now ſaw, with inexpreſſible diſturb⯑ance, that whatever was his power to make her uneaſy, he had none to make her re⯑tract, and that the conditional promiſe ſhe had given Delvile to be wholly governed by [177] his mother, ſhe was firm in regarding to be as ſacred as one made at the altar.

Perceiving this, he dared truſt his tem⯑per with no further debate; he aſſumed a momentary calmneſs for the purpoſe of taking leave of her, and with pretended good wiſhes for her happineſs, whatever might be her determination, he ſtifled the reproaches with which his whole heart was ſwelling, and precipitately left her.

Cecilia, affected by his earneſtneſs, yet perplexed in all her opinions, was glad to be relieved from uſeleſs exhortations, and not ſorry, in her preſent uncertainty, that his viſit was not repeated.

She neither ſaw nor heard from Delvile for a week, and augured nothing but evil from ſuch delay. The following letter then came by the poſt.

Scarcely could Cecilia herſelf decide whether this comfortleſs letter or none at all were preferable. The implacability of Mr. Delvile was ſhocking, but his ſlander⯑ing her character was ſtill more intolerable; yet the praiſes of the mother, and her gene⯑rous vindication, joined to the invariable reliance of Delvile upon her innocence, conferred upon her an honour that offered ſome alleviation.

The mention of a fabricator again brought Mr. Monckton to her mind, and not all her unwillingneſs to think him capable of ſuch treachery, could now root out her ſuſ⯑picions. Delvile's temper, however, ſhe knew was too impetuous to be truſted with this conjecture, and her fear of committing injuſtice being thus ſeconded by prudence, ſhe determined to keep to herſelf doubts that could not without danger be divulged.

She communicated briefly to Henrietta, who looked her earneſt curioſity, the con⯑tinuance of her ſuſpenſe; and to her own fate Henrietta became ſomewhat more re⯑conciled, when ſhe ſaw that no ſtation in life rendered happineſs certain or permanent.

CHAP. X. A RELATION.

ANOTHER week paſt ſtill without any further intelligence. Cecilia was then ſummoned to the parlour, and to Del⯑vile himſelf.

He looked hurried and anxious; yet the glow of his face, and the animation of his eyes, immediately declared he at leaſt came not to take leave of her.

‘"Can you forgive,"’ cried he, ‘"the diſ⯑mal and unſatisfactory letter I wrote you? I would not diſobey you twice in the ſame manner, and I could not till now have written in any other."’

‘"The conſultation with the phyſicians, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"is over?"’

‘"Alas, yes; and the reſult is moſt alarming; they all agree my mother is in a dangerous way, and they rather forbear to oppoſe, than adviſe her going abroad: but upon that ſhe is earneſtly bent, and in⯑tends to ſet out without delay. I ſhall re⯑turn to her, therefore, with all ſpeed, and mean not to take any reſt till I have ſeen her."’

[183] Cecilia expreſſed with tenderneſs her ſor⯑row for Mrs. Delvile: nor were her looks illiberal in including her ſon in her con⯑cern.

‘"I muſt haſten,"’ he cried, ‘"to the cre⯑dentials by which I am authoriſed for com⯑ing, and I muſt haſten to prove if Miſs Beverley has not flattered my mother in her appeal."’

He then informed her that Mrs. Delvile, apprehenſive for herſelf, and ſoftened for him by the confeſſion of her danger, which ſhe had extorted from her phyſicians, had tenderly reſolved upon making one final effort for his happineſs, and ill and impa⯑tient as ſhe was, upon deferring her journey to wait its effect.

Generouſly, therefore, giving up her own reſentment, ſhe wrote to Mr. Delvile in terms of peace and kindneſs, lamenting their late diſſention, and ardently expreſ⯑ſing her deſire to be reconciled to him be⯑fore ſhe left England. She told him the uncertainty of her recovery which had been acknowledged by her phyſicians, who had declared a calmer mind was more eſſential to her than a purer air. She then added, that ſuch ſerenity was only to be given her, by the removal of her anxiety at the comfortleſs ſtate of her ſon. She begged him, therefore, to make known the author [184] of Miſs Beverley's defamation, aſſuring him, that upon enquiry, he would find her cha⯑racter and her fame as unſullied as his own; and ſtrongly repreſenting, that after the ſa⯑crifice to which ſhe had conſented, their ſon would be utterly diſhonourable in thinking of any other connexion. She then to this reaſoning joined the moſt earneſt ſupplication, proteſting, in her preſent diſ⯑ordered ſtate of health, her life might pay the forfeiture of her continual uneaſineſs.

‘"I held out,"’ ſhe concluded, ‘"while his perſonal dignity, and the honour of his name and family were endangered; but where intereſt alone is concerned, and that intereſt is combatted by the peace of his mind, and the delicacy of his word, my oppoſition is at an end. And though our exttenſive and well founded views for a ſplendid alliance are aboliſhed, you will agree with me hereafter, upon a cloſer in⯑ſpection, that the object for whom he re⯑linquiſhes them, offers in herſelf the nobleſt reparation."’

Cecilia felt gratified, humbled, animated and depreſſed at once by this letter, of which Delvile brought her a copy. ‘"And what,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"was the anſwer?"’

‘"I cannot in decency,"’ he replied, ‘"ſpeak my opinion of it: read it yourſelf,—and let me hear yours."’

[186] A few cold compliments concerning her journey, and the re-eſtabliſhment of her health, concluded the letter.

Cecilia, having read, haſtily returned it, and indignantly ſaid, ‘"My opinion, Sir, upon this letter, muſt ſurely be yours; that we had done wiſer, long ſince, to have ſpared your mother and ourſelves, thoſe vain and fruitleſs conflicts which we ought better to have foreſeen were liable to ſuch a concluſion. Now, at leaſt, let them be ended, and let us not purſue diſgrace wil⯑fully, after ſuffering from it with ſo much rigour involuntarily."’

‘"O no,"’ cried Delvile, ‘"rather let us now ſpurn it for ever! thoſe conflicts muſt indeed be ended, but not by a ſeparation ſtill more bitter than all of them."’

He then told her, that his mother, highly offended to obſerve by the extreme coldneſs of this letter, the rancour he ſtill nouriſh⯑ed for the conteſt preceding her leaving him, no longer now refuſed even her ſepa⯑rate conſent, for a meaſure which ſhe thought her ſon abſolutely engaged to take.

‘"Good heaven!"’ cried Cecilia, much amazed, ‘"this from Mrs. Delvile!—a ſe⯑parate conſent!—"’

‘"She has always maintained,"’ he an⯑ſwered, ‘"an independent mind, always judged for herſelf, and refuſed all other [187] arbitration: when ſo impetuouſly ſhe part⯑ed us, my father's will happened to be her's, and thence their concurrence: my father, of a temper immoveable and ſtern, retains ſtubbornly the prejudices which once have taken poſſeſſion of him; my mother, gene⯑rous as fiery, and noble as proud, is open to conviction, and no ſooner convinced, than ingenuous in acknowledging it: and thence their diſſention. From my father I may hope forgiveneſs, but muſt never expect conceſſion; from my mother I may hope all ſhe ought to grant, for pardon but her vehemence,—and ſhe has every great qua⯑lity that can dignify human nature!"’

Cecilia, whoſe affection and reverence for Mrs. Delvile were unfeigned, and who loved in her ſon this filial enthuſiaſm, readily con⯑curred with him in praiſing her, and ſin⯑cerely eſteemed her the firſt among women.

‘"Now, then,"’ cried he, with earneſt⯑neſs," ‘now is the time when your generous admiration of her is put to the teſt; ſee what ſhe writes to you;—ſhe has left to me all explanation: but I inſiſted upon ſome credential, leſt you ſhould believe I only owed her concurrence to a happy dream."’

Cecilia in much trepidation took the let⯑ter, and haſtily run it over.

Cecilia wept over this letter with tender⯑neſs, grief and alarm; but declared, had it even ſummoned her to follow her abroad, ſhe could not, after reading it, have heſitat⯑ed in complying.

‘"O now, then,"’ cried Delvile, ‘"let our long ſuſpenſes end! hear me with the can⯑dour; my mother has already liſtened to me—be mine, my Cecilia, at once,—and force me not, by eternal ſcruples, to riſk another ſeparation."’

‘"Good heaven, Sir!"’ cried Cecilia, ſtarting, ‘"in ſuch a ſtate as Mrs. Delvile thinks herſelf, would you have her journey delayed?"’

[191] ‘"No, not a moment! I would but en⯑ſure you mine, and go with her all over the world!"’

‘"Wild and impoſſible!—and what is to be done with Mr. Delvile?"’

‘"It is on his account wholly I am thus earneſtly precipitate. If I do not by an immediate marriage prevent his further in⯑terference, all I have already ſuffered may again be repeated, and ſome freſh conteſt with my mother may occaſion another re⯑lapſe."’

Cecilia, who now underſtood him, ar⯑dently proteſted ſhe would not liſten for a moment to any clandeſtine expedient.

He beſought her to be patient; and then anxiouſly repreſented to her their peculiar ſituations. All application to his father he was peremptorily forbid making, all efforts to remove his prejudices their impenetrable myſtery prevented; a public marriage, therefore, with ſuch obſtacles, would almoſt irritate him to phrenzy, by its daring defi⯑ance of his prohibition and authority.

‘"Alas!"’ exclaimed Cecilia, ‘"we can never do right but in parting!"’

‘"Say it not,"’ cried he, ‘"I conjure you! we ſhall yet live, I hope, to prove the con⯑trary."’

‘"And can you, then,"’ cried ſhe, re⯑proachfully, ‘"Oh Mr. Delvile! can you [192] again urge me to enter your family in ſe⯑cret?"’

‘"I grieve, indeed,"’ he anſwered, ‘"that your goodneſs ſhould ſo ſeverely be tried; yet did you not condeſcend to commit the arbitration to my mother?"’

‘"True; and I thought her approbation would ſecure my peace of mind; but how could I have expected Mrs. Delvile's con⯑ſent to ſuch a ſcheme!"’

‘"She has merely accorded it from a cer⯑tainty there is no other reſource. Believe me, therefore, my whole hope reſts upon your preſent compliance. My father, I am certain, by his letter, will now hear neither petition nor defence; on the contrary, he will only enrage at the temerity of offering to confute him. But when he knows you are his daughter, his honour will then be concerned in yours, and it will be as much his deſire to have it cleared, as it is now to have it cenſured."’

‘"Wait at leaſt your return, and let us try what can be done with him."’

‘"Oh why,"’ cried Delvile, with much earneſtneſs, ‘"muſt I linger out month after month in this wretched uncertainty!" If I wait I am undone! my father, by the orders I muſt unavoidably leave, will diſcover the preparations making without his conſent, and he will work upon you in my abſence, and compel you to give me up!"’

[193] ‘"Are you ſure,"’ ſaid ſhe, half ſmiling, ‘"he would have ſo much power?"’

‘"I am but too ſure, that the leaſt inti⯑mation, in his preſent irritable ſtate of mind, reaching him of my intentions, would make him not ſcruple, in his fury, pronouncing ſome malediction upon my diſobedience that neither of us, I muſt own, could tran⯑quilly diſregard."’

This was an argument that came home to Cecilia, whoſe deliberation upon it, though ſilent, was evidently not unfavourable.

He then told her that with reſpect to ſet⯑tlements, he would inſtantly have a bond drawn up, ſimilar to that prepared for their former intended union, which ſhould be properly ſigned and ſealed, and by which he would engage himſelf to make, upon coming to his eſtate, the ſame ſettlement upon her that was made upon his mother.

‘"And as, inſtead of keeping up three houſes,"’ he continued, ‘"in the manner my father does at preſent, I mean to put my whole eſtate out to nurſe, while we reſide for a while abroad, or in the country, I doubt not but in a very few years we ſhall be as rich and as eaſy as we ſhall deſire."’

He told her, alſo, of his well-founded expectations from the Relations already mentioned; which the concurrence of his [194] mother with his marriage would thence for⯑ward ſecure to him.

He then, with more coherence, ſtated his plan at large. He purpoſed, without loſing a moment, to return to London; he con⯑jured her, in the name of his mother, to ſet out herſelf early the next day, that the following evening might be dedicated whol⯑ly to Mrs. Delvile: through her interceſ⯑ſion he might then hope Cecilia's compli⯑ance, and every thing on the morning after ſhould be prepared for their union. The long-deſired ceremony over, he would in⯑ſtantly ride poſt to his father, and pay him, at leaſt, the reſpect of being the firſt to com⯑municate it. He would then attend his mother to the Continent, and leave the ar⯑rangement of every thing to his return. ‘"Still, therefore, as a ſingle man,"’ he continued, ‘"I mean to make the journey, and I ſhall take care, by the time I return, to have all things in readineſs for claiming my ſweet Bride. Tell me, then, now, if you can reaſonably oppoſe this plan?"’

‘"Indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, after ſome heſi⯑tation, ‘"I cannot ſee the neceſſity of ſuch violent precipitancy."’

‘"Do you not try me too much,"’ cried Delvile, impatiently, ‘"to talk now of pre⯑cipitancy! after ſuch painful waiting, ſuch [195] weariſome expectation! I aſk you not to involve your own affairs in confuſion by accompanying me abroad; ſweet to me as would be ſuch an indulgence, I would not make a run-away of you in the opinion of the world. All I wiſh is the ſecret certainty I cannot be robbed of you, that no cruel machinations may again work our ſepara⯑tion, that you are mine, unalterably mine, beyond the power of caprice or ill fortune."’

Cecilia made no anſwer; tortured with irreſolution, ſhe knew not upon what to de⯑termine.

‘"We might then, according to the favour or diſpleaſure of my father, ſettle wholly abroad for the preſent, or occaſionally viſit him in England; my mother would be al⯑ways and openly our friend.—Oh be firm, then, I conjure you, to the promiſe you have given her, and deign to be mine on the conditions ſhe preſcribes. She will be bound to you for ever by ſo generous a conceſſion, and even her health may be reſtored by the ceſſation of her anxieties. With ſuch a wife, ſuch a mother, what will be wanting for me! Could I lament not being richer, I muſt be rapacious indeed!—Speak, then, my Cecilia! relieve me from the agony of this eternal uncertainty, and tell me your word is invariable as your honour, and tell me my mother gives not her ſanction in vain!"’

[196] Cecilia ſighed deeply, but, after ſome he⯑ſitation, ſaid, ‘"I little knew what I pro⯑miſed, nor know I now what to perform!—there muſt ever, I find, be ſome check to human happineſs! yet, ſince upon theſe terms, Mrs. Delvile herſelf is content to wiſh me of her family—"’

She ſtopt; but, urged earneſtly by Del⯑vile, added ‘"I muſt not, I think, with⯑draw the powers with which I entruſted her."’

Delvile, grateful and enchanted, now forgot his haſte and his buſineſs, and loſt every wiſh but to re-animate her ſpirits: ſhe compelled him, however, to leave her, that his viſit might leſs be wondered at, and ſent by him a meſſage to Mrs. Delvile, that, wholly relying upon her wiſdom, ſhe impli⯑citly ſubmitted to her decree.

CHAP. XI. AN ENTERPRISE.

CECILIA now had no time for after⯑thoughts or anxious repentance, ſince notwithſtanding the hurry of her ſpirits, and the confuſion of her mind, ſhe had too much real buſineſs, to yield to penſive indulgence.

Averſe to all falſehood, ſhe invented none upon this occaſion; ſhe merely told her gueſts ſhe was ſummoned to London upon an affair of importance; and though ſhe ſaw their curioſity, not being at liberty to ſatis⯑fy it with the truth, ſhe attempted not to appeaſe it by fiction, but quietly left it to its common fare, conjecture. She would gladly have made Henrietta the companion of her journey, but Henrietta was the laſt to whom that journey could give pleaſure. She only, therefore, took her maid in the chaiſe, and, attended by one ſervant on horſeback, at ſix o'clock the next morning, ſhe quitted her manſion, to enter into an engagement by which ſoon ſhe was to re⯑ſign it for ever.

[198] Diſintereſted as ſhe was, ſhe conſidered her ſituation as peculiarly perverſe, that from the time of her coming to a fortune which moſt others regarded as enviable, ſhe had been a ſtranger to peace, a fruitleſs ſeeker of happineſs, a dupe to the fraudu⯑lent, and a prey to the needy! the little comfort ſhe had received, had been merely from diſpenſing it, and now only had ſhe any chance of being happy herſelf, when upon the point of relinquiſhing what all others built their happineſs upon ob⯑taining!

Theſe reflections only gave way to others ſtill more diſagreeable; ſhe was now a ſe⯑cond time engaged in a tranſaction ſhe could not approve, and ſuffering the whole peace of her future life to hang upon an action dark, private and imprudent: an action by which the liberal kindneſs of her late uncle would be annulled, by which the father of her intended huſband would be diſobeyed, and which already, in a ſimilar inſtance, had brought her to affliction and diſgrace. Theſe melancholy thoughts haunted her during the whole journey, and though the aſſurance of Mrs. Delvile's ap⯑probation was ſome relief to her uneaſineſs, ſhe involuntarily prepared herſelf for meet⯑ing new mortifications, and was tormented [199] with an apprehenſion that this ſecond at⯑tempt made her merit them.

She drove immediately, by the previous direction of Delvile, to a lodging-houſe in Albemarle-Street, which he had taken care to have prepared for her reception. She then ſent for a chair, and went to Mrs. Delvile's. Her being ſeen by the ſervants of that houſe was not very important, as their maſter was ſoon to be acquainted with the real motive of her journey.

She was ſhewn into a parlour, while Mrs. Delvile was informed of her arrival, and there flown to by Delvile with the moſt grateful eagerneſs. Yet ſhe ſaw in his countenance that all was not well, and heard upon enquiry that his mother was con⯑ſiderably worſe.

Extremely ſhocked by this intelligence, ſhe already began to lament her unfortu⯑nate enterpriſe. Delvile ſtruggled, by ex⯑erting his own ſpirits, to reſtore her's, but forced gaiety is never exhilarating; and, full of care and anxiety, he was ill able to appear ſprightly and eaſy.

They were ſoon ſummoned up ſtairs into the apartment of Mrs. Delvile, who was lying upon a couch, pale, weak, and much altered. Delvile led the way, ſaying, ‘"Here, madam, comes one whoſe ſight will bring peace and pleaſure to you!"’

[200] ‘"This, indeed,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, half riſing and embracing her, ‘"is the form in which they are moſt welcome to me! virtuous, noble Cecilia! what honour you do my ſon! with what joy, ſhould I ever recover, ſhall I aſſiſt him in paying the gratitude he owes you!"’

Cecilia, grieved at her ſituation, and af⯑fected by her kindneſs, could only anſwer with her tears; which, however, were not ſhed alone; for Devile's eyes were full, as he paſſionately exclaimed, ‘"This, this is the ſight my heart has thus long deſired! the wife of my choice taken to the boſom of the parent I revere! be yet but well, my beloved mother, and I will be thankful for every calamity that has led to ſo ſweet a concluſion!"’

‘"Content yourſelf, however, my ſon, with one of us,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ſmiling; ‘"and content yourſelf, if you can, though your hard lot ſhould make that one this crea⯑ture of full bloom, health, and youth! Ah, my love,"’ added ſhe, more ſeriouſly, and ad⯑dreſſing the ſtill weeping Cecilia, ‘"ſhould now Mortimer, in loſing me, loſe thoſe cares by which alone, for ſome months paſt, my life has been rendered tolerable, how peaceably ſhall I reſign him to one ſo able to recompenſe his filial patience and ſervices!"’

[201] This was not a ſpeech to ſtop the tears of Cecilia, though ſuch warmth of appro⯑bation quieted her conſcientious ſcruples. Delvile now earneſtly interfered; he told her that his mother had been ordered not to talk or exert herſelf, and entreated her to be compoſed, and his mother to be ſilent.

‘"Be it your buſineſs, then,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, more gaily, ‘"to find us enter⯑tainment. We will promiſe to be very ſtill if you will take that trouble upon yourſelf."’

‘"I will not,"’ anſwered he, ‘"be rallied from my purpoſe; if I cannot entertain, it will be ſomething to weary you, for that may incline you to take reſt, which will be anſwering a better purpoſe."’

‘"Mortimer,"’ returned ſhe, ‘"is this the ingenuity of duty or of love? and which are you juſt now thinking of, my health, or a converſation uninterrupted with Miſs Beverley?"’

‘"Perhaps a little of both!"’ ſaid he, chearfully, though colouring.

‘"But you rather meant it ſhould paſs,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"you were thinking only of me? I have always obſerved, that where one ſcheme anſwers two purpoſes, the oſtenſive is never the purpoſe moſt at heart."’

‘"Why it is but common prudence,"’ anſwered Delvile, ‘"to feel our way a little [202] before we mention what we moſt wiſh, and ſo caſt the hazard of the refuſal upon ſome⯑thing rather leſs important."’

‘"Admirably ſettled!"’ cried Mrs. Del⯑vile: ‘"ſo my reſt is but to prove Miſs Beverley's diſturbance!—Well, it is only anticipating our future way of life, when her diſturbance, in taking the management of you to herſelf, will of courſe prove my reſt."’

She then quietly repoſed herſelf, and Delvile diſcourſed with Cecilia upon their future plans, hopes and actions.

He meant to ſet off from the church⯑door to Delvile Caſtle, to acquaint his fa⯑ther with his marriage, and then to return inſtantly to London: there he entreated Cecilia to ſtay with his mother, that, find⯑ing them both together, he might not ex⯑hauſt her patience, by making his parting viſit occaſion another journey to Suffolk.

But here Cecilia reſolutely oppoſed him; ſaying, her only chance to eſcape diſcovery, was going inſtantly to her own houſe; and repreſenting ſo earneſtly her deſire that their marriage ſhould be unknown till his return to England, upon a thouſand motives of delicacy, propriety, and fearfulneſs, that the obligation he owed already to a com⯑pliance which he ſaw grew more and more re⯑luctant, reſtrained him both in gratitude and [203] pity from perſecuting her further. Neither would ſhe conſent to ſeeing him in Suffolk; which could but delay his mother's journey, and expoſe her to unneceſſary ſuſpicions; ſhe promiſed, however, to write to him often, and as, from his mother's weakneſs, he muſt travel very ſlowly, ſhe took a plan of his route, and engaged that he ſhould find a letter from her at every great town.

The bond which he had already had al⯑tered, he inſiſted upon leaving in her own cuſtody, averſe to applying to Mr. Monck⯑ton, whoſe behaviour to him had before given him diſguſt, and in whom Cecilia herſelf no longer wiſhed to confide. He had again applied to the ſame lawyer, Mr. Singleton, to give her away; for though to his ſecrecy he had no tie, he had ſtill leſs to any entire ſtranger. Mrs. Delvile was too ill to attend them to church, nor would Delvile have deſired from her ſuch abſolute defiance of his father.

Cecilia now gave another ſigh to her de⯑parted friend Mrs. Charlton, whoſe pre⯑ſence upon this awful occaſion would elſe again have ſoothed and ſupported her. She had no female friend in whom ſhe could rely; but feeling a repugnance in⯑vincible to being accompanied only by men, ſhe accepted the attendance of Mrs. Delvile's own woman, who had lived many [204] years in the family, and was high in the favour and confidence of her lady.

The arrangement of theſe and other ar⯑ticles, with occaſional interruptions from Mrs. Delvile, fully employed the evening. Delvile would not truſt again to meeting her at the church; but begged her to ſend out her ſervants between ſeven and eight o'clock in the morning, at which time he would himſelf call for her with a chair.

She went away early, that Mrs. Delvile might go to reſt, and it was mutually agreed they ſhould riſk no meeting the next day. Delvile conjured them to part with firmneſs and chearfulneſs, and Cecilia, fearing her own emotion, would have re⯑tired without bidding her adieu. But Mrs. Delvile, calling after her, ſaid, ‘"Take with you my bleſſing!"’ and tenderly em⯑bracing her, added, ‘"My ſon, as my chief nurſe, claims a preſcriptive right to govern me, but I will break from his control to tell my ſweet Cecilia what eaſe and what delight ſhe has already given to my mind! my beſt hope of recovery is founded on the pleaſure I anticipate in witneſſing your mutual happineſs: but ſhould my illneſs prove fatal, and that felicity be denied me, my greateſt earthly care is already removed by the ſecurity I feel of Mortimer's future peace. Take with you, then, my bleſſing, [205] for you are become one to me! long daughter of my affection, now wife of my darling ſon! love her, Mortimer, as ſhe merits, and cheriſh her with tendereſt gra⯑titude!—baniſh, ſweeteſt Cecilia, every ap⯑prehenſion that oppreſſes you, and receive in Mortimer Delvile a huſband that will re⯑vere your virtues, and dignify your choice!"’

She then embraced her again, and ſeeing that her heart was too full for ſpeech, ſuf⯑fered her to go without making any anſwer. Delvile attended her to her chair, ſcarce leſs moved than herſelf, and found only opportunity to entreat her punctuality the next morning.

She had, indeed, no inclination to fail in her appointment, or riſk the repetition of ſcenes ſo affecting, or ſituations ſo alarm⯑ing. Mrs. Delvile's full approbation ſome⯑what reſtored to her her own, but nothing could remove the fearful anxiety, which ſtill privately tormented her with expecta⯑tions of another diſappointment.

The next morning ſhe aroſe with the light, and calling all her courage to her aid, determined to conſider this day as de⯑ciſive of her deſtiny with regard to Delvile, and, rejoicing that at leaſt all ſuſpenſe would be over, to ſupport herſelf with fortitude, be that deſtiny what it might.

At the appointed time ſhe ſent her maid [206] to viſit Mrs. Hill, and gave ſome errands to her man that carried him to a diſtant part of the town: but ſhe charged them both to return to the lodgings by nine o'clock, at which hour ſhe ordered a chaiſe for returning into the country.

Delvile, who was impatiently watching for their quitting the houſe, only waited till they were out of ſight, to preſent himſelf at the door. He was ſhewn into a parlour, where ſhe inſtantly attended him; and being told that the clergyman, Mr. Single⯑ton, and Mrs. Delvile's woman, were al⯑ready in the church, ſhe gave him her hand in ſilence, and he led her to the chair.

The calmneſs of ſtifled hope had now taken place in Cecilia of quick ſenſations and alarm. Occupied with a firm belief ſhe ſhould never be the wife of Delvile, ſhe only waited, with a deſperate ſort of patience, to ſee when and by whom ſhe was next to be parted from him.

When they arrived near the church, Del⯑vile ſtopt the chair. He handed Cecilia out of it, and diſcharging the chairmen, conducted her into the church. He was ſurpriſed himſelf at her compoſure, but earneſtly wiſhing it to laſt, took care not to ſay to her a word that ſhould make any anſwer from her neceſſary.

He gave her, as before, to Mr. Singleton, [207] ſecretly praying that not, as before, ſhe might be given him in vain: Mrs. Delvile's woman attended her; the clergy⯑man was ready, and they all proceeded to the altar.

The ceremony was begun; Cecilia, ra⯑ther mechanically than with conſciouſneſs, appearing to liſten to it: but at the words, If any man can ſhew any juſt cauſe why they may not lawfully be joined together, Delvile himſelf ſhook with terror, leſt ſome con⯑cealed perſon ſhould again anſwer it, and Cecilia, with a ſort of ſteady diſmay in her countenance, caſt her eyes round the church, with no other view than that of ſeeing from what corner the prohibiter would ſtart.

She looked, however, to no purpoſe; no prohibiter appeared, the ceremony was performed without any interruption, and ſhe received the thanks of Delvile, and the congratulations of the little ſet, before the idea which had ſo ſtrongly pre-occupied her imagination, was ſufficiently removed from it to ſatisfy her ſhe was really married.

They then went to the veſtry, where their buſineſs was not long; and Delvile again put Cecilia into a chair, which again he accompanied on foot.

Her ſenſibility now ſoon returned, though ſtill attended with ſtrangeneſs and a ſenſation [208] of incredulity. But the ſight of Del⯑vile at her lodgings, contrary to their agreement, wholly recovered her ſenſes from the ſtupor which had dulled them. He came, however, but to acknowledge how highly ſhe had obliged him, to ſee her himſelf reſtored to the animation natural to her character, and to give her a million of charges, reſulting from anxiety and ten⯑derneſs. And then, fearing the return of her ſervants, he quitted her, and ſet out for Delvile Caſtle.

The amazement of Cecilia was ſtill un⯑conquerable; to be actually united with Delvile! to be his with the full conſent of his mother,—to have him her's, beyond the power of his father,—ſhe could not reconcile it with poſſibility; ſhe fancied it a dream,—but a dream from which ſhe wiſhed not to awake.

CHAP. I. A DISCOVERY.

CECILIA's journey back to the coun⯑try was as ſafe and free from interrup⯑tion as her journey had been to town, and all that diſtinguiſhed them was what paſſed in her own mind: the doubts, apprehen⯑ſions, and deſponding ſuſpenſe which had accompanied her ſetting out, were now all removed, and certainty, eaſe, the expectation of happineſs, and the ceſſation of all per⯑plexity, had taken their place. She had nothing left to dread but the inflexibi⯑lity of Mr. Delvile, and hardly any thing even to hope but the recovery of his lady.

Her friends at her return expreſſed their wonder at her expedition, but their wonder at what occaſioned it, though ſtill greater, met no ſatisfaction. Henrietta rejoiced in her ſight, though her abſence had been ſo [210] ſhort; and Cecilia, whoſe affection with her pity increaſed, intimated to her the event for which ſhe wiſhed her to prepare her⯑ſelf, and frankly acknowledged ſhe had reaſon to expect it would ſoon take place.

Henrietta endeavoured with compoſure to receive this intelligence, and to return ſuch a mark of confidence with chearful congratulations: but her fortitude was un⯑equal to an effort ſo heroic, and her cha⯑racter was too ſimple to aſſume a greatneſs ſhe felt not: ſhe ſighed and changed co⯑lour; and haſtily quitted the room that ſhe might ſob aloud in another.

Warm-hearted, tender, and ſuſceptible, her affections were all undiſguiſed: ſtruck with the elegance of Delvile, and enchanted by his ſervices to her brother, ſhe had loſt to him her heart at firſt without miſſing it, and, when miſſed, without ſeeking to re⯑claim it. The hopeleſsneſs of ſuch a paſ⯑ſion ſhe never conſidered, nor aſked herſelf its end, or ſcarce ſuſpected its aim; it was pleaſant to her at the time, and ſhe looked not to the future, but fed it with viſionary ſchemes, and ſoothed it with voluntary fancies. Now ſhe knew all was over, ſhe felt the folly ſhe had committed, but though ſenſibly and candidly angry at her own er⯑ror, its conviction offered nothing but ſorrow to ſucceed it.

