CHAPTER I. A RENOVATION.

CECILIA was accompanied by her maid in the chaiſe, and her own ſervant and one of Mrs. Delvile's attended her on horſeback.

The quietneſs of her dejection was ſoon interrupted by a loud cry among the men of ‘"home! home! home!"’ She then looked out of one of the windows, and per⯑ceived Fidel, running after the carriage, and barking at the ſervants, who were all endeavouring to ſend him back.

Touched by this proof of the animal's gratitude for her attention to him, and con⯑ſcious ſhe had herſelf occaſioned his maſ⯑ter's leaving him, the ſcheme of Lady Ho⯑noria occurred to her, and ſhe almoſt wiſhed [4] to put it in execution, but this was the thought of a moment, and motioning him with her hand to go back, ſhe deſired Mrs. Delvile's man to return with him immedi⯑ately, and commit him to the care of ſome⯑body in the caſtle.

This little incident, however trifling, was the moſt important of her journey, for ſhe arrived at the houſe of Mrs. Charlton without meeting any other.

The ſight of that lady gave her a ſenſa⯑tion of pleaſure to which ſhe had long been a ſtranger, pleaſure pure, unmixed, unaf⯑fected and unreſtrained: it revived all her early affection, and with it, ſomething re⯑ſembling at leaſt her early tranquility: again ſhe was in the houſe where it had once been undiſturbed, again ſhe enjoyed the ſo⯑ciety which was once all ſhe had wiſhed, and again ſaw the ſame ſcene, the ſame faces, and ſame proſpects ſhe had beheld while her heart was all devoted to her friends.

Mrs. Charlton, though old and infirm, preſerved an underſtanding, which, when⯑ever unbiaſſed by her affections, was ſure to direct her unerringly; but the extreme ſoftneſs of her temper frequently miſled her judgment, by making it, at the pleaſure either of misfortune or of artifice, always yield to compaſſion, and pliant to entreaty. Where her counſel and opinion were de⯑manded, they were certain to reflect honour [5] on her capacity and diſcernment; but where her aſſiſtance or her pity were ſupplicated, her purſe and her tears were immediately beſtowed, and in her zeal to alleviate diſ⯑treſs ſhe forgot if the object were deſerving her ſolicitude, and ſtopt not to conſider propriety or diſcretion, if happineſs, how⯑ever momentary, were in her power to grant.

This generous foible was, however, kept ſomewhat in ſubjection by the watchfulneſs of two grand-daughters, who, fearing the injury they might themſelves receive from it, failed not to point out both its incon⯑venience and its danger.

Theſe ladies were daughters of a de⯑ceaſed and only ſon of Mrs. Charlton; they were ſingle, and lived with their grand-mother, whoſe fortune, which was conſiderable, they expected to ſhare between them, and they waited with eagerneſs for the moment of appropriation; narrow⯑minded and rapacious, they wiſhed to mo⯑nopolize whatever ſhe poſſeſſed, and thought themſelves aggrieved by her ſmal⯑leſt donations. Their chief employment was to keep from her all objects of diſtreſs, and in this though they could not ſucceed, they at leaſt confined her liberality to ſuch as reſembled themſelves; ſince neither the ſpirited could brook, nor the delicate ſup⯑port the checks and rebuffs from the grand-daughters, [6] which followed the gifts of Mrs. Charlton. Cecilia, of all her acquaintance, was the only one whoſe intimacy they en⯑couraged, for they knew her fortune made her ſuperior to any mercenary views, and they received from her themſelves more ci⯑vilities than they paid.

Mrs. Charlton loved Cecilia with an ex⯑ceſs of fondneſs, that not only took place of the love ſhe bore her other friends, but to which even her regard for the Miſs Charl⯑tons was inferior and feeble. Cecilia when a child had reverenced her as a mother, and, grateful for her tenderneſs and care, had afterwards cheriſhed her as a friend. The revival of this early connection de⯑lighted them both, it was balm to the wounded mind of Cecilia, it was renovation to the exiſtence of Mrs. Charlton.

Early the next morning ſhe wrote a card to Mr. Monckton and Lady Margaret, ac⯑quainting them with her return into Suffolk, and deſiring to know when ſhe might pay her reſpects to her Ladyſhip. She received from the old lady a verbal anſwer, when ſhe pleased, but Mr. Monckton came in⯑ſtantly himſelf to Mrs. Charlton's.

His aſtoniſhment, his rapture at this un⯑expected incident were almoſt boundleſs; he thought it a ſudden turn of fortune in his own favour, and concluded, now ſhe [7] had eſcaped the danger of Delvile Caſtle, the road was ſhort and certain that led to his own ſecurity.

Her ſatisfaction in the meeting was as ſincere, though not ſo animated as his own: but this ſimilarity in their feelings was of ſhort duration, for when he enquired into what had paſſed at the caſtle, with the reaſons of her quitting it, the pain ſhe felt in giving even a curſory and evaſive ac⯑count, was oppoſed on his part by the warmeſt delight in hearing it: he could not obtain from her the particulars of what had happened, but the reluctance with which ſhe ſpoke, the air of mortification with which ſhe heard his queſtions, and the evi⯑dent diſpleaſure which was mingled in her chagrin, when he forced her to mention Delvile, were all proofs the moſt indiſput⯑able and ſatisfactory, that they had either parted without any explanation, or with one by which Cecilia had been hurt and of⯑fended.

He now readily concluded that ſince the fiery trial he had moſt apprehended was over; and ſhe had quitted in anger the aſylum ſhe had ſought in extacy, Delvile himſelf did not covet the alliance, which, ſince they were ſeparated, was never likely to take place. He had therefore little diffi⯑culty in promiſing all ſucceſs to himſelf.

[8] She was once more upon the ſpot where ſhe had regarded him as the firſt of men, he knew that during her abſence no one had ſettled in the neighbourhood who had any pretenſions to diſpute with him that pre⯑eminence, he ſhould again have acceſs to her, at pleaſure, and ſo ſanguine grew his hopes, that he almoſt began to rejoice even in the partiality to Delvile that had hitherto been his terror, from believing it would give her for a time, that ſullen diſtaſte of all other connections, to which thoſe who at once are delicate and fervent are commonly led by early diſappointment. His whole ſolicitude therefore now was to preſerve her eſteem, to ſeek her confidence, and to regain whatever by abſence might be loſt of the aſcendant over her mind which her reſpect for his knowledge and capacity had for many years given him. Fortune at this time ſeemed to proſper all his views, and, by a ſtroke the moſt ſudden and unexpected, to render more rational his hopes and his plans than he had himſelf been able to effect by the ut⯑moſt craft of worldly wiſdom.

The day following Cecilia, in Mrs. Charl⯑ton's chaiſe, waited upon Lady Margaret. She was received by Miſs Bennet, her com⯑panion, with the moſt fawning courteſy; but when conducted to the lady of the houſe, ſhe ſaw herſelf ſo evidently unwel⯑come, [9] that ſhe even regretted the civility which had prompted her viſit.

She found with her nobody but Mr. Morrice, who was the only young man that could perſuade himſelf to endure her company in the abſence of her huſband, but who, in common with moſt young men who are aſſiduous in their attendance upon old ladies, doubted not but he enſured himſelf a handſome legacy for his trouble.

Almoſt the firſt ſpeech which her lady⯑ſhip made, was ‘"So you are not married yet, I find; if Mr. Monckton had been a real friend, he would have taken care to have ſeen for ſome eſtabliſhment for you."’

‘"I was by no means,"’ cried Cecilia, with ſpirit, ‘"either in ſo much haſte or diſtreſs as to require from Mr. Monckton any ſuch exertion of his friendſhip."’

‘"Ma'am,"’ cried Morrice, ‘"what a ter⯑rible night we had of it at Vauxhall! poor Harrel! I was really exceſſively ſorry for him. I had not courage to ſee you or Mrs. Harrel after it. But as ſoon as I heard you were in St. James's-Square, I tried to wait upon you; for really going to Mr. Harrel's again would have been quite too diſmal. I would rather have run a mile by the ſide of a race-horſe."’

‘"There is no occaſion for any apology,"’ [10] ſaid Cecilia, ‘"for I was very little diſpoſed either to ſee or think of viſitors."’

‘"So I thought, ma'am;"’ anſwered he, with quickneſs, ‘"and really that made me the leſs alert in finding you out. However, ma'am, next winter I ſhall be exceſſively happy to make up for the deficiency; be⯑ſides, I ſhall be much obliged to you to in⯑troduce me to Mr. Delvile, for I have a great deſire to be acquainted with him."’

Mr. Delvile, thought Cecilia would be but too proud to hear it! However, ſhe merely anſwered that ſhe had no preſent proſpect of ſpending any time at Mr. Delvile's next winter.

‘"True, ma'am, true,"’ cried he, ‘"now I recollect, you become your own miſtreſs between this and then; and ſo I ſuppoſe you will naturally chuſe a houſe of your own, which will be much more eligible."’

‘"I don't think that,"’ ſaid Lady Mar⯑garet, ‘"I never ſaw any thing eligible come of young women's having houſes of their own; ſhe will do a much better thing to marry, and have ſome proper perſon to take care of her."’

‘"Nothing more right, ma'am!"’ re⯑turned he; ‘"a young lady in a houſe by herſelf muſt be ſubject to a thouſand dangers. What ſort of place, ma'am, has Mr. Delvile got in the country? I hear he [11] has a good deal of ground there, and a large houſe."’

‘"It is an old caſtle, Sir, and ſituated in a park."’

‘"That muſt be terribly forlorn: I dare ſay, ma'am, you were very happy to return into Suffolk."’

‘"I did not find it forlorn; I was very well ſatisfied with it."’

‘"Why, indeed, upon ſecond thoughts, I don't much wonder; an old caſtle in a large park muſt make a very romantic ap⯑pearance; ſomething noble in it, I dare ſay."’

‘"Aye,"’ cried Lady Margaret, ‘"they ſaid you were to become miſtreſs of it, and marry Mr. Delvile's ſon: and I cannot, for my own part, ſee any objection to it."’

‘"I am told of ſo many ſtrange reports,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"and all, to myſelf ſo unac⯑countable, that I begin now to hear of them without much wonder."’

‘"That's a charming young man, I be⯑lieve,"’ ſaid Morrice; ‘"I had the pleaſure once or twice of meeting him at poor Har⯑rel's, and he ſeemed mighty agreeable. Is not he ſo, ma'am?"’

‘"Yes,—I believe ſo."’

‘"Nay, I don't mean to ſpeak of him as any thing very extraordinary,"’ cried Mor⯑rice, imagining her heſitation proceeded [12] from diſlike, ‘"I merely meant as the world goes,—in a common ſort of way."’

Here they were joined by Mr. Monckton and ſome gentlemen who were on a viſit at his houſe; for his anxiety was not of a ſort to lead him to ſolitude, nor his diſpoſition to make him deny himſelf any kind of en⯑joyment which he had power to attain. A general converſation enſued, which laſted till Cecilia ended her viſit; Mr. Monckton then took her hand to lead her to the chaiſe, but told her, in their way out, of ſome alterations in his grounds, which he deſired to ſhew her: his view of detaining her was to gather what ſhe thought of her reception, and whether ſhe had yet any ſuſ⯑picions of the jealouſy of Lady Margaret; well knowing, from the delicacy of her character, that if once ſhe became ac⯑quainted with it, ſhe would ſcrupulouſly avoid all intercourſe with him, from the fear of encreaſing her uneaſineſs.

He began, therefore, with talking of the pleaſure which Lady Margaret took in the plantations, and of his hope that Cecilia would often favour her by viſiting them, without waiting to have her viſits returned, as ſhe was entitled by her infirmities to par⯑ticular indulgencies. He was continuing in this ſtrain, receiving from Cecilia hardly any anſwer, when ſuddenly from behind a [13] thick laurel buſh, jumpt up Mr. Morrice; who had run out of the houſe by a ſhorter cut, and planted himſelf there to ſurpriſe them.

‘"So ho!"’ cried he with a loud laugh, ‘"I have caught you!" This will be a fine anecdote for Lady Margaret; I vow I'll tell her."’

Mr. Monckton, never off his guard, readily anſwered ‘"Aye, prithee do, Mor⯑rice; but don't omit to relate alſo what we ſaid of yourſelf."’

‘"Of me?"’ cried he, with ſome eager⯑neſs; ‘"why you never mentioned me."’

‘"O that won't paſs, I aſſure you; we ſhall tell another tale at table by and by; and bring the old proverb of the ill luck of liſteners upon you in its full force."’

‘"Well, I'll be hanged if I know what you mean!"’

‘"Why you won't pretend you did not hear Miſs Beverley ſay you were the trueſt Ouran Outang, or man-monkey, ſhe ever knew?"’

‘"No, indeed, that I did not!"’

‘"No?—Nor how much ſhe admired your dexterity in eſcaping being horſe⯑whipt three times a day for your incurable impudence?"’

‘"Not a word on't! Horſe-whipt!— [14] Miſs Beverley, pray did you ſay any ſuch thing?"’

‘"Ay,"’ cried Monckton, again, ‘"and not only horſe-whipt, but horſe-ponded, for ſhe thought when one had heated, the other might cool you; and then you might be fitted again for your native woods, for ſhe inſiſts upon it you was brought from Africa, and are not yet half tamed."’

‘"O lord!"’ cried Morrice, amazed, ‘"I ſhould not have ſuſpected Miſs Beverley would have talked ſo!"’

‘"And do you ſuſpect ſhe did now?"’ cried Cecilia.

‘"Pho, pho,"’ cried Monckton, coolly, ‘"why he heard it himſelf the whole time! and ſo ſhall all our party by and bye, if I can but remember to mention it."’

Cecilia then returned to the chaiſe, leav⯑ing Mr. Monckton to ſettle the matter with his credulous gueſt as he pleaſed; for ſuppoſing he was merely gratifying a love of ſport, or taking this method of checking the general forwardneſs of the young man, ſhe forebore any interference that might mar his intention.

But Mr. Monckton loved not to be ral⯑lied concerning Cecilia, though he was in⯑different to all that could be ſaid to him of any other woman; he meant, therefore, to intimidate Morrice from renewing the ſub⯑ject; [15] and he ſucceeded to his wiſh; poor Morrice, whoſe watching and whoſe ſpeech were the mere blunders of chance, made without the ſlighteſt ſuſpicion of Mr. Monckton's deſigns, now apprehended ſome ſcheme to render himſelf ridiculous, and though he did not believe Cecilia had made uſe of ſuch expreſſions, he fancied Mr. Monckton meant to turn the laugh againſt him, and determined, therefore, to ſay nothing that might remind him of what had paſſed.

Mr. Monckton had at this time admitted him to his houſe merely from an expectation of finding more amuſement in his blunder⯑ing and giddineſs, than he was capable, during his anxiety concerning Cecilia, of receiving from converſation of an higher ſort.

The character of Morrice was, indeed, particularly adapted for the entertainment of a large houſe in the country; eager for ſport, and always ready for enterprize; wil⯑ling to oblige, yet tormented with no deli⯑cacy about offending; the firſt to promote miſchief for any other, and the laſt to be offended when expoſed to it himſelf; gay, thoughtleſs, and volatile,—a happy com⯑poſition of levity and good-humour.

Cecilia, however, in quitting the houſe, determined not to viſit it again very ſpeedi⯑ly; [16] for ſhe was extremely diſguſted with Lady Margaret, though ſhe ſuſpected no particular motives of enmity, againſt which ſhe was guarded alike by her own unſuſpi⯑cious innocence, and by an high eſteem of Mr. Monckton, which ſhe firmly believed he returned with equal honeſty of unde⯑ſigning friendſhip.

Her next excurſion was to viſit Mrs. Harrel; ſhe found that unhappy lady a prey to all the miſery of unoccupied ſolitude: torn from whatever had, to her, made exiſt⯑ence ſeem valuable, her mind was as liſtleſs as her perſon was inactive, and ſhe was at a loſs how to employ even a moment of the day: ſhe had now neither a party to form, nor an entertainment to plan, company to arrange, nor dreſs to conſider; and theſe, with viſits and public places, had filled all her time ſince her marriage, which, as it had hap⯑pened very early in her life, had merely taken place of girliſh amuſements, maſters and governeſſes.

This helpleſſneſs of inſipidity, however, though naturally the effect of a mind devoid of all genuine reſources, was digni⯑fied by herſelf with the appellation of ſor⯑row: nor was this merely a ſcreen to the world; unuſed to inveſtigate her feelings or examine her heart, the general compaſſion ſhe met for the loſs of her huſband, per⯑ſuaded [17] her that indeed ſhe lamented his deſ⯑tiny; though had no change in her life been cauſed by his ſuicide, ſhe would ſcarcely, when the firſt ſhock was over, have thought of it again.

She received Cecilia with great pleaſure; and with ſtill greater, heard the renewal of her promiſes to fit up a room for her in her houſe, as ſoon as ſhe came of age; a period which now was hardly a month diſtant.