[211] The felicity of Cecilia, whom ſhe loved, admired and revered, ſhe wiſhed with the genuine ardour of zealous ſincerity; but that Delvile, the very cauſe and ſole ſubject of her own perſonal unhappineſs, ſhould himſelf conſtitute that felicity, was too much for her ſpirits, and ſeemed to her mortified mind too cruel in her deſtiny.

Cecilia, who in the very vehemence of her ſorrow ſaw its innocence, was too juſt and too noble to be offended by it, or im⯑pute to the bad paſſions of envy or jealouſy, the artleſs regret of an untutored mind. To be penetrated too deeply with the merit of Delvile, with her wanted no excuſe, and ſhe grieved for her ſituation with but little mixture of blame, and none of ſurpriſe. She redoubled her kindneſs and careſſes with the hope of conſoling her, but ventured to truſt her no further, till reflection, and her natu⯑ral good ſenſe, ſhould better enable her to bear an explanation.

Nor was this friendly exertion any longer a hardſhip to her; the ſudden removal, in her own feelings and affairs, of diſtreſs and expectation, had now ſo much lightened her heart, that ſhe could ſpare without repin⯑ing, ſome portion of its ſpirit to her dejec⯑ted young friend.

But an incident happened two mornings after which called back, and moſt unpleaſantly, [212] her attention to herſelf. She was told that Mrs. Matt, the poor woman ſhe had ſettled in Bury, begged an audience, and upon ſending for her up ſtairs, and deſiring to know what ſhe could do for her, ‘"Nothing, madam, juſt now,"’ ſhe anſwered, ‘"for I don't come upon my own buſineſs, but to tell ſome news to you, ma⯑dam. You bid me never take notice of the wedding, that was to be, and I'm ſure I never opened my mouth about it from that time to this; but I have found out who it was put a ſtop to it, and ſo I come to tell you."’

Cecilia, extremely amazed, eagerly de⯑ſired her to go on.

‘"Why, madam, I don't know the gen⯑tlewoman's name quite right yet, but I can tell you where ſhe lives, for I knew her as ſoon as I ſet eyes on her, when I ſee her at church laſt Sunday, and I would have fol⯑lowed her home, but ſhe went into a coach, and I could not walk faſt enough; but I aſked one of the footmen where ſhe lived, and he ſaid at the great houſe at the Grove: and perhaps, madam, you may know where that is: and then he told me her name, but that I can't juſt now think of."’

‘"Good heaven!"’ cried Cecilia,—‘"it could not be Bennet?"’

‘"Yes, ma'am, that's the very name; I know it again now I hear it."’

[213] Cecilia then haſtily diſmiſſed her, firſt deſiring her not to mention the circum⯑ſtance to any body.

Shocked and diſmayed, ſhe now ſaw, but ſaw with horror, the removal of all her doubts, and the explanation of all her diffi⯑culties, in the full and irrefragable diſco⯑very of the perfidy of her oldeſt friend and confident.

Miſs Bennet herſelf ſhe regarded in the affair as a mere tool, which, though in effect it did the work, was innocent of its miſ⯑chief, becauſe powerleſs but in the hand of its employer.

‘"That employer,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"muſt be Mr. Monckton! Mr. Monckton whom ſo long I have known, who ſo willingly has been my counſellor, ſo ably my inſtructor! in whoſe integrity I have confided, upon whoſe friendſhip I have relied! my ſuccour in all emergencies, my guide in all per⯑plexities!—Mr. Monckton thus diſho⯑nourably, thus barbarouſly to betray me! to turn againſt me the very confidence I had repoſed in his regard for me! and make uſe of my own truſt to furniſh the means to injure me!"—’

She was now wholly confirmed that he had wronged her with Mr. Delvile; ſhe could not have two enemies ſo malignant without provocation, and he who ſo unfeel⯑ingly could diſſolve a union at the very [214] altar, could alone have the baſeneſs to ca⯑lumniate her ſo cruelly.

Evil thoughts thus awakened, ſtopt not merely upon facts; conjecture carried her further, and conjecture built upon probabi⯑lity. The officiouſneſs of Morrice in pur⯑ſuing her to London, his viſiting her when there, and his following and watching Del⯑vile, ſhe now reaſonably concluded were actions directed by Mr. Monckton, whoſe houſe he had but juſt left, and whoſe orders, whatever they might be, ſhe was almoſt certain he would obey. Availing himſelf, therefore, of the forwardneſs and ſupple⯑neſs which met in this young man, ſhe doubted not but his intelligence had con⯑tributed to acquaint him with her proceed⯑ings.

The motivof ſuch deep concerted and accummulated treachery was next to be ſought: nor was the ſearch long; one only could have tempted him to ſchemes ſo ha⯑zardous and coſtly; and, unſuſpicious as ſhe was, ſhe now ſaw into his whole deſign.

Long accuſtomed to regard him as a ſafe and diſintereſted old friend, the reſpect with which, as a child, ſhe had looked up to him, ſhe had inſenſibly preſerved when a woman. That reſpect had taught her to conſider his notice as a favour, and far from ſuſpiciouſly ſhunning, ſhe had innocently courted it: [215] and his readineſs in adviſing and tutoring her, his frank and eaſy friendlineſs of beha⯑viour, had kept his influence unimpaired, by preventing its ſecret purpoſe from being detected.

But now the whole myſtery was revealed; his averſion to the Delviles, to which hi⯑therto ſhe had attributed all ſhe diſapprov⯑ed in his behaviour, ſhe was convinced muſt be inadequate to ſtimulate him to ſuch lengths. That averſion itſelf was by this late ſurmiſe accounted for, and no ſooner did it occur to her, than a thouſand cir⯑cumſtances confirmed it.

The firſt among theſe was the evident ill will of Lady Margaret, which though ſhe had conſtantly imputed to the general iraſci⯑bility for which her character was notori⯑ous, ſhe had often wondered to find impe⯑netrable to all endeavours to pleaſe or ſof⯑ten her. His care of her fortune, his ex⯑hortations againſt her expences, his wiſh to make her live with Mr. Briggs, all contri⯑buted to point out the ſelfiſhneſs of his at⯑tentions, which in one inſtance rendered viſible, became obvious in every other.

Yet various as were the incidents that now poured upon her memory to his diſ⯑grace, not one among them took its riſe from his behaviour to herſelf, which always had been ſcrupulouſly circumſpect, or if for [216] a moment unguarded, only at a ſeaſon when her own diſtreſs or confuſion had prevented her from perceiving it. This recollection almoſt ſtaggered her ſuſpicions; yet ſo ab⯑ſolute ſeemed the confirmation they receiv⯑ed from every other, that her doubt was overpowered, and ſoon wholly extinguiſhed.

She was yet ruminating upon this ſub⯑ject, when word was brought her that Mr. Monckton was in the parlour.

Mingled diſguſt and indignation made her ſhudder at his name, and without pauſ⯑ing a moment, ſhe ſent him word ſhe was engaged, and could not poſſibly leave her room.

Aſtoniſhed by ſuch a diſmiſſion, he left the houſe in the utmoſt confuſion. But Cecilia could not endure to ſee him, after a diſcovery of ſuch hypocriſy and villainy.

She conſidered, however, that the matter could not reſt here: he would demand an explanation, and perhaps, by his unparal⯑leled addreſs, again contrive to ſeem inno⯑cent, notwithſtanding appearances were at preſent ſo much againſt him. Expecting, therefore, ſome artifice, and determined not to be duped by it, ſhe ſent again for the Pew-opener, to examine her more ſtrictly.

The woman was out at work in a private family, and could not come till the even⯑ing: but, when further queſtioned, the deſcription [217] ſhe gave of Miſs Bennet was too exact to be diſputed.

She then deſired her to call again the next morning: and ſent a ſervant to the Grove, with her compliments to Miſs Bennet, and a requeſt that ſhe might ſend her carriage for her the next day, at any time ſhe pleaſed, as ſhe wiſhed much to ſpeak with her.

This meſſage, ſhe was aware, might create ſome ſuſpicion, and put her upon her guard; but ſhe thought, nevertheleſs, a ſudden meeting with the Pew-opener, whom ſhe meant abruptly to confront with her, would baffle the ſecurity of any previouſly ſettled ſcheme.

To a conviction ſuch as this even Mr. Monckton muſt ſubmit, and ſince he was loſt to her as a friend, ſhe might at leaſt ſave herſelf the pain of keeping up his ac⯑quaintance.

CHAP. II. AN INTERVIEW.

THE ſervant did not return till it was dark; and then, with a look of much diſmay, ſaid he had been able to meet with nobody who could either give or take a meſſage; that the Grove was all in confu⯑ſion, and the whole country in an uproar, for Mr. Monckton, juſt as he arrived, had been brought home dead!

Cecilia ſcreamed with involuntary hor⯑ror; a pang like remorſe ſeized her mind, with the apprehenſion ſhe had ſome ſhare in this cataſtrophe, and innocent as ſhe was either of his fall or his crimes, ſhe no ſooner heard he was no more, than ſhe for⯑got he had offended her, and reproached herſelf with ſeverity for the ſhame to which ſhe meant to expoſe him the next morning.

Dreadfully diſturbed by this horrible in⯑cident, ſhe entreated Mrs. Harrel and Hen⯑rietta to ſup by themſelves, and going into her own room, determined to write the whole affair to Delvile, in a letter ſhe ſhould direct to be left at the poſt-office for him at Margate.

[219] And here ſtrongly ſhe felt the happineſs of being actually his wife; ſhe could now without reſerve make him acquainted with all her affairs, and tell to the maſter of her heart every emotion that entered it.

While engaged in this office, the very ac⯑tion of which quieted her, a letter was brought her from Delvile himſelf. She re⯑ceived it with gratitude and opened it with joy; he had promiſed to write ſoon, but ſo ſoon ſhe had thought impoſſible.

The reading took not much time; the letter contained but the following words:

Great was her aſtoniſhment at this note! no name to it, no concluſion, the cha⯑racters indiſtinct, the writing crooked, the words ſo few, and thoſe few ſcarce legible!

He deſired to ſee her, and to ſee her alone; ſhe could not heſitate in her com⯑pliance,—but whom could ſhe diſmiſs?—her ſervants, if ordered away, would but be curiouſly upon the watch,—ſhe could think [220] of no expedient, ſhe was all hurry and amazement.

She aſked if any one waited for an an⯑ſwer? The footman ſaid no; that the note was given in by ſomebody who did not ſpeak, and who ran out of ſight the mo⯑ment he had delivered it.

She could not doubt this was Delvile himſelf,—Delvile who ſhould now be juſt returned from the caſtle to his mother, and whom ſhe had thought not even a letter would reach if directed any where nearer than Margate!

All ſhe could deviſe in obedience to him, was to go and wait for him alone in her dreſſing-room, giving orders that if any one called they might be immediately brought up to her, as ſhe expected ſomebody upon buſineſs, with whom ſhe muſt not be in⯑terrupted.

This was extremely diſagreeable to her; yet, contrary as it was to their agreement, ſhe felt no inclination to reproach Delvile; the abruptneſs of his note, the evident hand-ſhaking with which it had been writ⯑ten, the ſtrangeneſs of the requeſt in a ſitu⯑ation ſuch as theirs,—all concurred to aſ⯑ſure her he came not to her idly, and all led her to apprehend he came to her with evil tidings.

What they might be, ſhe had no time to [221] conjecture; a ſervant, in a few minutes, opened the dreſſing-room door, and ſaid, ‘"Ma'am, a gentleman;"’ and Delvile, abruptly entering, ſhut it himſelf, in his eagerneſs to get rid of him.

At his ſight, her prognoſtication of ill became ſtronger! ſhe went forward to meet him, and he advanced to her ſmiling and in haſte; but that ſmile did not well do its office; it concealed not a pallid counte⯑nance, in which every feature ſpoke horror; it diſguiſed not an aching heart, which al⯑moſt viſibly throbbed with intolerable emo⯑tion! Yet he addreſſed her in terms of ten⯑derneſs and peace; but his tremulous voice counteracted his words, and ſpoke that all within was tumult and war!

Cecilia, amazed, affrighted, had no pow⯑er to haſten an explanation, which, on his own part, he ſeemed unable, or fearful to begin. He talked to her of his happineſs in again ſeeing her before he left the king⯑dom, entreated her to write to him conti⯑nually, ſaid the ſame thing two and three times in a breath, began with one ſubject, and ſeemed unconſcious he wandered pre⯑ſently into another, and aſked her queſtions innumerable about her health, journey, affairs, and eaſe of mind, without hearing from her any anſwer, or ſeeming to miſs that ſhe made none.

[222] Cecilia grew dreadfully terrified; ſome⯑thing ſtrange and moſt alarming ſhe was ſure muſt have happened, but what, ſhe had no means to know, nor courage, nor even words to enquire.

Delvile, at length, the firſt hurry of his ſpirits abating, became more coherent and conſiderate: and looking anxiouſly at her, ſaid, ‘"Why this ſilence, my Cecilia?"’

‘"I know not!"’ ſaid ſhe, endeavouring to recover herſelf, ‘"but your coming was unexpected: I was juſt writing to you at Margate."’

‘"Write ſtill, then; but direct to Oſ⯑tend; I ſhall be quicker than the poſt; and I would not loſe a letter—a line—a word from you, for all the world can offer me!"’

‘"Quicker than the poſt?"’ cried Ceci⯑lia; ‘"but how can Mrs. Delvile—"’ ſhe ſtopt; not knowing what ſhe might ven⯑ture to aſk.

‘"She is now on the road to Margate; I hope to be there to receive her. I mean but to bid you adieu, and be gone."’

Cecilia made no anſwer; ſhe was more and more aſtoniſhed, more and more con⯑founded.

‘"You are thoughtful?"’ ſaid he, with tenderneſs; ‘"are you unhappy?—ſweeteſt Cecilia! moſt excellent of human creatures! if I have made you unhappy—and I muſt!—it is inevitable!—"’

[223] ‘"Oh Delvile!"’ cried ſhe, now aſſuming more courage, ‘"why will you not ſpeak to me openly?—ſomething, I ſee, is wrong; may I not hear it? may I not tell you, at leaſt, my concern that any thing has diſ⯑treſſed you?"’

‘"You are too good!"’ cried he; ‘"to deſerve you is not poſſible,—but to afflict you is inhuman!"’

‘"Why ſo?"’ cried ſhe, more chearful⯑ly; ‘"muſt I not ſhare the common lot? or expect the whole world to be new mo⯑delled, leſt I ſhould meet in it any thing but happineſs?"’

‘"There is not, indeed, much danger! Have you pen and ink here?"’

She brought them to him immediately, with paper.

‘"You have been writing to me, you ſay?—I will begin a letter myſelf."’

‘"To me?"’ cried ſhe.

He made no anſwer, but took up the pen, and wrote a few words, and then, flinging it down, ſaid ‘"Fool!—I could have done this without coming!"’

‘"May I look at it?"’ ſaid ſhe; and, finding he made no oppoſition, advanced and read.

I fear to alarm you by raſh precipitation,—I fear to alarm you by lingering ſuſpenſe,—but all is not well—

[224] ‘"Fear nothing!"’ cried ſhe, turning to him with the kindeſt earneſtneſs; ‘"tell me, whatever it may be!—Am I not your wife? bound by every tie divine and human to ſhare in all your ſorrows, if, unhappily, I cannot mitigate them!"’

‘"Since you allow me,"’ cried he, grate⯑fully, ‘"ſo ſweet a claim, a claim to which all others yield, and which if you repent not giving me, will make all others nearly im⯑material to me,—I will own to you that all, indeed, is not well! I have been haſty,—you will blame me; I deſerve, indeed, to be blamed!—entruſted with your peace and happineſs, to ſuffer rage, reſentment, vio⯑lence, to make me forego what I owed to ſuch a depoſite!—If your blame, however, ſtops ſhort of repentance—but it cannot!"’

‘"What, then,"’ cried ſhe with warmth, ‘"muſt you have done? for there is not an action of which I believe you capable, there is not an event which I believe to be poſ⯑ſible, that can ever make me repent be⯑longing to you wholly!"’

‘"Generous, condeſcending Cecilia!"’ cried he; ‘"Words ſuch as theſe, hung there not upon me an evil the moſt depreſ⯑ſing, would be almoſt more than I could bear—would make me too bleſt for mor⯑tality!"’

‘"But words ſuch as theſe,"’ ſaid ſhe [225] more gaily, ‘"I might long have coquetted⯑ere I had ſpoken, had you not drawn them from me by this alarm. Take, therefore, the good with the ill, and remember, if all does not go right, you have now a truſty friend, as willing to be the partner of your ſerious as your happieſt hours."’

‘"Shew but as much firmneſs as you have ſhewn ſweetneſs,"’ cried he, ‘"and I will fear to tell you nothing."’

She reiterated her aſſurances; they then both ſat down, and he began his account.

‘"Immediately from your lodgings I went where I had ordered a chaiſe, and ſtopt only to change horſes till I reached Delvile Caſtle. My father ſaw me with ſurpriſe, and received me with coldneſs. I was compelled by my ſituation to be abrupt, and told him I came, before I accompanied my mother abroad, to make him acquaint⯑ed with an affair which I thought myſelf bound in duty and reſpect to ſuffer no one to communicate to him but myſelf. He then ſternly interrupted me, and declared in high terms, that if this affair concerned you, he would not liſten to it. I attempted to remonſtrate upon this injuſtice, when he paſſionately broke forth into new and hor⯑rible charges againſt you, affirming that he had them from authority as indiſputable as [226] ocular demonſtration. I was then certain of ſome foul play."—’

‘"Foul play indeed!"’ cried Cecilia, who now knew but too well by whom ſhe had been injured. ‘"Good heaven, how have I been deceived, where moſt I have truſted!"’

‘"I told him,"’ continued Delvile, ‘"ſome groſs impoſition had been practiced upon him, and earneſtly conjured him no longer to conceal from me by whom. This, un⯑fortunately, encreaſed his rage; impoſi⯑tion, he ſaid, was not ſo eaſily played upon him, he left that for me who ſo readily was duped; while for himſelf, he had only given credit to a man of much conſideration in Suffolk, who had known you from a child, who had ſolemnly aſſured him he had re⯑peatedly endeavoured to reclaim you, who had reſcued you from the hands of Jews at his own hazard and loſs, and who actually ſhewed him bonds acknowledging immenſe debts, which were ſigned with your own hand."’

‘"Horrible!"’ exclaimed Cecilia, ‘"I be⯑lieved not ſuch guilt and perfidy poſſible!"’

‘"I was ſcarce myſelf,"’ reſumed Delvile, ‘"while I heard him: I demanded even with fierceneſs his author, whom I ſcrupled not to execrate as he deſerved; he coldly anſwered he was bound by an oath never to reveal him, nor ſhould he repay his honourable [227] attention to his family by a breach of his own word, were it even leſs formally engaged. I then loſt all patience; to men⯑tion honour, I cried, was a farce, where ſuch infamous calumnies were liſtened to;—but let me not ſhock you unneceſſarily, you may readily conjecture what paſſed."’

‘"Ah me!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"you have then quarrelled with your father!"’

‘"I have!"’ ſaid he; ‘"nor does he yet know I am married: in ſo much wrath there was no room for narration; I only pledged myſelf by all I held ſacred, never to reſt till I had cleared your fame, by the detection of this villainy, and then left him without further explanation."’

‘"Oh return, then, to him directly!"’ cried Cecilia; ‘"he is your father, you are bound to bear with his diſpleaſure;—alas! had you never known me, you had never incurred it!"’

‘"Believe me,"’ he anſwered, ‘"I am ill at eaſe under it: if you wiſh it, when you have heard me, I will go to him immedi⯑ately; if not, I will write, and you ſhall yourſelf dictate what."’

Cecilia thanked him, and begged he would continue his account.

‘"My firſt ſtep, when I left the Caſtle, was to ſend a letter to my mother, in which I entreated her to ſet out as ſoon as poſſible [228] for Margate, as I was detained from her unavoidably, and was unwilling my delay ſhould either retard our journey, or oblige her to travel faſter. At Margate I hoped to be as ſoon as herſelf, if not before her."’

‘"And why,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"did you not go to town as you had promiſed, and accompany her?"’

‘"I had buſineſs another way. I came hither."’

‘"Directly?"’

‘"No;—but ſoon."’

‘"Where did you go firſt?"’

‘"My Cecilia, it is now you muſt ſum⯑mon your fortitude: I left my father with⯑out an explanation on my part;—but not till, in his rage of aſſerting his authority, he had unwarily named his informant."’

‘"Well!"’

‘"That informant—the moſt deceitful of men!—was your long pretended friend, Mr. Monckton!"’

‘"So I feared!"’ ſaid Cecilia, whoſe blood now ran cold through her veins with ſudden and new apprehenſions.

‘"I rode to the Grove, on hack-horſes, and on a full gallop the whole way. I got to him early in the evening. I was ſhewn into his library. I told him my errand.—You look pale, my love? You are not well?—"’

[229] Cecilia, too ſick for ſpeech, leant he head upon a table. Delvile was going to call for help; but ſhe put her hand upon his arm to ſtop him, and, perceiving ſhe was only mentally affected, he reſted, and endeavoured by every poſſible means to re⯑vive her.

After a while, ſhe again raiſed her head, faintly ſaying, ‘"I am ſorry I interrupted you; but the concluſion I already know,—Mr. Monckton is dead!"’

‘"Not dead,"’ cried he;" ‘"dangerouſly, indeed, wounded, but thank heaven, not actually dead!"’

‘"Not dead?"’ cried Cecilia, with re⯑cruited ſtrength and ſpirits, ‘"Oh then all yet may be well!—if he is not dead, he may recover!"’

‘"He may; I hope he will!"’

‘"Now, then,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"tell me all: I can bear any intelligence but of death by human means."’

‘"I meant not to have gone ſuch lengths; far from it; I hold duels in abhorrence, as unjuſtifiable acts of violence, and ſavage devices of revenge. I have offended againſt my own conviction,—but, tranſported with paſſion at his infamous charges, I was not maſter of my reaſon; I accuſed him of his perfidy; he denied it; I told him I had it from my father,—he changed the ſubject to [230] pour abuſe upon him; I inſiſted on a re⯑cantation to clear you; he aſked by what right? I fiercely anſwered, by a huſband's! His countenance, then, explained at leaſt the motives of his treachery,—he loves you himſelf! he had probably ſchemed to keep you free till his wife died, and then con⯑cluded his machinations would ſecure you his own. For this purpoſe, finding he was in danger of loſing you, he was content even to blaſt your character, rather than ſuffer you to eſcape him! But the moment I ac⯑knowledged my marriage he grew more fu⯑rious than myſelf; and, in ſhort—for why relate the frenzies of rage? we walked out together; my travelling piſtols were already charged; I gave him his choice of them, and, the challenge being mine, for inſolence joined with guilt had robbed me of all for⯑bearance, he fired firſt, but miſſed me: I then demanded whether he would clear your fame? he called out ‘"Fire! I will make no terms,"’—I did fire,—and unfor⯑tunately aimed better! We had neither of us any ſecond, all was the reſult of imme⯑diate paſſion; but I ſoon got people to him, and aſſiſted in conveying him home. He was at firſt believed to be dead, and I was ſeized by his ſervants; but he afterwards ſhewed ſigns of life, and by ſending for my friend Biddulph, I was releaſed. Such is [231] the melancholy tranſaction I came to relate to you, flattering myſelf it would ſome⯑thing leſs ſhock you from me than from another: yet my own real concern for the affair, the repentance with which from the moment the wretch fell, I was ſtruck in being his deſtroyer, and the ſorrow, the remorſe, rather, which I felt, in coming to wound you with ſuch black, ſuch fearful intelli⯑gence,—you to whom all I owe is peace and comfort!—theſe thoughts gave me ſo much diſturbance, that, in fact, I knew leſs than any other how to prepare you for ſuch a tale."’

He ſtopt; but Cecilia could ſay nothing: to cenſure him now would both be cruel and vain; yet to pretend ſhe was ſatisfied with his conduct, would be doing violence to her judgment and veracity. She ſaw, too, that his error had ſprung wholly from a generous ardor in her defence, and that his connfidence in her character, had reſiſted, without wavering, every attack that mena⯑ced it. For this ſhe felt truly grateful; yet his quarrel with his father,—the danger of his mother.—his neceſſary abſence,—her own clandeſtine ſituation,—and more than all, the threatened death of Mr. Monckton by his hands, were circumſtan⯑ces ſo full of dread and ſadneſs, ſhe knew [232] not upon which to ſpeak,—how to offer him comfort,—how to aſſume a counte⯑nance that looked able to receive any, or by what means to repreſs the emotions which ſo many ways aſſailed her. Del⯑vile, having vainly waited ſome reply, then in a tone the moſt melancholy, ſaid, ‘"If it is yet poſſible you can be ſufficiently in⯑tereſted in my fate to care what becomes of me, aid me now with your counſel, or rather with your inſtructions; I am ſcarce able to think for myſelf, and to be thought for by you, would yet be a conſolation that would give me ſpirit for any thing."’

Cecilia, ſtarting from her reverie, repeat⯑ed, ‘"To care what becomes of you? Oh Delvile!—make not my heart bleed by words of ſuch unkindneſs!"’

‘"Forgive me,"’ cried he, ‘I meant not a reproach; I meant but to ſtate my own conſciouſneſs how little I deſerve from you. You talked to me of going to my father? do you ſtill wiſh it?"’

‘"I think ſo!"’ cried ſhe; too much diſ⯑turbed to know what ſhe ſaid, yet fearing again to hurt him by making him wait her anſwer.

‘"I will go then,"’ ſaid he, ‘"without doubt: too happy to be guided by you, which-ever way I ſteer. I have now, indeed, [233] much to tell him; but whatever may be his wrath, there is little fear, at this time, that my own temper cannot bear it! what next ſhall I do?"’

‘"What next?"’ repeated ſhe; ‘"indeed I know not!"’

‘"Shall I go immediately to Margate? or ſhall I firſt ride hither?"’

‘"If you pleaſe,"’ ſaid ſhe much per⯑turbed, and deeply ſighing.

‘"I pleaſe nothing but by your direction, to follow that is my only chance of plea⯑ſure. Which, then, ſhall I do?—you will not, now, refuſe to direct me?"’

‘"No, certainly, not for the world!"’

‘"Speak to me, then, my love, and tell me;—why are you thus ſilent?—is it pain⯑ful to you to counſel me?"’

‘"No, indeed!"’ ſaid ſhe, putting her hand to her head, ‘"I will ſpeak to you in a few minutes."’

‘"Oh my Cecilia!"’ cried he, looking at her with much alarm, ‘"call back your recollection! you know not what you ſay, you take no intereſt in what you anſwer."’

‘"Indeed I do!"’ ſaid ſhe, ſighing deeply, and oppreſſed beyond the power of think⯑ing, beyond any power but an internal con⯑ſciouſneſs of wretchedneſs.

[234] ‘"Sigh not ſo bitterly,"’ cried he, ‘"if you have any compaſſion! ſigh not ſo bit⯑terly,—I cannot bear to hear you!"’

‘"I am very ſorry indeed!"’ ſaid ſhe, fighing again, and not ſeeming ſenſible ſhe ſpoke.

‘"Good Heaven!"’ cried he, riſing, ‘"diſtract me not with this horror!—ſpeak not to me in ſuch broken ſentences!—Do you hear me, Cecilia?—why will you not anſwer me?"’

She ſtarted and trembled, looked pale and affrighted, and putting both her hands upon her heart, ſaid, ‘"Oh yes!—but I have an oppreſſion here,—a tightneſs, a fulneſs,—I have not room for breath!"’

‘"Oh beloved of my heart!"’ cried he, wildly caſting himſelf at her feet, ‘"kill me not with this terror!—call back your fa⯑culties,—awake from this dreadful inſenſi⯑bility! tell me at leaſt you know me!—tell me I have not tortured you quite to mad⯑neſs!—ſole darling of my affections! my own, my wedded Cecilia!—reſcue me from this agony! it is more than I can ſupport!—"’

This energy of diſtreſs brought back her ſcattered ſenſes, ſcarce more ſtun⯑ned by the ſhock of all this miſery, than by the reſtraint of her feelings in [235] ſtruggling to conceal it. But theſe paſſion⯑ate exclamations reſtoring her ſenſibility, ſhe burſt into tears, which happily reliev⯑ed her mind from the conflict with which it was labouring, and which, not thus effected, might have ended more fatally.

Never had Delvile more rejoiced in her ſmiles than now in theſe ſeaſonable tears, which he regarded and bleſt as the preſer⯑vers of her reaſon. They flowed long without any intermiſſion, his ſoothing and tenderneſs but melting her to more ſorrow: after a while, however, the return of her faculties, which at firſt ſeemed all conſign⯑ed over to grief, was manifeſted by the return⯑ing ſtrength of her mind: ſhe blamed her⯑ſelf ſeverely for the little fortitude ſhe had ſhewn, but having now given vent to emo⯑tions too forcible to be wholly ſtifled, ſhe aſſured him he might depend upon her better courage for the future, and entreated him to conſider and ſettle his affairs.

Not ſpeedily, however, could Delvile himſelf recover. The torture he had ſuf⯑fered in believing, though only for a few moments, that the terror he had given to Cecilia had affected her intellects, made even a deeper impreſſion upon his imagination, than the ſcene of fury and death, which had occaſioned that terror: and Cecilia, who [236] now ſtrained every nerve to repair by her firmneſs, the pain which by her weakneſs ſhe had given him, was ſooner in a condi⯑tion for reaſoning and deliberation than himſelf.

‘"Ah Delvile!"’ ſhe cried, comprehend⯑ing what paſſed within him, ‘"do you allow nothing for ſurprize? and nothing for the hard conflict of endeavouring to ſuppreſs it? do you think me ſtill as unfit to adviſe with, and as worthleſs, as feeble a counſel⯑lor, as during the firſt confuſion of my mind?"’

‘"Hurry not your tender ſpirits, I beſeech you,"’ cried he, ‘"we have time enough; we will talk about buſineſs by and by."’

‘"What time?"’ cried ſhe, ‘"what is it now o'clock?"’

‘"Good Heaven!"’ cried he, looking at his watch, ‘"already paſt ten! you muſt turn me out, my Cecilia, or calumny will ſtill be buſy, even though poor Monckton is quiet."’