Far greater, however, as well as infinitely purer, was the joy which her preſence be⯑ſtowed upon Mr. Arnott; ſhe ſaw it her⯑ſelf with a ſenſation of regret, not only at the conſtant paſſion which occaſioned it, but even at her own inability to participate in or reward it: for with him an alliance would meet with no oppoſition; his character was amiable, his ſituation in life unexception⯑able: he loved her with the tendereſt affec⯑tion, and no pride, ſhe well knew, would interfere to overpower it; yet, in return, to grant him her love, ſhe felt as utterly im⯑poſſible as to refuſe him her eſteem: and the ſuperior attractions of Delvile, of which neither diſpleaſure nor mortification could rob him, ſhut up her heart, for the preſent, more firmly than ever, as Mr. Monckton had well imagined, to all other aſſailants.

Yet ſhe by no means weakly gave way to repining or regret: her ſuſpence was at an [18] end, her hopes and her fears were ſubſided into certainty; Delvile, in quitting her, had acquainted her that he left her for ever, and even, though not, indeed, with much ſtea⯑dineſs, had prayed for her happineſs in union with ſome other; ſhe held it there⯑fore as eſſential to her character as to her peace, to manifeſt equal fortitude in ſub⯑duing her partiality; ſhe forebore to hint to Mrs. Charlton what had paſſed, that the ſubject might never be ſtarted; allowed herſelf no time for dangerous recollection; ſtrolled in her old walks, and renewed her old acquaintance, and by a vigorous exer⯑tion of active wiſdom, doubted not com⯑pleating, before long, the ſubjection of her unfortunate tenderneſs. Nor was her taſk ſo difficult as ſhe had feared; reſolution, in ſuch caſes, may act the office of time, and anticipate by reaſon and ſelf-denial, what that, much leſs nobly, effects through for⯑getfulneſs and inconſtancy.

CHAP. II. A VISIT.

ONE week only, however, had yet tried the perſeverance of Cecilia, when, while ſhe was working with Mrs. Charlton in her dreſſing-room, her maid haſtily en⯑tered it, and with a ſmile that ſeemed an⯑nouncing welcome news, ſaid, ‘"Lord, ma'am, here's Fidel!"’ and, at the ſame moment, ſhe was followed by the dog, who jumpt upon Cecilia in a tranſport of delight.

‘"Good heaven,"’ cried ſhe, all amaze⯑ment, ‘"who has brought him? whence does he come?"’

‘"A country man brought him, ma'am; but he only put him in, and would not ſtay a minute."’

‘"But whom did he enquire for?—who ſaw him?—what did he ſay?"’

‘"He ſaw Ralph, ma'am."’

Ralph, then, was inſtantly called: and theſe queſtions being repeated, he ſaid, ‘"Ma'am, it was a man I never ſaw be⯑fore; but he only bid me take care to de⯑liver [20] the dog into your own hands, and ſaid you would have a letter about him ſoon, and then went away: I wanted him to ſtay till I came up ſtairs, but he was off at once."’

Cecilia, quite confounded by this ac⯑count, could make neither comment nor anſwer; but, as ſoon as the ſervants had left the room, Mrs. Charlton entreated to know to whom the dog had belonged, con⯑vinced by her extreme agitation, that ſomething intereſting and uncommon muſt relate to him.

This was no time for diſguiſe; aſtoniſh⯑ment and confuſion bereft Cecilia of all power to attempt it; and, after a very few evaſions, ſhe briefly communicated her ſitu⯑ation with reſpect to Delvile, his leaving her, his motives, and his mother's evident concurrence: for theſe were all ſo con⯑nected with her knowledge of Fidel, that ſhe led to them unavoidably in telling what ſhe knew of him.

Very little penetration was requiſite, to gather from her manner all that was unit⯑ed in her narrative of her own feelings and diſappointment in the courſe of this affair: and Mrs. Charlton, who had hi⯑therto believed the whole world at her diſ⯑poſal, and that ſhe continued ſingle from no reaſon but her own difficulty of choice, [21] was utterly amazed to find that any man exiſted who could withſtand the united al⯑lurements of ſo much beauty, ſweetneſs, and fortune. She felt herſelf ſometimes inclined to hate, and at other times to pity him; yet concluded that her own extreme coldneſs was the real cauſe of his flight, and warmly blamed a reſerve which had thus ruined her happineſs.

Cecilia was in the extremeſt perplexity and diſtreſs to conjecture the meaning of ſo unaccountable a preſent, and ſo ſtrange a meſſage. Delvile, ſhe knew, had deſired the dog might follow him to Briſtol; his mother, always pleaſed to oblige him, would now leſs than ever neglect any op⯑portunity; ſhe could not, therefore, doubt that ſhe had ſent or taken him thither, and thence, according to all appearances, he muſt now come. But was it likely Delvile would take ſuch a liberty? Was it probable, when ſo lately he had almoſt exhorted her to forget him, he would even wiſh to preſent her with ſuch a remem⯑brance of himſelf? And what was the let⯑ter ſhe was bid to expect? Whence and from whom was it to come?

All was inexplicable! the only thing ſhe could ſurmiſe, with any ſemblance of pro⯑bability, was that the whole was ſome fro⯑lic of Lady Honoria Pemberton, who had [22] perſuaded Delvile to ſend her the dog, and perhaps aſſured him ſhe had herſelf re⯑queſted to have him.

Provoked by this ſuggeſtion, her firſt thought was inſtantly having him con⯑veyed to the caſtle; but uncertain what the whole affair meant, and hoping ſome explanation in the letter ſhe was promiſed, ſhe determined to wait till it came, or at leaſt till ſhe heard from Mrs. Delvile, be⯑fore ſhe took any meaſures herſelf in the buſineſs. Mutual accounts of their ſafe arrivals at Briſtol and in Suffolk, had al⯑ready paſſed between them, and ſhe ex⯑pected very ſoon to have further intelli⯑gence: though ſhe was now, by the whole behaviour of Mrs. Delvile, convinced ſhe wiſhed not again to have her an inmate of her houſe, and that the reſt of her mi⯑nority might paſs, without oppoſition, in the houſe of Mrs. Charlton.

Day after day, however, paſſed, and yet ſhe heard nothing more; a week, a fort⯑night elapſed, and ſtill no letter came. She now concluded the promiſe was a de⯑ception, and repented that ſhe had waited a moment with any ſuch expectation. Her peace, during this time, was greatly diſ⯑turbed; this preſent made her fear ſhe was thought meanly of by Mr. Delvile; the ſilence of his mother gave her apprehenſions [23] for his health, and her own irreſolution how to act, kept her in perpetual inquietude. She tried in vain to behave as if this in⯑cident had not happened; her mind was uneaſy, and the ſame actions produced not the ſame effects; when ſhe now worked or read, the ſight of Fidel by her ſide di⯑ſtracted her attention; when ſhe walked, it was the ſame, for Fidel always followed her; and though, in viſiting her old ac⯑quaintance, ſhe forbore to let him accom⯑pany her, ſhe was ſecretly planning the whole time the contents of ſome letter, which ſhe expected to meet with, on re⯑turning to Mrs. Charlton's.

Thoſe gentlemen in the country who, during the life-time of the Dean, had paid their addreſſes to Cecilia, again waited upon her at Mrs. Charlton's, and renewed their propoſals. They had now, however, ſtill leſs chance of ſucceſs, and their diſ⯑miſſion was brief and deciſive.

Among theſe came Mr. Biddulph; and to him Cecilia was involuntarily moſt ci⯑vil, becauſe ſhe knew him to be the friend of Delvile. Yet his converſation encreaſed the uneaſineſs of her ſuſpence; for after ſpeaking of the family in general which ſhe had left, he enquired more particu⯑larly concerning Delvile, and then added, ‘"I am, indeed, greatly grieved to find, [24] by all the accounts I receive of him, that he is now in a very bad ſtate of health."’

This ſpeech gave her freſh ſubject for apprehenſion; and in proportion as the ſilence of Mrs. Delvile grew more alarm⯑ing, her regard for her favourite Fidel be⯑came more partial. The affectionate ani⯑mal ſeemed to mourn the loſs of his maſ⯑ter, and while ſometimes ſhe indulged her⯑ſelf in fancifully telling him her fears, ſhe imagined ſhe read in his countenance the faithfulleſt ſympathy.

One week of her minority was now all that remained, and ſhe was ſoon wholly occupied in preparations for coming of age. She purpoſed taking poſſeſſion of a large houſe that had belonged to her uncle, which was ſituated only three miles from that of Mrs. Charlton; and ſhe employed herſelf in giving orders for fitting it up, and in hearing complaints, and promiſing indulgencies, to various of her tenants.

At this time, while ſhe was at breakfaſt one morning, a letter arrived from Mrs. Delvile. She apologiſed for not writing ſooner, but added that various family oc⯑currences, which had robbed her of all lei⯑ſure, might eaſily be imagined, when ſhe acquainted her that Mortimer had deter⯑mined upon again going abroad. ..... They were all, ſhe ſaid, returned to Delvile-Caſtle, [25] but mentioned nothing either of the health of her ſon, or of her own re⯑gret, and filled up the reſt of her letter with general news, and expreſſions of kind⯑neſs: though, in a poſtſcript, was inferted, ‘"We have loſt our poor Fidel."’

Cecilia was ſtill meditating upon this letter, by which her perplexity how to act was rather encreaſed than diminiſhed, when, to her great ſurpriſe, Lady Honoria Pem⯑berton was announced. She haſtily begged one of the Miſs Charltons to convey Fidel out of ſight, from a dread of her raillery, ſhould ſhe, at laſt, be unconcerned in the tranſaction, and then went to receive her.

Lady Honoria, who was with her go⯑verneſs, gave a brief hiſtory of her quit⯑ting Delvile-Caſtle, and ſaid ſhe was now going with her father to viſit a noble fa⯑mily in Norſolk: but ſhe had obtained his permiſſion to leave him at the inn where they had ſlept, in order to make a ſhort excurſion to Bury, for the pleaſure of ſeeing Miſs Beverley.

‘"And therefore,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"I "can ſtay but half an hour; ſo you muſt give me ſome account of yourſelf as faſt as poſſible."’

‘"What account does your ladyſhip re⯑quire?"’

‘"Why, who you live with here, and [26] who are your companions, and what you do with yourſelf."’

‘"Why, I live with Mrs. Charlton; and for companions, I have at leaſt a ſcore; here are her two grand-daughters, and Mrs. and Miſs —"’

‘"Pho, pho,"’ interrupted Lady Honoria, ‘"but I don't mean ſuch hum-drum com⯑panions as thoſe; you'll tell me next, I ſuppoſe, of the parſon, and his wife and three daughters, with all their couſins and aunts: I hate thoſe ſort of people. What I deſire to hear of is, who are your parti⯑cular favourites; and whether you take long walks here, as you uſed to do at the Caſtle, and who you have to accompany you?"’ And then, looking at her very archly, ſhe added, ‘"A pretty little dog, now, I ſhould think, would be vaſtly agreeable in ſuch a place as this.—Ah, Miſs Beverley! you have not left off that trick of colouring, I ſee!"’

‘"If I colour now,"’ ſaid Cecilia, fully convinced of the juſtnefs of her ſuſpicions, ‘"I think it muſt be for your ladyſhip, not myſelf; for, if I am not much miſtaken, either in perſon, or by proxy, a bluſh from Lady Honoria Pemberton would not, juſt now, be wholly out of ſeaſon."’

‘"Lord,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"how like that is to a ſpeech of Mrs. Delvile's! She has [27] taught you exactly her manner of talking. But do you know I am informed you have got Fidel with you here? O fie, Miſs Beverley! What will papa and mamma ſay, when they find you have taken away poor little maſter's play-thing?"’

‘"And O fie, Lady Honoria! what ſhall I ſay, when I find you guilty of this miſ⯑chievous frolic! I muſt beg, however, ſince you have gone thus far, that you will proceed a little farther, and ſend back the dog to the perſon from whom you received him."’

‘"No, not I! manage him all your own way: if you chuſe to accept dogs from gentlemen, you know, it is your affair, and not mine."’

‘"If you really will not return him your⯑ſelf, you muſt at leaſt pardon me ſhould you hear that I do in your ladyſhip's name."’

Lady Honoria for ſome time only laughed and rallied, without coming to any expla⯑nation; but when ſhe had exhauſted all the ſport ſhe could make, ſhe frankly owned that ſhe had herſelf ordered the dog to be privately ſtolen, and then ſent a man with him to Mrs. Charlton's.

‘"But you know,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"I really owed you a ſpite for being ſo ill⯑natured as to run away after ſending me [28] to call Mortimer to comfort and take leave of you."’

‘"Do you dream, Lady Honoria? when did I ſend you?"’

‘"Why you know you looked as if you wiſhed it, and that was the ſame thing. But really it made me appear exceſſively ſilly, when I had forced him to come back with me, and told him you were waiting for him,—to ſee nothing of you at all, and not be able to find or trace you. He took it all for my own invention."’

‘"And was it not your own invention?"’

‘"Why that's nothing to the purpoſe; I wanted him to believe you ſent me, for I knew elſe he would not come."’

‘"Your ladyſhip was a great deal too good!"’

‘"Why now ſuppoſe I had brought you together, what poſſible harm could have happened from it? It would merely have given each of you ſome notion of a fever and ague; for firſt you would both have been hot, and then you would both have been cold, and then you would both have turned red, and then you would both have turned white, and then you would both have pretended to ſimper at the trick; and then there would have been an end of it."’

‘"This is a very eaſy way of ſettling it all,"’ cried Cecilia laughing; ‘"however, [29] you muſt be content to abide by your own theft, for you cannot in conſcience expect I ſhould take it upon myſelf."’

‘"You are terribly ungrateful, I ſee,"’ ſaid her ladyſhip, ‘"for all the trouble and contrivance and expence I have been at merely to oblige you, while the whole time, poor Mortimer, I dare ſay, has had his ſweet Pet advertiſed in all the news⯑papers, and cried in every market-town in the kingdom. By the way, if you do ſend him back, I would adviſe you to let your man demand the reward that has been of⯑fered for him, which may ſerve in part of payment for his travelling expences."’

Cecilia could only ſhake her head, and recollect Mrs. Delvile's expreſſion, that her levity was incorrigible.

‘"O if you had ſeen,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"how ſheepiſh Mortimer looked when I told him you were dying to ſee him before he ſet off! he coloured ſo!—juſt as you do now!—but I think you're vaſtly alike."’

‘"I fear, then,"’ cried Cecilia, not very angry at this ſpeech, ‘"there is but little chance your ladyſhip ſhould like either of us."’

‘"O yes, I do! I like odd people of all things."’

‘"Odd people? and in what are we ſo very odd?"’

[30] ‘"O, in a thouſand things. You're ſo good, you know, and ſo grave, and ſo ſqueamiſh."’

‘"Squeamiſh? how?"’

‘"Why, you know, you never laugh at the old folks, and never fly at your ſer⯑vants, nor ſmoke people before their faces, and are ſo civil to all the old fograms, you would make one imagine you liked nobody ſo well. By the way, I could do no good with my little Lord Derford; he pretended to find out I was only laughing at him, and ſo he minded nothing I told him. I dare ſay, however, his father made the detec⯑tion, for I am ſure he had not wit enough to diſcover it himſelf."’

"Cecilia then, very ſeriouſly began to entreat that ſhe would return the dog her⯑ſelf, and confeſs her frolic, remonſtrating in ſtrong terms upon the miſchievous ten⯑dency and conſequences of ſuch incon⯑ſiderate flights.

‘"Well,"’ cried ſhe, riſing, ‘"this is all vaſtly true; but I have no time to hear any more of it juſt now; beſides, it's only foreſtalling my next lecture from Mrs. Delvile, for you talk ſo much alike, that it is really very perplexing to me to re⯑member which is which."’

She then hurried away, proteſting ſhe had already outſtayed her father's pa⯑tience, [31] and declaring the delay of another minute would occaſion half a dozen ex⯑preſſes to know whether ſhe was gone to⯑wards Scotland or Flanders.

This viſit, however, was both pleaſant and conſolatory to Cecilia; who was now relieved from her ſuſpence, and revived in her ſpirits by the intelligence that Delvile had no ſhare in ſending her a preſent, which, from him, would have been humi⯑liating and impertinent. She regretted, in⯑deed, that ſhe had not inſtantly returned it to the caſtle, which ſhe was now con⯑vinced was the meaſure ſhe ought to have purſued; but to make all poſſible repar⯑ation, ſhe determined that her own ſer⯑vant ſhould ſet out with him the next morning to Briſtol, and take a letter to Mrs. Delvile to explain what had hap⯑pened, ſince to conceal it from any deli⯑cacy to Lady Honoria, would be to expoſe herſelf to ſuſpicions the moſt mortifying, for which that gay and careleſs young lady would never thank her.

She gave orders, therefore, to her ſer⯑vant to get ready for the journey.

When ſhe communicated theſe little tranſactions to Mrs. Charlton, that kind⯑hearted old lady, who knew her fondneſs for Fidel, adviſed her not yet to part with him, but merely to acquaint Mrs. Delvile [32] where he was, and what Lady Honoria had done, and, by leaving to herſelf the care of ſettling his reſtoration, to give her, at leaſt, an opportunity of offering him to her acceptance.

Cecilia, however, would liſten to no ſuch propoſal; ſhe ſaw the firmneſs of Delvile in his reſolution to avoid her, and knew that policy, as well as propriety, made it neceſ⯑ſary ſhe ſhould part with what ſhe could only retain to remind her of one whom ſhe now moſt wiſhed to forget.

CHAP. III. AN INCIDENT.

THE ſpirits of Cecilia, however, inter⯑nally failed her: ſhe conſidered her ſe⯑paration from Delvile to be now, in all pro⯑bability, for life, ſince ſhe ſaw that no ſtrug⯑gle either of intereſt, inclination, or health, could bend him from his purpoſe; his mo⯑ther, too, ſeemed to regard his name and his exiſtence as equally valuable, and the ſcruples of his father ſhe was certain would be ſtill more inſurmountable. Her own pride, excited by theirs, made her, indeed, with more anger than ſorrow, ſee this ge⯑neral conſent to abandon her; but pride and anger both failed when ſhe conſidered the ſituation of his health; ſorrow, there, took the lead, and admitted no partner: it repreſented him to her not only as loſt to herſelf, but to the world; and ſo ſad grew her reflections, and ſo heavy her heart, that, to avoid from Mrs. Charlton obſervations which pained her, ſhe ſtole into a ſum⯑mer-houſe in the garden the moment ſhe had done tea, declining any companion but her affectionate Fidel.

[34] Her tenderneſs and her ſorrow found here a romantic conſolation, in complaining to him of the abſence of his maſter, his volun⯑tary exile, and her fears for his health: cal⯑ling upon him to participate in her ſorrow, and lamenting that even this little relief would ſoon be denied her; and that in loſing Fidel no veſtige of Mortimer, but in her own breaſt, would remain; ‘"Go, then, dear Fidel,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"carry back to your maſter all that nouriſhes his remembrance! Bid him not love you the leſs for having ſome time belonged to Cecilia; but never may his proud heart be fed with the vain glory, of knowing how fondly for his ſake ſhe has cheriſhed you! Go, dear Fidel, guard him by night, and follow him by day; ſerve him with zeal, and love him with fidelity;—oh that his health were in⯑vincible as his pride!—there, alone, is he vulnerable—"’

Here Fidel, with a loud barking, ſud⯑denly ſprang away from her, and, as ſhe turned her eyes towards the door to ſee what had thus ſtartled him, ſhe beheld ſtanding there, as if immoveable, young Delvile himſelf!

Her aſtoniſhment at this ſight almoſt bereft her of her underſtanding; it ap⯑peared to her ſuper-natural, and ſhe rather believed it was his ghoſt than himſelf. [35] Fixed in mute wonder, ſhe ſtood ſtill though terrified, her eyes almoſt burſting from their ſockets to be ſatisfied if what they ſaw was real.

Delvile, too, was ſome time ſpeechleſs; he looked not at her, indeed, with any doubt of her exiſtence, but as if what he had heard was to him as amazing as to her what ſhe ſaw. At length, however, tor⯑mented by the dog, who jumpt up to him, licked his hands, and by his rapturous joy forced himſelf into notice, he was moved to return his careſſes, ſaying, ‘"Yes, dear Fidel! you have a claim indeed to my at⯑tention, and with the fondeſt gratitude will I cheriſh you ever!"’

At the ſound of his voice, Cecilia again began to breathe; and Delvile having quieted the dog, now entered the ſummer-houſe, ſaying, as he advanced, ‘"Is this poſſible!—am I not in a dream?—Good God! is it indeed poſſible!"’

The conſternation of doubt and aſtoniſh⯑ment which had ſeized every faculty of Ce⯑cilia, now changed into certainty that Del⯑vile indeed was preſent, all her recollection returned as ſhe liſtened to this queſtion, and the wild rambling of fancy with which ſhe had incautiouſly indulged her ſorrow, ruſh⯑ing ſuddenly upon her mind, ſhe felt her⯑ſelf wholly overpowered by conſciouſneſs [36] and ſhame, and ſunk, almoſt fainting, upon a window-ſeat.

Delvile inſtantly flew to her, penetrated with gratitude, and filled with wonder and delight, which, however internally com⯑bated by ſenſations leſs pleaſant, were too potent for controul, and he poured forth at her feet the moſt paſſionate acknowledg⯑ments.

Cecilia, ſurpriſed, affected, and trembling with a thouſand emotions, endeavoured to break from him and riſe; but, eagerly de⯑taining her, ‘"No, lovelieſt Miſs Beverley,"’ he cried, ‘"not thus muſt we now part! this moment only have I diſcovered what a trea⯑ſure I was leaving; and, but for Fidel, I had quitted it in ignorance for ever."’

‘"Indeed,"’ cried Cecilia, in the extremeſt agitation, ‘"indeed you may believe me Fi⯑del is here quite by accident.—Lady Ho⯑noria took him away,—I knew nothing of the matter,—ſhe ſtole him, ſhe ſent him, ſhe did every thing herſelf."’

‘"O kind Lady Honoria!"’ cried Del⯑viie, more and more delighted, ‘"how ſhall I ever thank her!—And did ſhe alſo tell you to careſs and to cheriſh him?—to talk to him of his maſter—"’

‘"O heaven!"’ interrupted Cecilia, in an agony of mortification and ſhame, ‘"to what has my unguarded folly reduced me!"’ [37] Then again endeavouring to break from him, ‘"Leave me, Mr. Delvile,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"leave me, or let me paſs!—never can I ſee you more!—never bear you again in my ſight!"’

‘"Come, dear Fidel!"’ cried he, ſtill de⯑taining her, ‘"come and plead for your maſter! come and aſk in his name who now has a proud heart, whoſe pride now is in⯑vincible!"’

‘"Oh go!"’ cried Cecilia, looking away from him while ſhe ſpoke, ‘"repeat not thoſe hateful words, if you wiſh me not to deteſt myſelf eternally!"’

‘"Ever-lovely Miſs Beverley,"’ cried he, more ſeriouſly, ‘"why this reſentment? why all this cauſeleſs diſtreſs? Has not my heart long ſince been known to you? have you not witneſſed its ſufferings, and been aſ⯑ſured of its tenderneſs? why, then, this un⯑timely reſerve? this unabating coldneſs? Oh why try to rob me of the felicity you have in⯑advertently given me! and to ſour the hap⯑pineſs of a moment that recompenſes ſuch exquiſite miſery!"’

‘"Oh Mr. Delvile!"’ cried ſhe, impa⯑tiently, though half ſoftened, ‘"was this honourable or right? to ſteal upon me thus privately—to liſten to me thus ſecretly—"’

‘"You blame me,"’ cried he, ‘"too ſoon; your own friend, Mrs. Charlton, permitted [38] me to come hither in ſearch of you;—then, indeed, when I heard the ſound of your voice—when I heard that voice talk of Fi⯑del—of his maſter—"’

‘"Oh ſtop, ſtop!"’ cried ſhe; ‘"I can⯑not ſupport the recollection! there is no puniſhment, indeed, which my own indiſ⯑cretion does not merit,—but I ſhall have ſufficient in the bitterneſs of ſelf-re⯑proach!"’

‘"Why will you talk thus, my beloved Miſs Beverley? what have you done,—what, let me aſk, have I done, that ſuch infinite diſgrace and depreſſion ſhould fol⯑low this little ſenſibility to a paſſion ſo fer⯑vent? Does it not render you more dear to me than ever? does it not add new life, new vigour, to the devotion by which I am bound to you?"’

‘"No, no,"’ cried the mortified Cecilia, who from the moment ſhe found herſelf betrayed, believed herſelf to be loſt, ‘"far other is the effect it will have! and the ſame mad folly by which I am ruined in my own eſteem, will ruin me in yours!—I cannot endure to think of it!—why will you perſiſt in detaining me?—You have filled me with anguiſh and mortification,—you have taught me the bittereſt of leſſons, that of hating and contemning myſelf!"’

‘"Good heaven,"’ cried he, much hurt, [39] ‘"what ſtrange apprehenſions thus terrify you? are you with me leſs ſafe than with yourſelf? is it my honour you doubt? is it my integrity you fear? Surely I cannot be ſo little known to you; and to make pro⯑teſtations now, would but give a new alarm to a delicacy already too agitated.—Elſe would I tell you that more ſacred than my life will I hold what I have heard, that the words juſt now graven on my heart, ſhall remain there to eternity unſeen; and that higher than ever, not only in my love, but my eſteem, is the beautiful ſpeaker.—"’

‘"Ah no!"’ cried Cecilia, with a ſigh, ‘"that, at leaſt, is impoſſible, for lower than ever is ſhe ſunk from deſerving it!"’

‘"No,"’ cried he, with fervour, ‘"ſhe is raiſed, ſhe is exalted! I find her more ex⯑cellent and perfect than I had even dared believe her; I diſcover new virtues in the ſpring of every action; I ſee what I took for indifference, was dignity; I perceive what I imagined the moſt rigid inſenſibility, was nobleneſs, was propriety, was true great⯑neſs of mind!"’

Cecilia was ſomewhat appeaſed by this ſpeech; and, after a little heſitation, ſhe ſaid, with a half ſmile, ‘"Muſt I thank you for this good-nature in ſeeking to reconcile me with myſelf?—or ſhall I quarrel with [40] you for flattery, in giving me praiſe you can ſo little think I merit?"’

‘"Ah!"’ cried he, ‘"were I to praiſe as I think of you! were my language permit⯑ted to accord with my opinion of your worth, you would not then ſimply call me a flatterer, you would tell me I was an idolator, and fear at leaſt for my principles, if not for my underſtanding."’

‘"I ſhall have but little right, however,"’ ſaid Cecilia, again riſing, ‘"to arraign your underſtanding while I act as if bereft of my own. Now, at leaſt, let me paſs; indeed you will greatly diſpleaſe me by any further oppoſition."’

‘"Will you ſuffer me, then, to ſee you early to-morrow morning?"’

‘"No, Sir; nor the next morning, nor the morning after that! This meeting has been wrong, another would be worſe; in this I have accuſation enough for folly;—in another the charge would be far more heavy."’

‘"Does Miſs Beverley, then,"’ cried he gravely, ‘"think me capable of deſiring to ſee her for mere ſelfiſh gratification? of in⯑tending to trifle either with her time or her feelings? no; the conference I deſire will be important and deciſive. This night I ſnall devote ſolely to deliberation; to⯑morrow ſhall be given to action. Without [41] ſome thinking I dare venture at no plan;—I preſume not to communicate to you the various intereſts that divide me, but the reſult of them all I can take no denial to your hearing."’

Cecilia, who felt when thus ſtated the juſtice of his requeſt, now oppoſed it no longer, but inſiſted upon his inſtantly de⯑parting.

‘"True,"’ cried he, ‘"I muſt go!—the longer I ſtay, the more I am faſcinated, and the weaker are thoſe reaſoning powers of which I now want the ſtrongeſt exer⯑tion."’ He then repeated his profeſſions of eternal regard, beſought her not to regret the happineſs ſhe had given him, and after diſobeying her injunctions of going till ſhe was ſeriouſly diſpleaſed, he only ſtayed to obtain her pardon, and permiſſion to be early the next morning, and then, though ſtill ſlowly and reluctantly, he left her.

Scarce was Cecilia again alone, but the whole of what had paſſed ſeemed a viſion of her imagination. That Delvile ſhould be at Bury, that he ſhould viſit her at Mrs. Charlton's, ſurpriſe her by herſelf, and diſ⯑cover her moſt ſecret thoughts, appeared ſo ſtrange and ſo incredible, that, occupied rather by wonder than thinking, ſhe con⯑tinued almoſt motionleſs in the place where he had left her, till Mrs. Charlton ſent to [42] requeſt that ſhe would return to the houſe. She then enquired if any body was with her, and being anſwered in the negative, obeyed the ſummons.

Mrs. Charlton, with a ſmile of much meaning, hoped ſhe had had a pleaſant walk: but Cecilia ſeriouſly remonſtrated on the dangerous imprudence ſhe had com⯑mitted in ſuffering her to be ſo unguardedly ſurpriſed. Mrs. Charlton, however, more anxious for her future and ſolid happineſs, than for her preſent apprehenſions and de⯑licacy, repented not the ſtep ſhe had taken; and when ſhe gathered from Cecilia the ſubſtance of what had paſt, unmindful of the expoſtulations which accompanied it, ſhe thought with exultation that the ſud⯑den meeting ſhe had permitted, would now, by making known to each their mutual af⯑fection, determine them to defer no longer a union upon which their mutual peace of mind ſo much depended. And Cecilia, finding ſhe had been thus betrayed de⯑ſignedly, not inadvertently, could hardly reproach her zeal, though ſhe lamented its indiſcretion.

She then aſked by what means he had obtained admiſſion, and made himſelf known; and heard that he had enquired at the door for Miſs Beverley, and, having ſent in his name, was ſhewn into the par⯑lour, [43] where Mrs. Charlton, much pleaſed with his appearance, had ſuddenly con⯑ceived the little plan which ſhe had exe⯑cuted, of contriving a ſurpriſe for Cecilia, from which ſhe rationally expected the very conſequences that enſued, though the im⯑mediate means ſhe had not conjectured.

The account was ſtill unſatisfactory to Cecilia, who could frame to herſelf no poſſible reaſon for a viſit ſo extraordinary, and ſo totally inconſiſtent with his declar⯑ations and reſolutions.

This, however, was a matter of but lit⯑tle moment, compared with the other ſub⯑jects to which the interview had given riſe; Delvile, upon whom ſo long, though ſe⯑cretly, her deareſt hopes of happineſs had reſted, was now become acquainted with his power, and knew himſelf the maſter of her deſtiny; he had quitted her avow⯑edly to decide what it ſhould be, ſince his preſent ſubject of deliberation included her fate in his own: the next morning he was to call, and acquaint her with his de⯑cree, not doubting her concurrence which ever way he reſolved.

A ſubjection ſo undue, and which ſhe could not but conſider as diſgraceful, both ſhocked and afflicted her; and the re⯑flection that the man who of all men ſhe [44] preferred, was acquainted with her pre⯑ference, yet heſitated whether to accept or abandon her, mortified and provoked her, alternately, occupied her thoughts the whole night, and kept her from peace and from reſt.

CHAP. IV. A PROPOSITION.

EARLY the next morning, Delvile again made his appearance. Cecilia, who was at breakfaſt with Mrs. and Miſs Charltons, received him with the moſt painful confuſion, and he was evidently himſelf in a ſtate of the utmoſt pertubation. Mrs. Charlton made a pretence almoſt im⯑mediately for ſending away both her grand⯑daughters, and then, without taking the trouble of deviſing one for herſelf, aroſe and followed them, though Cecilia made ſundry ſigns of ſolicitation that ſhe would ſtay.

Finding herſelf now alone with him, ſhe haſtily, and without knowing what ſhe ſaid, cried, ‘"How is Mrs. Delvile, Sir? Is ſhe ſtill at Briſtol?"’

‘"At Briſtol? no; have you never heard ſhe is returned to Delvile-Caſtle?"’

‘"O, true!—I meant Delvile-Caſtle,—but I hope ſhe found ſome benefit from the waters?"’

‘"She had not, I believe, any occaſion to try them."’

[46] Cecilia, aſhamed of theſe two following miſtakes, coloured high, but ventured not again to ſpeak: and Delvile, who ſeemed big with ſomething he feared to utter, aroſe, and walked for a few inſtants about the room; after which, exclaiming aloud ‘"How vain is every plan which paſſes the preſent hour!"’ He advanced to Cecilia, who pre⯑tended to be looking at ſome work, and, ſeating himſelf next her, ‘"when we parted yeſterday,"’ he cried, ‘"I preſumed to ſay one night alone ſhould be given to deliber⯑ation,—and to-day, this very day to ac⯑tion!—but I forgot that though in deliber⯑ating I had only myſelf to conſult, in acting I was not ſo independent; and that when my own doubts were ſatisfied, and my own reſolutions taken, other doubts and other reſolutions muſt be conſidered, by which my purpoſed proceedings might be re⯑tarded, might perhaps be wholly pre⯑vented!"’

He pauſed, but Cecilia, unable to con⯑jecture to what he was leading, made not any anſwer.

‘"Upon you, madam,"’ he continued, ‘"all that is good or evil of my future life, as far as relates to its happineſs or miſery, will, from this very hour, almoſt ſolely de⯑pend: yet much as I rely upon your good⯑neſs, and ſuperior as I know you to trifling [47] or affectation, what I now come to propoſe—to petition—to entreat—I cannot ſummon courage to mention, from a dread of alarm⯑ing you!"’

What next, thought Cecilia, trembling at this introduction, is preparing for me! does he mean to aſk me to ſolicit Mrs. Delvile's conſent! or from myſelf muſt he receive commands that we ſhould never meet more!

‘"Is Miſs Beverley,"’ cried he, ‘"deter⯑mined not to ſpeak to me? Is ſhe bent up⯑on ſilence only to intimidate me? Indeed if ſhe knew how greatly I reſpect her, ſhe would honour me with more confidence."’

‘"When, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"do you mean to make your tour?"’