‘"I will turn you out,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I am indeed moſt earneſt to have you gone. But tell me your plan, and which way you mean to go?"’

‘"That,"’ he anſwered, ‘"you ſhall decide for me yourſelf: whether to Delvile Caſtle, to finiſh one tale, and wholly communicate [237] another, or to Margate, to haſten my mo⯑ther abroad, before the news of this calami⯑ty reaches her."’

‘"Go to Margate,"’ cried ſhe, eagerly, ‘"ſet off this very moment! you can write to your father from Oſtend. But continue, I conjure you, on the continent, till we ſee if this unhappy man lives, and enquire, of thoſe who can judge, what muſt follow if he ſhould not!"’

‘"A trial,"’ ſaid he, ‘"muſt follow, and it will go, I fear, but hardly with me! the chal⯑lenge was mine; his ſervants can all witneſs I went to him, not he to me,—Oh my Ce⯑cilia! the raſhneſs of which I have been guilty, is ſo oppoſite to my principles, and, all generous as is your ſilence, I know it ſo oppoſite to yours, that never, ſhould his blood be on my hands, wretch as he was, never will my heart be quiet more!"’

‘"He will live, he will live!"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, repreſſing her horror, ‘"fear nothing, for he will live;—and as to his wound and his ſufferings, his perfidy has deſerved them. Go, then, to Margate; think only of Mrs. Devile, and ſave her, if poſſible, from hearing what has happened."’

‘"I will go,—ſtay,—do which and what⯑ever you bid me: but, ſhould what I fear come to paſs, ſhould my mother continue [238] ill, my father inflexible, ſhould this wretch⯑ed man die, and ſhould England no longer be a country I ſhall love to dwell in,—could you, then, bear to own,—would you, then, conſent to follow me?—"’

‘"Could I?—am I not yours? may you not command me? tell me, then,—you have only to ſay,—ſhall I accompany you at once?"’

Delvile, affected by her generoſity, could ſcarce utter his thanks; yet he did not he⯑ſitate in denying to avail himſelf of it; ‘"No, my Cecilia,"’ he cried, ‘"I am not ſo ſelfiſh. If we have not happier days, we will at leaſt wait for more deſperate neceſſity. With the uncertainty if I have not this man's life to anſwer for at the hazard of my own, to take my wife—my bride,—from the kingdom I muſt fly!—to make her a fugitive and an exile in the firſt publiſhing that ſhe is mine! No, if I am not a deſtined alien for life I can never permit it. Nothing leſs, believe me, ſhall ever urge my conſent to wound the chaſte propriety of your character, by making you an eloper with a dueliſt."’

They then again conſulted upon their future plans; and concluded that in the preſent diſordered ſtate of their affairs, it would be beſt not to acknowledge even to [239] Mr. Delvile their mariage, to whom the news of the duel, and Mr. Monckton's dan⯑ger, would be a blow ſo ſevere, that, to add to it any other might half diſtract him.

To the few people already acquainted with it, Delvile therefore determined to write from Oſtend, re-urging his entreaties for their diſcretion and ſecreſy. Cecilia promiſed every poſt to acquaint him how Mr. Monckton went on, and ſhe then be⯑ſought him to go inſtantly, that he might out-travel the ill news to his mother.

He complied, and took leave of her in the tendereſt manner, conjuring her to ſup⯑port her ſpirits, and be careful of her health. ‘"Happineſs,"’ ſaid he, ‘"is much in arrears with us, and though my violence may have frightened it away, your ſweet⯑neſs and gentleneſs will yet attract it back: all that for me is in ſtore muſt be received at your hands,—what is offered in any o⯑ther way, I ſhall only miſtake for evil! droop not, therefore, my generous Cecilia, but in yourſelf preſerve me!"’

‘"I will not droop;"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"you will find, I hope, you have not intruſt⯑ed yourſelf in ill hands."’

‘"Peace then be with you, my love!—my comforting, my ſoul-reviving Cecilia! Peace, ſuch as angels give, and ſuch as may [240] drive from your mind the remembrance of this bitter hour!"’

He then tore himſelf away.

Cecilia, who to his bleſſings could almoſt, like the tender Belvidera, have exclaimed ‘O do not leave me!—ſtay with me and curſe me!’ liſtened to his ſteps till ſhe could hear them no longer, as if the remaining moments of her life were to be meaſured by them: but then, remembering the danger both to her⯑ſelf and him of his ſtay, ſhe endeavoured to rejoice that he was gone, and, but that her mind was in no ſtate for joy, was too rational not to have ſucceeded.

Grief and horror for what was paſt, ap⯑prehenſion and ſuſpenſe for what was to come, ſo diſordered her whole frame, ſo confuſed even her intellects, that when not all the aſſiſtance of fancy could perſuade her ſhe ſtill heard the footſteps of Delvile, ſhe went to the chair upon which he had been ſeated, and taking poſſeſſion of it, ſat with her arms croſſed, ſilent, quiet, and erect, almoſt vacant of all thought, yet with a ſecret idea ſhe was doing ſomething right.

Here ſhe continued till Henrietta came to wiſh her good night; whoſe ſurpriſe [241] and concern at the ſtrangeneſs of her look and attitude, once more recovered her. But terrified herſelf at this threatened wan⯑dering of her reaſon, and certain ſhe muſt all night be a ſtranger to reſt, ſhe accepted the affectionate offer of the kind-hearted girl to ſtay with her, who was too much grie⯑ved for her grief to ſleep any more than herſelf.

She told her not what had paſſed; that, ſhe knew, would be fruitleſs affliction to her: but ſhe was ſoothed by her gentleneſs, and her converſation was ſome ſecurity from the dangerous rambling of her ideas.

Henrietta herſelf found no little conſola⯑tion in her own private ſorrows, that ſhe was able to give comfort to her beloved Miſs Beverley, from whom ſhe had receiv⯑ed favours and kind offices innumerable. ſhe quitted her not night nor day, and in the honeſt pride of a little power to ſhew the gratefulneſs of her heart, ſhe felt a pleaſure and ſelf-conſequence ſhe had never before experienced.

CHAP. III. A SUMMONS.

CECILIA's earlieſt care, almoſt at break of day, was to ſend to the Grove; from thence ſhe heard nothing but evil; Mr. Monckton was ſtill alive, but with little or no hope of recovery, con⯑ſtantly delirious, and talking of Miſs Be⯑verley, and of her being married to young Delvile.

Cecilia, who knew well this, at leaſt, was no delirium, though ſhocked that he talk⯑ed of it, hoped his danger leſs than was apprehended.

The next day, however, more fatal news was brought her, though not from the quarter ſhe expected it: Mr. Monckton, in one of his raving fits, had ſent for Lady Margaret to his bed ſide, and uſed her al⯑moſt inhumanly: he had railed at her age and infirmities with incredible fury, called her the cauſe of all his ſufferings, and ac⯑cuſed her as the immediate agent of Luci⯑fer in his preſent wound and danger. Lady [243] Margaret, whom neither jealouſy nor ma⯑lignity had cured of loving him, was diſ⯑mayed and affrighted; and in hurrying out of the room upon his attempting, in his frenzy, to ſtrike her, ſhe dropt down dead in an apoplectic fit.

‘"Good Heaven! thought Cecilia, what an exemplary puniſhment has this man! he looſes his hated wife at the very moment when her death could no longer anſwer his purpoſes! Poor Lady Margaret! her life has been as bitter as her temper! married from a view of intereſt, ill uſed as a bar to happineſs, and deſtroyed from the fruitleſs ravings of deſpair!"’

She wrote all this intelligence to Oſtend, whence ſhe received a letter from Delvile, acquainting her he was detained from pro⯑ceeding further by the weakneſs and illneſs of his mother, whoſe ſufferings from ſea⯑ſickneſs had almoſt put an end to her ex⯑iſtence.

Thus paſſed a miſerable week; Monck⯑ton ſtill merely alive, Delvile detained at Oſtend, and Cecilia tortured alike by what was recently paſſed, actually preſent, and fear⯑fully expected; when one morning ſhe was told a gentleman upon buſineſs deſired im⯑mediately to ſpeak with her.

She haſtily obeyed the ſummons; the [244] conſtant image of her own mind, Delvile, being already preſent to her, and a thouſand wild conjectures upon what had brought him back, rapidly occurring to her.

Her expectations, however, were ill an⯑ſwered, for ſhe found an entire ſtranger; an elderly man, of no pleaſant aſpect or manners.

She deſired to know his buſineſs.

‘"I preſume, madam, you are the lady of this houſe?"’

She bowed an aſſent.

‘"May I take the liberty, madam, to aſk your name?"’

‘"My name, ſir?"’

‘"You will do me a favour, madam, by telling it me."’

‘"Is it poſſible you are come hither with⯑out already knowing it?"’

‘"I know it only by common report, madam."’

‘"Common report, ſir, I believe is ſeldom wrong in a matter where to be right is ſo eaſy."’

‘"Have you any objection, madam, to telling me your name?"’

‘"No, ſir; but your buſineſs can hardly be very important, if you are yet to learn whom you are to addreſs. It will be time enough, therefore, for us to meet when you are elſewhere ſatisfied in this point."’

[245] She would then have left the room.

‘"I beg, madam,"’ cried the ſtranger, ‘"you will have patience; it is neceſſary, before I can open my buſineſs, that I ſhould hear your name from yourſelf."’

‘"Well, ſir,"’ cried ſhe with ſome heſita⯑tion, ‘"you can ſcarce have come to this houſe, without knowing that its owner is Cecilia Beverley."’

‘"That, madam, is your maiden name."’

‘"My maiden name?"’ cried ſhe, ſtart⯑ing.

‘"Are you not married, madam?"’

‘"Married, ſir?"’ ſhe repeated, while her cheeks were the colour of ſcarlet.

‘"It is, properly, therefore, madam, the name of your huſband that I mean to aſk."’

‘"And by what authority, ſir,"’ cried ſhe, equally aſtoniſhed and offended, ‘"do you make theſe extraordinary enquiries?"’

‘"I am deputed, madam, to wait upon you by Mr. Eggleſton, the next heir to this eſtate, by your uncle's will, if you die without children, or change your name when you marry. His authority of enqui⯑ry, madam, I preſume you will allow, and he has veſted it in me by a letter of attorney."’

[246] Cecilia's diſtreſs and confuſion were now unſpeakable; ſhe knew not what to own or deny, ſhe could not conjecture how ſhe had been betrayed, and ſhe had never made the ſmalleſt preparation againſt ſuch an attack.

‘"Mr. Eggleſton,"’ madam, he con⯑tinued, ‘"has been pretty credibly informed that you are actually married: he is very deſirous, therefore, to know what are your intentions, for your continuing to be called Miſs Beverley, as if ſtill ſingle, leaves him quite in the dark: but, as he is ſo deeply concerned in the affair, he expects, as a lady of honour, you will deal with him without prevarication."’

‘"This demand, ſir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſtam⯑mering, ‘"is ſo extremely—ſo—ſo little expected—"’

‘"The way, madam, in theſe caſes, is to keep pretty cloſely to the point; are you married or are you not?"’

Cecilia, quite confounded, made no an⯑ſwer: to diſavow her marriage, when thus formally called upon, was every way unjuſ⯑tifiable; to acknowledge it in her preſent ſituation, would involve her in difficulties innumerable,

‘"This is not, madam, a ſlight thing; Mr. Eggleſton has a large family and a ſmall [247] fortune, and that, into the bargain, very much encumbered; it cannot, therefore, be expected that he will knowingly connive at cheating himſelf, by ſubmitting to your being actually married, and ſtill enjoying your eſtate though your huſband does not take your name."’

Cecilia, now, ſummoning more preſence of mind, anſwered, ‘"Mr. Eggleſton, ſir, has, at leaſt, nothing to fear from impoſi⯑tion: thoſe with whom he has, or may have any tranſactions in this affair, are not ac⯑cuſtomed to practice it."’

‘"I am far from meaning any offence, madam; my commiſſion from Mr. Eggleſton is ſimply this, to beg you will ſatisfy him upon what grounds you now evade the will of your late uncle, which, till cleared up, appears a point manifeſtly to his preju⯑dice."’

‘"Tell him, then, ſir, that whatever he wiſhes to know ſhall be explained to him in about a week. At preſent I can give no other anſwer."’

‘"Very well, madam; he will wait that time, I am ſure, for he does not wiſh to put you to any inconvenience. But when he heard the gentleman was gone abroad without owning his marriage, he thought it high time to take ſome notice of the matter."’

[248] Cecilia, who by this ſpeech found ſhe was every way diſcovered, was again in the utmoſt confuſion, and with much trepida⯑tion, ſaid, ‘"ſince you ſeem ſo well, ſir, acquainted with this affair, I ſhould be glad you would inform me by what means you came to the knowledge of it?"’

‘"I heard it, madam, from Mr. Eggle⯑ſton himſelf, who has long known it."’

‘"Long, ſir?—impoſſible! when it is not yet a forrnight—not ten days, or no more, that—"’

She ſtopt, recollecting ſhe was making a confeſſion better deferred.

‘"That, madam,"’ he anſwered, ‘"may perhaps bear a little contention: for when this buſineſs comes to be ſettled, it will be very eſſential to be exact as to the time, even to the very hour; for a large income per annum, divides into a ſmall one per diem; and if your huſband keeps his own name, you muſt not only give up your uncle's inheritance from the time of relinquiſhing yours, but refund from the very day of your marriage."’

‘"There is not the leaſt doubt of it,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"nor will the ſmalleſt diffi⯑culty be made."’

‘"You will pleaſe, then, to recollect, madam, that this ſum is every hour encreaſing; [249] and has been ſince laſt September, which made half a year accountable for laſt March. Since then there is now ad⯑ded—"’

‘"Good Heaven, ſir,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"what calculation are you making out? do you call laſt week laſt September?"’

‘"No, madam; but I call laſt September the month in which you were married."’

‘"You will find yourſelf, then, ſir, ex⯑tremely miſtaken; and Mr. Eggleſton is preparing himſelf for much diſapointment, if he ſuppoſes me ſo long in arrears with him."’

‘"Mr. Eggleſton, madam, happens to be well informed of this tranſaction, as, if there is any diſpute in it, you will find. He was your immediate ſucceſſor in the houſe to which you went laſt September in in Pall-Mall; the woman who kept it ac⯑quainted his ſervants that the laſt lady who hired it ſtayed with her but a day, and only came to town, ſhe found, to be married: and hearing, upon enquiry, this lady was Miſs Beverley, the ſervants, well knowing that their maſter was her conditional heir, old him the circumſtance."’

‘"You will find all this, ſir, end in nothing."’

‘"That, madam, as I ſaid before, remains [250] to be proved. If a young lady at eight o'clock in the morning, is ſeen,—and ſhe was ſeen, going into a church with a young gentleman, and one female friend; and is afterwards obſerved to come out of it, followed by a clergyman and another perſon, ſuppoſed to have officiated as fa⯑ther, and is ſeen get into a coach with ſame young gentleman, and ſame female friend, why the circumſtancs are pretty ſtrong!—"’

‘"They may ſeem ſo, ſir; but all con⯑cluſions drawn from them will be errone⯑ous. I was not married then, upon my honour!"’

‘"We have little, madam, to do with profeſſions; the circumſtances are ſtrong enough to bear a trial, and—"’

‘"A trial!—"’

‘"We have traced, madam, many wit⯑neſſes able to ſtand to divers particulars; and eight months ſhare of ſuch an eſtate as this, is well worth a little trouble."’

‘"I am amazed, ſir! ſurely Mr. Eggle⯑ſton never deſired you to make uſe of this language to me?"’

‘"Mr. Eggleſton, madam, has behaved very honourably; though he knew the whole affair ſo long ago, he was perſuaded Mr. Delvile had private reaſons for a ſhort concealment; [251] and expecting every day when they would be cleared up by his taking your name, he never interfered: but being now informed he ſet out laſt week for the continent, he has been adviſed by his friends to claim his rights."’

‘"That claim, ſir, he need not fear will be ſatisfied; and without any occaſion for threats of enquiries or law ſuits."’

‘"The truth, madam, is this; Mr. Eg⯑gleſton is at preſent in a little difficulty about ſome money matters, which makes it a point with him of ſome conſequence to have the affair ſettled ſpeedily: unleſs you could conveniently compromiſe the matter, by advancing a particular ſum, till it ſuits you to refund the whole that is due to him, and quit the premiſes."’

‘"Nothing, ſir, is due to him! at leaſt, nothing worth mentioning. I ſhall enter into no terms, for I have no compro⯑miſe to make. As to the premiſes, I will quit them with all the expedition in my power."’

‘"You will do well, madam; for the truth is, it will not be convenient to him to wait much longer."’

He then went away.

‘"When, next,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"ſhall I again be weak, vain, blind enough to [252] form any plan with a hope of ſecreſy? or enter, with any hope, into a clandeſtine ſcheme! betrayed by thoſe I have truſt⯑ed, diſcovered by thoſe I have not thought of, expoſed to the cruelleſt alarms, and defenceleſs from the moſt ſhocking at⯑tacks!—Such has been the life I have led ſince the moment I firſt conſented to a private engagement!—Ah Delvile! your mother, in her tenderneſs, forgot her dignity, or ſhe would not have concurred in an action which to ſuch diſgrace made me liable!"’

CHAP. IV. A DELIBERATION.

IT was neceſſary, however, not to moral⯑ize, but to act; Cecilia had undertaken to give her anſwer in a week, and the art⯑ful attorney had drawn from her an acknow⯑ledgement of her ſituation, by which he might claim it yet ſooner.

The law-ſuit with which ſhe was threa⯑tened for the arrears of eight months, alar⯑med her not, though it ſhocked her, as ſhe was certain ſhe could prove her marriage ſo much later.

It was eaſy to perceive that this man had been ſent with a view of working from her a confeſſion, and terrifying from her ſome money; the confeſſion, indeed, in conſcience and honeſty ſhe could not whol⯑ly elude, but ſhe had ſuffered too often by a facility in parting with money to be there eaſily duped.

Nothing, however, was more true, than that ſhe now lived upon an eſtate of which ſhe no longer was the owner, and that all ſhe either ſpent or received was to be accounted [254] for and returned, ſince by the will of her uncle, unleſs her huſband took her name, her eſtate on the very day of her marriage was to be forfeited, and entered upon by the Eggleſtons. Delvile's plan and hope of ſecreſy had made them little weigh this matter, though this premature diſco⯑very ſo unexpectedly expoſed her to their power.

The firſt thought that occurred to her, was to ſend an expreſs to Delvile, and deſire his inſtructions how to proceed; but ſhe dread⯑ed his impetuoſity of temper, and was al⯑moſt certain that the inſtant he ſhould hear ſhe was in any uneaſineſs or perplexity, he would return to her at all hazards, even though Mr. Monckton were dead, and his mother herſelf dying. This ſtep, there⯑fore, ſhe did not dare riſk, preferring any perſonal hardſhip, to endangering the al⯑ready precarious life of Mrs. Delvile, or to haſtening her ſon home while Mr. Monck⯑ton was in ſo deſperate a ſituation.

But though what to avoid was eaſy to ſettle, what to ſeek was difficult to deviſe. She had now no Mrs. Charlton to receive her, nor a creature in whom ſhe could con⯑fide. To continue her preſent way of liv⯑ing was deeply involving Delvile in debt, a circumſtance ſhe had never conſidered, in the confuſion and hurry attending all [255] their plans and converſations, and a cir⯑cumſtance which, though to him it might have occurred, he could not in common delicacy mention.

Yet to have quitted her houſe, and re⯑trenched her expences, would have raiſed ſuſpicions that muſt have anticipated the diſcovery ſhe ſo much wiſhed to have de⯑layed. That wiſh, by the preſent danger of its failure, was but more ardent; to have her affairs and ſituation become pub⯑licly known at the preſent period, ſhe felt would half diſtract her.—Privately mar⯑ried, parted from her huſband at the very moment of their union, a huſband by whoſe hand the apparent friend of her earlieſt youth was all but killed, whoſe father had execrated the match, whoſe mother was now falling a ſacrifice to the vehemence with which ſhe had oppoſed it, and who him⯑ſelf, little ſhort of an exile, knew not yet if, with perſonal ſafety, he might return to his native land!

To circumſtances ſo dreadful, ſhe had now the additional ſhock of being uncer⯑tain whether her own houſe might not be ſeized, before any other could be prepar⯑ed for her reception!

Yet ſtill whither to go, what to do, or what to reſolve, ſhe was wholly unable to [256] determine; and after meditating almoſt to madneſs in the ſearch of ſome plan or ex⯑pedient, ſhe was obliged to give over the attempt, and be ſatisfied with remaining quietly where ſhe was, till ſhe had better news from Delvile of his mother, or better news to ſend him of Mr. Monckton; care⯑fully, mean time, in all her letters avoiding to alarm him by any hint of her diſtreſs.

Yet was ſhe not idle, either from deſpair or helpleſſneſs: ſhe found her difficulties encreaſed, and ſhe called forth more reſolu⯑tion to combat them: ſhe animated herſelf by the promiſe ſhe had made Delvile, and recovering from the ſadneſs to which ſhe had at firſt given way, ſhe now exerted herſelf with vigour to perform it as ſhe ought.

She began by making an immediate in⯑ſpection into her affairs, and endeavouring, where expence ſeemed unneceſſary, to leſſen it. She gave Henrietta to underſtand ſhe feared they muſt ſoon part; and ſo afflic⯑ted was the unhappy girl at the news, that ſhe found it the moſt cruel office ſhe had to execute. The ſame intimation ſhe gave to Mrs. Harrel, who repined at it more openly, but with a ſelfiſhneſs ſo evi⯑dent that it blunted the edge of pity. She then announced to Albany her inability to purſue, at preſent, their extenſive ſchemes [257] of benevolence; and though he inſtantly left her, to carry on his laborious plan elſe⯑where, the reverence ſhe had now excited in him of her character, made him leave her with no ſenſation but of regret, and readily promiſe to return when her affairs were ſettled, or her mind more compoſed.

Theſe little preparations, which were all ſhe could make, with enquiries after Mr. Monckon, and writing to Delvile, ſuffi⯑ciently filled up her time, though her thoughts were by no means confined to them. Day after day paſſed, and Mr. Monckton continued to linger rather than live; the letters of Delvile, ſtill only dated from Oſtend, contained the moſt melan⯑choly complaints of the illneſs of his mo⯑ther; and the time advanced when her an⯑ſwer would be claimed by the attorney.

The thought of ſuch another viſit was almoſt intolerable; and within two days of the time that ſhe expected it, ſhe reſolved to endeavour herſelf to prevail with Mr. Eggleſton to wait longer.

Mr. Eggleſton was a gentleman whom ſhe knew little more than by ſight; he was no relation to her family, nor had any connection with the Dean, but by being a couſin to a lady he had married, and who had left him no children. The dean had no particular regard for him, and had rather [258] mentioned him in his will as the ſuc⯑ceſſor of Cecilia, in caſe ſhe died unmar⯑ried or changed her name, as a mark that he approved of her doing neither, than as a matter he thought probable, if even poſſi⯑ble, to turn out in his favour.

He was a man of a large family, the ſons of which, who were extravagant and diſſipated, had much impaired his fortune by prevailing with him to pay their debts, and much diſtreſſed him in his affairs by ſucceſsfully teaſing him for money.

Cecilia, acquainted with theſe circum⯑ſtances, knew but too well with what avi⯑dity her eſtate would be ſeized by them, and how little the ſons would endure de⯑lay, even if the father conſented to it. Yet ſince the ſacrifice to which ſhe had agreed muſt ſoon make it indiſputably their own, ſhe determined to deal with them openly; and acknowledged, therefore, in her letter, her marriage without diſguiſe, but begged their patience and ſecreſy, and promiſed, in a ſhort time, the moſt honourable retri⯑bution and ſatisfaction.

She ſent this letter by a man and horſe, Mr. Eggleſton's habitation being within fifteen miles of her own.

The anſwer was from his eldeſt ſon, who acquainted her that his father was very ill, and had put all his affairs into the hands of [259] Mr. Carn, his attorney, who was a man of great credit, and would ſee juſtice done on all ſides.

If this anſwer, which ſhe broke open the inſtant ſhe took it into her hand, was in itſelf a cruel diſappointment to her, how was that diſappointment embittered by ſhame and terror, when, upon again fold⯑ing it up, ſhe ſaw it was directed to Mrs. Mortimer Delvile!

This was a deciſive ſtroke; what they wrote to her, ſhe was ſure they would men⯑tion to all others; ſhe ſaw they were too impatient for her eſtate to be moved by any repreſentations to a delay, and that their eagerneſs to publiſh their right, took from them all conſideration of what they might make her ſuffer. Mr. Eggleſton, ſhe found, permitted himſelf to be wholly governed by his ſon; his ſon was a needy and profligate ſpendthrift, and by throw⯑ing the management of the affair into the hands of an attorney, craftily meant to ſhield himſelf from the future reſentment of Delvile, to whom, hereafter, he might af⯑fect, at his convenience, to diſapprove Mr. Carn's behaviour, while Mr. Carn was al⯑ways ſecure, by averring he only exerted himſelf for the intereſt of his client.

The diſcerning Cecilia, though but little experienced in buſineſs, and wholly un⯑ſuſpicious [260] by nature, yet ſaw into this ma⯑nagement, and doubted not theſe excuſes were already arranged. She had only, therefore, to ſave herſelf an actual eject⯑ment, by quitting a houſe in which ſhe was expoſed to ſuch a diſgrace.

But ſtill whither to go ſhe knew not! One only attempt ſeemed in her power for an honourable aſylum, and that was more irk⯑ſomely painful to her than ſeeking ſhelter in the meaneſt retreat: it was applying to Mr. Delvile ſenior.

The action of leaving her houſe, whether quietly or forcibly, could not but inſtantly authenticate the reports ſpread by the Eggle⯑ſtons of her marriage: to hope therefore for ſecreſy any longer would be folly, and Mr. Delvile's rage at ſuch intelligence might be ſtill greater to hear it by chance than from herſelf. She now lamented that Del⯑vile had not at once told the tale, lit⯑tle foreſeeing ſuch a diſcovery as the pre⯑ſent, they had mutually concluded to defer the communication till his return.

Her own anger at the contemptuous ill treatment ſhe had repeatedly met from him, ſhe was now content not merely to ſuppreſs but to diſmiſs, ſince, as the wife of his ſon without his conſent, ſhe conſidered herſelf no longer as wholly innocent of incurring it. Yet, ſuch was her dread of his auſterity [261] and the arrogance of his reproaches, that, by choice, ſhe would have preferred an habitation with her own penſioner, the pew-opener, to the grandeſt apartment in Delvile Caſtle while he continued its lord.

In her preſent ſituation, however, her choice was little to be conſulted: the ho⯑nour of Delvile was concerned in her eſcap⯑ing even temporary diſgrace, and nothing, ſhe knew, would ſo much gratify him, as any attention from her to his father. She wrote to him, therefore, the following let⯑ter, which ſhe ſent by an expreſs.

Her mind was ſomewhat eaſier when this letter was written, becauſe ſhe thought it a duty, yet felt reluctance in performing it. [263] She wiſhed to have repreſented to him ſtrongly the danger of Delvile's hearing her diſtreſs, but ſhe knew ſo well his inordinate ſelf-ſufficiency, ſhe feared a hint of that ſort might be conſtrued into an inſult, and con⯑cluded her only chance that he would do any thing, was by leaving wholly to his own ſuggeſtions the weighing and ſettling what.

But though nothing was more uncertain than whether ſhe ſhould be received at Del⯑vile Caſtle, nothing was more fixed than that ſhe muſt quit her own houſe, ſince the pride of Mr. Delvile left not even a chance that his intereſt would conquer it. She de⯑ferred not, therefore, any longer making preparations for her removal, though wholly unſettled whither.

Her firſt, which was alſo her moſt pain⯑ful taſk, was to acquaint Henrietta with her ſituation: ſhe ſent, therefore, to deſire to ſpeak with her, but the countenance of Henrietta ſhewed her communication would not ſurpriſe her.

‘"What is the matter with my dear Hen⯑rietta?"’ cried Cecilia; ‘"who is it has al⯑ready afflicted that kind heart which I am now compelled to afflict for myſelf?"’

Henrietta, in whom anger appeared to be ſtruggling with ſorrow, anſwered, ‘"No, [264] madam, not afflicted for you! it would be ſtrange if I were, thinking as I think!"’

‘"I am glad,"’ ſaid Cecilia, calmly, ‘"if you are not, "for I would give to you, were it poſſible, nothing but pleaſure and joy."’

‘"Ah madam!"’ cried Henrietta, burſt⯑ing into tears, ‘"why will you ſay ſo when you don't care what becomes of me! when you are going to caſt me off!—and when you will ſoon be too happy ever to think of me more!"’

‘"If I am never happy till then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſad, indeed, will be my life! no, my gentleſt friend, you will always have your ſhare in my heart; and always, to me, would have been the welcomeſt gueſt in my houſe, but for thoſe unhappy circum⯑ſtances which make our ſeparating inevi⯑table."’

‘"Yet you ſuffered me, madam, to hear from any body that you was married and going away; and all the common ſervants in the houſe knew it before me."’

‘"I am amazed!"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"how and which way can they have heard it?"’

‘"The man that went to Mr. Eggleſton brought the firſt news of it, for he ſaid all the ſervants there talked of nothing elſe, and that their maſter was to come and take poſſeſſion here next Thurſday."’

[265] Cecilia ſtarted at this moſt unwelcome intelligence; ‘"Yet you envy me,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"Henrietta, though I am forced from my houſe! though in quitting it, I am unprovided with any other, and though him for whom I relinquiſh it, is far off, without means of protecting, or power of returning to me!"’

‘"But you are married to him, madam!"’ cried ſhe, expreſſively.

‘"True, my love; but, alſo, I am parted from him!"’

‘"Oh how differently,"’ exclaimed Hen⯑rietta, ‘"do the great think from the little! were I married,—and ſo married, I ſhould want neither houſe, nor fine cloaths, nor riches, nor any thing;—I ſhould not care where I lived,—every place would be para⯑diſe! I would walk to him barefoot if he were a thouſand miles off, and I ſhould mind nobody elſe in the world while I had him to take care of me!"’

Ah Delvile! thought Cecilia, what powers of faſcination are yours! ſhould I be tempted to repine at what I have to bear, I will think of this heroick girl, and bluſh!

Mrs. Harrel now broke in upon them, eager to be informed of the truth or falſe⯑hood of the reports which were buzzed [266] throughout the houſe. Cecilia briefly re⯑lated to them both the ſtate of her affairs, earneſtly expreſſing her concern at the abrupt ſeparation which muſt take place, and for which ſhe had been unable to pre⯑pare them, as the circumſtances which led to it had been wholly unforeſeen by her⯑ſelf.

Mrs. Harrel liſtened to the account with much curioſity and ſurprize; but Henrietta wept inceſſantly in hearing it: the object of a paſſion ardent as it was romantic, loſt to her paſt recovery; torn herſelf, probably for ever, from the beſt friend ſhe had in the world; and obliged to return thus ſuddenly to an home ſhe deteſted,—Henrietta poſ⯑ſeſſed not the fortitude to hear evils ſuch as theſe, which, to her inexperienced heart, appeared the ſevereſt that could be inflict⯑ed.

This converſation over, Cecilia ſent for her Steward, and deſired him, with the ut⯑moſt expedition, to call in all her bills, and inſtantly to go round to her tenants within twenty miles, and gather in, from thoſe who were able to pay, the arrears now due to her; charging him, however, upon no ac⯑count, to be urgent with ſuch as ſeemed diſtreſſed.

The bills ſhe had to pay were collected [267] without difficulty; ſhe never owed much, and creditors are ſeldom hard of acceſs; but the money ſhe hoped to receive fell very ſhort of her expectations, for the indul⯑gence ſhe had ſhewn to her tenants had ill prepared them for ſo ſudden a demand.

CHAP. V. A DECISION.

THIS buſineſs effectually occupied the preſent and following day; the third, Cecilia expected her anſwer from Delvile Caſtle, and the viſit ſhe ſo much dreaded from the attorney.

The anſwer arrived firſt.

Cecilia had little right to be ſurpriſed by this letter, and ſhe had not a moment to [269] comment upon it, before the attorney ar⯑rived.

‘"Well, madam,"’ ſaid the man, as he entered the parlour, ‘"Mr. Eggleſton has ſtayed your own time very patiently: he commiſſions me now to enquire if it is convenient to you to quit the premiſes."’

‘"No, Sir, it is by no means convenient to me; and if Mr. Eggleſton will wait ſome time longer, I ſhall be greatly obliged to him."’

‘"No doubt, madam, but he will, upon proper conſiderations."’

‘"What, Sir, do you call proper?"’

‘"Upon your advancing to him, as I hinted before, an immediate particular ſum from what muſt, by and bye, be legally reſtituted."’

‘"If this is the condition of his courte⯑ſy, I will quit the houſe without giving him further trouble."’

‘"Juſt as it ſuits you, madam. He will be glad to take poſſeſſion to-morrow or next day."’

‘"You did well, Sir, to commend his patience! I ſhall, however, merely diſ⯑charge my ſervants, and ſettle my accounts, and be ready to make way for him."’

‘"You will not take it amiſs, madam, if I remind you that the account with Mr. Eggleſton muſt be the firſt that is ſettled."’

[270] ‘"If you mean the arrears of this laſt fortnight or three weeks, I believe I muſt deſire him to wait Mr. Delvile's return, as I may otherwiſe myſelf be diſtreſſed for ready money."’

‘"That, madam, is not likely, as it is well known you have a fortune that was independent of your late uncle; and as to diſtreſs for ready money, it is a plea Mr. Eggleſton can urge much more ſtrongly."’

‘"This is being ſtrangely haſty, Sir!—ſo ſhort a time as it is ſince Mr. Eggleſton could expect any part of this eſtate!"’

‘"That, madam, is nothing to the pur⯑poſe; from the moment it is his, he has as many wants for it as any other gentle⯑man. He deſired me, however, to acquaint you, that if you ſtill choſe an apartment in this houſe, till Mr. Delvile returns, you ſhall have one at your ſervice."’

‘"To be a gueſt in this houſe, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, drily, ‘"might perhaps ſeem ſtrange to me; I will not, therefore, be ſo much in his way."’

Mr. Cran then informed her ſhe might put her ſeal upon whatever ſhe meant here⯑after to claim or diſpute, and took his leave.

Cecilia now ſhut herſelf up in her own room, to meditate without interruption, before ſhe would proceed to any action. [271] She felt much inclination to ſend inſtantly for ſome lawyer; but when ſhe conſidered her peculiar ſituation, the abſence of her huſband, the renunciation of his father, the loſs of her fortune, and her ignorance upon the ſubject, ſhe thought it better to reſt quiet till Delvile's own fate, and own opinion could be known, than to involve herſelf in a lawſuit ſhe was ſo little able to ſuperintend.

In this cruel perplexity of her mind and her affairs, her firſt thought was to board again with Mrs. Bayley; but that was ſoon given up, for ſhe felt a repugnance uncon⯑querable to continuing in her native coun⯑ty, when deprived of her fortune, and caſt out of her dwelling. Her ſituation, in⯑deed, was ſingularly unhappy, ſince, by this unforeſeen viciſſitude of fortune, ſhe was ſuddenly, from being an object of envy and admiration, ſunk into diſtreſs, and threatened with diſgrace; from being every where careſſed, and by every voice praiſed, ſhe bluſhed to be ſeen, and ex⯑pected to be cenſured; and, from being generally regarded as an example of hap⯑pineſs, and a model of virtue, ſhe was now in one moment to appear to the world, an outcaſt from her own houſe, yet received into no other! a bride, unclaimed by a [272] huſband! an HEIRESS, diſpoſſeſſed of all wealth!

To be firſt acknowledged as Mrs. Delvile in a ſtate ſo degrading, ſhe could not en⯑dure; and to eſcape from it, one way alone remained, which was going inſtantly abroad.

Upon this, therefore, ſhe finally de⯑termined: her former objections to ſuch a ſtep being now wholly, though unpleaſantly removed, ſince ſhe had neither eſtate nor affairs to demand her ſtay, and ſince all hopes of concealment were totally at an end. Her marriage, therefore, and its diſgraceful conſequences being publiſhed to the world, ſhe reſolved without delay to ſeek the only aſylum which was proper for her, in the protection of the huſband for whom ſhe had given up every other.

She purpoſed, therefore, to go imme⯑diately and privately to London, whence ſhe could beſt ſettle her route for the con⯑tinent: where ſhe hoped to arrive before the news of her diſtreſs reached Delvile, whom nothing, ſhe was certain, but her own preſence, could keep there for a mo⯑ment after hearing it.

Thus decided, at length, in her plan, ſhe proceeded to put it in execution with calmneſs and intrepidity; comforting her⯑ſelf that the conveniencies and indulgencies [273] with which ſhe was now parting, would ſoon be reſtored to her, and though not with equal power, with far more ſatisfac⯑tion. She told her ſteward her deſign of going the next morning to London, bid him pay inſtantly all her debts, and diſ⯑charge all her ſervants, determining to keep no account open but that with Mr. Eggleſton, which he had made ſo intricate by double and undue demands, that ſhe thought it moſt prudent and ſafe to leave him wholly to Delvile.

She then packed up all her papers and letters, and ordered her maid to pack up her clothes.

She next put her own ſeal upon her cabi⯑nets, draws, and many other things, and employed almoſt all her ſervants at once, in making complete inventories of what every room contained.

She adviſed Mrs. Harrel to ſend without delay for Mr. Arnott, and return to his houſe. She had firſt purpoſed to carry Henrietta home to her mother herſelf; but another ſcheme for her now occurred, from which ſhe hoped much future advantage to the amiable and dejected girl.

She knew well, that deep as was at pre⯑ſent her deſpondency, the removal of all poſſibility of hope, by her knowledge of Delvile's marriage, muſt awaken her before [274] long from the deluſive viſions of her romantic fancy; Mr. Arnott himſelf was in a ſituation exactly ſimilar, and the know⯑ledge of the ſame event would probably be productive of the ſame effect. When Mrs. Harrel, therefore, began to repine at the ſolitude to which ſhe was returning, Ceci⯑lia propoſed to her the ſociety of Henrietta, which, glad to catch at any thing that would break into her lonelineſs, ſhe liſtened to with pleaſure, and ſeconded by an invi⯑tation.

Henrietta, to whom all houſes appeared preferable to her own home, joyfully ac⯑cepted the offer, committing to Cecilia the communication of the change of her abode to Mrs. Belfield.

Cecilia, who in the known and tried ho⯑nour of Mr. Arnott would unreluctantly have truſted a ſiſter, was much pleaſed by this little arrangement, from which ſhould no good enſue, no evil, at leaſt, was pro⯑bable. But ſhe hoped, through the mutual pity their mutual melancholy might inſpire, that their minds, already not diſſimilar, would be ſoftened in favour of each other, and that, in concluſion, each might be hap⯑py in receiving the conſolation each could give, and a union would take place, in which their reciprocal diſappointment might, in time, be nearly forgotten.

[275] There was not, indeed, much promiſe of ſuch an event in the countenance of Mr. Arnott, when, late at night, he came for his ſiſter, nor in the unbounded ſorrow of Henrietta, when the moment of leave-tak⯑ing arrived. Mr. Arnott looked half dead with the ſhock his ſiſter's intelligence had given him, and Henrietta's heart, torn aſunder between friendſhip and love, was ſcarce able to bear a parting, which from Cecilia, ſhe regarded as eternal, added to the conſciouſneſs it was occaſioned by her going to join Delvile for life!

Cecilia, who both read and pitied theſe conflicting emotions, was herſelf extremely hurt by this neceſſary ſeparation. She tenderly loved Henrietta, ſhe loved her even the more for the ſympathy of their affections, which called forth the moſt for⯑cible commiſeration,—that which ſprings from fellow feeling!

‘"Farewell,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"my Henrietta, be but happy as you are innocent, and be both as I love you, and nothing will your friends have to wiſh for you, or yourſelf to regret."’

‘"I muſt always regret,"’ cried the ſob⯑bing Henrietta, ‘"that I cannot live with you for ever! I ſhould regret it if I were queen of all the world, how much more then, when I am nothing and nobody! I [276] do not wiſh you happy, madam, for I think happineſs was made on purpoſe for you, and nobody elſe ever had it before; I only wiſh you health and long life, for the ſake of thoſe who will be made as happy as you,—for you will ſpoil them,—as you have ſpoilt me,—from being ever happy without you!"’

Cecilia re-iterated her aſſurances of a moſt faithful regard, embraced Mrs. Har⯑rel, ſpoke words of kindneſs to the droop⯑ing Mr. Arnott, and then parted with them all.

Having ſtill many ſmall matters to ſettle, and neither company nor appetite, ſhe would eat no ſupper; but, in paſſing thro' the hall, in her way to her own room, ſhe was much ſurpriſed to ſee all her domeſtics aſſembled in a body. She ſtopt to enquire their intention, when they eagerly preſſed forward, humbly and earneſtly entreating to know why they were diſcharged?

‘"For no reaſon in the world,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"but becauſe it is at preſent out of my power to keep you any longer."’

‘"Dont part with me, madam, for that,"’ cried one of them, ‘"for I will ſerve you for nothing!"’

‘"So will I!"’ cried another, ‘"And I!"’ ‘"And I!"’ was echoed by them all; while ‘"no other ſuch miſtreſs is to be found?"’ [277] ‘"We can never bear any other place!"’ and ‘"keep me, madam, at leaſt!"’ was even cla⯑morouſly urged by each of them.

Cecilia, diſtreſſed and ſlattered at once by their unwillingneſs to quit her, received this teſtimony of gratitude for the kind and liberal treatment they had received, with the warmeſt thanks both for their ſervices and fidelity, and aſſured them that when again ſhe was ſettled, all thoſe who ſhould be yet unprovided with places, ſhould be preferred in her houſe before any other claimants.

Having, with difficulty, broken from them, ſhe ſent for her own man, Ralph, who had lived with her many years before the death of the Dean, and told him ſhe meant ſtill to continue him in her ſervice. The man heard it with great delight, and promiſed to re-double his deligence to de⯑ſerve her favour. She then communicated the ſame news to her maid, who had alſo reſided with her ſome years, and by whom with the ſame, or more pleaſure it was heard.

Theſe and other regulations employed her almoſt all night; yet late and fatigued as ſhe went to bed, ſhe could not cloſe her eyes: fearful ſomething was left undone, ſhe robbed herſelf of the ſhort time ſhe had allowed to reſt, by inceſſant meditation [278] upon what yet remained to be executed. She could recollect, however, one only thing that had eſcaped her vigilance, which was acquainting the pew-opener, and two or three other poor women who had week⯑ly penſions from her, that they muſt, at leaſt for the preſent, depend no longer upon her aſſiſtance.

Nothing indeed could be more painful to her than giving them ſuch information, yet not to be ſpeedy with it would double the barbarity of their diſappointment. She even felt for theſe poor women, whoſe loſs in her ſhe knew would be irreparable, a compaſſion that drove from her mind al⯑moſt every other ſubject, and determined her, in order to ſoften to them this miſ⯑fortune, to communicate it herſelf, that ſhe might prevent their from ſinking under it, by reviving them with hopes of her future aſſiſtance.

She had ordered at ſeven o'clock in the morning an hired chaiſe at the door, and ſhe did not ſuffer it long to wait for her. She quitted her houſe with a heart full of care and anxiety, grieving at the neceſſity of making ſuch a ſacrifice, uncertain how it would turn out, and labouring under a thouſand perplexities with reſpect to the meaſures ſhe ought immediately to take. She paſſed, when ſhe reached the hall, [279] through a row of weeping domeſtics, not one of whom with dry eyes could ſee the houſe bereft of ſuch a miſtreſs. She ſpoke to them all with kindneſs, and as much as was in her power with chearfulneſs: but the tone of her voice gave them little reaſon to think the concern at this journey was all their own.

She ordered her chaiſe to drive round to the pew-opener's, and thence to the reſt of her immediate dependents. She ſoon, however, regretted that ſhe had given her⯑ſelf this taſk; the affliction of theſe poor penſioners was clamorous, was almoſt heart-breaking; they could live, they ſaid, no longer, they were ruined for ever; they ſhould ſoon be without bread to eat, and they might cry for help in vain, when their generous, their only benefactreſs was far away!

Cecilia made the kindeſt efforts to com⯑fort and encourage them, aſſuring them the very moment her own affairs were arranged, ſhe would remember them all, viſit them herſelf, and contribute to their relief, with all the power ſhe ſhould have left. No⯑thing, however, could conſole them; they clung about her, almoſt took the horſes from the chaiſe, and conjured her not to deſert thoſe who were ſolely cheriſhed by her bounty!

[280] Nor was this all ſhe had to ſuffer; the news of her intention to quit the county was now reported throughout the neigh⯑bourhood, and had ſpread the utmoſt con⯑ſternation among the poor in general, and the lower claſs of her own tenants in parti⯑cular, and the road was ſoon lined with women and children, wringing their hands and crying. They followed her carriage with ſupplications that ſhe would return to them, mixing bleſſings with their lamen⯑tations, and prayers for her happineſs with the bittereſt repinings at their own loſs!

Cecilia was extremely affected; her li⯑beral and ever-ready hand was every other inſtant involuntarily ſeeking her purſe, which her many immediate expences, made her prudence as often check: and now firſt ſhe felt the capital error ſhe had committed, in living conſtantly to the utmoſt extent of her income, without ever preparing, though ſo able to have done it, againſt any unfor⯑tunate contingency.

When ſhe eſcaped, at laſt, from receiv⯑ing any longer this painful tribute to her benevolence, ſhe gave orders to her man to ride forward, and ſtop at the Grove, that a preciſe and minute account of Mr. Monck⯑ton, might be the laſt, as it was now be⯑come the moſt important, news ſhe ſhould hear in Suffolk. This he did, when to her [281] equal ſurpriſe and delight, ſhe heard that he was ſuddenly ſo much better, there were hopes of his recovery.

Intelligence ſo joyful made her amends for almoſt every thing; yet ſhe heſitated not in her plan of going abroad, as ſhe knew not where to be in England, and could not endure to hurry Delvile from his ſick mother, by acquainting him with her helpleſs and diſtreſſed ſituation. But ſo revived were her ſpirits by theſe unexpected tidings, that a gleam of brighteſt hope once more danced before her eyes, and ſhe felt herſelf invigorated with freſh courage and new ſtrength, ſufficient to ſupport her through all hardſhips and fatigues.

Spirits and courage were indeed much wanted for the enterprize ſhe had formed; but little uſed to travelling, and having never been out of England, ſhe knew nothing of the route but by a general knowledge of geography, which, though it could guide her eaſt or weſt, could teach her nothing of foreign cuſtoms, the preparations neceſſary for the journey, the impoſitions ſhe ſhould guard againſt, nor the various dangers to which ſhe might be expoſed, from total ig⯑norance of the country through which ſhe had to paſs.

Conſcious of theſe deficiencies for ſuch an undertaking, ſhe deliberated without intermiſſion [282] how to obviate them. Yet ſome⯑times, when to theſe hazards, thoſe ariſing from her youth and ſex were added, ſhe was upon the point of relinquiſhing her ſcheme, as too perilous for execution, and reſolving to continue privately in London till ſome change happened in her affairs.

But though to every thing ſhe could ſuggeſt, doubts and difficulties aroſe, ſhe had no friend to conſult, nor could deviſe any means by which they might be termi⯑nated. Her maid was her only compa⯑nion, and Ralph, who had ſpent almoſt his whole life in Suffolk, her only guard and attendant. To hire immediately ſome French ſervant, uſed to travelling in his own country, ſeemed the firſt ſtep ſhe had to take, and ſo eſſential, that no other ap⯑peared feaſible till it was done. But where to hear of ſuch a man ſhe could not tell, and to take one not well recommended, would be expoſing herſelf to frauds and dangers innumerable.

Yet ſo ſlow as Delvile travelled, from whom her laſt letter was ſtill dated Oſtend, ſhe thought herſelf almoſt certain, could ſhe once reach the continent, of overtaking him in his route within a day or two of her landing.

The earneſt inclination with which this ſcheme was ſeconded, made her every moment [283] leſs willing to forego it. It ſeemed the only harbour for her after the ſtorm ſhe had weathered, and the only refuge ſhe could properly ſeek while thus houſeleſs and helpleſs. Even were Delvile in Eng⯑land, he had no place at preſent to offer her, nor could any thing be propoſed ſo unexceptionable as her living with Mrs. Delvile at Nice, till he knew his father's pleaſure, and, in a ſeparate journey home, had arranged his affairs either for her re⯑turn, or her continuance abroad.

With what regret did ſhe now look back to the time when, in a diſtreſs ſuch as this, ſhe ſhould have applied for, and received the advice of Mr. Monckton as oracular! The loſs of a counſellor ſo long, ſo impli⯑citly relied upon, loſt to her alſo, only by his own intereſted worthleſſneſs, ſhe felt al⯑moſt daily, for almoſt daily ſome intricacy or embarraſſment made her miſs his aſſiſt⯑ance: and though glad, ſince ſhe found him ſo undeſerving, that ſhe had eſcaped the ſnares he had ſpread for her, ſhe griev⯑ed much that ſhe knew no man of honeſt character and equal abilities, that would care for her ſufficiently to ſupply his place in her confidence.

As ſhe was ſituated at preſent, ſhe could think only of Mr. Belfield to whom ſhe could apply for any advice. Nor even to [284] him was the application unexceptionable, the calumnies of Mr. Delvile ſenior making it diſagreeable to her even to ſee him. But he was at once a man of the world and a man of honour; he was the friend of Morti⯑mer, whoſe confidence in him was great, and his own behaviour had uniformly ſhewn a reſpect far removed from impertinence or vanity, and a mind ſuperior to being led to them by the influence of his groſs mother. She had, indeed, when ſhe laſt quitted his houſe, determined never to re-enter it; but determinations haſty or violent, are rarely obſerved, becauſe rarely practicable; ſhe had promiſed Henrietta to inform Mrs. Belfield whither ſhe was gone, and recon⯑cile her to the abſence ſhe ſtill hoped to make from home. She concluded, there⯑fore, to go to Portland-Street without de⯑lay, and enquire openly and at once whether, and when, ſhe might ſpeak with Mr. Bel⯑field; reſolving, if tormented again by any forward inſinuations, to rectify all miſtakes by acknowledging her marriage.

She gave directions accordingly to the poſt-boy and Ralph.

With reſpect to her own lodgings while in town, as money was no longer unimport⯑ant to her, ſhe meant from the Befields to go to the Hills, by whom ſhe might be re⯑commended to ſome reputable and cheap [285] place. To the Belfields, however, though very late when ſhe arrived in town, ſhe went firſt, unwilling to loſe a moment in promoting her ſcheme of going abroad.

She left her maid in the chaiſe, and ſent Ralph on to Mrs. Hill, with directions to endeavour immediately to procure her a lodging.

CHAP. VI. A PRATING.

CECILIA was ſhewn into a parlour, where Mrs. Belfield was very earneſtly diſcourſing with Mr. Hobſon and Mr. Sim⯑kins; and Belfield himſelf, to her great ſa⯑tisfaction, was already there, and reading.

‘"Lack-a-day!"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘"if one does not always ſee the people one's talk⯑ing of! Why it was but this morning, ma⯑dam, I was ſaying to Mr. Hobſon, I wonder, ſays I, a young lady of ſuch fortunes as Miſs Beverley ſhould mope herſelf up ſo in the country! Don't you remember it, Mr. Hobſon?"’

‘"Yes, madam,"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, ‘"but I think, for my part, the young lady's quite in the right to do as ſhe's a mind; for that's what I call living agree⯑able: and if I was a young lady to-mor⯑row, with ſuch fine fortunes, and that, it's juſt what I ſhould do myſelf: for what I ſay is this: where's the joy of having a little money, and being a little matter above the world, if one has not one's own will?"’

‘"Ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, who had ſcarce yet raiſed his head from the profound⯑neſs of his bow upon Cecilia's entrance into [287] the room, ‘"if I may be ſo free, may I make bold juſt for to offer you this chair?"’

‘"I called, madam,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſeizing the firſt moment in her power to ſpeak, ‘"in order to acquaint you that your daughter, who is perfectly well, has made a little change in her ſituation, which ſhe was anxious you ſhould hear from myſelf."’

‘"Ha! ha! ſtolen a match upon you, I warrant!"’ cried the facetious Mr. Hobſon; ‘"a good example for you, young lady; and if you take my advice, you won't be long before you follow it; for as to a lady, let her be worth never ſo much, ſhe's a mere nobody, as one may ſay, till ſhe can get herſelf a huſband, being ſhe knows no⯑thing of buſineſs, and is made to pay for every thing through the noſe."’

‘"Fie, Mr. Hobſon, fie!"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"to talk ſo ſlighting of the ladies before their faces! what one ſays in a cor⯑ner, is quite of another nature; but for to talk ſo rude in their company,—I thought you would ſcorn to do ſuch a thing."’

‘"Sir, I don't want to be rude no more than yourſelf,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon; ‘"for what I ſay is, rudeneſs is a thing that makes nobody agreeable; but I don't ſee becauſe of that, why a man is not to ſpeak his mind to a lady as well as to a gentleman, provid⯑ed he does it in a complaiſant faſhion."’

[288] ‘"Mr. Hobſon,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, very impatiently, ‘"you might as well let me ſpeak, when the matter is all about my own daughter."’

‘"I aſk pardon, ma'am,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I did not mean to ſtop you; for as to not letting a lady ſpeak, one might as well tell a man in buſineſs not to look at the Daily Advertiſer; why, its morally impoſſible!"’

‘"But ſure, madam,"’ cried Mrs. Bel⯑field, ‘"it's no ſuch thing? You can't have got her off already?"’

I would I had! thought Cecilia; who then explained her meaning; but in talk⯑ing of Mrs. Harrel, avoided all mention of Mr. Arnott, well foreſeeing that to hear ſuch a man exiſted, and was in the ſame houſe with her daughter, would be ſufficient au⯑thority to her ſanguine expectations, for de⯑pending upon a union between them, and reporting it among her friends.

This circumſtance being made clear, Ce⯑cilia added, ‘"I could by no means have conſented voluntarily to parting ſo ſoon with Miſs Belfield, but that my own affairs call me at preſent out of the kingdom."’ And then, addreſſing herſelf to Belfield, ſhe enquired if he could recommend to her a truſty foreign ſervant, who would be hired only for the time ſhe was to ſpend abroad?

While Belfield was endeavouring to recollect [289] ſome ſuch perſon, Mr. Hobſon eager⯑ly called out ‘"As to going abroad, madam, to be ſure you're to do as you like, for that, as I ſay, is the ſoul of every thing; but elſe I can't ſay it's a thing I much approve; for my notion is this; here's a fine fortune, got as a man may ſay, out of the bowels of one's mother country, and this fine fortune, in default of male iſſue, is obliged to come to a female, the law making no proviſo to the contrary. Well, this female, going into a ſtrange country, naturally takes with her this fortune, by reaſon it's the main article ſhe has to depend upon; what's the upſhot? why ſhe gets pilfered by a ſet of ſharpers that never ſaw England in their lives, and that never loſe ſight of her till ſhe has not a ſous in the world. But the hardſhip of the thing is this; when it's all gone, the lady can come back, but will the money come back?—No, you'll never ſee it again: now this is what I call being no true patriot."’

‘"I am quite aſhamed for to hear you talk ſo, Mr. Hobſon!"’ cried Mr. Simkins, affecting to whiſper; ‘"to go for to take a perſon to taſk at this rate, is behaving quite unbearable; it's enough to make the young lady afraid to ſpeak before you."’

‘"Why, Mr. Simkins,"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, ‘"Truth is truth, whether one ſpeaks it or not; and that, ma'am, I dare [290] ſay, a young lady of your good ſenſe knows as well as myſelf."’

‘"I think, madam,"’ ſaid Belfield, who waited their ſilence with great impatience, ‘"that I know juſt ſuch a man as you will require, and one upon whoſe honeſty I be⯑lieve you may rely."’

‘"That's more,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"than I would take upon me to ſay for any Engliſhman! where you may meet with ſuch a Frenchman, I won't be bold to ſay."’

‘"Why indeed,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"if I might take the liberty for to put in, though I don't mean in no ſhape to go to contradict⯑ing the young gentleman, but if I was to make bold to ſpeak my private opinion upon the head, I ſhould be inclinable for to ſay, that as to putting a dependance upon the French, it's a thing quite dubious how it may turn out."’

‘"I take it as a great favour, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, ‘"that you have been ſo complaiſant as to make me this viſit to⯑night, for I was almoſt afraid you would not have done me the favour any more; for, to be ſure, when you was here laſt, things went a little unlucky: but I had no notion, for my part, who the old gentleman was till after he was gone, when Mr. Hob⯑ſon told me it was old Mr. Delvile: though, ſure enough, I thought it rather upon the [291] extraordinary order, that he ſhould come here into my parlour, and make ſuch a ſe⯑cret of his name, on purpoſe to aſk me queſ⯑tions about my own ſon."’

‘"Why I think, indeed, if I may be ſo free,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"it was rather petickeler of the gentleman; for, to be ſure, if he was ſo over curious to hear about your private concerns, the genteel thing, if I may take the liberty for to differ, would have been for him to ſay, ma'am, ſays he, I'm come to aſk the favour of you juſt to let me a little into your ſon's goings on; and any thing, ma'am, you ſhould take a fancy for to aſk me upon the return, why I ſhall be very compliable, ma'am, ſays he, to giving of you ſatisfaction."’

‘"I dare ſay,"’ anſwered Mrs. Belfield, ‘"he would not have ſaid ſo much if you'd have gone down on your knees to aſk him. Why he was upon the very point of being quite in a paſſion becauſe I only aſked him his name! though what harm that could do him, I'm ſure I never could gueſs. How⯑ever, as he was ſo mighty inquiſitive about my ſon, if I had but known who he was in time, I ſhould have made no ſcruple in the world to aſk him if he could not have ſpoke a few words for him to ſome of thoſe great people that could have done him ſome good. But the thing that I believe put him [292] ſo out of humour, was my being ſo unlucky as to ſay, before ever I knew who he was, that I had heard he was not over and above good-natured; for I ſaw he did not ſeem much to like it at the time."’

‘"If he had done the generous thing,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"it would have been for him to have made the proffer of his ſer⯑vices of his own free-will; and it's rather ſurpriſeable to me he ſhould never have thought of it; for what could be ſo natural as for him to ſay, I ſee, ma'am, ſays he, you've got a very likely young gentleman here, that's a little out of caſh, ſays he, ſo I ſuppoſe, ma'am, ſays he, a place, or a penſion, or ſomething in that ſhape of life, would be no bad compliment, ſays he."’

‘"But no ſuch good luck as that will come to my ſhare,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘"I can tell you that, for every thing I want to do goes quite contrary. Who would not have thought ſuch a ſon as mine, though I ſay it before his face, could not have made his fortune long ago, living as he did, among all the great folks, and din⯑ing at their table juſt like one of themſelves? yet, for all that, you ſee they let him go on his own way, and think of him no more than of nobody! I'm ſure they might be aſhamed to ſhew their faces, and ſo I ſhould tell them at once, if I could but get ſight of them."’

[293] ‘"I don't mean, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Sim⯑kins, ‘"for to be finding fault with what you ſay, for I would not be unpelite in no ſhape; but if I might be ſo free as for to differ a little bit, I muſt needs ſay I am ra⯑ther for going to work in anothergueſs ſort of a manner; and if I was as you—"’

‘"Mr. Simkins,"’ interrupted Belfield, ‘"we will ſettle this matter another time."’ And then, turning to the wearied Cecilia, ‘"The man, madam,"’ he ſaid, ‘"whom I have done myſelf the honour to recommend to you, I can ſee to-morrow morning; may I then tell him to wait upon you?"’

‘"I aſk pardon for juſt putting in,"’ cried Mr. Simkins, before Cecilia could anſwer, and again bowing down to the ground, ‘"but I only mean to ſay I had no thought for to be impertinent, for as to what I was a going to remark, it was not of no conſe⯑quence in the leaſt."’

‘"Its a great piece of luck, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield, ‘"that you ſhould happen to come here, of a holiday! If my ſon had not been at home, I ſhould have been ready to cry for a week: and you might come any day the year through but a Sunday, and not meet with him any more than if he had never a home to come to."’

‘"If Mr. Belfield's home-viſits are ſo periodical,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"it muſt be rather [294] leſs, than more, difficult to meet with him."’

‘"Why you know, ma'am,"’ anſwered Mrs. Belfield, ‘"to day is a red-letter day, ſo that's the reaſon of it."’

‘"A red-letter day?"’

‘"Good lack, madam, why have not you heard that my ſon is turned book-keeper?"’