‘"Never!"’ cried he, with fervour, ‘"un⯑leſs baniſhed by you, never!—no, lovelieſt Miſs Beverley, I can now quit you no more! Fortune, beauty, worth and ſweetneſs I had power to relinquiſh, and ſevere as was the taſk, I compelled myſelf to perform it,—but when to theſe I find joined ſo attractive a ſoftneſs,—a pity for my ſufferings ſo un⯑expectedly gentle—no! ſweeteſt Miſs Beverley, I can quit you no more!"’ And then, ſeizing her hand, with yet greater energy, he went on, ‘"I here,"’ he cried, ‘"offer you my vows, I here own you ſole arbitreſs of my ſate! I give you not merely the poſſeſſion of my heart,—that, indeed, [48] I had no power to with-hold from you,—but I give you the direction of my conduct, I entreat you to become my counſellor and guide. Will Miſs Beverley accept ſuch an office? Will ſhe deign to liſten to ſuch a prayer?"’

‘"Yes,"’ cried Cecilia, involuntarily de⯑lighted to find that ſuch was the reſult of his night's deliberation, ‘"I am moſt ready to give you my counſel; which I now do,—that you ſet off for the continent to-morrow morning."’

‘"O how malicious!"’ cried he, half laughing, ‘"yet not ſo immediately do I even requeſt your counſel; ſomething muſt firſt be done to qualify you for giving it: penetration, ſkill and underſtanding, how⯑ever amply you poſſeſs them, are not ſuffi⯑cient to fit you for the charge; ſomething ſtill more is requiſite, you muſt be inveſted with fuller powers, you muſt have a right leſs diſputable, and a title, that not alone, in⯑clination, not even judgment alone muſt ſanctify,—but which law muſt enforce, and rites the moſt ſolemn ſupport!"’

‘"I think, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, deeply bluſhing, ‘"I muſt be content to forbear giving any counſel at all, if the quali⯑fications for it are ſo difficult of acquire⯑ment."’

‘"Reſent not my preſumption,"’ cried [49] he, ‘"my beloved Miſs Beverley, but let the ſeverity of my recent ſufferings palliate my preſent temerity; for where affliction has been deep and ſerious, cauſeleſs and unneceſſary miſery will find little encou⯑ragement; and mine has been ſerious in⯑deed! Sweetly, then, permit me, in pro⯑portion to its bitterneſs, to rejoice in the ſoft reverſe which now flatters me with its approach."’

Cecilia, abaſhed and uneaſy, uncertain of what was to follow, and unwilling to ſpeak till more aſſured, pauſed, and then abruptly exclaimed ‘"I am afraid Mrs. Charlton is waiting for me,"’ and would have hurried away: but Delvile, almoſt forcibly preventing her, compelled her to ſtay; and, after a ſhort converſation, on his ſide the moſt impaſſioned, and on hers the moſt confuſed, obtained from her, what, indeed, after the ſurpriſe of the preceding evening ſhe could but ill deny, a frank con⯑firmation of his power over her heart, and an ingenuous, though reluctant acknowledg⯑ment, how long he had poſſeſſed it.

This confeſſion, made, as affairs now ſtood, wholly in oppoſition to her judge⯑ment, was torn from her by an impetuous urgency which ſhe had not preſence of mind to reſiſt, and with which Delvile, when particularly animated, had long been [50] accuſtomed to overpower all oppoſition. The joy with which he heard it, though but little mixed with wonder, was as violent as the eagerneſs with which he had ſought it; yet it was not of long duration, a ſudden, and moſt painful recollection preſently quelled it, and even in the midſt of his rap⯑turous acknowledgements, ſeemed to ſtrike him to the heart.

Cecilia, ſoon perceiving both in his counte⯑nance and manner an alteration that ſhocked her, bitterly repented an avowal ſhe could never recall, and looked aghaſt with expec⯑tation and dread.

Delvile, who with quickneſs ſaw a change of expreſſion in her of which in himſelf he was unconſcious, exclaimed, with much emotion ‘"Oh how tranſient is human feli⯑city! How rapidly fly thoſe rare and exqui⯑ſite moments in which it is perfect! Ah! ſweeteſt Miſs Beverley, what words ſhall I find to ſoften what I have now to reveal! to tell you that, after goodneſs, candour, generoſity ſuch as yours, a requeſt, a ſup⯑plication remains yet to be uttered that ba⯑niſhes me, if refuſed, from your preſence for ever!"’

Cecilia, extremely diſmayed, deſired to know what it was: an evident dread of of⯑fending her kept him ſome time from pro⯑ceeding, but at length, after repeatedly ex⯑preſſing [51] his fears of her diſapprobation, and a repugnance even on his own part to the very meaſure he was obliged to urge, he acknowledged that all his hopes of being ever united to her, reſted upon obtaining her conſent to an immediate and ſecret marriage.

Cecilia, thunderſtruck by this declara⯑ation remained for a few inſtants too much confounded to ſpeak; but when he was be⯑ginning an explanatory apology, ſhe ſtarted up, and glowing with indignation, ſaid, ‘"I had flattered myſelf, Sir, that both my cha⯑racter and my conduct, independent of my ſituation in life, would have exempted me at all times from a propoſal which I ſhall ever think myſelf degraded by having heard."’

And then ſhe was again going, but Delvile ſtill preventing her, ſaid ‘"I knew too well how much you would be alarmed, and ſuch was my dread of your diſpleaſure that it had power even to embitter the hap⯑pineſs I ſought with ſo much earneſtneſs, and to render your condeſcenſion inſufficient to enſure it. Yet wonder not at my ſcheme; wild as it may appear, it is the reſult of de⯑liberation, and cenſurable as it may ſeem, it ſprings not from unworthy motives."’

‘"Whatever may be your motives with reſpect to yourſelf, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, [52] ‘"with reſpect to me they muſt certainly be diſgraceful; I will not, therefore, liſten to them."’

‘"You wrong me cruelly,"’ cried he, with warmth, ‘"and a moment's reflection muſt tell you that however diſtinct may be our honour or our diſgrace in every other inſtance, in that by which we ſhould be united, they muſt inevitably be the ſame: and far ſooner would I voluntarily relinquiſh you, than be myſelf acceſſary to tainting that delicacy of which the unſullied pu⯑rity has been the chief ſource of my ad⯑miration."’

‘"Why, then,"’ cried Cecilia, reproach⯑fully, ‘"have you mentioned to me ſuch a project?"’

‘"Circumſtances the moſt ſingular, and neceſſity the moſt unavoidable,"’ he anſwer⯑ed, ‘"ſhould alone have ever tempted me to form it. No longer ago than yeſterday morning, I believed myſelf incapaple of even wiſhing it; but extraordinary ſituations call for extraordinary reſolutions, and in private as well as public life, palliate, at leaſt, ex⯑traordinary actions. Alas! the propoſal which ſo much offends you is my final re⯑ſource! it is the ſole barrier between myſelf and perpetual miſery!—the only expedient in my power to ſave me from eternally part⯑ing with you!—for I am now cruelly com⯑pelled [53] to confeſs, that my family, I am cer⯑tain, will never conſent to our union!"’

‘"Neither, then, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, with great ſpirit, ‘"will I! The diſdain I may meet with I pretend not to retort, but wilfully to encounter, were meanly to de⯑ſerve it. I will enter into no family in op⯑poſition to its wiſhes, I will conſent to no alliance that may expoſe me to indignity. Nothing is ſo contagious as contempt!—The example of your friends might work powerfully upon yourſelf; and who ſhall dare aſſure me you would not catch the infec⯑tion?"’

‘"I dare aſſure you!"’ cried he; ‘"haſty you may perhaps think me, and ſomewhat impetuous I cannot deny myſelf; but be⯑lieve me not of ſo wretched a character as to be capable, in any affair of moment, of fickleneſs or caprice."’

‘"But what, Sir, is my ſecurity to the contrary? Have you not this mo⯑ment avowed that but yeſterday you held in abhorrence the very plan that to-day you propoſe? And may you not to-morrow re⯑ſume again the ſame opinion?"’

‘"Cruel Miſs Beverley! how unjuſt is this inference! If yeſterday I diſapproved what to-day I recommend, a little recollec⯑tion muſt ſurely tell you why: and that not my opinion, but my ſituation is changed."’

[54] The conſcious Cecilia here turned away her head; too certain he alluded to the diſ⯑covery of her partiality.

‘"Have you not yourſelf,"’ he continued, ‘"witneſſed the ſteadineſs of my mind? Have you not beheld me fly, when I had power to purſue, and avoid, when I had opportunity to ſeek you? After witneſſing my conſtancy upon ſuch trying occaſions, is it equitable, is it right to ſuſpect me of wavering?"’

‘"But what,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"was the con⯑ſtancy which brought you into Suffolk?—When all occaſion was over for our meeting any more, when you told me you were go⯑ing abroad, and took leave of me for-ever,—where, then, was your ſteadineſs in this unneceſſary journey?"’

‘"Have a care,"’ cried he, half ſmiling, and taking a letter from his pocket, ‘"have a care, upon this point, how you provoke me to ſhew my juſtification!"’

‘"Ah!"’ cried Cecilia, bluſhing, ‘"'tis ſome trick of Lady Honoria!"’

‘"No, upon my honour. The authori⯑ty is leſs doubtful: I believe I ſhould hardly elſe have regarded it."’

Cecilia, much alarmed, held out her hand for the letter; and looking firſt at the end was much aſtoniſhed to ſee the name of Biddulph. She then caſt her eye over the [55] beginning, and when ſhe ſaw her own name, read the following paragraph.

‘"Miſs Beverley, as you doubtleſs know, is returned into Suffolk; every body here ſaw her with the utmoſt ſurprize; from the moment I had heard of her reſidence in Delvile-Caſtle, I had given her up for loſt: but, upon her unexpected appearance among us again, I was weak enough once more to make trial of her heart. I ſoon found, however, that the pain of a ſecond rejection you might have ſpared me, and that though ſhe had quitted Delvile-Caſtle, ſhe had not for nothing entered it: at the ſound of your name, ſhe bluſhes; at the mention of your illneſs, ſhe turns pale; and the dog you have given her, which I recollected immediately, is her darling companion. Oh happy Delvile! yet ſo lovely a conqueſt you abandon.—"’

Cecilia could read no more; the letter dropt from her hand: to find herſelf thus by her own emotions betrayed, made her in⯑ſtantly conclude ſhe was univerſally diſ⯑covered: and turning ſick at the ſuppoſi⯑tion, all her ſpirit forſook her, and ſhe burſt into tears.

‘"Good heaven,"’ cried Delvile, ex⯑tremely ſhocked, ‘"what has thus affected [56] you? Can the jealous ſurmiſes of an appre⯑henſive rival—"’

‘"Do not talk to me,"’ interrupted ſhe, impatiently, ‘"and do not detain me,—I am extremely diſturbed,—I wiſh to be alone,—I beg, I even entreat you would leave me."’

‘"I will go, I will obey you in every thing!"’ cried he, eagerly, ‘"tell me but when I may return, and when you will ſuf⯑fer me to explain to you all the motives of my propoſal?"’

‘"Never, never!"’ cried ſhe, with ear⯑neſtneſs, ‘"I am ſufficiently lowered al⯑ready, but never will I intrude myſelf into a family that diſdains me!"’

‘"Diſdains? No, you are revered in it! who could diſdain you! That fatal clauſe alone—"’

‘"Well, well, pray leave me; indeed I cannot hear you; I am unfit for argument, and all reaſoning now is nothing leſs than cruelty."’

‘"I am gone,"’ cried he, ‘"this moment! I would not even wiſh to take advantage of your agitation in order to work upon your ſenſibility. My deſire is not to ſur⯑prize, but to reconcile you to my plan. What is it I ſeek in Miſs Beverley? An Heireſs? No, as ſuch ſhe has ſeen I could reſiſt her; nor yet the light trifler of a ſpring [57] or two, neglected when no longer a no⯑velty; no, no!—it is a companion for ever, it is a ſolace for every care, it is a bo⯑ſom friend through every period of life that I ſeek in Miſs Beverley! Her eſteem, therefore, to me is as precious as her affec⯑tion, for how can I hope her friendſhip in the winter of my days, if their brighter and gayer ſeaſon is darkened by doubts of my integrity? All ſhall be clear and expli⯑cit; no latent cauſe of uneaſineſs ſhall diſ⯑turb our future quiet: we will now be ſin⯑cere, that hereafter we may be eaſy; and ſweetly in unclouded felicity, time ſhall glide away imperceptibly, and we will make an intereſt with each other in the gaiety of youth, to bear with the infirmities of age, and alleviate them by kindneſs and ſympa⯑thy. And then ſhall my ſoothing Ce⯑cilia—"’

‘"O ſay no more!"’ interrupted ſhe, foftened in her own deſpite by a plan ſo conſonant to her wiſhes, ‘"what language is this! how improper for you to uſe, or me to hear!"’

She then very earneſtly inſiſted upon his going; and after a thouſand times taking leave and returning, promiſing obedience, yet purſuing his own way, he at length ſaid if ſhe would conſent to receive a letter from [58] him, he would endeavour to commit what he had to communicate to paper, ſince their mutual agitation made him unable to explain himſelf with clearneſs, and rather hurt his cauſe than aſſiſted it, by leaving all his arguments unfiniſhed and obſcure.

Another diſpute now aroſe; Cecilia pro⯑teſting ſhe would receive no letter, and hear nothing upon the ſubject; and Delvile im⯑petuouſly declaring he would ſubmit to no award without being firſt heard. At length he conquered, and at length he departed.

Cecilia then felt her whole heart ſink within her at the unhappineſs of her ſituation. She conſidered herſelf now condemned to refuſe Delvile herſelf, as the only condition upon which he even ſolicited her favour, neither the ſtrictneſs of her principles, nor the delicacy of her mind, would ſuffer her to accept. Her diſpleaſure at the propoſal had been wholly unaffected, and ſhe re⯑garded it as an injury to her character ever to have received it; yet that Delvile's pride of heart ſhould give way to his paſſion, that he ſhould love her with ſo much fond⯑neſs as to relinquiſh for her the ambitious ſchemes of his family, and even that darl⯑ing name which ſo lately ſeemed annexed to his exiſtence, were circumſtances to which ſhe was not inſenſible, and proofs of tenderneſs [59] and regard which ſhe had thought in⯑compatible with the general ſpirit of his diſpoſition. Yet however by theſe ſhe was gratified, ſhe reſolved never to comply with ſo humiliating a meaſure, but to wait the conſent of his friends, or renounce him for ever.

CHAP. V. A LETTER.

AS ſoon as Mrs. Charlton was ac⯑quainted with the departure of young Delvile, ſhe returned to Cecilia, impatient to be informed what had paſſed. The nar⯑ration ſhe heard both hurt and aſtoniſhed her; that Cecilia, the Heireſs of ſuch a for⯑tune, the poſſeſſor of ſo much beauty, de⯑ſcended of a worthy family, and formed and educated to grace a noble one, ſhould be rejected by people to whom her wealth would be moſt uſeful, and only in ſecret have their alliance propoſed to her, ſhe deemed an indignity that called for nothing but reſentment, and approved and enforced the reſolution of her young friend to reſiſt all ſolicitations which Mr. and Mrs. Delvile did not ſecond themſelves.

About two hours after Delvile was gone, his letter arrived. Cecilia opened it with trepidation, and read as follows.

Cecilia read and re-read this letter, but with a perturbation of mind that made her little able to weigh its contents. Paragraph by paragraph her ſentiments varied, and her determination was changed: the ear⯑neſtneſs of his ſupplication now ſoftened her into compliance, the ackowledged pride of his family now irritated her into reſent⯑ment, and the confeſſion of his own regret now ſickened her into deſpondence. She meant in an immediate anſwer to have writ⯑ten a final diſmiſſion; but though proof againſt his entreaties, becauſe not convinced by his arguments, there was ſomething in the concluſion of his letter that ſtaggered her reſolution.

[70] Thoſe ſcruples and that refinement againſt which he warned her, ſhe herſelf thought might be overſtrained, and to gra⯑tify unneceſſary punctilio, the ſhort period of exiſtence be rendered cauſeleſsly unhap⯑py. He had truly ſaid that their union would be no offence to morality, and with reſpect merely to pride, why ſhould that be ſpared? He knew he poſſeſſed her heart, ſhe had long been certain of his, her cha⯑racter had early gained the affection of his mother, and the eſſential ſervice which an income ſuch as her's muſt do the family, would ſoon be felt too powerfully to make her connection with it regretted.

Theſe reflections were ſo pleaſant ſhe knew not how to diſcard them; and the conſciouſneſs that her ſecret was betrayed not only to himſelf, but to Mr. Biddulph, Lord Ernolf, Lady Honoria Pemberton, and Mrs. Delvile, gave them additional force, by making it probable ſhe was yet more widely ſuſpected.