Cecilia, much ſurpriſed, looked at Bel⯑field, who, colouring very high, and ap⯑parently much provoked by his mother's loquacity, ſaid, ‘"Had Miſs Beverley not heard it even now, madam, I ſhould pro⯑bably have loſt with her no credit."’

‘"You can ſurely loſe none, Sir,"’ an⯑ſwered Cecilia, ‘"by an employment too little pleaſant to have been undertaken from any but the moſt laudable motives."’

‘"It is not, madam, the employment,"’ ſaid he, ‘"for which I ſo much bluſh as for the perſon employed—for myſelf! In the beginning of the winter you left me juſt en⯑gaged in another buſineſs, a buſineſs with which I was madly delighted, and fully per⯑ſuaded I ſhould be enchanted for ever;—now, again, in the beginning of the ſum⯑mer,—you find me, already, in a new oc⯑cupation!"’

‘"I am ſorry,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"but far indeed from ſurpriſed, that you found yourſelf [295] deceived by ſuch ſanguine expecta⯑tions."’

‘"Deceived!"’ cried he, with energy, ‘"I was bewitched, I was infatuated! common ſenſe was eſtranged by the ſeduction of a chimera; my underſtanding was in a ferment from the ebullition of my imagination! But when this new way of life loſt its novelty,—novelty! that ſhort-liv'd, but exquiſite bliſs! no ſooner caught than it vaniſhes, no ſooner taſted than it is gone! which charms but to fly, and comes but to deſtroy what it leaves behind!—when that was loſt, rea⯑ſon, cool, heartleſs reaſon, took its place, and teaching me to wonder at the frenzy of my folly, brought me back to the tameneſs—the ſadneſs of reality!"’

‘"I am ſure,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘"what⯑ever it has brought you back to, it has brought you back to no good! it's a hard caſe, you muſt needs think, madam, to a mother, to ſee a ſon that might do what⯑ever he would, if he'd only ſet about it, contenting himſelf with doing nothing but ſcribble and ſcribe one day, and when he gets tired of that, thinking of nothing better than caſting up two and two!"’

‘"Why, madam,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"what I have ſeen of the world is this; there's nothing methodizes a man but buſineſs. [296] If he's never ſo much upon the ſtilts, that's always a ſure way to bring him down, by reaſon he ſoon finds there's nothing to be got by rhodomontading. Let every man be his own carver; but what I ſay is, them gentlemen that are what one may call ge⯑niuſes, commonly think nothing of the main chance, till they get a tap on the ſhoulder with a writ; and a ſolid lad, that knows three times five is fifteen, will get the better of them in the long run. But as to argu⯑ing with gentlemen of that ſort, where's the good of it? You can never bring them to the point, ſay what you will; all you can get from them, is a farrago of fine words, that you can't underſtand without a dic⯑tionary."’

‘"I am inclinable to think,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"that the young gentleman is rather of opinion to like pleaſure better than buſineſs; and, to be ſure, it's very excuſable of him, becauſe its more agreeabler. And I muſt needs ſay, if I may be ſo free, I'm partly of the young gentleman's mind, for buſineſs is a deal more trouble."’

‘"I hope, however,"’ ſaid Cecilia to Bel⯑field, ‘"your preſent ſituation is leſs irk⯑ſome to you?"’

‘"Any ſituation, madam, muſt be leſs irkſome than that which I quitted: to write by rule, to compoſe by neceſſity, to make [297] the underſtanding, nature's firſt gift, ſubſer⯑vient to intereſt, that meaneſt offspring of art!—when weary, liſtleſs, ſpiritleſs, to rack the head for invention, the memory for images, and the fancy for ornament and alluſion; and when the mind is wholly oc⯑cupied by its own affections and affairs, to call forth all its faculties for foreign ſub⯑jects, unintereſting diſcuſſions, or fictitious incidents!—Heavens! what a life of ſtruggle between the head and the heart! how cruel, how unnatural a war between the intellects and the feelings!"’

‘"As to theſe ſort of things,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I can't ſay I am much verſed in them, by reaſon they are things I never much ſtudied; but if I was to ſpeak my notion, it is this; the beſt way to thrive in the world is to get money; but how is it to be got? Why by buſineſs: for buſineſs is to money, what fine words are to a lady, a ſure road to ſucceſs. Now I don't mean by this to be cenſorious upon the ladies, being they have nothing elſe to go by, for as to examining if a man knows any thing of the world, and that, they have nothing whereby to judge, knowing nothing of it them⯑ſelves. So that when they are taken in by rogues and ſharpers, the fault is all in the law, for making no proviſo againſt their having money in their own hands. Let [298] every one be truſted according to their head⯑piece: and what I ſay is this: a lady in them caſes is much to be pitied, for ſhe is obligated to take a man upon his own credit, which is tantamount to no credit at all, being what man will ſpeak an ill word of himſelf? you may as well expect a bad ſhil⯑ling to cry out don't take me! That's what I ſay, and that's my way of giving my vote."’

Cecilia, quite tired of theſe interruptions, and impatient to be gone, now ſaid to Bel⯑field, ‘"I ſhould be much obliged to you, Sir, if you could ſend to me the man you ſpeak of to-morrow morning. I wiſhed, alſo, to conſult you with regard to the route I ought to take. My purpoſe is to go to Nice, and as I am very deſirous to travel expeditiouſly, you may perhaps be able to inſtruct me what is the beſt method for me to purſue."’

‘"Come, Mr. Hobſon and Mr. Sim⯑kins,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, with a look of much ſignificance and delight, ‘"ſuppoſe you two and I was to walk into the next room? There's no need for us to hear all the young lady may have a mind to ſay."’

‘"She has nothing to ſay, madam,"’ cri⯑ed Cecilia, ‘"that the whole world may not hear. Neither is it my purpoſe to talk, but to liſten, if Mr. Belfield is at leiſure to fa⯑vour me with his advice."’

[299] ‘"I muſt always be at leiſure, and always be proud, madam,"’ Belfield began, when Hobſon, interrupting him, ſaid, ‘"I aſk pardon, Sir, for intruding, but I only mean to wiſh the young lady good night. As to interfering with buſineſs, that's not my way, for it's not the right method, by rea⯑ſon—"’

‘"We will liſten to your reaſon, Sir,"’ cried Belfield, ‘"ſome other time; at pre⯑ſent we will give you all credit for it un⯑heard."’

‘"Let every man ſpeak his own maxim, Sir,"’ cried Hobſon; ‘"for that's what I call fair arguing: but as to one perſon's ſpeaking, and then making an anſwer for another into the bargain, why it's going to work no-how; you may as well talk to a counter, and think becauſe you make a noiſe upon it with your own hand, it gives you the reply."’

‘"Why, Mr. Hobſon,"’ cried Mrs. Bel⯑field, ‘"I am quite aſhamed of you for be⯑ing ſo dull! don't you ſee my ſon has ſome⯑thing to ſay to the lady that you and I have no buſineſs to be meddling with?"’

‘"I'm ſure, ma'am, for my part,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"I'm very agreeable to go⯑ing away, for as to putting the young lady to the bluſh, it's what I would not do [...] no ſhape."’

[300] ‘"I only mean,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, when he was interrupted by Mrs. Belfield, who, out of all patience, now turned him out of the room by the ſhoulders, and, pulling Mr. Simkins after, followed herſelf, and ſhut the door, though Cecilia, much pro⯑voked, deſired ſhe would ſtay, and declared repeatedly that all her buſineſs was public.

Belfield, who had looked ready to murder them all during this ſhort ſcene, now ap⯑proached Cecilia, and with an air of ming⯑led ſpirit and reſpect, ſaid, ‘"I am much grieved, much confounded, madam, that your ears ſhould be offended by ſpeeches ſo improper to reach them; yet if it is poſ⯑ſible I can have the honour of being of any uſe to you, in me, ſtill, I hope, you feel you may confide. I am too diſtant from you in ſituation to give you reaſon to apprehend I can form any ſiniſter views in ſerving you; and, permit me to add, I am too near you in mind, ever to give you the pain of bid⯑ding me remember that diſtance."’

Cecilia then, extremely unwilling to ſhock a ſenſibility not more generous than jealous, determined to continue her enquiries, and, at the ſame time, to prevent any further miſapprehenſion, by revealing her actual ſituation.

‘"I am ſorry, Sir,"’ ſhe anſwered, ‘"to have occaſioned this diſturbance; Mrs. [301] Belfield, I find, is wholly unacquainted with the circumſtance which now carries me abroad, or it would not have happened."—’

Here a little noiſe in the paſſage inter⯑rupting her, ſhe heard Mrs. Belfield, though in a low voice, ſay ‘"Huſh, Sir, huſh! you muſt not come in juſt now; you've caught me, I confeſs, rather upon the liſtening or⯑der; but to tell you the truth, I did not know what might be going forward. How⯑ever, there's no admittance now, I aſſure you, for my ſon's upon particular buſineſs with a lady, and Mr. Hobſon and Mr. Simkins and I, have all been as good as turned out by them but juſt now."’

Cecilia and Belfie [...]d, though they heard this ſpeech with mutual indignation, had no time to mark or expreſs it, as it was an⯑ſwered without in a voice at once loud and furious, ‘"You, madam, may be content to liſten here; pardon me if I am leſs humbly diſpoſed!"’

And the door was abruptly opened by young Delvile!

Cecilia, who half ſcreamed from exceſs of aſtoniſhment, would ſcarcely, even by the preſence of Belfield and his mother, have been reſtrained from flying to meet him, had his own aſpect invited ſuch a mark of tenderneſs; but far other was the [302] caſe; when the door was open, he ſtopt ſhort with a look half petrified, his feet ſeeming rooted to the ſpot upon which they ſtood.

‘"I declare I aſk pardon, ma'am,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘"but the interruption was no fault of mine, for the gentleman would come in; and—"’

‘"It is no interruption, madam;"’ cried Belfield, ‘"Mr. Delvile does me nothing but honour."’

‘"I thank you, Sir!"’ ſaid Delvile, try⯑ing to recover and come forward, but tremb⯑ling violently, and ſpeaking with the moſt frigid coldneſs.

They were then, for a few inſtants, all ſilent; Cecilia, amazed by his arrival, ſtill more amazed by his behaviour, feared to ſpeak leſt he meant not, as yet, to avow his marriage, and felt a thouſand apprehenſi⯑ons that ſome new calamity had hurried him home: while Belfield was both hurt by his ſtrangeneſs, and embarraſſed for the ſake of Cecilia; and his mother, though wonder⯑ing at them all, was kept quiet by her ſon's looks.

Delvile then, ſtruggling for an appear⯑ance of more eaſe, ſaid, ‘"I ſeem to have made a general confuſion here:—pray, I beg"—’

[303] ‘"None at all, Sir;"’ ſaid Belfield, and offered a chair to Cecilia.

‘"No, Sir,"’ ſhe anſwered, in a voice ſcarce audible, ‘"I was juſt going."’ And again rang the bell.

‘"I fear I hurry you, madam?"’ cried Delvile, whoſe whole frame was now ſhak⯑ing with uncontrollable emotion; ‘"you are upon buſineſs—I ought to beg your par⯑don—my entrance, I believe, was unfeaſon⯑able."—’

‘"Sir!"’ cried ſhe, looking aghaſt at this ſpeech.

‘"I ſhould have been rather ſurpriſed,"’ he added, ‘"to have met you here, ſo late,—ſo unexpectedly,—ſo deeply engaged—had I not happened to ſee your ſervant in the ſtreet, who told me the honour I ſhould be likely to have by coming."’

‘"Good God!—"’ exclaimed ſhe, invo⯑luntarily; but, checking herſelf as well as ſhe could, ſhe courtſied to Mrs. Belfield, unable to ſpeak to her, and avoiding even to look at Belfield, who reſpectfully hung back, ſhe haſtened out of the room: ac⯑companied by Mrs. Belfield, who again be⯑gan the moſt voluble and vulgar apologies for the intruſion ſhe had met with.

Delvile alſo, after a moment's pauſe, fol⯑lowed, ſaying, ‘"Give me leave, madam, to ſee you to your carriage."’

[304] Cecilia then, notwithſtanding Mrs. Bel⯑field ſtill kept talking, could no longer re⯑frain ſaying, ‘"Good heaven, what does all this mean?"’

‘"Rather for me is that queſton,"’ he an⯑ſwered, in ſuch agitation he could not, though he meant it, aſſiſt her into the chaiſe, ‘"for mine, I believe, is the greater ſurpriſe!"’

‘"What ſurpriſe?"’ cried ſhe ‘"explain, I conjure you!"’

‘"By and bye I will,"’ he anſwered; ‘"go on poſtilion."’

‘"Where, Sir?"’

‘"Where you came from, I ſuppoſe."’

‘"What, Sir, back to Rumford?"’

‘"Rumford!"’ exclaimed he, with en⯑creaſing diſorder, ‘"you came then from Suffolk hither?—from Suffolk to this very houſe?"’

‘"Good heaven!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"come into the chaiſe, and let me ſpeak and hear to be underſtood!"’

‘"Who is that now in it?"’

‘"My maid."’

‘"Your maid?—and ſhe waits for you thus at the door?"—’

‘"What, what is it you mean?"’

‘"Tell the man, madam, whither to go."’

‘"I don't know myſelf—any where you pleaſe—do you order him."’

[305] ‘"I order him!—you came not hither to receive orders from me!—where was it you had purpoſed to reſt?"’

‘"I don't know—I meant to go to Mrs. Hill's—I have no place taken."—’

‘"No place taken!"’ repeated he, in a voice faultering between paſſion and grief; ‘"you purpoſed, then, to ſtay here?—I have perhaps driven you away?"’

‘"Here!"’ cried Cecilia, mingling, in her turn, indignation with ſurpriſe, ‘"gracious heaven! what is it you mean to doubt?"’

‘"Nothing!"’ cried he, with emphaſis, ‘"I never have had, I never will have a doubt! I will know, I will have conviction for every thing! Poſtilion, drive to St. James's-ſquare!—to Mr. Delvile's. There, madam, I will wait upon you."’

‘"No! ſtay, poſtilion!"’ called out Ce⯑cilia, ſeized with terror inexpreſſible; ‘"let me get out, let me ſpeak with you at once!"’

‘" [...]t cannot be; I will follow you in a few minutes—drive on, poſtilion!"’

‘"No, no!—I will not go—I dare not leave you—unkind Delvile!—what is it you ſuſpect?"’

‘"Cecilia,"’ cried he, putting his hand upon the chaiſe-door, ‘"I have ever believ⯑ed you ſpotleſs as an angel! and, by heaven! I believe you ſo ſtill, in ſpite of appearances [306] —in defiance of every thing!—Now then be ſatisfied;—I will be with you very ſoon. Mean while, take this letter, I was juſt going to ſend to you.—Poſtilion, drive on, or be at your peril!"’

The man waited no further orders, nor regarded the prohibition of Cecilia, who called out to him without ceaſing; but he would not liſten to her till he got to the end of the ſtreet; he then ſtopt, and ſhe broke the ſeal of her letter, and read, by the light of the lamps, enough to let her know that Delvile had written it upon the road from Dover to London, to acquaint her his mo⯑ther was now better, and had taken pity of his ſuſpenſe and impatience, and inſiſted upon his coming privately to England, to ſatisfy himſelf fully about Mr. Monckton, communicate his marriage to his father, and give thoſe orders towards preparing for its being made public, which his unhappy precipitation in leaving the kingdom had prevented.

This letter, which, though written but a few hours before ſhe received it, was full of tenderneſs, gratitude, and anxiety for her happineſs, inſtantly convinced her that his ſtrange behaviour had been wholly the effect of a ſudden impulſe of jealouſy; excited by ſo unexpectedly finding her in town, at the very houſe where his father had aſſured him [307] ſhe had an improper connexion, and alone, ſo ſuſpiciouſly, with the young man affirm⯑ed to be her favourite. He knew nothing of the ejectment, nothing of any reaſon for her leaving Suffolk, every thing had the ſemblance of no motive but to indulge a private and criminal inclination.

Theſe thoughts, which confuſedly, yet forcibly, ruſhed upon her mind, brought with them at once an excuſe for his con⯑duct, and an alarm for his danger; ‘"He muſt think,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"I came to town only to meet Mr. Belfield!"’ then, opening the chaiſe-door herſelf, ſhe jumpt out, and ran back into Portland-ſtreet, too impatient to argue with the poſtilion to return with her, and ſtopt not till ſhe came to Mrs. Belfield's houſe.

She knocked at the door with violence; Mrs. Belfield came to it herſelf; ‘"Where,"’ cried ſhe, haſtily entering as ſhe ſpoke, ‘"are the gentlemen?"’

‘"Lack-a-day! ma'am,"’ anſwered Mrs. Belfield, ‘"they are both gone out."’

‘"Gone out?—where to?—which way?"’

‘"I am ſure I cant tell, ma'am, no more than you can; but I am ſadly afraid they'll have a quarrel before they've done."’

‘"Oh heaven!"’ cried Cecilia, who now doubted not a ſecond duel, ‘"tell me, ſhew me, which way they went?"’

‘"Why, ma'am, to let you into the ſecret,"’ [308] anſwered Mrs. Belfield, ‘"only I beg you'll take no notice of it to my ſon, but, ſeeing them ſo much out of ſorts, I begged the favour of Mr. Simkins, as Mr. Hob⯑ſon was gone out to his club, juſt to follow them, and ſee what they were after."’

Cecilia was much rejoiced this caution had been taken, and determined to wait his return. She would have ſent for the chaiſe to follow her; but Mrs. Belfield kept no ſervant, and the maid of the houſe was em⯑ployed in preparing the ſupper.

When Mr. Simkins came back, ſhe learnt, after various interruptions from Mrs. Belfield, and much delay from his own ſlowneſs and circumlocution, that he had purſued the two gentlemen to the **** coffee-houſe.

She heſitated not a moment in reſolving to follow them: ſhe feared the failure of any commiſſion, nor did ſhe know whom to entruſt with one: and the danger was too urgent for much deliberation. She begged, therefore, that Mr. Simkins would walk with her to the chaiſe; but hearing that the coffee-houſe was another way, ſhe deſired Mrs. Belfield to let the ſervant run and or⯑der it to Mrs. Roberts, in Fetter-lane, and then eagerly requeſted Mr. Simkins to ac⯑company her on foot till they met with an hackney-coach.

They then ſet out, Mr. Simkins feeling [309] proud and happy in being allowed to at⯑tend her, while Cecilia, glad of any protec⯑tion, accepted his offer of continuing with her, even after ſhe met with an hackney⯑coach.

When ſhe arrived at the coffee-houſe, ſhe ordered the coachman to deſire the maſter of it to come and ſpeak with her.

He came, and ſhe haſtily called out, ‘"Pray, are two gentlemen here?"’

‘"Here are ſeveral gentlemen here, ma⯑dam."’

‘"Yes, yes,—but are two upon any buſi⯑neſs—any particular buſineſs—"’

‘"Two gentlemen, madam, came about half an hour ago, and aſked for a room to themſelves."’

‘"And where are they now?—are they up ſtairs?—down ſtairs?—where are they?"’

‘"One of them went away in about ten minutes, and the other ſoon after."’

Bitterly chagrined and diſappointed, ſhe knew not what ſtep to take next; but, after ſome conſideration, concluded upon obeying Delvile's own directions, and proceeding to St. James's-ſquare, where alone, now, ſhe ſeemed to have any chance of meeting with him. Gladly, however, ſhe ſtill conſented to be accompanied by Mr. Simkins, for her dread of being alone, at ſo late an hour, in an [310] hackney-coach, was invincible. Whether Delvile himſelf had any authority for direct⯑ing her to his father's, or whether, in the per⯑turbation of his new-excited and agonizing ſenſations of jealouſy, he had forgotten that any authority was neceſſary, ſhe knew not; nor could ſhe now intereſt herſelf in the doubt: a ſecond ſcene, ſuch as had ſo late⯑ly paſſed with Mr. Monckton, occupied all her thoughts: ſhe knew the too great pro⯑bability that the high ſpirit of Belfield would diſdain making the explanation which Delvile in his preſent agitation might re⯑quire, and the conſequence of ſuch a refu⯑ſal muſt almoſt inevitably be fatal.

CHAP. VII. A PURSUIT.

THE moment the porter came to the door, Cecilia eagerly called out from the coach, ‘"Is Mr. Delvile here?"’

‘"Yes, madam,"’ he anſwered, ‘"but I believe he is engaged."’

‘"Oh no matter for any engagement!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"open the door,—I muſt ſpeak to him this moment!"’

‘"If you will pleaſe to ſtep into the par⯑lour, madam, I will tell his gentleman you are here; but he will be much diſpleaſed if he is diſturbed without notice."’

‘"Ah heaven!"’ exclaimed ſhe, ‘"what Mr. Delvile are you talking of?"’

‘"My maſter, madam."’

Cecilia, who had got out of the coach, now haſtily returned to it, and was ſome time in too great agony to anſwer either the porter, who deſired ſome meſſage, or the coachman, who aſked whither he was to drive. To ſee Mr. Delvile, unprotected by his ſon, and contrary to his orders, ap⯑peared to her inſupportable; yet to what [312] place could ſhe go? where was ſhe likely to meet with Delvile? how could he find her if ſhe went to Mrs. Hill's? and in what other houſe could ſhe at preſent claim ad⯑mittance?

After a little recovering from this cruel ſhock, ſhe ventured, though in a faultering voice, to enquire whether young Mr. Del⯑vile had been there?

‘"Yes, madam,"’ the porter anſwered; ‘"we thought he was abroad, but he called juſt now, and aſked if any lady had been at the houſe. He would not even ſtay to go up to my maſter, and we have no [...] dared tell him of his arrival."’

This a little revived her; to hear that he had actually been enquiring for her, at leaſt aſſured her of his ſafety from any immedi⯑ate violence, and ſhe began to hope ſhe might now poſſibly meet with him time enough to explain all that had paſt in his abſence, and occaſioned her ſeemingly ſtrange and ſuſpicious ſituation at Belfield's. She compelled herſelf, therefore, to ſummon courage for ſeeing his father, ſince, as he had directed her to the houſe, ſhe conclud⯑ed he would return there to ſeek her, when he had wandered elſe where to no purpoſe.

She then, though with much timidity and reluctance, ſent a meſſage to Mr. Delvile to entreat a moment's audience.

[313] An anſwer was brought her that he ſaw no company ſo late at night.

Loſing now all dread of his reproaches, in her ſuperior dread of miſſing Delvile, ſhe called out earneſtly to the man, ‘"Tell him, Sir, I beſeech him not to refuſe me! tell him I have ſomething to communicate that requires his immediate attention!"’

The ſervant obeyed; but ſoon returning, ſaid his maſter deſired him to acquaint her he was engaged every moment he ſtayed in town, and muſt poſitively decline ſeeing her.

‘"Go to him again,"’ cried the harraſſed Cecilia, ‘"aſſure him I come not from my⯑ſelf, but by the deſire of one he moſt va⯑lues: tell him I entreat but permiſſion to wait an hour in his houſe, and that I have no other place in the world whither I can go!"’

Mr. Delvile's own gentleman brought, with evident concern, the anſwer to this pe⯑tition; which was, that while the Honour⯑able Mr. Delvile was himſelf alive, he thought the deſire of any other perſon con⯑cerning his houſe, was taking with him a very extraordinary liberty; and that he was now going to bed, and had given orders to his ſervants to carry him no more meſſages whatſoever, upon pain of inſtant diſmiſſion.

Cecilia now ſeemed totally deſtitute of [314] all reſource, and for a few dreadful minutes, gave herſelf up to utter deſpondency: nor, when ſhe recovered her preſence of mind, could ſhe form any better plan than that of waiting in the coach to watch the return of Delvile.

She told the coachman, therefore, to drive to a corner of the ſquare, begging Mr. Simkins to have patience, which he pro⯑miſed with much readineſs, and endeavour⯑ed to give her comfort, by talking without ceſſation.

She waited here near half an hour. She then feared the diſappointment of Delvile in not meeting her at firſt, had made him conclude ſhe meant not to obey his directions, and had perhaps urged him to call again upon Belfield, whom he might fancy privy to her non-appearance. This was new horror to her, and ſhe reſolved at all riſks to drive to Portland-ſtreet, and enquire if Belfield him⯑ſelf was returned home. Yet, leſt they ſhould mutually be purſuing each other all night, ſhe ſtopt again at Mr. Delvile's, and left word with the porter, that if young Mr. Delvile ſhould come home, he would hear of the perſon he was enquiring for at Mrs. Roberts's in Fetter-lane. To Belfield's ſhe did not dare to direct him; and it was her intention, if there ſhe procured no new intelligence, to leave the ſame meſſage, and [315] then go to Mrs. Roberts without further de⯑lay. To make ſuch an arrangement with a ſervant who knew not her connection with his young maſter, was extremely repugnant to her; but the exigence was too urgent for ſcruples, and there was nothing to which ſhe would not have conſented, to prevent the fatal cataſtrophe ſhe apprehended.

When ſhe came to Belfield's, not daring to enter the houſe, ſhe ſent in Mr. Simkins, to deſire that Mrs. Belfield would be ſo good as to ſtep to the coach door.

‘"Is your ſon, madam,"’ ſhe cried, eager⯑ly, ‘"come home? and is any body with him?"’

‘"No, ma'am; he has never once been acroſs the threſhold ſince that gentleman took him out; and I am half out of my wits to think—"’

‘"Has that gentleman,"’ interrupted Ce⯑cilia, ‘"been here any more?"’

‘"Yes, ma'am, that's what I was going to tell you; he came again juſt now, and ſaid—"’

‘"Juſt now?—good heaven!—and which way is he gone?"’

‘"Why he is after no good, I am afraid, for he was in a great paſſion, and would hardly hear any thing I ſaid."’

‘"Pray, pray anſwer me quick!—where, which way did he go?"’

[316] ‘"Why, he aſked me if I knew whither my ſon was come from the ** coffee-houſe; why, ſays I, I'm ſure I can't tell, for if it had not been for Mr. Simkins, I ſhould not ſo much as have known he ever went to the ** coffee-houſe; however, I hope he a'n't come away, becauſe if he is, poor Miſs Be⯑verley will have had all that trouble for no⯑thing; for ſhe's gone after him in a prodi⯑gious hurry; and upon my only ſaying that, he ſeemed quite beſide himſelf, and ſaid, if I don't meet with your ſon at the ** coffee-houſe myſelf, pray, when he comes in, tell him I ſhall be highly obliged to him to call there; and then he went away, in as great a pet as ever you ſaw."’

Cecilia liſtened to this account with the utmoſt terror and miſery; the ſuſpicions of Delvile would now be aggravated, and the meſſage he had left for Belfield, would by him be regarded as a defiance. Again, however, to the ** coffee-houſe ſhe inſtantly ordered the coach, an immediate explana⯑tion from herſelf ſeeming the only poſſible chance for preventing the moſt horrible concluſion to this unfortunate and eventful evening.

She was ſtill accompanied by Mr. Sim⯑kins, and, but that ſhe attended to nothing he ſaid, would not inconſiderably have been tormented by his converſation. She ſent [317] him immediately into the coffee-room, to enquire if either of the gentleman were then in the houſe.

He returned to her with a waiter, who ſaid, ‘"One of them, madam, called again juſt now, but he only ſtopt to write a note, which he left to be given to the gentleman who came with him at firſt. He is but this moment gone, and I don't think he can be at the bottom of the ſtreet."’

‘"Oh drive then, gallop after him!"’—cried Cecilia; ‘"coachman! go this mo⯑ment!"’

‘"My horſes are tired,"’ ſaid the man, ‘"they have been out all day, and they will gallop no further, if I don't ſtop and give them a drink."’

Cecilia, too full both of hope and im⯑patience for this delay, forced open the door herſelf, and without ſaying another word, jumped out of the carriage, with in⯑tention to run down the ſtreet; but the coachman immediately ſeizing her, pro⯑teſted ſhe ſhould not ſtir till he was paid.

In the utmoſt agony of mind at an hin⯑drance by which ſhe imagined Delvile would be loſt to her perhaps for ever, ſhe put her hand in her pocket, in order to give up her purſe for her liberty; but Mr. Simkins, who was making a tireſome expoſtulation with the coachman, took it himſelf, and declaring [318] he would not ſee the lady cheated, began a tedious calculation of his fare.

‘"O pay him any thing!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"and let us be gone! an inſtant's delay may be fatal!"’

Mr. Simkins, too earneſt to conquer the coachman to attend to her diſtreſs, conti⯑nued his prolix harangue concerning a diſ⯑puted ſhilling, appealing to ſome gathering ſpectators upon the juſtice of his cauſe; while his adverſary, who was far from ſo⯑ber, ſtill held Cecilia, ſaying the coach had been hired for the lady, and he would be paid by herſelf.

‘"Good God!"’ cried the agitated Ce⯑cilia,—‘"give him my purſe at once!—give him every thing he deſires!"—’

The coachman, at this permiſſion, en⯑creaſed his demands, and Mr. Simkins, taking the number of his coach, proteſted he would ſummons him to the Court of Conſcience the next morning. A gentle⯑man, who then came out of the coffee⯑houſe, offered to aſſiſt the lady, but the coachman, who ſtill held her arm, ſwore he would have his right.

‘"Let me go! let me paſs!"’ cried ſhe, with encreaſing eagerneſs and emotion; ‘"de⯑tain me at your peril!—releaſe me this moment!—only let me run to the end [319] of the ſtreet,—good God! good Heaven! detain me not for mercy!"’

Mr. Simkins, humbly deſiring her not to be in haſte, began a formal apology for his conduct; but the inebriety of the coach⯑man became evident; a mob was collect⯑ing; Cecilia, breathleſs with vehemence and terror, was encircled, yet ſtruggled in vain to break away; and the ſtranger gentleman, proteſting, with ſundry com⯑pliments, he would himſelf take care of her, very freely ſeized her hand.

This moment, for the unhappy Cecilia, teemed with calamity; ſhe was wholly overpowered; terror for Delvile, horror for herſelf, hurry, confuſion, heat and fatigue, all aſſailing her at once, while all means of repelling them were denied her, the attack was too ſtrong for her fears, feelings, and faculties, and her reaſon ſuddenly, yet total⯑ly failing her, ſhe madly called out, ‘"He will be gone! he will be gone! and I muſt follow him to Nice!"’

The gentleman now retreated; but Mr. Simkins, who was talking to the mob, did not hear her; and the coachman, too much intoxicated to perceive her riſing frenzy, perſiſted in detaining her.

‘"I am going to France!"’ cried ſhe, ſtill more wildly, ‘"why do you ſtop me? he [320] will die if I do not ſee him, he will bleed to death!"’