But ſtill her delicacy and her principles revolted againſt a conduct of which the ſecrecy ſeemed to imply the impropriety. ‘"How ſhall I meet Mrs. Delvile,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"after an action ſo clandeſtine? How, after praiſe ſuch as ſhe has beſtowed upon me, bear the ſeverity of her eye, when ſhe thinks I have ſeduced from her the obe⯑dience [71] of her ſon! A ſon who is the ſole ſolace and firſt hope of her exiſtence, whoſe virtues make all her happineſs, and whoſe filial piety is her only glory!—And well may ſhe glory in a ſon ſuch as Delvile! Nobly has he exerted himſelf in ſituations the moſt difficult, his family and his ideas of honour he has preferred to his peace and health, he has fulfilled with ſpirit and in⯑tegrity the various, the conflicting duties of life. Even now, perhaps, in his pre⯑ſent application, he may merely think him⯑ſelf bound by knowing me no longer free, and his generous ſenſibility to the weakneſs he has diſcovered, without any of the con⯑viction to which he pretends, may have oc⯑caſioned this propoſal!"’

A ſuggeſtion ſo mortifying again changed her determination; and the tears of Hen⯑rietta Belfield, with the letter which ſhe had ſurprized in her hand recurring to her me⯑mory, all her thoughts turned once more upon rejecting him for-ever.

In this fluctuating ſtate of mind ſhe found writing impracticable; while uncertain what to wiſh, to decide was impoſſible. She diſdained coquetry, ſhe was ſu⯑perior to trifling, the candour and open⯑neſs of Delvile had merited all her ſin⯑cerity, and therefore while any doubt re⯑mained, with herſelf, ſhe held it unworthy her character to tell him ſhe had none.

[72] Mrs. Charlton, upon reading the letter, became again the advocate of Delvile; the frankneſs with which he had ſtated his difficulties aſſured her of his probity, and by explaining his former conduct, ſatisfied her with the rectitude of his fu⯑ture intentions. ‘"Do not, therefore, my dear child,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"become the pa⯑rent of your own miſery by refuſing him; he deſerves you alike from his principles and his affection, and the taſk would both be long and melancholy to diſengage him from your heart. I ſee not, however, the leaſt occaſion for the diſgrace of a private marriage; I know not any family to which you would not be an honour, and thoſe who feel not your merit, are little worth pleaſing. Let Mr. Delvile, there⯑fore, apply openly to his friends, and if they refuſe their conſent, be their preju⯑dices their reward. You are freed from all obligations where caprice only can raiſe ob⯑jections, and you may then, in the face of the world, vindicate your choice."’

The wiſhes of Cecilia accorded with this advice, though the general tenour of Del⯑vile's letter gave her little reaſon to expect he would follow it.

CHAP. VI. A DISCUSSION.

THE day paſt away, and Cecilia had yet written no anſwer; the evening came, and her reſolution was ſtill unfixed. Delvile, at length, was again announced; and though ſhe dreaded truſting herſelf to his entreaties, the neceſſity of haſtening ſome deciſion deterred her from refuſing to ſee him.

Mrs. Charlton was with her when he en⯑tered the room; he attempted at firſt ſome general converſation, though the anxiety of his mind was ſtrongly pictured upon his face. Cecilia endeavoured alſo to talk upon common topics, though her evident embarraſſment ſpoke the abſence of her thoughts.

Delvile at length, unable any longer to bear ſuſpence, turned to Mrs. Charlton, and ſaid, ‘"You are probably acquainted, madam, with the purport of the letter I had the honour of ſending to Miſs Beverley this morning?"’

‘"Yes, Sir,"’ anſwered the old lady, [74] ‘"and you need deſire little more than that her opinion of it may be as favourable as mine."’

Delvile bowed and thanked her; and looking at Cecilia, to whom he ventured not to ſpeak, he perceived in her counte⯑nance a mixture of dejection and confuſion, that told him whatever might be her opi⯑nion, it had by no means encreaſed her happineſs.

‘"But why, Sir,"’ ſaid Mrs. Charlton, ‘"ſhould you be thus ſure of the diſappro⯑bation of your friends? had you not better hear what they have to ſay?"’

‘"I know, madam, what they have to ſay,"’ returned he; ‘"for their language and their principles have been invariable from my birth: to apply to them, therefore, for a conceſſion which I am certain they will not grant, were only a cruel device to lay all my miſery to their account."’

‘"And if they are ſo perverſe, they de⯑ſerve from you nothing better,"’ ſaid Mrs. Charlton; ‘"ſpeak to them, however; you will then have done your duty; and if they are obſtinately unjuſt, you will have ac⯑quired a right to act for yourſelf."’

‘"To mock their authority,"’ anſwered Delvile, ‘"would be more offenſive than to oppoſe it: to ſolicit their approbation, and then act in defiance of it, might juſtly [75] provoke their indignation.—No; if at laſt I am reduced to appeal to them, by their deciſion I muſt abide."’

To this Mrs. Charlton could make no anſwer, and in a few minutes ſhe left the room.

‘"And is ſuch, alſo,"’ ſaid Delvile, ‘"the opinion of Miſs Beverley? has ſhe doomed me to be wretched, and does ſhe wiſh that doom to be ſigned by my neareſt friends!"’

‘"If your friends, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"are ſo undoubtedly inflexible, it were madneſs, upon any plan, to riſk their diſ⯑pleaſure."’

‘"To entreaty,"’ he anſwered, ‘"they will be inflexible, but not to forgiveneſs. My father, though haughty, dearly, even paſſionately loves me; my mother, though high-ſpirited, is juſt, noble, and generous. She is, indeed, the moſt exalted of women, and her power over my mind I am unac⯑cuſtomed to reſiſt. Miſs Beverley alone ſeems born to be her daughter—"’

‘"No, no,"’ interrupted Cecilia, ‘"as her daughter ſhe rejects me!"’

‘"She loves, ſhe adores you!"’ cried he, warmly; ‘"and were I not certain ſhe feels your excellencies as they ought to be felt, my veneration for you both ſhould even yet ſpare you my preſent ſupplication. But you would become, I am certain, the firſt [76] bleſſing of her life; in you ſhe would be⯑hold all the felicity of her ſon,—his reſtor⯑ation to health, to his country, to his friends!"’

‘"O Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, with emotion, ‘"how deep a trench of real miſery do you ſink, in order to raiſe this pile of fancied happineſs! But I will not be reſponſible for your offending ſuch a mother; ſcarcely can you honour her yourſelf more than I do; and I here declare moſt ſolemnly—"’

‘"O ſtop!"’ interrupted Delvile, ‘"and reſolve not till you have heard me. Would you, were ſhe no more, were my father alſo no more, would you yet perſiſt in refuſing me?"’

‘"Why ſhould you aſk me?"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, bluſhing; ‘"you would then be your own agent, and perhaps—"’

She heſitated, and Delvile vehemently exclaimed, ‘"Oh make me not a monſter! force me not to deſire the death of the very beings by whom I live! weaken not the bonds of affection by which they are en⯑deared to me, and compel me not to wiſh them no more as the ſole barriers to my happineſs!"’

‘"Heaven forbid!"’ cried Cecilia; ‘"could I believe you ſo impious, I ſhould ſuffer little indeed in deſiring your eternal abſence."’

[77] ‘"Why then only upon their extinction muſt I reſt my hope of your favour?"’

Cecilia, ſtaggered and diſtreſſed by this queſtion, could make no anſwer. Delvile, perceiving her embarraſſment, redoubled his urgency; and before ſhe had power to recollect herſelf, ſhe had almoſt conſented to his plan, when Henrietta Belfield ruſh⯑ing into her memory, ſhe haſtily exclaimed, ‘"One doubt there is, which I know not how to mention, but ought to have cleared up;—you are acquainted with—you re⯑member Miſs Belfield?"’

‘"Certainly; but what of Miſs Belfield that can raiſe a doubt in the mind of Miſs Beverley?"’

Cecilia coloured, and was ſilent.

‘"Is it poſſible,"’ continued he, ‘"you could ever for an inſtant ſuppoſe—but I cannot even name a ſuppoſition ſo foreign to all poſſibility."’

‘"She is ſurely very amiable?"’

‘"Yes,"’ anſwered he, ‘"ſhe is innocent, gentle, and engaging; and I heartily wiſh ſhe were in a better ſituation."’

‘"Did you ever occaſionally, or by any accident, correſpond with her?"’

‘"Never in my life."’

‘"And were not your viſits to the bro⯑ther ſometimes—"’

‘"Have a care,"’ interrupted he, laughing, [78] ‘"leſt I reverſe the queſtion, and aſk if your viſits to the ſiſter were not ſometimes for the brother! But what does this mean? Could Miſs Beverley imagine that after knowing her, the charms of Miſs Belfield could put me in any danger?’

Cecilia, bound in delicacy and friendſhip not to betray the tender and truſting Hen⯑rietta, and internally ſatisfied of his inno⯑cence by his frankneſs, evaded any anſwer, and would now have done with the ſubject; but Delvile, eager wholly to exculpate him⯑ſelf, though by no means diſpleaſed at an enquiry which ſhewed ſo much intereſt in his affections, continued his explanation.

‘"Miſs Belfield has, I grant, an attrac⯑tion in the ſimplicity of her manners which charms by its ſingularity: her heart, too, ſeems all purity, and her temper all ſoftneſs. I have not, you find, been blind to her merit; on the contrary, I have both ad⯑mired and pitied her. But far indeed is ſhe removed from all chance of rivalry in my heart! A character ſuch as hers for a while is irreſiſtably alluring; but when its novelty is over, ſimplicity uninformed be⯑comes weariſome, and ſoftneſs without dig⯑nity is too indiſcriminate to give delight. We ſigh for entertainment, when cloyed by mere ſweetneſs; and heavily drags on the load of life when the companion of our [79] ſocial hours wants ſpirit, intelligence, and cultivation. With Miſs Beverley all theſe—"’

‘"Talk not of all theſe,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"when one ſingle obſtacle has power to render them valueleſs."’

‘"But now,"’ cried he, ‘"that obſtacle is ſurmounted."’

‘"Surmounted only for a moment! for even in your letter this morning you con⯑feſs the regret with which it fills you."’

‘"And why ſhould I deceive you? Why pretend to think with pleaſure, or even with indifference, of an obſtacle which has had thus long the power to make me mi⯑ſerable? But where is happineſs without allay? Is perfect bliſs the condition of hu⯑manity? Oh if we refuſe to taſte it till in its laſt ſtate of refinement, how ſhall the cup of evil be ever from our lips?"’

‘"How indeed!"’ ſaid Cecilia, with a ſigh; ‘"the regret, I believe, will remain eternally upon your mind, and ſhe, per⯑haps, who ſhould cauſe, might ſoon be taught to partake of it."’

‘"O Miſs Beverley! how have I merited this ſeverity? Did I make my propoſals lightly? Did I ſuffer my eagerneſs to conquer my reaſon? Have I not, on the contrary, been ſteady and con⯑ſiderate? [80] neither biaſſed by paſſion nor betrayed by tenderneſs?"’

‘"And yet in what,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"con⯑ſiſts this boaſted ſteadineſs? I perceived it indeed, at Delvile-Caſtle, but here—"’

‘"The pride of heart which ſupported me there,"’ cried he, ‘"will ſupport me no longer; what ſuſtained my firmneſs, but your apparent ſeverity? What enabled me to fly you, but your invariable coldneſs? The rigour with which I trampled upon my feelings I thought fortitude and ſpirit,—but I knew not then the pitying ſympathy of Cecilia!"’

‘"O that you knew it not yet!"’ cried ſhe, bluſhing; ‘"before that fatal accident you thought of me, I believe, in a manner far more honourable."’

‘"Impoſſible! differently, I thought of you, but never better, never ſo well as now. I then repreſented you all lovely in beauty, all perfect in goodneſs and virtue; but it was virtue in its higheſt majeſty, not, as now, blended with the ſofteſt ſenſibility."’

‘"Alas!"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"how the por⯑trait is faded!"’

‘"No, it is but more from the life: it is the ſublimity of an angel, mingled with all that is attractive in woman. But who is the friend we may venture to truſt? To whom may I give my bond? And from [81] whom may I receive a treaſure which for the reſt of my life will conſtitute all its felicity?"’

‘"Where can I,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"find a friend, who, in this critical moment will in⯑ſtruct me how to act!"’

‘"You will find one,"’ anſwered he, ‘"in your own boſom: aſk but yourſelf this plain queſtion; will any virtue be offended by your honouring me with your hand?"’

‘"Yes; duty will be offended, ſince it is contrary to the will of your parents."’

‘"But is there no time for emancipation? Am not I of an age to chuſe for myſelf the partner of my life? Will not you in a few days be the uncontrolled miſtreſs of your actions? Are we not both independant? Your ample fortune all your own, and the eſtates of my father ſo entailed they muſt unavoidably be mine?"’

‘"And are theſe,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"con⯑ſiderations to ſet us free from our duty?"’

‘"No, but they are circumſtances to re⯑lieve us from ſlavery. Let me not offend you if I am ſtill more explicit. When no law, human or divine, can be injured by our union, when one motive of pride is all that can be oppoſed to a thouſand motives of convenience and happineſs, why ſhould we both be made unhappy, merely leſt that pride ſhould loſe its gratification?"’

[82] This queſtion, which ſo often and ſo angrily ſhe had revolved in her own mind, again ſilenced her; and Delvile, with the eagerneſs of approaching ſucceſs, redoubled his ſolicitations.

‘"Be mine,"’ he cried, ‘"ſweeteſt Cecilia, and all will go well. To refer me to my friends is, effectually, to baniſh me for-ever. Spare me, then, the unavailing taſk; and ſave me from the reſiſtleſs entreaties of a mother, whoſe every deſire I have held ſacred, whoſe wiſh has been my law, and whoſe com⯑mands I have implicitly, invariably obeyed! Oh generouſly ſave me from the dreadful alternative of wounding her maternal heart by a preremptory refuſal, or of torturing my own with pangs to which it is unequal by an extorted obedience!"’

‘"Alas!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"how utterly impoſſible I can relieve you!"’

‘"And why? once mine, irrevocably mine—"’

‘"No, that would but irritate,—and irri⯑tate paſt hope of pardon."’

‘"Indeed you are miſtaken: to your merit they are far from inſenſible, and your for⯑tune is juſt what they wiſh. Truſt me, therefore, when I aſſure you that their diſ⯑pleaſure, which both reſpect and juſtice will guard them from ever ſhewing you, will ſoon die wholly away. I ſpeak not merely [83] from my hopes; in judging my own friends, I conſider human nature in general. In⯑evitable evils are ever beſt ſupported. It is ſuſpence, it is hope that make the food of miſery; certainty is always endured, be⯑cauſe known to be paſt amendment, and felt to give defiance to ſtruggling."’

‘"And can you,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"with reaſoning ſo deſperate be ſatisfied?"’

‘"In a ſituation ſo extraordinary as ours,"’ anſwered he, ‘"there is no other. The voice of the world at large will be all in our favour. Our union neither injures our fortunes, nor taints our morality: with the character of each the other is ſatisfied, and both muſt be alike exculpated from mercenary views of intereſt, or romantic contempt of poverty; what right have we, then, to repine at an objection which, how⯑ever potent, is ſingle? Surely none. Oh if wholly unchecked were the happineſs I now have in view, if no foul ſtorm ſometimes lowered over the proſpect, and for a mo⯑ment obſcured its brightneſs, how could my heart find room for joy ſo ſuperlative? The whole world might riſe againſt me as the firſt man in it who had nothing left to wiſh!"’

Cecilia, whoſe own hopes aided this rea⯑ſoning, found not much to oppoſe to it; and with little more of entreaty, and ſtill leſs of [84] argument, Delvile at length obtained her conſent to his plan. Fearfully, indeed, and with unfeigned reluctance ſhe gave it, but it was the only alternative with a ſeparation for-ever, to which ſhe held not the neceſſity adequate to the pain.

The thanks of Delvile were as vehement as had been his entreaties, which yet, how⯑ever, were not at an end; the conceſſion ſhe had made was imperfect, unleſs its perform⯑ance were immediate, and he now endea⯑voured to prevail with her to be his before the expiration of a week.

Here, however, his taſk ceaſed to be difficult; Cecilia, as ingenuous by nature as ſhe was honourable from principle, hav⯑ing once brought her mind to conſent to his propoſal, ſought not by ſtudied difficulties to enhance the value of her compliance: the great point reſolved upon, ſhe held all elſe of too little importance for a conteſt.

Mrs. Charlton was now called in, and acquainted with the reſult of their confer⯑ence. Her approbation by no means fol⯑lowed the ſcheme of privacy; yet ſhe was too much rejoiced in ſeeing her young friend near the period of her long ſuſpence and uneaſineſs, to oppoſe any plan which might forward their termination.

Delvile then again begged to know what [85] male confident might be entruſted with their project.

Mr. Monckton immediately occurred to Cecilia, though the certainty of his ill-will to the cauſe made all application to him diſagreeable: but his long and ſteady friendſhip for her, his readineſs to counſel and aſſiſt her, and the promiſes ſhe had oc⯑caſionally made, not to act without his ad⯑vice, all concurred to perſuade her that in a matter of ſuch importance, ſhe owed to him her confidence, and ſhould be culpable to proceed without it. Upon him, there⯑fore, ſhe fixed; yet finding in herſelf a re⯑pugnance inſuperable to acquainting him with her ſituation, ſhe agreed that Delvile, who inſtantly propoſed to be her meſ⯑ſenger, ſhould open to him the affair, and prepare him for their meeting.

Delvile then, rapid in thought and fer⯑tile in expedients, with a celerity and vi⯑gour which bore down all objections, ar⯑ranged the whole conduct of the buſineſs. To avoid ſuſpicion, he determined in⯑ſtantly to quit her, and, as ſoon as he had executed his commiſſion with Mr. Monck⯑ton, to haſten to London, that the neceſ⯑ſary preparations for their marriage might be made with diſpatch and ſecreſy. He purpoſed, alſo, to find out Mr. Belfield, that he might draw up the bond with which [86] he meant to entruſt Mr. Monckton. This meaſure Cecilia would have oppoſed, but he refuſed to liſten to her. Mrs. Charlton herſelf, though her age and infirmities had long confined her to her own houſe, grati⯑fied Cecilia upon this critical occaſion with conſenting to accompany her to the altar. Mr. Monckton was depended upon for giving her away, and a church in London was the place appointed for the performance of the ceremony. In three days the prin⯑cipal difficulties to the union would be re⯑moved by Cecilia's coming of age, and in five days it was agreed they ſhould actu⯑ally meet in town. The moment they were married Delvile promiſed to ſet off for the Caſtle, while in another chaiſe, Cecilia re⯑turned to Mrs. Charlton's.

This ſettled, he conjured her to be punc⯑tual, and earneſtly recommending himſelf to her fidelity and affection, he bid her adieu.

CHAP. VII. A RETROSPECTION.

LEFT now to herſelf, ſenſations unfelt before filled the heart of Cecilia. All that had paſſed for a while appeared a dream; her ideas were indiſtinct, her me⯑mory was confuſed, her faculties ſeemed all out of order, and ſhe had but an imperfect conſciouſneſs either of the tranſaction in which ſhe had juſt been engaged, or of the promiſe ſhe had bound herſelf to fulfil: even truth from imagination ſhe ſcarcely could ſeparate; all was darkneſs and doubt, inquietude and diſorder!

But when at length her recollection more clearly returned, and her ſituation appeared to her ſuch as it really was, diveſted alike of falſe terrors or deluſive expectations, ſhe found herſelf ſtill further removed from tranquility.

Hitherto, though no ſtranger to ſorrow, which the ſickneſs and early loſs of her friends had firſt taught her to feel, and which the ſubſequent anxiety of her own heart had ſince inſtructed her to bear, ſhe had yet invariably poſſeſſed the conſolation [88] of ſelf-approving reflections: but the ſtep ſhe was now about to take, all her prin⯑ciples oppoſed; it terrified her as undu⯑tiful, it ſhocked her as clandeſtine, and ſcarce was Delvile out of ſight, before ſhe regretted her conſent to it as the loſs of her ſelf-eſteem, and believed, even if a reconciliation took place, the remembrance of a wilful fault would ſtill follow her, blemiſh in her own eyes the character ſhe had hoped to ſupport, and be a conſtant allay to her happineſs, by telling her how unworthily ſhe had obtained it.

Where frailty has never been voluntary, nor error ſtubborn, where the pride of early integrity is unſubdued, and the firſt purity of innocence is inviolate, how fearfully delicate, how ‘"tremblingly alive,"’ is the conſcience of man! ſtrange, that what in its firſt ſtate is ſo tender, can in its laſt become ſo callous!

Compared with the general lot of human miſery, Cecilia had ſuffered nothing; but compared with the exaltation of ideal hap⯑pineſs, ſhe had ſuffered much; willingly, however, would ſhe again have borne all that had diſtreſſed her, experienced the ſame painful ſuſpence, endured the ſame melancholy parting, and gone through the ſame cruel taſk of combating inclination with reaſon, to have relieved her virtuous [89] mind from the new-born and intolerable terror of conſcientious reproaches.

The equity of her notions permitted her not from the earneſtneſs of Delvile's en⯑treaties to draw any palliation for her con⯑ſent to his propoſal; ſhe was conſcious that but for her own too great facility thoſe en⯑treaties would have been ineffectual, ſince ſhe well knew how little from any other of her admirers they would have availed.

But chiefly her affliction and repentance hung upon Mrs. Delvile, whom ſhe loved, reverenced and honoured, whom ſhe dread⯑ed to offend, and whom ſhe well knew ex⯑pected from her even exemplary virtue. Her praiſes, her partiality, her confidence in her character, which hitherto had been her pride, ſhe now only recollected with ſhame and with ſadneſs. The terror of the firſt interview never ceaſed to be preſent to her; ſhe ſhrunk even in imagination from her wrath-darting eye, ſhe felt ſtung by pointed ſatire, and ſubdued by cold con⯑tempt.

Yet to diſappoint Delvile ſo late, by for⯑feiting a promiſe ſo poſitively accorded; to trifle with a man who to her had been uni⯑formly candid, to waver when her word was engaged, and retract when he thought him⯑ſelf ſecure,—honour, juſtice and ſhame told her the time was now paſt.

[90] ‘"And yet is not this,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"placing nominal before actual evil? Is it not ſtudying appearance at the expence of reality? If agreeing to wrong is cri⯑minal, is not performing it worſe? If re⯑pentance for ill actions calls for mercy, has not repentance for ill intentions a yet higher claim?—And what reproaches from Del⯑vile can be ſo bitter as my own? What ſeparation, what ſorrow, what poſſible cala⯑mity can hang upon my mind with ſuch heavineſs, as the ſenſe of committing vo⯑luntary evil?"’

This thought ſo much affected her, that, conquering all regret either for Delvile or herſelf, ſhe reſolved to write to him in⯑ſtantly, and acquaint him of the alteration in her ſentiments.

This, however, after having ſo deeply engaged herſelf, was by no means eaſy; and many letters were begun, but not one of them was finiſhed, when a ſudden recol⯑lection obliged her to give over the at⯑tempt,—for ſhe knew not whither to direct to him.

In the haſte with which their plan had been formed and ſettled, it had never once occurred to them that any occaſion for writing was likely to happen. Delvile, indeed, knew that her addreſs would ſtill be the ſame; and with regard to his own, [91] as his journey to London was to be ſecret, he purpoſed not having any fixed habi⯑tation. On the day of their marriage, and not before, they had appointed to meet at the houſe of Mrs. Roberts, in Fetter-Lane, whence they were inſtantly to proceed to the church.

She might ſtill, indeed, encloſe a letter for him in one to Mrs. Hill, to be delivered to him on the deſtined morning when he called to claim her; but to fail him at the laſt moment, when Mr. Belfield would have drawn up the bond, when a licence was procured, the clergyman waiting to per⯑form the ceremony, and Delvile without a ſuſpicion but that the next moment would unite them for ever, ſeemed extending pru⯑dence into treachery, and power into ty⯑ranny. Delvile had done nothing to merit ſuch treatment, he had practiſed no deceit, he had been guilty of no perfidy, he had opened to her his whole heart, and after ſhewing it without any diſguiſe, the option had been all her own to accept or refuſe him.

A ray of joy now broke its way through the gloom of her apprehenſions. ‘"Ah!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I have not, then, any means to recede! an unprovoked breach of pro⯑miſe at the very moment deſtined for its performance, would but vary the mode of [92] acting wrong, without approaching nearer to acting right!"’

This idea for a while not merely calmed but delighted her; to be the wife of Del⯑vile ſeemed now a matter of neceſſity, and ſhe ſoothed herſelf with believing that to ſtruggle againſt it were vain.

The next morning during breakfaſt Mr. Monckton arrived.

Not greater, though winged with joy, had been the expedition of Delvile to open to him his plan, than was his own, though only goaded by deſperation, to make ſome effort with Cecilia for rendering it abortive. Nor could all his ſelf-denial, the command which he held over his paſſions, nor the rigour with which his feelings were made ſubſervient to his intereſt, in this ſudden hour of trial, avail to preſerve his equa⯑nimity. The refinements of hypocriſy, and the arts of inſinuation, offered advan⯑tages too diſtant, and exacted attentions too ſubtle, for a moment ſo alarming; thoſe arts and thoſe attentions he had al⯑ready for many years practiſed, with an addreſs the moſt maſterly, and a diligence the moſt indefatigable: ſucceſs had of late ſeemed to follow his toils; the encreaſing infirmities of his wife, the diſappointment and retirement of Cecilia, uniting to pro⯑miſe him a concluſion equally ſpeedy and [93] happy; when now, by a ſudden and unex⯑pected ſtroke, the ſweet ſolace of his future cares, the long-projected recompence of his paſt ſufferings, was to be ſnatched from him for-ever, and by one who, compared with himſelf, was but the acquaintance of a day.

Almoſt wholly off his guard from the ſurpriſe and horror of this apprehenſion, he entered the room with ſuch an air of haſte and perturbation, that Mrs. Charlton and her grand-daughters demanded what was the matter.

‘"I am come,"’ he anſwered abruptly, yet endeavouring to recollect himſelf, ‘"to ſpeak with Miſs Beverley upon buſineſs of ſome importance."’

‘"My dear, then,"’ ſaid Mrs. Charlton, ‘"you had better go with Mr. Monckton into your dreſſing-room."’

Cecilia, deeply bluſhing, aroſe and led the way: ſlowly, however, ſhe proceeded, though urged by Mr. Monckton to make ſpeed. Certain of his diſapprobation, and but doubtfully relieved from her own, ſhe dreaded a conference which on his ſide, ſhe foreſaw, would be all exhortation and reproof, and on hers all timidity and ſhame.

‘"Good God,"’ cried he, ‘"Miſs Be⯑verley, what is this you have done? bound [94] yourſelf to marry a man who deſpiſes, who ſcorns, who refuſes to own you!"’

Shocked by this opening, ſhe ſtarted, but could make no anſwer.

‘"See you not,"’ he continued, ‘"the indignity which is offered you? Does the looſe, the flimſy veil with which it is co⯑vered, hide it from your underſtanding, or diſguiſe it from your delicacy?"’

‘"I thought not,—I meant not,"’ ſaid ſhe, more and more confounded, ‘"to ſub⯑mit to any indignity, though my pride, in an exigence ſo peculiar, may give way, for a while, to convenience."’

‘"To convenience?"’ repeated he, ‘"to contempt, to deriſion, to inſolence!"—’

‘"O Mr. Monckton!"’ interrupted Ce⯑cilia, ‘"make not uſe of ſuch expreſſions! they are too cruel for me to hear, and if I thought they were juſt, would make me miſerable for life!"’

‘"You are deceived, groſsly deceived,"’ replied he, ‘"if you doubt their truth for a moment: they are not, indeed, even de⯑cently concealed from you; they are glaring as the day, and wilful blindneſs can alone obſcure them."’

‘"I am ſorry, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, whoſe confuſion, at a charge ſo rough, began now to give way to anger, ‘"if this is your opi⯑nion; and I am ſorry, too, for the liberty I [95] have taken in troubling you upon ſuch a ſubject."’

An apology ſo full of diſpleaſure in⯑ſtantly taught Mr. Monckton the error he was committing, and checking, therefore, the violence of thoſe emotions to which his ſudden and deſperate diſappointment gave riſe, and which betrayed him into re⯑proaches ſo unſkilful, he endeavoured to recover his accuſtomed equanimity, and aſſuming an air of friendly openneſs, ſaid, ‘"Let me not offend you, my dear Miſs Beverley, by a freedom which reſults merely from a ſolicitude to ſerve you, and which the length and intimacy of our acquaintance had, I hoped, long ſince authoriſed. I know not how to ſee you on the brink of deſtruction without ſpeaking, yet, if you are averſe to my ſincerity, I will curb it, and have done."’

‘"No, do not have done,"’ cried ſhe, much ſoftened; ‘"your ſincerity does me nothing but honour, and hitherto, I am ſure, it has done me nothing but good. Perhaps I deſerve your utmoſt cenſure; I feared it, indeed, before you came, and ought, therefore, to have better prepared myſelf for meeting with it."’

This ſpeech completed Mr. Monckton's ſelf-victory; it ſhewed him not only the impropriety of his turbulence, but gave him [96] room to hope that a mildneſs more crafty would have better ſucceſs.

‘"You cannot but be certain,"’ he an⯑ſwered, ‘"that my zeal proceeds wholly from a deſire to be of uſe to you: my knowledge of the world might poſſibly, I thought, aſſiſt your inexperience, and the diſintereſtedneſs of my regard, might ena⯑ble me to ſee and to point out the dangers to which you are expoſed, from artifice and duplicity in thoſe who have other purpoſes to anſwer than what ſimply belong to your welfare."’

‘"Neither artifice nor duplicity,"’ cried Cecilia, jealous for the honour of Delvile, ‘"have been practiſed againſt me. Argu⯑ment, and not perſuaſion, determined me, and if I have done wrong—thoſe who prompted me have erred as unwittingly as myſelf."’

‘"You are too generous to perceive the difference, or you would find nothing leſs alike. If, however, my plainneſs will not offend you, before it is quite too late, I will point out to you a few of the evils,—for there are ſome I cannot even mention, which at this inſtant do not merely threaten, but await you."’

Cecilia ſtarted at this terrifying offer, and afraid to accept, yet aſhamed to refuſe it, hung back irreſolute.

[97] ‘"I ſee,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, after a pauſe of ſome continuance, ‘"your deter⯑mination admits no appeal. The conſe⯑quence muſt, indeed, be all your own, but I am greatly grieved to find how little you are aware of its ſeriouſneſs. Hereafter you will wiſh, perhaps, that the friend of your earlieſt youth had been permitted to adviſe you; at preſent you only think him offi⯑cious and impertinent, and therefore he can do nothing you will be ſo likely to approve as quitting you. I wiſh you, then, greater happineſs than ſeems prepared to follow you, and a counſellor more proſ⯑perous in offering his aſſiſtance."’

He would then have taken his leave: but Cecilia called out, ‘"Oh, Mr. Monckton! do you then give me up?"’

‘"Not unleſs you wiſh it."’

‘"Alas, I know not what to wiſh! ex⯑cept, indeed, the reſtoration of that ſecu⯑rity from ſelf-blame, which till yeſterday, even in the midſt of diſappointment, quieted and conſoled me."’

‘"Are you, then, ſenſible you have gone wrong, yet reſolute not to turn back?"’

‘"Could I tell, could I ſee,"’ cried ſhe, with energy, ‘"which way I ought to turn, not a moment would I heſitate how to act! my heart ſhould have no power, my hap⯑pineſs no choice,—I would recover my [98] own eſteem by any ſacrifice that could be made!"’

‘"What, then, can poſſibly be your doubt? To be as you were yeſterday what is wanting but your own inclination?"’

‘"Every thing is wanting; right, honour, firmneſs, all by which the juſt are bound, and all which the conſcientious hold ſa⯑cred!"’

‘"Theſe ſcruples are merely romantic; your own good ſenſe, had it fairer play, would contemn them; but it is warped at preſent by prejudice and prepoſſeſſion."’

‘"No, indeed!"’ cried ſhe, colouring at the charge, ‘"I may have entered too precipitately into an engagement I ought to have avoided, but it is weakneſs of judg⯑ment, not of heart, that diſables me from retrieving my error."’

‘"Yet you will neither hear whither it may lead you, nor which way you may eſcape from it?"’

‘"Yes, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, trembling, ‘"I am now ready to hear both."’

‘"Briefly, then, I will tell you. It will lead you into a family of which every indi⯑vidual will diſdain you; it will make you inmate of an houſe of which no other in⯑mate will aſſociate with you; you will be inſulted as an inferior, and reproached as an intruder; your birth will be a ſubject of [99] ridicule, and your whole race only named with deriſion: and while the elders of the proud caſtle treat you with open contempt, the man for whom you ſuffer will not dare to ſupport you."’

‘"Impoſſible! impoſſible!"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, with the moſt angry emotion; ‘"this whole repreſentation is exaggerated, and the latter part is utterly without foun⯑dation."’

‘"The latter part,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, ‘"is of all other leaſt diſputable: the man who now dares not own, will then never venture to defend you. On the contrary, to make peace for himſelf, he will be the firſt to neglect you. The ruined eſtates of his anceſtors will be repaired by your for⯑tune, while the name which you carry into his family will be conſtantly reſented as an injury: you will thus be plundered though you are ſcorned, and told to conſider your⯑ſelf honoured that they condeſcend to make uſe of you! nor here reſts the evil of a forced connection with ſo much arrogance,—even your children, ſhould you have any, will be educated to deſpiſe you!"’

‘"Dreadful and horrible!"’ cried Ce⯑cilia;—‘"I can hear no more,—Oh, Mr. Monckton, what a proſpect have you opened to my view!"’

‘"Fly from it, then, while it is yet in [100] your power,—when two paths are before you, chuſe not that which leads to de⯑ſtruction; ſend inſtantly after Delvile, and tell him you have recovered your ſenſes."’

‘"I would long ſince have ſent,—I wanted not a repreſentation ſuch as this,—but I know not how to direct to him, nor whither he is gone."’