The coachman, ſtill unmoved, began to grow very abuſive; but the ſtranger, touch⯑ed by compaſſion, gave up his attempted gallantry, and Mr. Simkins, much aſtoniſh⯑ed, entreated her not to be frightened: ſhe was, however, in no condition to liſten to him; with a ſtrength hitherto unknown to her, ſhe forcibly diſengaged herſelf from her perſecutors; yet her ſenſes were wholly diſordered; ſhe forgot her ſituation, her in⯑tention, and herſelf; the ſingle idea of Del⯑vile's danger took ſole poſſeſſion of her brain, though all connection with its occaſion was loſt, and the moment ſhe was releaſed, ſhe fervently claſped her hands, exclaiming, ‘"I will yet heal his wound, even at the ha⯑zard of my life!"’ and ſpringing forward, was almoſt inſtantly out of ſight.

Mr. Simkins now, much alarmed, and earneſtly calling after her, entered into a compromiſe with the coachman, that he might attend her; but the length of his negociation defeated its purpoſe, and before he was at liberty to follow her, all trace was loſt by which he might have overtaken her. He ſtopt every paſſenger he met to make enquiries, but though they led him on ſome way, they led him on in vain; and, after a uſeleſs and ill-managed purſuit, he [321] went quietly to his own home, determining to acqaint Mrs. Belfield with what had hap⯑pened the next morning.

Mean while the frantic Cecilia eſcaped both purſuit and inſult by the velocity of her own motion. She called aloud upon Delvile as ſhe flew to the end of the ſtreet. No Delvile was there!—ſhe turned the corner; yet ſaw nothing of him; ſhe ſtill went on, though unknowing whither, the diſtraction of her mind every inſtant grow⯑ing greater, from the inflammation of fatigue, heat, and diſappointment. She was ſpoken to repeatedly; ſhe was even caught once or twice by her riding habit; but ſhe forced herſelf along by her own vehement rapidity, not hearing what was ſaid, not heeding what was thought. Delvile, bleeding by the arm of Belfield, was the image before her eyes, and took ſuch full poſſeſſion of her ſenſes, that ſtill, as ſhe ran on, ſhe fancied it in view. She ſcarce touched the ground; ſhe ſcarce felt her own motion; ſhe ſeemed as if endued with ſupernatural ſpeed, gliding from place to place, from ſtreet to ſtreet; with no conſciouſneſs of any plan, and following no other direction than that of darting forward where-ever there was moſt room, and turning back when ſhe met with any obſtruction; till quite ſpent and exhauſted, ſhe abruptly ran into a yet [322] open ſhop, where, breathleſs and panting, ſhe ſunk upon the floor, and, with a look diſconſolate and helpleſs, ſat for ſome time without ſpeaking.

The people of the houſe, concluding at firſt ſhe was a woman of the town, were going roughly to turn her out; but ſoon ſeeing their miſtake, by the evident diſtrac⯑tion of her air and manner, they enquired of ſome idle people who, late as it was, had followed her, if any of them knew who ſhe was, or whence ſhe came?

They could give no account of her, but ſuppoſed ſhe was broke loſe from Bedlam.

Cecilia then, wildly ſtarting up, exclaim⯑ed, ‘"No, no,—I am not mad,—I am go⯑ing to Nice—to my huſband."’

‘"She's quite crazy,"’ ſaid the man of the houſe, who was a Pawn-Broker; ‘"we had better get rid of her before ſhe grows miſ⯑chievous."’

‘"She's ſomebody broke out from a pri⯑vate mad houſe, I dare ſay,"’ ſaid a man who had followed her into the ſhop; ‘"and if you were to take care of her a little while, ten to one but you'll get a reward for it."’

‘"She's a gentlewoman, ſure enough,"’ ſaid the miſtreſs of the houſe, ‘"becauſe ſhe's got ſuch good things on."’

And then, under pretence of trying to find ſome direction to her upon a letter, [323] or paper, ſhe inſiſted upon ſearching her pockets: here, however, ſhe was diſap⯑pointed in her expectations: her purſe was in the cuſtody of Mr. Simkins, but neither her terror nor diſtreſs had ſaved her from the daring dexterity of villainy, and her pockets, in the mob, had been rifled of what⯑ever elſe they contained. The woman there⯑fore heſitated ſome time whether to take charge of her or not: but being urged by the man who made the propoſal, and who ſaid they might depend upon ſeeing her ſoon advertiſed, as having eſcaped from her keepers, they ventured to undertake her.

Mean while ſhe endeavoured again to get out, calling aloud upon Delvile to reſcue her, but ſo wholly bereft of ſenſe and recollection, ſhe could give no account who ſhe was, whence ſhe came, or whither ſhe wiſhed to go.

They then carried her up ſtairs, and at⯑tempted to make her lie down upon a bed; but ſuppoſing ſhe refuſed becauſe it was not of ſtraw, they deſiſted; and, taking away the candle, locked the door, and all went to reſt.

In this miſerable condition, alone and raving, ſhe was left to paſs the night! in the early part of it, ſhe called upon Delvile without intermiſſion, beſeeching him to come to her defence in one moment, and deploring [324] his death the next; but afterwards, her ſtrength being wholly exhauſted by theſe various exertions and farigues, ſhe threw herſelf upon the floor, and lay for ſome minutes quite ſtill. Her head then began to grow cooler, as the fever into which terror and immoderate exerciſe had thrown her abated, and her memory recovered its functions.

This was, however, only a circumſtance of horror to her: ſhe found herſelf ſhut up in a place of confinement, without light, without knowledge where ſhe was, and not a human being near her!

Yet the ſame returning reaſon which ena⯑bled her to take this view of her own ſitua⯑tion, brought alſo to her mind that in which ſhe had left Delvile;—under all the perturbation of new-kindled jealouſy, juſt calling upon Belfield,—Belfield, tenacious of his honour even more than himſelf,—to ſatisfy doubts of which the very mention would be received as a challenge!

‘"Oh yet, oh yet,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"let me fly and overtake them!—I may find them before morning, and to night it muſt ſurely have been too late for this work of death!"’

She then aroſe to feel for the door, and ſucceeded; but it was locked, and no effort ſhe could make enabled her to open it.

Her agony was unſpeakable; ſhe called [325] out with violence upon the people of the houſe, conjured them to ſet her at liberty, offered any reward for their aſſiſtance, and threatened them with a proſecution if de⯑tained.

Nobody, however, came near her: ſome ſlept on notwithſtanding all the diſturbance ſhe could make, and others, though awak⯑ened by her cries, concluded them the rav⯑ings of a mad woman, and liſtened not to what ſhe ſaid.

Her head was by no means in a condition to bear this violence of diſtreſs; every pulſe was throbbing, every vein ſeemed burſting, her reaſon, ſo lately returned, could not bear the repetition of ſuch a ſhock, and from ſup⯑plicating for help with all the energy of feel⯑ing and underſtanding, ſhe ſoon continued the cry from mere vehemence of diſtrac⯑tion.

Thus dreadfully paſſed the night; and in the morning, when the woman of the houſe came to ſee after her, ſhe found her raving with ſuch frenzy, and deſperation, that her conſcience was perfectly at eaſe in the treatment ſhe had given her, being now firmly ſatisfied ſhe required the ſtricteſt con⯑finement.

She ſtill, however, tried to get away; talked of Delvile without ceſſation, ſaid ſhe ſhould be too late to ſerve him, told the [326] woman ſhe deſired but to prevent murder, and repeatedly called out, ‘"Oh beloved of my heart! wait but a moment, and I will ſnatch thee from deſtruction!"’

Mrs. Wyers, this woman, now ſought no longer to draw from her whence ſhe came, or who ſhe was, but heard her frantic ex⯑clamations without any emotion, content⯑edly concluding that her madneſs was incur⯑able: and though ſhe was in a high fever, refuſed all ſuſtenance, and had every ſymp⯑tom of an alarming and dangerous malady, ſhe was fully perſuaded that her caſe was that of decided inſanity, and had not any notion of temporary or accidental alienation of reaſon.

All ſhe could think of by way of indul⯑gence to her, was to bring her a quantity of ſtraw, having heard that mad people were fond of it; and putting it in a heap in one corner of the room, ſhe expected to ſee her eagerly fly to it.

Cecilia, however, diſtracted as ſhe was, was eager for nothing but to eſcape, which was conſtantly her aim, alike when violent or when quiet. Mrs. Wyers, finding this, kept her cloſely confined, and the door al⯑ways locked, whether abſent or preſent.

CHAP. VIII. AN ENCOUNTER.

TWO whole days paſſed thus; no en⯑quires reached Mrs. Wyers, and ſhe found in the news-papers no advertiſement. Meanwhile Cecilia grew worſe every mo⯑ment, taſted neither drink nor food, raved inceſſantly, called out twenty times in a breath, ‘"Where is he? which way is he gone?"’ and implored the woman by the moſt pathetic remonſtrances, to ſave her unhappy Delvile, dearer to her than life, more precious than peace or reſt!

At other times ſhe talked of her mar⯑riage, of the diſpleaſure of his family, and of her own remorſe; entreated the woman not to betray her, and promiſed to ſpend the remnant of her days in the heavineſs of ſorrow and contrition.

Again her fancy roved, and Mr Monck⯑ton took ſole poſſeſſion of it. She re⯑proached him for his perfidy, ſhe bewailed that he was maſſacred, ſhe would not a mo⯑ment out-live him, and wildly declared her laſt remains ſhould moulder in his hearſe! And [328] thus, though naturally and commonly of a ſilent and quiet diſpoſition, ſhe was now not a moment ſtill, for the irregular ſtarts of a terrified and diſordered imagination, were changed into the conſtant ravings of morbid delirium.

The woman, growing uneaſy from her uncertainty of pay for her trouble, aſked the advice of ſome of her friends what was proper for her to do; and they counſelled her to put an advertiſement into the papers herſelf the next morning.

The following, therefore, was drawn up and ſent to the printer of the Daily Ad⯑vertiſer.

[329] This had but juſt been ſent off, when Mr. Wyers, the man of the houſe, coming up ſtairs, ſaid, ‘"Now we ſhall have two of them, for here's the crazy old gentle⯑man below, that ſays he has juſt heard in the neighbourhood of what has happened to us, and he deſires to ſee the poor lady,"’

‘"It's as well let him come up, then,"’ anſwered Mrs. Wyers, ‘"for he goes to all ſort of places and people, and ten to one but he'll buſtle about till he finds out who ſhe is."’

Mr. Wyers then went down ſtairs to ſend him up.

He came inſtantly. It was Albany, who in his vagrant rambles, having heard an unknown mad lady was at this pawn-bro⯑ker's, came, with his cuſtomary eagerneſs to viſit and ſerve the unhappy, to ſee what could be done for her

When he entered the room, ſhe was ſit⯑ting upon the bed, her eyes earneſtly fixed upon the window, from which ſhe was pri⯑vately indulging a wiſh to make her eſcape. Her dreſs was in much diſorder, her fine hair was diſhevelled, and the feathers of her riding hat were broken and half falling down, ſome ſhading her face, others reach⯑ing to her ſhoulder.

‘"Poor lady!"’ cried Albany, approaching [330] her, ‘"how long has ſhe been in this ſtate?"’

She ſtarted at the ſound of a new voice, ſhe looked round,—but what was the aſ⯑toniſhment of Albany to ſee who it was!—He ſtept back,—he came forward,—he doubted his own ſenſes,—he looked at her earneſtly,—he turned from her to look at the woman of the houſe,—he caſt his eyes round the room itſelf, and then, lifting up his hands, ‘"O ſight of woe!"’ he cried, ‘"the generous and good! the kind reliever of diſtreſs! the benign ſuſtainer of miſery!—is This Cecilia!"—’

Cecilia, imperfectly recollecting, though not underſtanding him, ſunk down at his feet, tremblingly called out, ‘"Oh, if he is yet to be ſaved, if already he is not mur⯑dered,—go to him! fly after him! you will preſently overtake him, he is only in the next ſtreet, I left him there myſelf, his ſword drawn, and covered with human blood!"’

‘"Sweet powers of kindneſs and com⯑paſſion!"’ cried the old man, ‘"look upon this creature with pity! ſhe who raiſed the depreſſed, ſhe who cheared the unhappy! ſhe whoſe liberal hand turned lamentations into joy! who never with a tearleſs eye could hear the voice of ſorrow!—is This ſhe herſelf!—can This be Cecilia!"’

[331] ‘"O do not wait to talk!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"go to him now, or you will never ſee him more! the hand of death is on him,—cold, clay-cold is its touch! he is breathing his laſt—Oh murdered Delvile! maſſacred huſ⯑band of my heart! groan not ſo piteouſly! fly to him, and weep over him!—fly to him and pluck the poniard from his woun⯑ded boſom!"’

‘"Oh ſounds of anguiſh and horror!"’ cried the melted moraliſt, tears running quick down his rugged cheeks; ‘"melancholy in⯑deed is this ſight, humiliating to morality! ſuch is human ſtrength, ſuch human felici⯑ty!—weak as our virtues, frail as our guilty natures!"’

‘"Ah,"’ cried ſhe, more wildly, ‘"no one will ſave me now! I am married, and no one will liſten to me! ill were the auſpices under which I gave my hand! Oh it was a work of darkneſs, unacceptable and of⯑fenſive! it has been ſealed, therefore, with blood, and to-morrow it will be ſigned with murder!"’

‘"Poor diſtracted creature!"’ exclaimed he, ‘"thy pangs I have felt, but thy innocence I have forfeited!—my own wounds bleed afreſh,—my own brain threatens new frenzy."—’

Then, ſtarting up, ‘"Good woman,"’ he added, ‘"kindly attend her,—I will ſeek [332] out her friends, put her into bed, comfort, ſooth, compoſe her.—I will come to you again, and as ſoon as I can."’

He then hurried away.

‘"Oh hour of joy!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"he is gone to reſcue him! oh bliſsful moment! he will yet be ſnatched from ſlaughter!"’

The woman loſt not an inſtant in obey⯑ing the orders ſhe had received; ſhe was put into bed, and nothing was neglected, as far as ſhe had power and thought, to give a look of decency and attention to her accommodations.

He had not left them an hour, when Mary, the maid who had attended her from Suf⯑folk, came to enquire for her lady. Albany, who was now wandering over the town in ſearch of ſome of her friends, and who en⯑tered every houſe where he imagined ſhe was known, had haſtened to that of Mrs. Hill the firſt of any, as he was well ac⯑quainted with her obligations to Cecilia; there, Mary herſelf, by the directions which her lady had given Mrs. Belfield, had gone; and there, in the utmoſt aſtoniſhment and uneaſineſs, had continued till Albany brought news of her.

She was ſurpriſed and afflicted beyond meaſure, not only at the ſtate of her mind, and her health, but to find her in a bed and an appartment ſo unſuitable to her [333] rank of life, and ſo different to what ſhe had ever been accuſtomed. She wept bit⯑terly while ſhe enquired at the bed-ſide how her lady did, but wept ſtill more, when, without anſwering, or ſeeming to know her, Cecilia ſtarted up, and called out, ‘"I muſt be removed this moment! I muſt go to St. James's-ſquare,—if I ſtay an in⯑ſtant longer, the paſſing-bell will toll, and then how ſhall I be in time for the fune⯑ral?"’

Mary, alarmed and amazed, turned haſ⯑tily from her to the woman of the houſe, who calmly ſaid, the lady was only in a ra⯑ving fit, and muſt not be minded.

Extremely frightened at this intelligence, ſhe entreated her to be quiet and lie ſtill. But Cecilia grew ſuddenly ſo violent, that force only could keep her from riſing; and Mary, unuſed to diſpute her commands, prepared to obey them.

Mrs. Wyers now in her turn oppoſed in vain; Cecilia was peremptory, and Mary became implicit, and, though not without much difficulty, ſhe was again dreſſed in her riding habit. This operation over, ſhe moved towards the door, the temporary ſtrength of delirium giving her a hardineſs that combated fever, illneſs, fatigue, and feebleneſs. Mary, however averſe and fearful, aſſiſted her, and Mrs. Wyers, [334] compelled by the obedience of her own ſervant, went before them to order a chair.

Cecilia, however, felt her weakneſs when ſhe attempted to move down ſtairs; her feet tottered, and her head became dizzy; ſhe leaned it againſt Mary, who called a⯑loud for more help, and made her ſit down till it came. Her reſolution, however, was not to be altered; a ſtubbornneſs, wholly foreign to her genuine character, now made her ſtern and poſitive; and Mary, who thought her ſubmiſſion indiſpenſable, cried, but did not offer to oppoſe her.

Mr. and Mrs. Wyers both came up to aſſiſt in ſupporting her, and Mr. Wyers offered to carry her in his arms; but ſhe would not conſent; when ſhe came to the bottom of the ſtairs, her head grew worſe, ſhe again lent it upon Mary, but Mr. Wyers was obliged to hold them both. She ſtill, however, was firm in her deter⯑mination, and was making another effort to proceed, when Delvile ruſhed haſtily into the ſhop.

He had juſt encountered Albany; who, knowing his acquaintance, though ignorant of his marriage with Cecilia, had informed him where to ſeek her.

He was going to make enquiry if he was come to the right houſe, when he perceived her,—feeble, ſhaking, leaning upon [335] one perſon, and half carried by another!—he ſtarted back, ſtaggered, gaſped for breath,—but finding they were proceed⯑ing, advanced with trepidation, furiouſly calling out, ‘"Hold! ſtop!—what is it you are doing? Monſters of ſavage barba⯑rity, are you murdering my wife?"’

The well-known voice no ſooner ſtruck the ears of Cecilia, than inſtantly recollect⯑ing it, ſhe ſcreamed, and, in ſuddenly en⯑deavouring to ſpring forward, fell to the ground.

Delvile had vehemently advanced to catch her in his arms and ſave her fall, which her unexpected quickneſs had pre⯑vented her attendants from doing; but the ſight of her changed complection, and the wildneſs of her eyes and air, again made him ſtart,—his blood froze through his veins, and he ſtood looking at her, cold and almoſt petrified.

Her own recollection of him ſeemed loſt already; and exhauſted by the fatigue ſhe had gone through in dreſſing and coming down ſtairs, ſhe remained ſtill and quiet, forgetting her deſign of proceeding, and forming no new one for returning.

Mary, to whom, as to all her fellow ſer⯑vants, the marriage of Cecilia had been known, before ſhe left the country, now [336] deſired from Delvile directions what was to be done.

Delvile, ſtarting ſuddenly at this call from the deepeſt horror into the moſt deſ⯑perate rage, fiercely exclaimed, ‘"Inhuman wretches! unfeeling, execrable wretches, what is it you have done to her? how came ſhe hither?—who brought her? who dragged her?—by what infamous uſage has ſhe been ſunk into this ſtate?"’

‘"Indeed, ſir, I don't know!"’ cried Mary.

‘"I aſſure you, ſir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Wyers, ‘"the lady—"’

‘"Peace!"’ cried he, furiouſly, ‘"I will not hear your falſhoods!—peace, and be⯑gone!"—’

Then, caſting himſelf upon the ground by her ſide, ‘"Oh my Cecilia,"’ he cried, ‘"where haſt thou been thus long? how have I loſt thee? what dreadful calamity has befallen thee?—anſwer me, my love! raiſe your ſweet head and anſwer me!—oh ſpeak!—ſay to me any thing; the bittereſt words will be mercy to this ſi⯑lence?"—’

Cecilia then, ſuddenly looking up, cal⯑led out with great quickneſs, ‘"Who are you?"’

‘"Who am I!"’ cried he, amazed and affrighted.

[337] ‘"I ſhould be glad you would go away,"’ cried ſhe, in a hurrying manner, ‘"for you are quite unknown to me."’

Delvile, unconſcious of her inſanity, and attributing to reſentment this aver⯑ſion and repulſe, haſtily moved from her, mournfully anſwering, ‘"Well indeed may you diſclaim me, refuſe all forgiveneſs, load me with hatred and reproach, and conſign me to eternal anguiſh! I have me⯑rited ſeverer puniſhment ſtill; I have be⯑haved like a monſter, and I am abhorrent to myſelf!"’

Cecilia now, half riſing, and regarding him with mingled terror and anger, eager⯑ly exclaimed, ‘"If you do not mean to mangle and deſtroy me, begone this in⯑ſtant."’

‘"To mangle you!"’ repeated Delvile, ſhuddering, ‘"how horrible!—but I de⯑ſerve it!—look not, however, ſo terrified, and I will tear myſelf away from you. Suf⯑fer me but to aſſiſt in removing you from this place, and I will only watch you at a diſtance, and never ſee you more till you permit me to approach you."’

‘"Why, why,"’ cried Cecilia, with a look of perplexity and impatience, ‘"will you not tell me your name, and where you come from?"’

[338] ‘"Do you not know me?"’ ſaid he, ſtruck with new horror; ‘"or do you on⯑ly mean to kill me by the queſtion?"’

‘"Do you bring me any meſſage from Mr. Monckton?"’

‘"From Mr. Monckton?—no; but he lives and will recover."’

‘"I thought you had been Mr. Monck⯑ton yourſelf."’

‘"Too cruel, yet juſtly cruel Cecilia!—is then Delvile utterly renounced?—the guilty, the unhappy Delvile!—is he caſt off for ever? have you driven him wholly from your heart? do you deny him even a place in your remembrance?"’

‘"Is your name, then, Delvile?"’

‘"O what is it you mean! is it me or my name you thus diſown?"’

‘"'Tis a name,"’ cried ſhe, ſitting up, ‘"I well remember to have heard, and once I loved it, and three times I called upon it in the dead of night. And when I was cold and wretched, I cheriſhed it; and when I was abandoned and left alone, I repeated it and ſung to it."’

‘"All-gracious powers!"’ cried Delvile, ‘"her reaſon is utterly gone!"’ And, haſti⯑ly riſing, he deſperately added, ‘"what is death to this blow?—Cecilia, I am content to part with thee!"’

[339] Mary now, and Mrs. Wyers, poured upon him eagerly an account of her illneſs, and inſanity, her deſire of removal, and their inability to control her.

Delvile, however, made no anſwer; he ſcarce heard them: the deepeſt deſpair took poſſeſſion of his mind, and, root⯑ed to the ſpot where he ſtood, he contem⯑plated in dreadful ſtillneſs the fallen and altered object of his beſt hopes and affec⯑tions; already in her faded cheeks and weakened frame, his agonizing terror read the quick impending deſtruction of all his earthly happineſs! the ſight was too much for his fortitude, and almoſt for his under⯑ſtanding; and when his woe became utter⯑able, he wrung his hands, and groaning a⯑loud, called out, ‘"Art thou gone ſo ſoon! my wife! my Cecilia! have I loſt thee already?"’

Cecilia, with utter inſenſibility to what was paſſing, now ſuddenly, and with a ra⯑pid yet continued motion, turned her head from ſide to ſide, her eyes wildly glaring, yet apparently regarding nothing.

‘"Dreadful! dreadful!"’ exclaimed Del⯑vile, ‘"what a ſight is this!"’ and turning from her to the people of the houſe, he angrily ſaid, ‘"why is ſhe here upon the floor? could you not even allow her a bed? [340] Who attends her? Who waits upon her? Why has nobody ſent for help?—Don't anſwer me,—I will not hear you, fly this moment for a phyſician,—bring two, bring three—bring all you can find!"’

Then, ſtill looking from Cecilia, whoſe ſight he could no longer ſupport, he con⯑ſulted with Mary whither ſhe ſhould be conveyed: and, as the night was far ad⯑vanced, and no place was prepared for her elſewhere, they ſoon agreed that ſhe could only be removed up ſtairs.

Delvile now attempted to carry her in his arms; but trembling and unſteady, he had not ſtrength to ſuſtain her; yet not enduring to behold the helpleſſneſs he could not aſſiſt, he conjured them to be careful and gentle, and, committing her to their truſt, ran out himſelf for a phyſician.

Cecilia reſiſted them with her utmoſt power, imploring them not to bury her alive, and averring ſhe had received intel⯑ligence they meant to entomb her with Mr. Monckton.

They put her, however, to bed, but her raving grew ſtill more wild and inceſſant.

Delvile ſoon returned with a phyſician, but had not courage to attend him to her room. He waited for him at the foot of the ſtairs, where, haſtily ſtopping him, [341] ‘"Well, ſir,"’ he cried, ‘"is it not all over? is it not impoſſible ſhe can live?"’

‘"She is very ill, indeed, ſir,"’ he an⯑ſwered, ‘"but I have given directions which perhaps—"’

‘"Perhaps!"’ interrupted Delvile, ſhud⯑dering; ‘"do not ſtab me with ſuch a word!"’

‘"She is very delirious,"’ he continued, ‘"but as her fever is very high, that is not ſo material. If the orders I have given take effect, and the fever is got under, all the reſt will be well of courſe."’

He then went away; leaving Delvile as much thunderſtruck by anſwers ſo alarm⯑ing, as if he had conſulted him in full hope, and without even ſuſpicion of her danger.

The moment he recovered from this ſhock, he flew out of the houſe for more advice.

He returned and brought with him two phyſicians.

They confirmed the directions already given, but would pronounce nothing de⯑ciſively of her ſituation.

Delvile, half mad with the acuteneſs of his miſery, charged them all with want of ſkill, and wrote inſtantly into the coun⯑try for Dr. Lyſter.

[342] He went out himſelf in ſearch of a meſſenger to ride off expreſs, though it was midnight, with his letter; and then, returning, he was haſtening to her room, but, while yet at the door, hearing her ſtill raving, his horror conquered his eagerneſs, and, hurrying down ſtairs, he ſpent the remnant of the long and ſeemingly endleſs night in the ſhop.

CHAP. IX. A TRIBUTE.

MEAN-WHILE Cecilia went thro' very ſevere diſcipline, ſometimes ſtrongly oppoſing it, at other times ſcarce ſenſible what was done to her.

The whole of the next day paſſed in much the ſame manner, neither did the next night bring any viſible alteration. She had now nurſes and attendants even more than ſufficient, for Delvile had no relief but from calling in more help. His terror of again ſeeing her encreaſed with his forbear⯑ance; the interview which had already paſt had almoſt torn him aſunder, and loſing all courage for attempting to enter her room, he now ſpent almoſt all his time upon the ſtairs which led to it. Whenever ſhe was ſtill, he ſeated himſelf at her cham⯑ber door, where, if he could hear her breathe or move, a ſudden hope of her re⯑covery gave to him a momentary extaſy that recompenſed all his ſufferings. But the inſtant ſhe ſpoke, unable to bear the ſound of ſo loved a voice uttering nothing [344] but the incoherent ravings of lightheaded⯑neſs, he haſtened down ſtairs, and flying out of the houſe, walked in the neighbour⯑ing ſtreets, till he could again gather cou⯑rage to enquire or to liſten how ſhe went on.

The following morning, however, Dr. Lyſter came, and every hope revived. He flew to embrace him, told him inſtantly his marriage with Cecilia, and beſought him by ſome ſuperior effort of his extraor⯑dinary abilities to ſave him the diſtraction of her loſs.

‘"My good friend,"’ cried the worthy Doctor, ‘"what is this you aſk of me? and how can this poor young lady herſelf want advice more than you do? Do you think theſe able phyſicians actually upon the ſpot, with all the experience of full practice in London to aſſiſt their ſkill, want a petty Doctor out of the country to come and teach them what is right?"’

‘"I have more reliance upon you,"’ cried Delvile, ‘"than upon the whole faculty; come, therefore, and preſcribe for her,—take ſome new courſe"—’

‘"Impoſſible, my good Sir, impoſſible! I muſt not loſe my wits from vanity, be⯑cauſe you have loſt yours from affliction. I could not refuſe to come to you when you wrote to me with ſuch urgency, and I will [345] now go and ſee the young lady, as a friend, with all my heart. I am ſorry for you at my ſoul, Mr. Mortimer! She is a lovely young creature, and has an underſtanding, for her years and ſex, unequalled."’

‘"Never mention her to me!"’ cried the impatient Delvile, ‘"I cannot bear it! Go up to her, dear Doctor, and if you want a conſultation, ſend, if you pleaſe, for every phyſician in town."’

Dr. Lyſter deſired only that thoſe who had already attended might be ſummoned; and then, giving up to his entreaties the accuſtomed ceremonial of waiting for them, he went to Cecilia.

Delvile did not dare accompany him; and ſo well was he acquainted with his plainneſs and ſincerity, that though he ex⯑pected his return with eagerneſs, he no ſooner heard him upon the ſtairs, than fear⯑ing to know his opinion, he haſtily ſnatch⯑ed up his hat, and ruſhed vehemently out of the houſe to avoid him.

He continued to walk about the ſtreets, till even the dread of ill news was leſs hor⯑rible to him than this voluntary ſuſpenſe, and then he returned to the houſe.

He found Dr. Lyſter in a ſmall back parlour, which Mrs. Wyers, finding ſhe ſhould now be well paid, had appropriated for Delvile's uſe.

[346] Delvile, putting his hand upon the Doc⯑tor's ſhoulder, ſaid, ‘"Well, my dear Doctor Lyſter, you, ſtill, I hope"—’

‘"I would I could make you eaſy!"’ in⯑terrupted the Doctor; ‘"yet, if you are ra⯑tional, one comfort, at all events, I can give you; the criſis ſeems approaching, and either ſhe will recover, or before to-morrow morning"—’

‘"Don't go on, Sir!"’ cried Delvile, with mingled rage and horror, ‘"I will not have her days limited! I ſent not for you to give me ſuch an account!"’

And again he flew out of the houſe, leaving Dr. Lyſter unaffectedly concerned for him, and too kind-hearted and too wiſe to be offended at the injuſtice of immode⯑rate ſorrow.

In a few minutes, however, from the ef⯑fect rather of deſpair than philoſophy, Del⯑vile grew more compoſed, and waited upon Dr. Lyſter to apologize for his behaviour. He received his hearty forgiveneſs, and prevailed upon him to continue in town till the whole was decided.

About noon, Cecilia, from the wildeſt rambling and moſt perpetual agitation, ſunk ſuddenly into a ſtate of ſuch utter inſenſibi⯑lity, that ſhe appeared unconſcious even of her exiſtence; and but that ſhe breathed, ſhe might already have paſſed for being dead.

[347] When Delvile heard this, he could no longer endure even his poſt upon the ſtairs; he ſpent his whole time in wandering about the ſtreets, or ſtopping in Dr. Lyſter's par⯑lour to enquire if all was over.