‘"All art and baſeneſs to prevent your recantation!"’

‘"No, Sir, no,"’ cried ſhe, with quickneſs; ‘"whatever may be the truth of your painting in general, all that con⯑cerns—"’

Aſhamed of the vindication ſhe intended, which yet in her own mind was firm and animated, ſhe ſtopt, and left the ſentence unfiniſhed.

‘"In what place were you to meet?"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton; ‘"you can at leaſt ſend to him there."’

‘"We were only to have met,"’ anſwered ſhe, in much confuſion, ‘"at the laſt mo⯑ment,—and that would be too late—it would be too—I could not, without ſome previous notice, break a promiſe which I gave without any reſtriction."’

‘"Is this your only objection?"’

‘"It is: but it is one which I cannot conquer."’

‘"Then you would give up this ill⯑boding [101] connection, but from notions of delicacy with regard to the time?"’

‘"Indeed I meant it, before you came."’

‘"I, then, will obviate this objection: give me but the commiſſion, either verbally or in writing, and I will undertake to find him out, and deliver it before night."’

Cecilia, little expecting this offer, turned extremely pale, and after pauſing ſome mo⯑ments, ſaid in a faultering voice, ‘"What, then, Sir, is your advice, in what man⯑ner—"’

‘"I will ſay to him all that is neceſſary; truſt the matter with me."’

‘"No,—he deſerves, at leaſt, an apology from myſelf,—though how to make it—"’

She ſtopt, ſhe heſitated, ſhe went out of the room for pen and ink, ſhe returned without them, and the agitation of her mind every inſtant encreaſing, ſhe begged him, in a faint voice, to excuſe her while ſhe conſulted with Mrs. Charlton, and pro⯑miſing to wait upon him again, was hurry⯑ing away.

Mr. Monckton, however, ſaw too great danger in ſo much emotion to truſt her out of his ſight: he told her, therefore, that ſhe would only encreaſe her perplexity, without reaping any advantage, by an ap⯑plication to Mrs. Charlton, and that if ſhe was really ſincere in wiſhing to recede, [102] there was not a moment to be loſt, and Delvile ſhould immediately be purſued.

Cecilia, ſenſible of the truth of this ſpeech, and once more recollecting the unaffected earneſtneſs with which but an hour or two before, ſhe had herſelf deſired to renounce this engagement, now ſum⯑moned her utmoſt courage to her aid, and, after a ſhort, but painful ſtruggle, deter⯑mined to act conſiſtently with her profeſſions and her character, and, by one great and final effort, to conclude all her doubts, and try to ſilence even her regret, by completing the triumph of fortitude over inclination.

She called, therefore, for pen and ink, and without venturing herſelf from the room, wrote the following letter.

This letter, which with trembling haſte, reſulting from a fear of her own ſteadineſs, [104] ſhe folded and ſealed, Mr. Monckton, from the ſame apprehenſion, yet more eagerly received, and ſcarce waiting to bid her good morning, mounted his horſe, and purſued his way to London.

Cecilia returned to Mrs. Charlton to acquaint her with what had paſſed: and notwithſtanding the ſorrow ſhe felt in appa⯑rently injuring the man whom, in the whole world ſhe moſt wiſhed to oblige, ſhe yet found a ſatisfaction in the ſacrifice ſhe had made, that recompenſed her for much of her ſufferings, and ſoothed her into ſome⯑thing like tranquility; the true power of virtue ſhe had ſcarce experienced before, for ſhe found it a reſource againſt the cru⯑elleſt dejection, and a ſupporter in the bit⯑tereſt diſappointment.

CHAP. VIII. AN EMBARRASSMENT.

THE day paſſed on without any intelli⯑gence; the next day, alſo, paſſed in the ſame manner, and on the third, which was her birth-day, Cecilia became of age.

The preparations which had long been making among her tenants to celebrate this event, Cecilia appeared to take ſome ſhare, and endeavoured to find ſome pleaſure in. She gave a public dinner to all who were willing to partake of it, ſhe promiſed re⯑dreſs to thoſe who complained of hard uſage, ſhe pardoned many debts, and diſtributed money, food, and cloathing to the poor. Theſe benevolent occupations made time ſeem leſs heavy, and while they freed her from ſolitude, diverted her ſuſpenſe. She ſtill, however, continued at the houſe of Mrs. Charlton, the workmen having diſap⯑pointed her in finiſhing her own.

But, in defiance of her utmoſt exertion, towards the evening of this day the uneaſi⯑neſs of her uncertainty grew almoſt intol⯑erable. The next morning ſhe had promiſed [106] Delvile to ſet out for London, and he expected the morning after to claim her for his wife; yet Mr. Monckton neither ſent nor came, and ſhe knew not if her letter was delivered, or if ſtill he was unprepared for the diſappointment by which he was awaited. A ſecret regret for the unhappi⯑neſs ſhe muſt occaſion him, which ſilently yet powerfully reproached her, ſtole faſt upon her mind, and poiſoned its tranqui⯑lity; for though her opinion was invariable in holding his propoſal to be wrong, ſhe thought too highly of his character to be⯑lieve he would have made it but from a miſtaken notion it was right. She painted him, therefore, to herſelf, as glowing with indignation, accuſing her of inconſiſtency, and perhaps ſuſpecting her of coquetry, and imputing her change of conduct to motives the moſt trifling and narrow, till with re⯑ſentment and diſdain, he drove her wholly from his thoughts.

In a few minutes, however, the picture was reverſed; Delvile no more appeared ſtorming nor unreaſonable; his face wore an aſpect of ſorrow, and his brow was clouded with diſappointment: he forebore to reproach her, but the look which her imagination delineated was more piercing than words of ſevereſt import.

Theſe images puſued and tormented [107] her, drew tears from her eyes, and loaded her heart with anguiſh. Yet, when ſhe re⯑collected that her conduct had had in view an higher motive than pleaſing Delvile, ſhe felt that it ought to offer her an higher ſatis⯑faction: ſhe tried, therefore, to revive her ſpirits, by reflecting upon her integrity, and refuſed all indulgence to this enervating ſadneſs, beyond what the weakneſs of hu⯑man nature demands, as ſome relief to its ſufferings upon every freſh attack of miſery.

A conduct ſuch as this was the beſt anti⯑dote againſt affliction, whoſe arrows are never with ſo little difficulty repelled, as when they light upon a conſcience which no ſelf-reproach has laid bare to their ma⯑lignancy.

Before ſix o'clock the next morning, her maid came to her bedſide with the following letter, which ſhe told her had been brought by an expreſs.

The perturbation of Cecilia upon read⯑ing this letter was unſpeakable: Mr. Monckton, ſhe found, had been wholly un⯑ſucceſsful, all her heroiſm had anſwered no purpoſe, and the tranſaction was as back⯑ward as before ſhe had exerted it.

She was now, therefore, called upon to think and act entirely for herſelf. Her opinion was ſtill the ſame, nor did her re⯑ſolution [110] waver, yet how to put it in execution ſhe could not diſcern.

To write to him was impoſſible, ſince ſhe was ignorant where he was to be found; to diſappoint him at the laſt moment ſhe could not reſolve, ſince ſuch a conduct ap⯑peared to her unfeeling and unjuſtifiable: for a few inſtants ſhe thought of having him waited for at night in London, with a letter; but the danger of entruſting any one with ſuch a commiſſion, and the uncertainty of finding him, ſhould he diſguiſe himſelf, made the ſucceſs of this ſcheme too precarious for trial.

One expedient alone occurred to her, which, though ſhe felt to be hazardous, ſhe believed was without an alternative: this was no other than haſtening to London herſelf, conſenting to the interview he had propoſed in Pall-Mall, and then, by ſtrong⯑ly ſtating her objections, and confeſſing the grief they occaſioned her, to pique at once his generoſity and his pride upon re⯑leaſing her himſelf from the engagement into which he had entered.

She had no time to deliberate; her plan, therefore, was decided almoſt as ſoon as formed, and every moment being precious, ſhe was obliged to awaken Mrs. Charlton, and communicate to her at once the letter [111] from Delvile, and the new reſolution ſhe had taken.

Mrs. Charlton, having no object in view but the happineſs of her young friend, with a facility that looked not for objections, and ſcarce ſaw them when preſented, agreed to the expedition, and kindly conſented to ac⯑company her to London; for Cecilia, however concerned to hurry and fatigue her, was too anxious for the ſanction of her preſence to heſitate in ſoliciting it.

A chaiſe, therefore, was ordered; and with poſt-horſes for ſpeed, and two ſervants on horſeback, the moment Mrs. Charlton was ready, they ſet out on their journey.

Scarce had they proceeded two miles on their way, when they were met by Mr. Monckton, who was haſtening to their houſe.

Amazed and alarmed at a ſight ſo unex⯑pected, he ſtopt the chaiſe to enquire whither they was going.

Cecilia, without anſwering, aſked if her letter had yet been received?

‘"I could not,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, ‘"deliver it to a man who was not to be found: I was this moment coming to ac⯑quaint how vainly I had ſought him; but ſtill that your journey is unneceſſary unleſs voluntary, ſince I have left it at the houſe where you told me you ſhould meet to⯑morrow [112] morning, and where he muſt then unavoidably receive it."’

‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"to⯑morrow morning will be too late,—in con⯑ſcience, in juſtice, and even in decency too late! I muſt, therefore, go to town; yet I go not, believe me, in oppoſition to your in⯑junctions, but to enable myſelf, without treachery or diſhonour, to fulfil them."’

Mr. Monckton, aghaſt and confounded, made not any anſwer, till Cecilia gave orders to the poſtilion to drive on: he then haſtily called to ſtop him, and began the warmeſt expoſtulations; but Cecilia, firm when ſhe believed herſelf right, though wavering when fearful ſhe was wrong, told him it was now too late to change her plan, and repeating her orders to the poſtilion, left him to his own reflections: grieved her⯑ſelf to reject his counſel, yet too intently occupied by her own affairs and deſigns, to think long of any other.

CHAP. IX. A TORMENT.

AT — they ſtopt for dinner; Mrs. Charlton being too much fatigued to go on without ſome reſt, though the haſte of Cecilia to meet Delvile time enough for new arranging their affairs, made her regret every moment that was ſpent upon the road.

Their meal was not long, and they were returning to their chaiſe, when they were ſuddenly encountered by Mr. Morrice, who was juſt alighted from his horſe.

He congratulated himſelf upon the hap⯑pineſs of meeting them with the air of a man who nothing doubted that happineſs being mutual; then haſtening to ſpeak of the Grove, ‘"I could hardly,"’ he cried, ‘"get away; my friend Monckton won't know what to do without me, for Lady Margaret, poor old ſoul, is in a ſhocking bad way indeed; there's hardly any ſtaying in the room with her; her breathing is juſt like the grunting of a hog. She can't poſ⯑ſibly laſt long, for ſhe's quite upon her [114] laſt legs, and trumbles about ſo when ſhe walks alone, one would ſwear ſhe was drunk."’

‘"If you take infirmity,"’ ſaid Mrs. Charlton, who was now helped into the chaiſe, ‘"for intoxication, you muſt ſup⯑poſe no old perſon ſober."’

‘"Vaſtly well ſaid, ma'am,"’ cried he; ‘"I really forgot your being an old lady your⯑ſelf, or I ſhould not have made the obſer⯑vation. However, as to poor Lady Marga⯑ret, ſhe may do as well as ever by and bye, for ſhe has an excellent conſtitution, and I ſuppoſe ſhe has been hardly any better than ſhe is now theſe forty years, for I remember when I was quite a boy hearing her called a limping old puddle."’

‘"Well, we'll diſcuſs this matter, if you pleaſe,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſome other time,"’ And ordered the poſtilion to drive on. But before they came to their next ſtage, Mor⯑rice having changed his horſe, joined them, and rode on by their ſide, begging them to obſerve what haſte he had made on purpoſe to have the pleaſure of eſcorting them.

This forwardneſs was very offenſive to Mrs. Charlton, whoſe years and character had long procured her more deference and reſpect: but Cecilia, anxious only to haſten her journey, was indifferent to every thing, ſave what retarded it.

[115] At the ſame Inn they both again changed horſes, and he ſtill continued riding with them, and occaſionally talking, till they were within twenty miles of London, when a diſturbance upon the road exciting his curioſity, he haſtily rode away from them to enquire into its cauſe.

Upon coming up to the place whence it proceeded, they ſaw a party of gentlemen on horſeback ſurrounding a chaiſe which had been juſt overturned; and while the confuſion in the road obliged the poſtilion to ſtop, Cecilia heard a lady's voice ex⯑claiming, ‘"I declare I dare ſay I am kill⯑ed!"’ and inſtantly recollecting Miſs La⯑rolles, the fear of diſcovery and delay made her deſire the man to drive on with all ſpeed. He was preparing to obey her, but Mor⯑rice, gallopping after them, called out ‘"Miſs Beverley, one of the ladies that has been overturned, is an acquaintance of yours. I uſed to ſee her with you at Mrs. Harrel's."’

‘"Did you?"’ ſaid Cecilia, much diſcon⯑certed, ‘"I hope ſhe is not hurt?"’

‘"No, not at all; but the lady with her is bruiſed to death; won't you come and ſee her?"’

‘"I am too much in haſte at preſent,—and I can do them no good; but Mrs. [116] Charlton I am ſure will ſpare her ſervant, if he can be of any uſe."’

‘"O but the young lady wants to ſpeak to you; ſhe is coming up to the chaiſe as faſt as ever ſhe can."’

‘"And how ſhould ſhe know me?"’ cried Cecilia, with much ſurpriſe; ‘"I am ſure ſhe could not ſee me."’

‘"O, I told her,"’ anſwered Morrice, with a nod of ſelf-approbation for what he had done, ‘"I told her it was you, for I knew I could ſoon overtake you."’

Diſpleaſure at this officiouſneſs was una⯑vailing, for looking out of the window, ſhe perceived Miſs Larolles, followed by half her party, not three paces from the chaiſe."

‘"O my dear creature,"’ ſhe called out, ‘"what a terrible accident! I aſſure you I am ſo monſtrouſly frightened you've no idea. It's the luckieſt thing in the world that you were going this way. Never any thing happened ſo exceſſively provoking; you've no notion what a fall we've had. It's hor⯑rid ſhocking, I aſſure you. How have you been all this time? You can't conceive how glad I am to ſee you."’

‘"And to which will Miſs Beverley an⯑ſwer firſt,"’ cried a voice which announced Mr. Goſport, ‘"the joy or the ſorrow? For ſo adroitly are they blended, that a [117] common auditor could with difficulty de⯑cide whether condolence, or congratulation ſhould have the precedency."’

‘"How can you be ſo exceſſive horrid,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘to talk of congratula⯑tion, when one's in ſuch a ſhocking panic that one does not know if one's dead or alive!"’

‘"Dead, then, for any wager,"’ returned he, ‘"if we may judge by your ſtillneſs."’

‘"I deſire, now, you won't begin jok⯑ing,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"for I aſſure you it's an exceſſive ſerious affair. I was never ſo re⯑joiced in my life as when I found I was not killed. I've been ſo ſqueezed you've no notion. I thought for a full hour I had broke both my arms."’

‘"And my heart at the ſame time,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport; ‘"I hope you did not ima⯑gine that the leaſt fragile of the three?"’

‘"All our hearts, give me leave to add,"’ ſaid Captain Areſby—juſt then advancing, ‘"all our hearts muſt have been abimés, by the indiſpoſition of Miſs Larolles, had not their doom been fortunately revoked by the ſight of Miſs Beverley."’

‘"Well, this is exceſſive odd,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"that every body ſhould run away ſo from poor Mrs. Mears; ſhe'll be ſo affronted you've no idea. I thought, Cap⯑tain [118] Areſby, you would have ſtayed to take care of her."’

‘"I'll run and fee how ſhe is myſelf,"’ cried Morrice, and away he gallopped.

‘"Really, ma'am,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"I am quite au deſeſpoir to have failed in any of my devoirs; but I make it a principle to be a mere looker on upon theſe occaſions, leſt I ſhould be ſo unhappy as to commit any fauxpas by too much empreſſement."’

‘"An admirable caution!"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"and, to ſo ardent a temper, a neceſſary check!"’

Cecilia, whom the ſurpriſe and vexation of ſo unſeaſonable a meeting, when ſhe particularly wiſhed to have eſcaped all no⯑tice, had hitherto kept in painful ſilence, began now to recover ſome preſence of mind; and making her compliments to Miſs Larolles and Mr. Goſport, with a ſlight bow to the Captain, ſhe apologized for hurrying away, but told them ſhe had an engagement in London which could not be deferred, and was then giving orders to the poſtilion to drive on, when Morrice re⯑turning full ſpeed, called out ‘"The poor lady's ſo bad ſhe is not able to ſtir a ſtep; ſhe can't put a foot to the ground, and ſhe ſays ſhe's quite black and blue; ſo I told her I was ſure Miſs Beverley would not re⯑fuſe to make room for her in her chaiſe, till [119] the other can be put to rights; and ſhe ſays ſhe ſhall take it as a great favour. Here, poſtilion, a little more to the right! come, ladies and gentlemen, get out of the way."’