That humane phyſician, not more alarm⯑ed at the danger of Cecilia, than grieved at the ſituation of Delvile, thought the preſent fearful criſis at leaſt offered an opportunity of reconciling him with his father. He waited, therefore, upon that gentleman in St. James's-ſquare, and openly informed him of the dangerous ſtate of Cecilia, and the miſery of his ſon.

Mr. Delvile, though he would gladly, to have annulled an alliance he held diſgrace⯑ful to his family, have received intelligence that Cecilia was no more, was yet extremely diſconcerted to hear of ſufferings to which his own refuſal of an aſylum he was conſci⯑ous had largely contributed; and after a haughty ſtruggle between tenderneſs and wrath, he begged the advice of Dr. Lyſter how his ſon might be drawn from ſuch a ſcene.

Dr. Lyſter, who well knew Delvile was too deſperate to be tractable, propoſed ſur⯑priſing him into an interview by their re⯑turning together: Mr. Delvile, however apprehenſive and relenting, conceded moſt unwillingly to a meaſure he held beneath [348] him, and, when he came to the ſhop, could ſcarce be perſuaded to enter it. Mortimer, at that time, was taking a ſolitary ramble; and Dr. Lyſter, to complete the work he had begun of ſubduing the hard pride of his father, contrived, under pretence of waiting for him, to conduct him to the room of the invalide.

Mr. Delvile, who knew not whither he was going, at firſt ſight of the bed and the attendants, was haſtily retreating; but the changed and livid face of Cecilia caught his eye, and, ſtruck with ſudden conſternation, he involuntarily ſtopt.

‘"Look at the poor young lady!"’ cried Dr. Lyſter; ‘"can you wonder a ſight ſuch as this ſhould make Mr. Mortimer forget every thing elſe?"’

She was wholly inſenſible, but perfectly quiet; ſhe ſeemed to diſtinguiſh nothing, and neither ſpoke nor moved.

Mr. Delvile regarded her with the utmoſt horror: the refuge he ſo implacably refuſed her on the night when her intellects were diſordered, he would now gladly have of⯑fered at the expence of almoſt ſimilar ſuf⯑ferings, to have relieved himſelf from thoſe riſing pangs which called him author of this ſcene of woe. His pride, his pomp, his ancient name, were now ſunk in his eſ⯑timation; and while he conſidered himſelf [349] the deſtroyer of this unhappy young crea⯑ture, he would have ſacrificed them all to have called himſelf her protector. Little is the boaſt of inſolence when it is analyſed by the conſcience! bitter is the agony of ſelf⯑reproach, where miſery follows hardneſs of heart! yet, when the firſt painful aſtoniſh⯑ment from her ſituation abated, the remorſe ſhe excited being far ſtronger than the pity, he gave an angry glance at Dr. Lyſter for betraying him into ſuch a [...]ight, and haſtily left the room.

Delvile, who was now impatiently wait⯑ing to ſee Dr. Lyſter in the little parlour, alarmed at the ſound of a new ſtep upon the ſtairs, came out to enquire who had been admitted. When he ſaw his father, he ſhrunk back; but Mr. Delvile, no longer ſupported by pride, and unable to recover from the ſhock he had juſt received, caught him in his arms, and ſaid ‘"Oh come home to me, my ſon! this is a place to deſtroy you!"’

‘"Ah, Sir,"’ cried Delvile, ‘"think not of me now!—you muſt ſhew me no kind⯑neſs; I am not in a ſtate to bear it!"’ And, forcibly breaking from him, he hurried out of the houſe.

Mr. Delvile, all the father awakened in his boſom, ſaw his departure with more dread than anger; and returned himſelf to [350] St. James's-ſquare, tortured with parental fears, and ſtung by perſonal remorſe, la⯑menting his own inflexibility, and purſued by the pale image of Cecilia.

She was ſtill in this unconſcious ſtate, and apparently as free from ſuffering as from enjoyment, when a new voice was ſuddenly heard without, exclaiming, ‘"Oh where is ſhe? where is ſhe? where is my dear Miſs Beverley?"’ and Henrietta Belfield ran wild⯑ly into the room.

The advertiſement in the news-papers had at once brought her to town, and direct⯑ed her to the houſe: the mention that the loſt lady talked much of a perſon by the name of Delvile, ſtruck her inſtantly to mean Cecilia; the deſcription correſponded with this idea, and the account of the dreſs confirmed it: Mr. Arnott, equally terrified with herſelf, had therefore lent her his chaiſe to learn the truth of this conjecture, and ſhe had tra⯑velled all night.

Flying up to the bedſide, ‘"Who is this?"’ ſhe cried, ‘"this is not Miſs Beverley?"’ and then ſcreaming with unreſtrained horror, ‘"Oh mercy! mercy!"’ ſhe called out, ‘"yes, it is indeed! and nobody would know her!—her own mother would not think her her child!"’

‘"You muſt come away, Miſs Belfield,"’ ſaid Mary, ‘"you muſt indeed,—the doc⯑tors all ſay my lady muſt not be diſturbed."’

[351] ‘"Who ſhall take me away?"’ cried ſhe, angrily, ‘"nobody Mary! not all the doc⯑tors in the world! Oh ſweet Miſs Be⯑verly! I will lie down by your ſide,—I will never quit you while you live,—and I wiſh, I wiſh I could die to ſave your precious life!"’

Then, leaning over her, and wringing her hands, ‘"Oh I ſhall break my heart,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"to ſee her in this condition! Is this the ſo happy Miſs Beverley, that I thought every body born to give joy to? the Miſs Beverley that ſeemed queen of the whole world! yet ſo good and ſo gentle, ſo kind to the meaneſt perſon! excuſing every body's faults but her own, and telling them how they might mend, and trying to make them as good as herſelf!—Oh who would know her! who would know her! what have they done to you, my beloved Miſs Beverley? how have they altered and disfi⯑gured you in this wicked and barbarous manner?"’

In the midſt of this ſimple yet pathetic teſtimony, to the worth and various excel⯑lencies of Cecilia, Dr. Lyſter came into the room. The women all flocked around him, except Mary, to vindicate themſelves from any ſhare in permitting this new comer's entrance and behaviour; but Mary only told him who ſhe was, and ſaid, that if her lady was well enough to know her, there [352] was nobody ſhe was certain ſhe would have been ſo glad to ſee.

‘"Young lady,"’ ſaid the doctor, ‘"I would adviſe you to walk into another room till you are a little more compoſed.’

‘"Every body, I find, is for hurrying me away;"’ cried the ſobbing Henrietta, whoſe honeſt heart ſwelled with its own af⯑fectionate integrity; ‘"but they might all ſave themſelves the trouble, for go I will not!"’

‘"This is very wrong,"’ ſaid the doctor, ‘"and muſt not be ſuffered: do you call it friendſhip to come about a ſick perſon in this manner?"’

‘"Oh my Miſs Beverley!"’ cried Henri⯑etta, ‘"do you hear how they all upbraid me? how they all want to force me away from you, and to hinder me even from look⯑ing at you! Speak for me, ſweet lady! ſpeak for me yourſelf! tell them the poor Henrietta will not do you any harm; tell them ſhe only wiſhes juſt to ſit by you, and to ſee you!—I will hold by this dear hand,—I will cling to it till the laſt minute; and you will not, I know you will not, give orders to have it taken away from me!"’

Dr. Lyſter, though his own good na⯑ture was much affected by this fond ſor⯑row, now half angrily repreſented to her the impropriety of indulging it: but Henrietta, [353] unuſed to diſguiſe or repreſs her feelings, grew only the more violent, the more ſhe was convinced of Cecilia's danger: ‘"Oh look but at her,"’ ſhe exclaimed, ‘"and take me from her if you can! ſee how her ſweet eyes are fixed! look but what a change in her complexion!—She does not ſee me, ſhe does not know me,—ſhe does not hear me! her hand ſeems quite lifeleſs already, her face is all fallen away!—Oh that I had died twenty deaths before I had lived to ſee this [...]ight!—poor wretch⯑ed Henrietta, thou haſt now no friend left in the world! thou mayſt go and lie down in ſome corner, and no one will come and ſay to thee a word of comfort!"’

‘"This muſt not be!"’ ſaid Dr. Lyſter, ‘"you muſt take her away."’

‘"You ſhall not!"’ cried ſhe, deſperately, ‘"I will ſtay with her till ſhe has breathed her laſt, and I will ſtay with her ſtill longer! and if ſhe was to ſpeak to you at this moment, ſhe would tell you that ſhe choſe it. She loved the poor Henrietta, and loved to have her near her; and when ſhe was ill, and in much diſtreſs, ſhe never once bid me leave her room. Is it not true, my ſweet Miſs Beverley? do you not know it to be true? Oh look not ſo dread⯑fully! turn to your unhappy Henrietta; ſweeteſt, beſt of ladies! will you not ſpeak [354] to her once more? will you not ſay to her one ſingle word?"’

Dr. Lyſter now grew very angry, and telling her ſuch violence might have fatal conſequences, frightened her into more or⯑der, and drew her away himſelf. He had then the kindneſs to go with her into ano⯑ther room, where, when her firſt vehemence was ſpent, his remonſtrances and reaſoning brought her to a ſenſe of the danger ſhe might occaſion, and made her promiſe not to return to the room till ſhe had gained ſtrength to behave better.

When Dr. Lyſter went again to Delvile, he found him greatly alarmed by his long ſtay; he communicated to him briefly what had paſſed, and counſelled him to avoid en⯑creaſing his own grief by the ſight of what was ſuffered by this unguarded and ardent girl. Delvile readily aſſented, for the weight of his own woe was too heavy to bear any addition.

Henrietta now, kept in order by Dr. Lyſter, contented herſelf with only ſitting upon the bed, without attempting to ſpeak, and with no other employment than alter⯑nately looking at her ſick friend, and cover⯑ing her ſtreaming eyes with her handker⯑chief; from time to time quitting the room wholly, for the relief of ſobbing at liberty and aloud in another.

[355] But, in the evening, while Delvile and Dr. Lyſter were taking one of their melan⯑choly rambles, a new ſcene was acted in the apartment of the ſtill ſenſeleſs Cecilia. Al⯑bany ſuddenly made his entrance into it, accompanied by three children, two girls and one boy, from the ages of four to ſix, neatly dreſſed, clean, and healthy.

‘"See here!"’ cried he, as he came in, ‘"ſee here what I have brought you! raiſe, raiſe your languid head, and look this way! you think me rigid,—an enemy to pleaſure, auſtere, harſh, and a forbidder of joy: look at this ſight, and ſee the contrary! who ſhall bring you comfort, joy, pleaſure, like this? three innocent children, clothed and fed by your bounty!"’

Henrietta and Mary, who both knew him well, were but little ſurpriſed at any thing he ſaid or did, and the nurſes preſum⯑ed not to interfere but by whiſpers.

Cecilia, however, obſerved nothing that paſſed; and Albany, ſomewhat aſtoniſhed, approached nearer to the bed; ‘"Wilt thou not ſpeak?"’ he cried.

‘"She can't, Sir,"’ ſaid one of the women; ‘"ſhe has been ſpeechleſs many hours."’

The air of triumph with which he had entered the room was now changed into diſ⯑appointment and conſternation. For ſome minutes he thoughtfully and ſorrowfully [356] contemplated her, and then, with a deep ſigh, ſaid, ‘"How will the poor rue this day!"’

Then, turning to the children, who, awed by this ſcene, were quiet from terror, ‘"Alas!"’ he ſaid, ‘"ye helpleſs babes, ye know not what you have loſt: preſump⯑tuouſly we came; unheeded we muſt re⯑turn! I brought you to be ſeen by your benefactreſs, but ſhe is going where ſhe will find many ſuch."’

He then led them away; but, ſuddenly coming back, ‘"I may ſee her, perhaps, no more! ſhall I not, then, pray for her? Great and aweful is the change ſhe is mak⯑ing; what are human revolutions, how piti⯑ful, how inſignificant, compared with it?—Come, little babies, come; with gifts has ſhe often bleſſed you, with wiſhes bleſs her! Come, let us kneel round her bed; let us all pray for her together; lift up your innocent hands, and for all of you I will ſpeak."’

He then made the children obey his in⯑junctions, and having knelt himſelf, while Henrietta and Mary inſtantly did the ſame, ‘"Sweet flower!"’ he cried, ‘"untimely cropt in years, yet in excellence mature! early decayed in miſery, yet fragrant in in⯑nocence! Gentle be thy exit, for unſullied have been thy days; brief be thy pains, for [357] few have been thy offences! Look at her ſweet babes, and bear her in your remem⯑brance; often will I viſit you and revive the ſolemn ſcene. Look at her ye, alſo, who are nearer to your end—Ah! will you bear it like her!"’

He pauſed; and the nurſes and Mrs. Wyers, ſtruck by this call, and moved by the general example, crept to the bed, and dropt on their knees, almoſt involuntarily.

‘"She departs,"’ reſumed Albany, ‘"the envy of the world! while yet no guilt had ſeized her ſoul, and no remorſe had marred her peace. She was the hand-maid of cha⯑rity, and pity dwelt in her boſom! her mouth was never opened but to give com⯑fort; her footſteps were followed by bleſ⯑ſings! Oh happy in purity, be thine the ſong of triumph!—ſoftly ſhalt thou ſink to temporary ſleep,—ſublimely ſhalt thou riſe to life that wakes for ever!"’

He then got up, took the children by their little hands, and went away.

CHAP. X. A TERMINATION.

DR. Lyſter and Delvile met them at the entrance into the houſe. Extremely alarmed leſt Cecilia had received any di⯑ſturbance, they both haſtened up ſtairs, but Delvile proceeded only to the door. He ſtopt there and liſtened; but all was ſi⯑lent: the prayers of Albany had ſtruck an awe into every one; and Dr. Lyſter ſoon returned to tell him there was no altera⯑tion in his patient.

‘"And he has not diſturbed her?"’ cried Delvile.

‘"No, not at all."’

‘"I think, then,"’ ſaid he, advancing, though trembling, ‘"I will yet ſee her once more."’

‘"No, no, Mr. Mortimer,"’ cried the doctor, ‘"why ſhould you give yourſelf ſo unneceſſary a ſhock?"’

‘"The ſhock,"’ anſwered he, ‘"is over!—tell me, however, is there any chance I may hurt her?"’

‘"I believe not; I do not think, juſt now, ſhe will perceive you."’

[359] ‘"Well, then,—I may grieve, perhaps, hereafter, that once more—that one glance!"’—He ſtopt, irreſolute: the doctor would again have diſſuaded him, but, after a little heſitation, he aſſured him he was prepared for the worſt, and forced himſelf into the room.

When again, however, he beheld Ceci⯑lia,—ſenſeleſs, ſpeechleſs, motionleſs, her features void of all expreſſion, her cheeks without colour, her eyes without meaning,—he ſhrunk from the ſight, he leant upon Dr. Lyſter, and almoſt groaned aloud.

The doctor would have conducted him out of the apartment; but, recovering from this firſt agony, he turned again to view her, and caſting up his eyes, fervently eja⯑culated, ‘"Oh merciful powers! Take, or deſtroy her! let her not linger thus, rather let me loſs her for ever!—Oh far rather would I ſee her dead, than in this dreadful condition!"’

Then, advancing to the bed ſide, and yet more earneſtly looking at her, ‘"I pray not now,"’ he cried, ‘"for thy life! inhumanly as I have treated thee, I am not yet ſo har⯑dened as to wiſh thy miſery lengthened: no; quick be thy reſtoration, or ſhort as pure thy paſſage to eternity!—Oh my Ceci⯑lia! lovely, however altered! ſweet even in the arms of death and inſanity! and dearer [360] to my tortured heart in this calamitous ſtate, than in all thy pride of health and beauty!—"’

He ſtopt, and turned from her, yet could not tear himſelf away; he came back, he again looked at her, he hung over her in anguiſh unutterable; he kiſſed each burn⯑ing hand, he folded to his boſom her feeble form, and, recovering his ſpeech, though almoſt burſting with ſorrow, faintly arti⯑culated, ‘"Is all over? no ray of reaſon left? no knowledge of thy wretched Del⯑vile?—no, none! the hand of death is on her, and ſhe is utterly gone!—ſweet ſuf⯑fering excellence! loved, loſt, expiring Cecilia!—but I will not repine! peace and kindred angels are watching to receive thee, and if thou art parted from thyſelf, it were impious to lament thou ſhouldſt be parted from me.—Yet in thy tomb will be depo⯑ſited all that to me could render exiſtence ſupportable, every frail chance of happi⯑neſs, every ſuſtaining hope, and all allevia⯑tion of ſorrow!—"’

Dr. Lyſter now again approaching, thought he perceived ſome change in his patient, and peremptorily forced him away from her: then returning himſelf, he found that her eyes were ſhut, and ſhe was dropt aſleep.

This was an omen the moſt favourable [361] he could hope. He now ſeated himſelf by the bedſide, and determined not to quit her till the expected criſis was paſt. He gave the ſtricteſt orders for the whole houſe to be kept quiet, and ſuffered no one in the room either to ſpeak or move.

Her ſleep was long and heavy; yet, when ſhe awoke, her ſenſibility was evi⯑dently returned. She ſtarted, ſuddenly raiſed her head from the pillow, looked round her, and called out, ‘"where am I now?"’

‘"Thank Heaven!"’ cried Henrietta, and was ruſhing forward, when Dr. Lyſter, by a ſtern and angry look, compelled her again to take her ſeat.

He then ſpoke to her himſelf, enquired how ſhe did, and found her quite rational.

Henrietta, who now doubted not her perfect recovery, wept as violently for joy as ſhe had before wept for grief; and Mary, in the ſame belief, ran inſtantly to Delvile, eager to carry to him the firſt tidings that her miſtreſs had recovered her reaſon.

Delvile, in the utmoſt emotion, then re⯑turned to the chamber; but ſtood at ſome diſtance from the bed, waiting Dr. Lyſter's permiſſion to approach it.

Cecilia was quiet and compoſed, her re⯑collection ſeemed reſtored, and her intel⯑lects ſound: but ſhe was faint and weak, [362] and contentedly ſilent, to avoid the effort of ſpeaking.

Dr. Lyſter encouraged this ſtillneſs, and ſuffered not any one, not even Delvile, to advance to her. After a ſhort time, how⯑ever, ſhe again, and very calmly, began to talk to him. She now firſt knew him, and ſeemed much ſurpriſed by his attendance. She could not tell, ſhe ſaid, what of late had happened to her, nor could gueſs where ſhe was, or by what means ſhe came into ſuch a place. Dr. Lyſter deſired her at preſent not to think upon the ſubject, and promiſed her a full account of every thing, when ſhe was ſtronger, and more fit for converſing.

This for a while ſilenced her. But, after a ſhort pauſe, ‘"Tell me,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"Dr. Lyſter, have I no friend in this place but you?"’ ‘"Yes, yes, you have ſeveral friends here,"’ anſwered the Doctor, ‘"only I keep them in order, leſt they ſhould hurry or diſturb you."’

She ſeemed much pleaſed by this ſpeech; but ſoon after ſaid, ‘"You muſt not, Doctor, keep them in order much longer, for the ſight of them, I think, would much re⯑vive me."’

‘"Ah, Miſs Beverley!"’ cried Henrietta, who could not now reſtrain herſelf, ‘"may [363] not I, among the reſt, come and ſpeak to you?"’

‘"Who is that?"’ ſaid Cecilia, in a voice of pleaſure, though very feeble; ‘"is it my ever-dear Henrietta?"’

‘"Oh this is joy indeed!"’ cried ſhe, fervently kiſſing her cheeks and forehead, ‘"joy that I never, never expected to have more!"’

‘"Come, come,"’ cried Doctor Lyſter, ‘"here's enough of this; did I not do well to keep ſuch people off?"’

‘"I believe you did,"’ ſaid Cecilia, faint⯑ly ſmiling; ‘"my too kind Henrietta, you muſt be more tranquil!"’

‘"I will, I will indeed, madam!—my dear, dear Miſs Beverley, I will indeed!—now once you have owned me, and once again I hear your ſweet voice, I will do any thing, and every thing, for I am made hap⯑py for my whole life!"’

‘"Ah, ſweet Henrietta!"’ cried Cecilia, giving her her hand, ‘"you muſt ſuppreſs theſe feelings, or our Doctor here will ſoon part us. But tell me, Doctor, is there no one elſe that you can let me ſee?"’

Delvile, who had liſtened to this ſcene in the unſpeakable perturbation of that hope which is kindled from the very aſhes of deſ⯑pair, was now ſpringing forward; but Dr. Lyſter, fearful of the conſequences, haſtily [364] aroſe, and with a look and air not to be diſputed, took hold of his arm, and led him out of the room. He then repreſented to him ſtrongly the danger of agitating or diſturbing her, and charged him to keep from her ſight till better able to bear it; aſſuring him at the ſame time that he might now reaſonably hope her recovery.

Delvile, loſt in tranſport, could make no anſwer, but flew into his arms, and almoſt madly embraced him; he then haſtened out of ſight to pour forth fervent thanks, and hurrying back with equal ſpeed, again em⯑braced the Doctor, and while his manly cheeks were burnt with tears of joy, he could not yet articulate the glad tumult of his ſoul.

The worthy Dr. Lyſter, who heartily par⯑took of his happineſs, again urged him to be diſcreet; and Delvile, no longer intract⯑able and deſperate, gratefully concurred in whatever he commanded. Dr. Lyſter then returned to Cecilia, and to relieve her mind from any uneaſy ſuſpenſe, talked to her openly of Delvile, gave her to underſtand he was acquainted with her marriage, and told her he had prohibited their meeting till each was better able to ſupport it.

Cecilia by this delay ſeemed half grati⯑fied, and half diſappointed; but the reſt of the phyſicians, who had been ſummoned [365] upon this happy change, now appearing, the orders were yet more ſtrictly enforced for keeping her quiet.

She ſubmitted, therefore, peaceably; and Delvile, whoſe gladdened heart ſtill throbbed with ſpeechleſs rapture, content⯑edly watched at her chamber door, and obeyed implicitly whatever was ſaid to him.

She now viſibly, and almoſt hourly grew better; and, in a ſhort time, her anxiety to know all that was paſſed, and by what means ſhe became ſo ill, and confined in a houſe of which ſhe had not any knowledge, obliged Dr. Lyſter to make himſelf maſ⯑ter of theſe particulars, that he might com⯑municate them to her with a calmneſs that Delvile could not attain.

Delvile himſelf, happy to be ſpared the bitter taſk of ſuch a relation, informed him all he knew of the ſtory, and then entreat⯑ed him to narrate to her alſo the motives of his own ſtrange, and he feared unpardon⯑able conduct, and the ſcenes which had fol⯑lowed their parting.

He came, he ſaid, to England, ignorant of all that had paſt in his abſence, intend⯑ing merely to wait upon his father, and communicate his marriage, before he gave directions to his lawyer for the ſettlements and preparations which were to precede its [366] further publication. He meant, alſo, to ſatisfy himſelf, of the real ſituation of Mr. Monckton, and then, after an interview with Cecilia, to have returned to his mo⯑ther, and waited at Nice till he might pub⯑licly claim his wife.

To this purpoſe he had written in his letter, which he meant to have put in the Poſt-office in London himſelf; and he had but juſt alighted from his chaiſe, when he met Ralph, Cecilia's ſervant, in the ſtreet.

Haſtily ſtopping him, he enquired if he had left his place? ‘"No,"’ anſwered Ralph, ‘"I am only come up to town with my lady."’

‘"With your lady!"’ cried the aſtoniſhed Delvile, ‘"is your lady then in town?"’

‘"Yes, ſir, ſhe is at Mrs. Belfield's."’

‘"At Mrs. Belfield's?—is her daugh⯑ter returned home?"’

‘"No, ſir, we left her in the country."’

He was then going on with a further account, but, in too much confuſion of mind to hear him, Delvile abruptly wiſh⯑ed him good night, and marched on him⯑ſelf towards Belfield's.

The pleaſure with which he would have heard that Cecilia was ſo near to him, was totally loſt in his perplexity to account for her journey. Her letters had never hinted at ſuch a purpoſe,—the news reached him [367] only by accident,—it was ten o'clock at night,—yet ſhe was at Belfield's—though the ſiſter was away,—though the mother was profeſſedly odious to her!—In an inſtant, all he had formerly heard, all he had formerly diſregarded, ruſhed ſuddenly upon his memory, and he began to believe he had been deluded, that his father was right, and that Belfield had ſome ſtrange and improper influence over her heart.

The ſuſpicion was death to him; he drove it from him, he concluded the whole was ſome error: his reaſon as powerfully as his tenderneſs vindicated her innocence; and though he arrived at the houſe in much diſorder, he yet arrived with a firm per⯑ſuaſion of an honourable explanation.

The door was open,—a chaiſe was at it in waiting,—Mrs. Belfield was liſtening in the paſſage; theſe appearances were ſtrange, and encreaſed his agitation. He aſked for her ſon in a voice ſcarce audible,—ſhe told him he was engaged with a lady, and muſt not be diſturbed.

That fatal anſwer, at a moment ſo big with the moſt horrible ſurmiſes, was deci⯑ſive: furiouſly, therefore, he forced him⯑ſelf paſt her, and opened the door:—but when he ſaw them together,—the reſt of the family confeſſedly excluded, his rage [368] turned to horror, and he could hardly ſupport himſelf.

‘"O Dr. Lyſter!"’ he continued, ‘"aſk of the ſweet creature if theſe circumſtances offer any extenuation for the fatal jealouſy which ſeized me? never by myſelf while I live will it be forgiven, but ſhe, perhaps, who is all ſoftneſs, all compaſſion, and all peace, may ſome time hence think my ſuffer⯑ings almoſt equal to my offence."’

He then proceeded in his narration.

When he had ſo peremptorily ordered her chaiſe to St. James's-ſquare, he went back to the houſe, and deſired Belfield to walk out with him. He complied, and they were both ſilent till they came to a Coffee-houſe, where they aſked for a pri⯑vate room. The whole way they went, his heart, ſecretly ſatisfied of the purity of Cecilia, ſmote him for the ſituation in which he had left her; yet, having unfor⯑tunately gone ſo far as to make his ſuſpi⯑cions apparent, he thought it neceſſary to his character that their abolition ſhould be equally public.

When they were alone, ‘"Belfield,"’ he ſaid, ‘"to obviate any imputation of im⯑pertinence in my enquiries, I deny not, what I preſume you have been told by her⯑ſelf, that I have the neareſt intereſt in whatever [369] concerns the lady from whom we are juſt now parted: I muſt beg, therefore, an ex⯑plicit account of the purpoſe of your pri⯑vate converſation with her."’

‘"Mr. Delvile,"’ anſwered Belfield, with mingled candour and ſpirit, ‘"I am not com⯑monly much diſpoſed to anſwer enquiries thus cavalierly put to me; yet here, as I find myſelf not the principal perſon con⯑cerned, I think I am bound in juſtice to ſpeak for the abſent who is. I aſſure you, therefore, moſt ſolemnly, that your intereſt in Miſs Beverley I never heard but by com⯑mon report, that our being alone together was by both of us undeſigned and unde⯑ſired, that the honour ſhe did our houſe in calling at it, was merely to acquaint my mother with my ſiſter's removal to Mrs. Harrel's, and that the part which I had myſelf in her condeſcenſion, was ſimply to be conſulted upon a journey which ſhe has in contemplation to the South of France. And now, ſir, having given you this peaceable ſatisfaction, you will find me extremely at your ſervice to offer any other."’

Delvile inſtantly held out his hand to him; ‘"What you aſſert,"’ he ſaid ‘"upon your honour, requires no other teſtimony. Your gallantry and your probity are equal⯑ly well known to me; with either, therefore, [370] I am content, and by no means re⯑quire the intervention of both."’

They then parted; and now, his doubts removed, and his punctilio ſatisfied, he flew to St. James's-ſquare, to entreat the forgiveneſs of Cecilia for the alarm he had occaſioned her, and to hear the reaſon of her ſudden journey, and change of mea⯑ſures. But when he came there, to find that his father, whom he had concluded was at Delvile Caſtle, was in the houſe, while Cecilia had not even enquired for him at the door,—‘Oh let me not,"’ he continued, ‘"even to myſelf, let me not trace the agony of that moment!—where to ſeek her I knew not, why ſhe was in London I could not divine, for what pur⯑poſe ſhe had given the poſtilion a new di⯑rection I could form no idea. Yet it ap⯑peared that ſhe wiſhed to avoid me, and once more, in the frenzy of my diſappointment, I ſuppoſed Belfield a party in her conceal⯑ment. Again, therefore, I ſought him,—at his own houſe,—at the coffee-houſe where I had left him,—in vain, wherever I came, I juſt miſſed him, for, hearing of my ſearch, he went with equal reſtleſſneſs, from place to place to meet me. I rejoice we both failed; a repetition of my enquiries in my then irritable ſtate, muſt inevitably have provoked the moſt fatal reſentment.’

‘"I will not dwell upon the ſcenes that [371] followed,—my laborious ſearch, my fruit⯑leſs wanderings, the diſtraction of my ſuſ⯑penſe, the exceſs of my deſpair!—even Belfield, the fiery Belfield, when I met with him the next day, was ſo much touched by my wretchedneſs, that he bore with all my injuſtice; feeling, noble young man! never will I loſe the remembrance of his high-ſouled patience.’

‘"And now, Dr. Lyſter, go to my Ceci⯑lia; tell her this tale, and try, for you have ſkill ſufficient, to ſoften, yet not wound her with my ſufferings. If then ſhe can bear to ſee me, to bleſs me with the ſound of her ſweet voice, no longer at war with her intellects, to hold out to me her loved hand, in token of peace and for⯑giveneſs.—Oh, Dr. Lyſter! preſerver of my life in hers! give to me but that ex⯑quiſite moment, and every paſt evil will be for ever obliterated!"’

‘"You muſt be calmer, Sir,"’ ſaid the Doctor, ‘"before I make the attempt. Theſe heroicks are mighty well for ſound health, and ſtrong nerves, but they will not do for an invalide."’

He went, however, to Cecilia, and gave her this narration, ſuppreſſing whatever he feared would moſt affect her, and judiciouſly enlivening the whole by his ſtrictures. Ce⯑cilia was much eaſier for this removal of [372] her perplexities, and, as her anguiſh and her terror had been unmixed with reſent⯑ment, ſhe had now no deſire but to recon⯑cile Delvile with himſelf.

Dr. Lyſter, however, by his friendly au⯑thority, obliged her for ſome time to be content with this relation; but when ſhe grew better, her impatience became ſtrong⯑er, and he feared oppoſition would be as hurtful as compliance.

Delvile, therefore, was now admitted; yet ſlowly and with trepidation he advanced, terrified for her, and fearful of himſelf, filled with remorſe for the injuries ſhe had ſuſtained, and impreſſed with grief and horror to behold her ſo ill and altered.

Supported by pillows, ſhe ſat almoſt upright. The moment ſhe ſaw him, ſhe attempted to bend forward and welcome him, calling out in a tone of pleaſure, though faintly, ‘"Ah! deareſt Delvile! is it you?"’ but too weak for the effort ſhe had made, ſhe ſunk back upon her pillow, pale, trembling, and diſordered.

Dr. Lyſter would then have interfered to poſtpone their further converſation; but Delvile was no longer maſter of himſelf or his paſſions: he darted forward, and kneel⯑ing at the bed ſide, ‘"Sweet injured excel⯑lence!"’ he cried, ‘"wife of my heart! ſole object of my choſen affection! doſt thou [373] yet live? do I hear thy loved voice?—do I ſee thee again?—art thou my Cecilia? and have I indeed not loſt thee?"’ then re⯑garding her more fixedly, ‘"Alas,"’ he cried, ‘"art thou indeed my Cecilia! ſo pale, ſo emaciated!—Oh ſuffering angel! and couldſt thou then call upon Delvile, the guilty, but heart-broken Delvile, thy de⯑ſtroyer, thy murderer, and yet not call to execrate him?"’

Cecilia, extremely affected, could not utter a word; ſhe held out to him her hand, ſhe looked at him with gentleneſs and kindneſs, but tears ſtarted into her eyes, and trickled in large drops down her colour⯑leſs cheeks.

‘"Angelic creature!"’ cried Delvile, his own tears overflowing, while he preſſed to his lips the kind token of her pardon, ‘"can you give to me again a hand ſo ill deſerved? can you look with ſuch compaſſion on the author of your woes? on the wretch, who for an inſtant could doubt the purity of a mind ſo ſeraphic!"’

‘"Ah, Delvile!"’ cried ſhe, a little re⯑viving, ‘"think no more of what is paſt!—to ſee you,—to be yours,—drives all evil from my remembrance!"’

‘"I am not worthy this joy!"’ cried he riſing, kneeling, and riſing again; ‘"I know not how to ſuſtain it! a forgiveneſs ſuch [374] as this,—when I believed you muſt hate me for ever! when repulſe and averſion were all I dared expect,—when my own in⯑humanity had bereft thee of thy reaſon,—when the grave, the pitileſs grave, was al⯑ready open to receive thee,"—’

‘"Too kind, too feeling Delvile!"’ cried the penetrated Cecilia, ‘"relieve your load⯑ed heart from theſe bitter recollections; mine is lightened already,—lightened, I think, of every thing but its affection for you!"’

‘"Oh words of tranſport and extacy!"’ cried the enraptured Delvile, ‘"oh partner of my life! friend, ſolace, darling of my boſom! that ſo lately I thought expiring! that I folded to my bleeding heart in the agony of eternal ſeparation!"—’

‘"Come away, Sir, come away,"’ cried Dr. Lyſter, who now ſaw that Cecilia was greatly agitated, ‘"I will not be anſwerable for the continuation of this ſcene;"’ and taking him by the arm, he awakened him from his frantic rapture, by aſſuring him ſhe would faint, and forced him away from her.

Soon after he was gone, and Cecilia be⯑came more tranquil, Henrietta, who had wept with bitterneſs in a corner of the room during this ſcene, approached her, and, with an attempted ſmile, though in a voice [375] hardly audible, ſaid, ‘"Ah, Miſs Beverley, you will, at laſt, then be happy! happy as all your goodneſs deſerves. And I am ſure I ſhould rejoice in it if I was to die to make you happier!"’

Cecilia, who but too well knew her full meaning, tenderly embraced her, but was prevented by Dr. Lyſter from entering in⯑to any diſcourſe with her.

The firſt meeting, however, with Delvile being over, the ſecond was far more quiet, and in a very ſhort time, he would ſcarcely quit her a moment, Cecilia herſelf receiving from his ſight a pleaſure too great for denial, yet too ſerene for danger.

The worthy Dr. Lyſter, finding her proſpect of recovery thus fair, prepared for leaving London: but, equally deſirous to do good out of his profeſſion as in it, he firſt, at the requeſt of Delvile, waited upon his father, to acquaint him with his pre⯑ſent ſituation, ſolicit his directions for his future proceedings, and endeavour to nego⯑ciate a general reconciliation.

Mr. Delvile, to whoſe proud heart ſoci⯑al joy could find no avenue, was yet touch⯑ed moſt ſenſibly by the reſtoration of Ce⯑cilia. Neither his dignity nor his diſplea⯑ſure had been able to repreſs remorſe, a feeling to which, with all his foibles, he had not been accuſtomed. The view of [376] her diſtraction had dwelt upon his imagi⯑nation, the deſpondency of his ſon had ſtruck him with fear and horror. He had been haunted by ſelf reproach, and purſued by vain regret; and thoſe conceſſions he had refuſed to tenderneſs and entreaty, he now willingly accorded to change repen⯑tance for tranquility. He ſent inſtantly for his ſon, whom even with tears he em⯑braced, and felt his own peace reſtored as he pronounced his forgiveneſs.

New, however, to kindneſs, he retained it not long, and a ſtranger to generoſity, he knew not how to make her welcome: the extinction of his remorſe abated his com⯑paſſion for Cecilia, and when ſolicited to receive her, he revived the charges of Mr. Monckton.

Cecilia, informed of this, determined to write to that gentleman herſelf, whoſe long and painful illneſs, joined to his irrecover⯑able loſs of her, ſhe now hoped might prevail with him to make reparation for the injuries he had done her.

Mr. Monckton, after many long and painful ſtruggles between uſeleſs rage, and involuntary remorſe, at length ſent the following anſwer.

Delvile ſent by Dr. Lyſter this letter to his father, whoſe rage at the detection of the perfidy which had deceived him, was yet inferior to what he felt that his family was mentioned ſo injuriouſly.

His conference with Dr. Lyſter was long and painful, but deciſive: that ſagacious and friendly man knew well how to work upon his paſſions, and ſo effectually awak⯑ened them by repreſenting the diſgrace of his own family from the preſent ſituation of Cecilia, that before he quitted his houſe he was authoriſed to invite her to remove to it.

When he returned from his embaſſy, he found Delvile in her room, and each wait⯑ing with impatience the event of his nego⯑ciation.

The Doctor with much alacrity gave Ce⯑cilia the invitation with which he had been charged; but Delvile, jealous for her dig⯑nity, was angry and diſſatisfied his father brought it not himſelf, and exclaimed with much mortification, ‘"Is this all the grace accorded me?"’

‘"Patience, patience, Sir,"’ anſwered the Doctor; ‘"when you have thwarted any body in their firſt hope and ambition, do [379] you expect they will ſend you their compli⯑ments and many thanks for the diſappoint⯑ment? Pray let the good gentleman have his way in ſome little matters, ſince you have taken ſuch effectual care to put out of his reach the power of having it in greater."’

‘"O far from ſtarting obſtacles,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"let us ſolicit a reconciliation with whatever conceſſions he may require. The miſery of DISOBEDIENCE we have but too fatally experienced; and thinking as we think of filial ties and parental claims, how can we ever hope happineſs till for⯑given and taken into favour?"’

‘"True, my Cecilia,"’ anſwered Delvile, ‘"and generous and condeſcending as true; and if you can thus ſweetly comply, I will gratefully forbear making any oppoſition. Too much already have you ſuffered from the impetuoſity of my temper, but I will try to curb it in future by the remembrance of your injuries."’

‘"The whole of this unfortunate buſi⯑neſs,"’ ſaid Dr. Lyſter, ‘"has been the re⯑ſult of PRIDE and PREJUDICE. Your uncle, the Dean, began it, by his arbitrary will, as if an ordinance of his own could arreſt the courſe of nature! and as if he had power to keep alive, by the loan of a name, a family in the male branch already extinct. Your father, Mr. Mortimer, continued it [380] with the ſame ſelf-partiality, preferring the wretched gratification of tickling his ear with a favourite ſound, to the ſolid happi⯑neſs of his ſon with a rich and deſerving wife. Yet this, however, remember; if to PRIDE and PREJUDICE you owe your miſeries, ſo wonderfully is good and evil balanced, that to PRIDE and PREJU⯑DICE you will alſo owe their termination: for all that I could ſay to Mr. Delvile, either of reaſoning or entreaty,—and I ſaid all I could ſuggeſt, and I ſuggeſted all a man need wiſh to hear,—was totally thrown away, till I pointed out to him his own diſ⯑grace, in having a daughter-in-law immured in theſe mean lodgings!’

‘"Thus, my dear young lady, the terror which drove you to this houſe, and the ſuf⯑ferings which have confined you in it, will prove, in the event, the ſource of your future peace: for when all my beſt rheto⯑rick failed to melt Mr. Delvile, I inſtantly brought him to terms by coupling his name with a pawnbroker's! And he could not with more diſguſt hear his ſon called Mr. Beverley, than think of his ſon's wife when he hears of the Three Blue Balls! Thus the ſame paſſions, taking but different direc⯑tions, do miſchief and cure it alternately.’

‘"Such, my good young friends, is the MORAL of your calamities. You have [381] all, in my opinion, been ſtrangely at croſs purpoſes, and trifled, no one knows why, with the firſt bleſſings of life. My only hope is that now, having among you thrown away its luxuries, you will have known enough of miſery to be glad to keep its ne⯑ceſſaries."’

This excellent man was yet prevailed upon by Delvile to ſtay and aſſiſt in remov⯑ing the feeble Cecilia to St. James's-ſquare.

Henrietta, for whom Mr. Arnott's equi⯑page and ſervants had ſtill remained in town, was then, though with much diffi⯑culty, perſuaded to go back to Suffolk: but Cecilia, however fond of her ſociety, was too ſenſible of the danger and impro⯑priety of her preſent ſituation, to receive from it any pleaſure.

Mr. Delvile's reception of Cecilia was formal and cold: yet, as ſhe now appeared publicly in the character of his ſon's wife, the beſt apartment in his houſe had been prepared for her uſe, his domeſtics were in⯑ſtructed to wait upon her with the utmoſt reſpect, and Lady Honoria Pemberton, who was accidently in town, offered from curio⯑ſity, what Mr. Delvile accepted from pa⯑rade, to be herſelf in St. James's-ſquare, in order to do honour to his daughter-in-law's firſt entrance.

When Cecilia was a little recovered from [382] the ſhock of the firſt interview, and the fa⯑tigueof her removal, the anxious Mortimer would inſtantly have had her conveyed to her own apartment; but, willing to exert herſelf, and hoping to oblige Mr. Delvile, ſhe declared ſhe was well able to remain ſome time longer in the drawing-room.

‘"My good friends,"’ ſaid Dr. Lyſter, ‘"in the courſe of my long practice, I have found it impoſſible to ſtudy the human frame, without a little ſtudying the human mind; and from all that I have yet been able to make out, either by obſervation, re⯑flection, or compariſon, it appears to me at this moment, that Mr. Mortimer Delvile has got the beſt wife, and that you, Sir, have here the moſt faultleſs daughter-in-law, that any huſband or any father in the three kingdoms belonging to his Majeſty can either have or deſire."’

Cecilia ſmiled; Mortimer looked his de⯑lighted concurrence; Mr. Delvile forced himſelf to make a ſtiff inclination of the head; and Lady Honoria gaily exclaimed, ‘"Dr. Lyſter, when you ſay the beſt and the moſt faultleſs, you ſhould always add the reſt of company excepted."’

‘"Upon my word,"’ cried the Doctor, ‘"I beg your ladyſhip's pardon; but there is a certain unguarded warmth comes acroſs a man now and then, that drives etiquette [383] out of his head, and makes him ſpeak truth before he well knows where he is."’

‘"O terrible!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"this is ſink⯑ing deeper and deeper. I had hoped the town air would have taught you better things; but I find you have viſited at Del⯑vile Caſtle till you are fit for no other place."’

‘"Whoever, Lady Honoria,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, much offended, ‘"is fit for Del⯑vile Caſtle, muſt be fit for every other place; though every other place may by no means be fit for him."’

‘"O yes, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, giddily, ‘"every poſſible place will be fit for him, if he can once bear with that. Don't you think ſo, Dr. Lyſter?"’

‘"Why, when a man has the honour to ſee your ladyſhip,"’ anſwered he, good-hu⯑mouredly, ‘"he is apt to think too much of the perſon, to care about the place."’

‘"Come, I begin to have ſome hopes of you,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"for I ſee, for a Doctor, you have really a very pretty notion of a compliment: only you have one great fault ſtill; you look the whole time as if you ſaid it for a joke."’

‘"Why, in fact, madam, when a man has been a plain dealer both in word and look for upwards of fifty years, 'tis expect⯑ing too quick a reformation to demand [384] ductility of voice and eye from him at a blow. However, give me but a little time and a little encouragement, and, with ſuch a tutreſs, 'twill be hard if I do not, in a very few leſſons, learn the right method of ſeaſoning a ſimper, and the neweſt faſhion of twiſting words from meaning."’

‘"But pray,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"upon thoſe occaſions, always remember to look ſerious. Nothing ſets off a compliment ſo much as a long face. If you are tempted to an un⯑ſeaſonable laugh, think of Delvile Caſtle; 'tis an expedient I commonly make uſe of myſelf when I am afraid of being too friſky: and it always ſucceeds, for the very recol⯑lection of it gives me the head-ache in a moment. Upon my word, Mr. Delvile, you muſt have the conſtitution of five men, to have kept ſuch good health, after living ſo long at that horrible place. You can't imagine how you've ſurpriſed me, for I have regularly expected to hear of your death at the end of every ſummer: and, I aſſure you, once, I was very near buying mourning."’

‘"The eſtate which deſcends to a man from his own anceſtors, Lady Honoria,"’ anſwered Mr. Delvile, ‘"will ſeldom be apt to injure his health, if he is conſcious of committing no miſdemeanour which has degraded their memory."’

[385] ‘"How vaſtly odious this new father of yours is!"’ ſaid Lady Honoria, in a whiſper to Cecilia; ‘"what could ever in⯑duce you to give up your charming eſtate for the ſake of coming into his fuſty old family! I would really adviſe you to have your marriage annulled. You have only, you know, to take an oath that you were forcibly run away with; and as you are an Heireſs, and the Delviles are all ſo violent, it will eaſily be credited. And then, as ſoon as you are at liberty, I would adviſe you to marry my little Lord Derford."’

‘"Would you only, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"have me regain my freedom in order to part with it?"’

‘"Certainly,"’ anſwered Lady Honoria, ‘"for you can do nothing at all without being married; a ſingle woman is a thou⯑ſand times more ſhackled than a wife; for, ſhe is accountable to every body; and a wife, you know, has nothing to do but juſt to manage her huſband."’

‘"And that,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſmiling, ‘"you conſider as a trifle?"’

‘"Yes, if you do but marry a man you don't care for."’

‘"You are right, then, indeed, to recom⯑mend to me my Lord Derford!"’

‘"O yes, he will make the prettieſt huſ⯑band in the world; you may fly about yourſelf [386] as wild as a lark, and keep him the whole time as tame as a jack-daw: and though he may complain of you to your friends, he will never have the courage to find fault to your face. But as to Morti⯑mer, you will not be able to govern him as long as you live; for the moment you have put him upon the fret, you'll fall into the dumps yourſelf, hold out your hand to him, and, loſing the opportunity of gaining ſome material point, make up at the firſt ſoft word."’

‘"You think, then, the quarrel more amuſing than the reconciliation?"’

‘"O, a thouſand times! for while you are quarrelling, you may ſay any thing, and demand any thing, but when you are recon⯑ciled, you ought to behave pretty, and ſeem contented."’

‘"Thoſe who preſume to have any pre⯑tenſions to your ladyſhip,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"would be made happy indeed ſhould they hear your principles!"’

‘"O, it would not ſignify at all,"’ an⯑ſwered ſhe, ‘"for one's fathers, and uncles, and thoſe ſort of people, always make con⯑nexions for one, and not a creature thinks of our principles, till they find them out by our conduct: and nobody can poſſibly do that till we are married, for they give us no power beforehand. The men know nothing [387] of us in the world while we are ſingle, but how we can dance a minuet, or play a leſſon upon the harpſichord."’

‘"And what elſe,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, who advanced, and heard this laſt ſpeech, ‘"need a young lady of rank deſire to be known for? your ladyſhip ſurely would not have her degrade herſelf by ſtudying like an ar⯑tiſt or profeſſor?"’

‘"O no, Sir, I would not have her ſtudy at all; it's mighty well for children, but really after ſixteen, and when one is come out, one has quite fatigue enough in dreſſing, and going to public places, and ordering new things, without all that tor⯑ment of firſt and ſecond poſition, and E upon the firſt line, and F upon the firſt ſpace!"’

‘"Your ladyſhip muſt, however, par⯑don me for hinting,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ‘"that a young lady of condition, who has a proper ſenſe of her dignity, cannot be ſeen too rarely, or known too little."’

‘"O but I hate dignity!"’ cried ſhe, care⯑leſsly, ‘"for its the dulleſt thing in the world. I always thought it was owing to that you were ſo little amuſing;—really I beg your pardon, Sir, I meant to ſay ſo little talkative."’

‘"I can eaſily credit that your ladyſhip ſpoke haſtily,"’ anſwered he, highly piqued, [388] ‘"for I believe, indeed, a perſon of a family ſuch as mine, will hardly be ſuppoſed to have come into the world for the office of amuſing it!"’

‘"O no, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, with pretended innocence, ‘"nobody, I am ſure, ever ſaw you with ſuch a thought."’ Then, turning to Cecilia, ſhe added in a whiſper, ‘"You cannot imagine, my dear Mrs. Mortimer, how I deteſt this old couſin of mine! Now pray tell me honeſtly if you don't hate him yourſelf?"’

‘"I hope,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"to have no reaſon."’

‘"Lord, how you are always upon your guard! If I were half as cautious, I ſhould die of the vapours in a month; the only thing that keeps me at all alive, is now and then making people angry; for the folks at our houſe let me go out ſo ſeldom, and then ſend me with ſuch ſtupid old chaperons, that giving them a little torment is really the only entertainment I can procure my⯑ſelf. O—but I had almoſt forgot to tell you a moſt delightful thing!"’

‘"What is it?"’

‘"Why you muſt know I have the great⯑eſt hopes in the world that my father will quarrel with old Mr. Delvile!"’

‘"And is that ſuch a delightful thing!"’

‘"O yes; I have lived upon the very [389] idea this fortnight; for then, you know, they'll both be in a paſſion, and I ſhall ſee which of them looks frightfulleſt."’

‘"When Lady Honoria whiſpers,"’ cried Mortimer, ‘"I always ſuſpect ſome miſ⯑chief."’

‘"No indeed,"’ anſwered her ladyſhip, ‘"I was merely congratulating Mrs. Morti⯑mer about her marriage. Though really, upon ſecond thoughts, I don't know whether I ſhould not rather condole with her, for I have long been convinced ſhe has a prodi⯑gious antipathy to you. I ſaw it the whole time I was at Delvile Caſtle, where ſhe uſed to change colour at the very ſound of your name; a ſymptom I never perceived when I talked to her of my Lord Derford, who would certainly have made her a thou⯑ſand times a better huſband."’

‘"If you mean on account of his title, Lady Honoria,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile: ‘"your ladyſhip muſt be ſtrangely forgetful of the connections of your family, not to remember that Mortimer, after the death of his uncle and myſelf, muſt inevitably inherit one far more honourable than a new-ſprung-up fa⯑mily, like my Lord Ernolf's, could offer."’

‘"Yes, Sir; but then, you know, ſhe would have kept her eſtate, which would have been a vaſtly better thing than an old pedigree of new relations. Beſides, I don't [390] find that any body cares for the noble blood of the Delviles but themſelves; and if ſhe had kept her fortune, every body, I fancy, would have cared for that."’

‘"Every body, then,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ‘"muſt be highly mercenary and ignoble, or the blood of an ancient and honourable houſe, would be thought contaminated by the moſt diſtant hint of ſo degrading a com⯑pariſon."’

‘"Dear Sir, what ſhould we all do with birth if it was not for wealth? it would nei⯑ther take us to Ranelagh nor the Opera; nor buy us caps nor wigs, nor ſupply us with dinners, nor bouquets."’

‘"Caps and wigs, dinners and bou⯑quets!"’ interrupted Mr. Delvile; ‘"your ladyſhip's eſtimate of wealth is really ex⯑tremely minute."’

‘"Why, you know, Sir, as to caps and wigs, they are very ſerious things, for we ſhould look mighty droll figures to go about bare-headed; and as to dinners, how would the Delviles have laſted all theſe thou⯑ſand centuries if they had diſdained eating them?"’

‘"Whatever may be your ladyſhip's ſa⯑tisfaction,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, angrily, ‘"in depreciating a houſe that has the honour of being nearly allied with your own, you will not, I hope at leaſt, inſtruct this lady,"’ [391] turning to Cecilia, ‘"to adopt a ſimilar con⯑tempt of its antiquity and dignity."’

‘"This lady,"’ cried Mortimer, ‘"will at leaſt, by condeſcending to become one of it, ſecure us from any danger that ſuch contempt may ſpread further."’

‘"Let me but,"’ ſaid Cecilia, looking gratefully at him, ‘"be as ſecure from exciting as I am from feeling contempt, and what can I have to wiſh?"’

‘"Good and excellent young lady!"’ ſaid Dr. Lyſter, ‘"the firſt of bleſſings in⯑deed is yours in the temperance of your own mind. When you began your career in life, you appeared to us ſhort-ſighted mortals, to poſſeſs more than your ſhare of the good things of this world; ſuch a union of riches, beauty, independence, ta⯑lents, education and virtue, ſeemed a mo⯑nopoly to raiſe general envy and diſcon⯑tent; but mark with what ſcrupulous ex⯑actneſs the good and bad is ever balanced! You have had a thouſand ſorrows to which thoſe who have looked up to you have been ſtrangers, and for which not all the advan⯑tages you poſſeſs have been equivalent. There is evidently throughout this world, in things as well as perſons, a levelling prin⯑ciple, at war with pre-eminence, and deſtruc⯑tive of perfection."’

‘"Ah!"’ cried Mortimer, in a low voice [392] to Cecilia, ‘"how much higher muſt we all riſe, or how much lower muſt you fall, ere any levelling principle will approxi⯑mate us with YOU!"’

He then entreated her to ſpare her ſtrength and ſpirits by returning to her own apartment, and the converſation was brok⯑en up.

‘"Pray permit me, Mrs. Mortimer,"’ cried Lady Honoria, in taking leave, ‘"to beg that the firſt gueſt you invite to Delvile Caſtle may be me. You know my partiali⯑ty to it already. I ſhall be particularly happy in waiting upon you in tempeſtuous weather! We can all ſtroll out together, you know, very ſociably; and I ſha'n't be much in your way, for if there ſhould hap⯑pen to be a ſtorm, you can eaſily lodge me under ſome great tree, and while you amuſe yourſelves with a tête-à-tête, give me the indulgence of my own reflections. I am vaſtly fond of thinking, and being alone, you know,—eſpecially in thunder and light⯑ening!"’

She then ran away; and they all ſeparat⯑ed: Cecilia was conveyed up ſtairs, and the worthy Dr. Lyſter, loaded with acknow⯑ledgments of every kind, ſet out for the country.

Cecilia, ſtill weak, and much emaciated, for ſome time lived almoſt wholly in her [393] own room; where the grateful and ſolici⯑tous attendance of Mortimer, alleviated the pain both of her illneſs and confinement: but as ſoon as her health permitted travel⯑ling, he haſtened with her abroad.

Here tranquility once more made its abode the heart of Cecilia; that heart ſo long torn with anguiſh, ſuſpenſe and hor⯑rour! Mrs. Delvile received her with the moſt rapturous fondneſs, and the impreſſion of her ſorrows gradually wore away, from her kind and maternal cares, and from the watchful affection and delighted tenderneſs of her ſon.

The Eggleſtons now took entire poſſeſſion of her eſtate, and Delvile, at her en⯑treaty, forbore ſhewing any perſonal re⯑ſentment of their conduct, and put into the hands of a lawyer the arrangement of the affair.

They continued abroad ſome months, and the health of Mrs. Delvile was toler⯑ably re-eſtabliſhed. They were then ſum⯑moned home by the death of Lord Delvile, who bequeathed to his nephew Mortimer his town houſe, and whatever of his eſtate was not annexed to his title, which neceſſarily devolved to his brother.

The ſiſter of Mrs. Delvile, a woman of high ſpirit and ſtrong paſſions, lived not long after him; but having, in her latter [394] days, intimately connected herſelf with Ce⯑cilia, ſhe was ſo much charmed with her character, and ſo much dazzled by her ad⯑miration of the extraordinary ſacrifice ſhe had made, that, in a fit of ſudden enthu⯑ſiaſm, ſhe altered her will, to leave to her, and to her ſole diſpoſal, the fortune which, almoſt from his infancy, ſhe had deſ⯑tined for her nephew. Cecilia, aſtoniſhed and penetrated, oppoſed the alteration; but even her ſiſter, now Lady Delvile, to whom ſhe daily became dearer, earneſtly ſupported it; while Mortimer, delighted to reſtore to her through his own family, any part of that power and independence of which her generous and pure regard for himſelf had deprived her, was abſolute in refuſing that the deed ſhould be revoked.

Cecilia, from this flattering tranſaction, received a further conviction of the malig⯑nant falſehood of Mr. Monckton, who had always repreſented to her the whole of the Delvile family as equally poor in their cir⯑cumſtances, and illiberal in their minds. The ſtrong ſpirit of active benevolence which had ever marked her character, was now again diſplayed, though no longer, as hitherto, unbounded. She had learnt the error of profuſion, even in charity and bene⯑ficence; and ſhe had a motive for oeconomy, in her animated affection for Mortimer.

[395] She ſoon ſent for Albany, whoſe ſurpriſe that ſhe ſtill exiſted, and whoſe rapture at her recovered proſperity, now threatened his ſenſes from the tumult of his joy, with nearly the ſame danger they had lately been menaced by terror. But though her dona⯑tions were circumſcribed by prudence, and their objects were ſelected with diſcrimina⯑tion, ſhe gave to herſelf all her former be⯑nevolent pleaſure, in ſolacing his afflic⯑tions, while ſhe ſoftened his aſperity, by reſtoring to him his favourite office of being her almoner and monitor.

She next ſent to her own penſioners, re⯑lieved thoſe diſtreſſes which her ſudden abſence had occaſioned, and renewed and continued the ſalaries ſhe had allowed them. All who had nouriſhed reaſonable expecta⯑tions from her bounty ſhe remembered, though ſhe raiſed no new claimants but with oeconomy and circumſpection. But neither Albany nor the old penſioners felt the ſatisfaction of Mortimer, who ſaw with new wonder the virtues of her mind, and whoſe admiration of her excellencies, made his gratitude perpetual for the happineſs of his lot.

The tender-hearted Henrietta, in return⯑ing to her new friends, gave way, with art⯑leſs openneſs, to the violence of untamed grief; but finding Mr. Arnott as wretched [396] as herſelf, the ſympathy Cecilia had fore⯑ſeen ſoon endeared them to each other, while the little intereſt taken in either by Mrs. Harrel, made them almoſt inſeparable companions.

Mrs. Harrel, wearied by their melan⯑choly, and ſick of retirement, took the ear⯑lieſt opportunity that was offered her of changing her ſituation; ſhe married very ſoon a man of fortune in the neighbour⯑hood, and, quickly forgetting all the paſt, thoughtleſsly began the world again, with new hopes, new connections,—new equi⯑pages and new engagements!

Henrietta was then obliged to go again to her mother, where, though deprived of all the indulgencies to which ſhe was now become familiar, ſhe was not more hurt by the ſeparation than Mr. Arnott. So ſad and ſo ſolitary his houſe ſeemed in her ab⯑ſence, that he ſoon followed her to town, and returned not till he carried her back its miſtreſs. And there the gentle gratitude of her ſoft and feeling heart, engaged from the worthy Mr. Arnott the tendereſt af⯑fection, and, in time, healed the wound of his early and hopeleſs paſſion.

The injudicious, the volatile, yet noble⯑minded Belfield, to whoſe mutable and en⯑terpriſing diſpoſition life ſeemed always ra⯑ther beginning than progreſſive, roved from employment to employment, and from [397] public life to retirement, ſoured with the world, and diſcontented with himſelf, till vanquiſhed, at length, by the conſtant friendſhip of Delvile, he conſented to accept his good offices in again entering the army; and, being fortunately ordered out upon foreign ſervice, his hopes were revived by ambition, and his proſpects were brightened by a view of future honour.

The wretched Monckton, dupe of his own cunning and artifices, ſtill lived in lin⯑gering miſery, doubtful which was moſt acute, the pain of his wound and confine⯑ment, or of his defeat and diſappointment. Led on by a vain belief that he had parts to conquer all difficulties, he had indulged without reſtraint a paſſion in which intereſt was ſeconded by inclination. Allured by ſuch faſcinating powers, he ſhortly ſuffered nothing to ſtop his courſe; and though when he began his career he would have ſtarted at the mention of actual diſhonour, long before it was concluded, neither treachery nor perjury were regarded by him as ſtumbling blocks. All fear of failing was loſt in vanity, all ſenſe of probity was ſunk in intereſt, all ſcruples of conſcience were left behind by the heat of the chace. Yet the unforeſeen and melancholy cata⯑ſtrophe of his long arts, illuſtrated in his deſpite what his principles had obſcured, [398] that even in worldly purſuits where fraud out-runs integrity, failure joins diſhonour to loſs, and diſappointment excites triumph inſtead of pity.

The upright mind of Cecilia, her purity, her virtue, and the moderation of her wiſhes, gave to her in the warm affection of Lady Delvile, and the unremitting fondneſs of Mortimer, all the happineſs human life ſeems capable of receiving:—yet human it was, and as ſuch imperfect! ſhe knew that, at times, the whole family muſt murmur at her loſs of fortune, and at times ſhe mur⯑mured herſelf to be thus portionleſs, tho' an HEIRESS. Rationally, however, ſhe ſurveyed the world at large, and finding that of the few who had any happineſs, there were none without ſome miſery, ſhe checked the riſing ſigh of repining mortali⯑ty, and, grateful with general felicity, bore partial evil with chearfulleſt reſignation.