This impertinence, however extraordi⯑nary, Cecilia could not oppoſe; for Mrs. Charlton, ever compaſſionate and comply⯑ing where there was any appearance of diſtreſs, inſtantly ſeconded the propoſal: the chaiſe, therefore, was turned back, and ſhe was obliged to offer a place in it to Mrs. Mears, who, though more frightened than hurt, readily accepted it, notwithſtanding, to make way for her without incommoding Mrs. Charlton, ſhe was forced to get out herſelf.

She failed not, however, to deſire that all poſſible expedition might be uſed in refit⯑ting the other chaiſe for their reception; and all the gentlemen but one, diſmounted their horſes, in order to aſſiſt, or ſeem to aſ⯑ſiſt in getting it ready.

This only unconcerned ſpectator in the midſt of the apparent general buſtle, was Mr. Meadows; who viewed all that paſſed without troubling himſelf to interfere, and with an air of the moſt evident careleſsneſs whether matters went well or went ill.

Miſs Larolles, now returning to the ſcene of action, ſuddenly ſcreamed out, ‘"O dear, where's my little dog! I never thought [120] of him, I declare! I love him better than any thing in the world. I would not have him hurt for an hundred thouſand pounds. Lord, where is he?"’

‘"Cruſhed or ſuffocated in the overturn, no doubt,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport; ‘"but as you muſt have been his executioner, what ſofter death could he die? If you will your⯑ſelf inflict the puniſhment, I will ſubmit to the ſame fate."’

‘"Lord, how you love to plague one!"’ cried ſhe: and then enquired among the ſer⯑vants what was become of her dog. The poor little animal, forgotten by its miſtreſs, and diſregarded by all others, was now diſcovered by its yelping; and ſoon found to have been the moſt material ſufferer by the overturn, one of its fore legs being broken.

Could ſcreams or lamentations, re⯑proaches to the ſervants, or complaints againſt the Deſtinies, have abated his pain, or made a callus of the fracture, but ſhort would have been the duration of his miſery; for neither words were ſaved, nor lungs were ſpared, the very air was rent with cries, and all preſent were upbraided as if accomplices in the diſaſter.

The poſtilion, at length, interrupted this vociferation with news that the chaiſe was again fit for uſe; and Cecilia, eager to be [121] gone, finding him little regarded, repeated what he ſaid to Miſs Larolles.

‘"The chaiſe?"’ cried ſhe, ‘"why you don't ſuppoſe I'll ever get into that horrid chaiſe any more? I do aſſure you I would not upon any account."’

‘"Not get into it?"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"for what purpoſe, then, have we all waited till it was ready?"’

‘"O, I declare I would not go in it for forty thouſand worlds. I would rather walk to an inn, if it's a hundred and fifty miles off."’

‘"But as it happens,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"to be only ſeven miles, I fancy you will condeſcend to ride."’

‘"Seven miles! Lord how ſhocking! you frighten me ſo you have no idea. Poor Mrs. Mears! She'll have to go quite alone. I dare ſay the chaiſe will be down fifty times by the way. Ten to one but ſhe breaks her neck! only conceive how horrid! I aſſure you I am exceſſive glad I am out of it."’

‘"Very friendly, indeed!"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport. ‘"Mrs. Mears, then, may break her bones at her leiſure!"’

Mrs. Mears, however, when applied to, profeſſed an equal averſion to the carriage in which ſhe had been ſo unfortunate, and declared ſhe would rather walk than return [122] to it, though one of her ancles was already ſo ſwelled that ſhe could hardly ſtand.

‘"Why then the beſt way, ladies,"’ cried Morrice, with the look of a man happy in vanquiſhing all difficulties, ‘"will be for Mrs. Charlton, and that poor lady with the bruiſes, to go together in that ſound chaiſe, and then for us gentlemen to eſcort this young lady and Miſs Beverley on foot, till we all come to the next inn. Miſs Bever⯑ley, I know, is an excellent walker, for I have heard Mr. Monckton ſay ſo."’

Cecilia, though in the utmoſt conſterna⯑tion at a propoſal, which muſt ſo long re⯑tard a journey ſhe had ſo many reaſons to wiſh haſtened, knew not how either in de⯑cency or humanity to oppoſe it: and the fear of raiſing ſuſpicion, from a conſciouſ⯑neſs how much there was to ſuſpect, forced her to curb her impatience, and reduced her even to repeat the offer which Morrice had made, though ſhe could ſcarce look at him for anger at his unſeaſonable forward⯑neſs.

No voice diſſenting, the troop began to be formed. The foot conſiſted of the two young ladies and Mr. Goſport, who alighted to walk with Cecilia; the cavalry, of Mr. Meadows, the Captain, and Morrice, who walked their horſes a foot pace, while [123] the reſt of the party rode on with the chaiſe, as attendants upon Mrs. Mears.

Juſt before they ſet off, Mr. Meadows, riding negligently up to the carriage, ex⯑erted himſelf ſo far as to ſay to Mrs. Mears, ‘"Are you hurt, ma'am?"’ and, at the ſame inſtant, ſeeming to recollect Cecilia, he turned about, and yawning while he touched his hat, ſaid, ‘"O, how d'ye do, ma'am?"’ and then, without waiting an anſwer to either of his queſtions, flapped it over his eyes, and joined the cavalcade, though without appearing to have any conſciouſ⯑neſs that he belonged to it.

Cecilia would moſt gladly have uſed the rejected chaiſe herſelf, but could not make ſuch a propoſal to Mrs. Charlton, who was paſt the age and the courage for even any appearance of enterprize. Upon enquiry, however, ſhe had the ſatisfaction to hear that the diſtance to the next ſtage was but two miles, though multiplied to ſeven by the malice of Mr. Goſport.

Miſs Larolles carried her little dog in her arms, declaring ſhe would never more [...]uſt him a moment away from her. She acquainted Cecilia that ſhe had been for ſome time upon a viſit to Mrs. Mears, who, with the reſt of the party, had taken her to ſee — houſe and gardens, where they had made an early dinner, from which [124] they were juſt returning home when the chaiſe broke down.

She then proceeded, with her uſual vo⯑lubility, to relate the little nothings that had paſſed ſince the winter, flying from ſubject to ſubject, with no meaning but to be heard, and no wiſh but to talk, ever rapid in ſpeech, though minute in detail. This loquacity met not with any interrup⯑tion, ſave now and then a ſarcaſtic remark from Mr. Goſport; for Cecilia was too much occupied by her own affairs, to anſwer or liſten to ſuch unintereſting diſcourſe.

Her ſilence, however, was at length forcibly broken; Mr. Goſport, taking ad⯑vantage of the firſt moment Miſs Larolles ſtopt for breath, ſaid, ‘"Pray what carries you to town, Miſs Beverley, at this time of the year?"’

Cecilia, whoſe thoughts had been wholly employed upon what would paſs at her ap⯑proaching meeting with Delvile, was ſo entirely unprepared for this queſtion, that ſhe could make to it no manner of anſwer, till Mr. Goſport, in a tone of ſome ſurpriſe, repeated it, and then, not without heſita⯑tion, ſhe ſaid, ‘"I have ſome buſineſs, Sir, in London,—pray how long have you been in the country?"’

[125] ‘"Buſineſs, have you?"’ cried he, ſtruck by her evaſion; ‘"and pray what can you and buſineſs have in common?"’

‘"More than you may imagine,"’ an⯑ſwered ſhe, with greater ſteadineſs; ‘"and perhaps before long I may even have enough to teach me the enjoyment of leiſure."’

‘"Why you don't pretend to play my Lady Notable, and become your own ſteward?"’

‘"And what can I do better?"’

‘"What? Why ſeek one ready made to take the trouble off your hands. There are ſuch creatures to be found, I promiſe you: beaſts of burthen, who will freely un⯑dertake the management of your eſtate, for no other reward than the trifling one of poſſeſſing it. Can you no where meet with ſuch an animal?"’

‘"I don't know,"’ anſwered ſhe, laugh⯑ing, ‘"I have not been looking out."’

‘"And have none ſuch made application to you?"’

‘"Why no,—I believe not."’

‘"Fie, fie! no regiſter-office keeper has been peſtered with more claimants. You know they aſſault you by dozens."’

‘"You muſt pardon me, indeed, I know not any ſuch thing."’

[126] ‘"You know, then, why they do not, and that is much the ſame."’

‘"I may conjecture why, at leaſt, the place, I ſuppoſe, is not worth the ſervice."’

‘"No, no; the place, they conclude, is already ſeized, and the fee-ſimple of the eſtate is the heart of the owner. Is it not ſo?"’

‘"The heart of the owner,"’ anſwered ſhe, a little confuſed, ‘"may, indeed, be ſimple, but not, perhaps, ſo eaſily ſeized as you imagine."’

‘"Have you, then, wiſely ſaved it from a ſtorm, by a generous ſurrender? you have been, indeed, in an excellent ſchool for the ſtudy both of attack and defence; Delvile-Caſtle is a fortreſs which, even in ruins, proves its ſtrength by its antiquity: and it teaches, alſo, an admirable leſſon, by diſplaying the dangerous, the infallible power of time, which defies all might, and undermines all ſtrength; which breaks down every barrier, and ſhews nothing en⯑durable but itſelf."’ Then looking at her with an arch earneſtneſs, ‘"I think,"’ he added, ‘"you made a long viſit there; did this obſervation never occur to you? did you never perceive, never feel, rather, the inſidious properties of time?"’

‘"Yes, certainly, anſwered ſhe,"’ alarmed at the very mention of Delvile-Caſtle, yet [127] affecting to underſtand literally what was ſaid metaphorieally, ‘"the havock of time upon the place could not fail ſtrik⯑ing me."’

‘"And was its havock,"’ ſaid he, yet more archly, ‘"merely external? is all within ſafe? ſound and firm? and did the length of your reſidence ſhew its power by no new miſchief?"’

‘"Doubtleſs, not,"’ anſwered ſhe, with the ſame pretended ignorance, ‘"the place is not in ſo deſperate a condition as to exhibit any viſible marks of decay in the courſe of three or four months."’

‘"And, do you not know,"’ cried he, ‘"that the place to which I allude may receive a miſchief in as many minutes which double the number of years cannot rectify? The internal parts of a building are not leſs vulnerable to accident than its outſide; and though the evil may more eaſily be concealed, it will with greater difficulty be remedied. Many a fair ſtruc⯑ture have I ſeen, which, like that now be⯑fore me,"’ (looking with much ſignificance at Cecilia,) ‘"has to the eye ſeemed per⯑fect in all its parts, and unhurt either by time or caſualty, while within, ſome lurk⯑ing evil, ſome latent injury, has ſecretly worked its way into the very heart of the edifice, where it has conſumed its ſtrength, [128] and laid waſte its powers, till, ſinking deeper and deeper, it has ſapped its very founda⯑tion, before the ſuperſtructure has exhibited any token of danger. Is ſuch an accident among the things you hold to be poſſible?"’

‘"Your language,"’ ſaid ſhe, colouring very high, ‘"is ſo florid, that I muſt own it renders your meaning rather obſcure."’

‘"Shall I illuſtrate it by an example? Suppoſe, during your abode in Delvile⯑Caſtle,—"’

‘"No, no,"’ interrupted ſhe, with invo⯑luntary quickneſs, ‘"why ſhould I trouble you to make illuſtrations?"’

‘"O pray, my dear creature,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"how is Mrs. Harrel? I was never ſo ſorry for any body in my life. I quite forgot to aſk after her."’

‘"Ay, poor Harrel!"’ cried Morrice, ‘"he was a great loſs to his friends. I had juſt begun to have a regard for him: we were growing extremely intimate. Poor fellow! he really gave moſt excellent dinners."’

‘"Harrel?"’ ſuddenly exclaimed Mr. Meadows, who ſeemed juſt then to firſt hear what was going forward, ‘"who was he?"’

‘"O, as good-natured a fellow as ever I knew in my life,"’ anſwered Morrice; ‘"he was never out of humour: he was drinking [129] and ſinging and dancing to the very laſt moment. Don't you remember him, Sir, that night at Vauxhall?"’

Mr. Meadows made not any anſwer, but rode languidly on.

Morrice, ever more flippant than ſaga⯑cious, called out, ‘"I really believe the gentleman's deaf! he won't ſo much as ſay umph, and hay, now; but I'll give him ſuch a hallow in his ears, as ſhall make him hear me whether he will or no. Sir! I ſay!"’ bawling aloud, ‘"have you forgot that night at Vauxhall?"’

Mr. Meadows, ſtarting at being thus ſhouted at, looked towards Morrice with ſome ſurpriſe, and ſaid, ‘"Were you ſo obliging, Sir, as to ſpeak to me?"’

‘"Lord, yes, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, amazed; ‘"I thought you had aſked ſomething about Mr. Harrel, ſo I juſt made an anſwer to it;—that's all."’

‘"Sir you are very good,"’ returned he, ſlightly bowing, and then looking another way, as if thoroughly ſatisfied with what had paſſed.

‘"But I ſay, Sir,"’ reſuined Morrice, ‘"don't you remember how Mr. Harrel—"’

‘"Mr. who, Sir?"’

‘"Mr. Harrel, Sir; was not you juſt now aſking me who he was?"’

[130] ‘"O, ay, true,"’ cried Meadows, in a tone of extreme we wearineſs, ‘"I am much obliged to you. Pray give my reſpects to him."’ And, touching his hat, he was riding away; but the aſtoniſhed Morrice called out, ‘"Your reſpects to him? why lord! Sir, don't you know he's dead?"’

‘"Dead?—who, Sir?"’

‘"Why Mr. Harrel, Sir."’

‘"Harrel?—O, very true,"’ cried Mea⯑dows, with a face of ſudden recollection; ‘"he ſhot himſelf, I think, or was knocked down, or ſomething of that ſort. I re⯑member it perfectly."’

‘"O pray,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"don't let's talk about it, it's the cruelleſt thing I ever knew in my life. I aſſure you I was ſo ſhocked, I thought I ſhould never have got the better of it. I remember the next night at Ranelagh I could talk of nothing elſe. I dare ſay I told it to 500 people. I aſſure you I was tired to death; only conceive how diſtreſſing!"’

‘"An excellent method,"’ cried Mr. Goſ⯑port, ‘"to drive it out of your own head, by driving it into the heads of your neigh⯑bours! But were you not afraid, by ſuch an ebullition of pathos, to burſt as many hearts as you had auditors?"’

‘"O I aſſure you,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"every body was ſo exceſſive ſhocked you've no [131] notion; one heard of nothing elſe; all the world was raving mad about it."’

‘"Really yes,"’ cried the Captain; ‘"the ſubject was obſedé upon one partout. There was ſcarce any breathing for it: it poured from all directions; I muſt confeſs I was aneanti with it to a degree."’

‘"But the moſt ſhocking thing in na⯑ture,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"was going to the ſale. I never miſſed a ſingle day. One uſed to meet the whole world there, and every body was ſo ſorry you can't con⯑ceive. It was quite horrid. I aſſure you I never ſuffered ſo much before; it made me ſo unhappy you can't imagine."’

‘"That I am moſt ready to grant,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"be the powers of imagina⯑tion ever ſo excentric."’

‘"Sir Robert Floyer and Mr. Marriot,"’ continued Miſs Larolles, ‘"have behaved ſo ill you've no idea, for they have done nothing ever ſince but ſay how monſtrouſly Mr. Harrel had cheated them, and how they loſt ſuch immenſe ſums by him;—only conceive how ill-natured!"’

‘"And they complain,"’ cried Mor⯑rice, ‘"that old Mr. Delvile uſed them worſe; for that when they had been de⯑frauded of all that money on purpoſe to pay their addreſſes to Miſs Beverley, he would never let them ſee her, but all of a [132] ſudden took her off into the country, on purpoſe to marry her to his own ſon."’

The cheeks of Cecilia now glowed with the deepeſt bluſhes; but finding by a ge⯑neral ſilence that ſhe was expected to make ſome anſwer, ſhe ſaid, with what unconcern ſhe could aſſume, ‘"They were very much miſtaken; Mr. Delvile had no ſuch view."’

‘"Indeed?"’ cried Mr. Goſport, again perceiving her change of countenance; ‘"and is it poſſible you have actually eſcaped a ſiege, while every body con⯑cluded you taken by aſſault? Pray where is young Delvile at preſent?"’

‘"I don't—I can't tell, Sir."’

‘"Is it long ſince you have ſeen him?"’

‘"It is two months,"’ anſwered ſhe, with yet more heſitation, ‘"ſince I was at Del⯑vile-Caſtle."’

‘"O, but,"’ cried Morrice, ‘"did not you ſee him while he was in Suffolk? I believe, indeed, he is there now, for it was only yeſterday I heard of his coming down, by a gentleman who called upon Lady Margaret, and told us he had ſeen a ſtranger, a day or two ago, at Mrs. Charlton's door, and when he aſked who he was, they told him his name was Delvile, and ſaid he was on a viſit at Mr. Biddulph's."’

[133] Cecilia was quite confounded by this ſpeech; to have it known that Delvile had viſited her, was in itſelf alarming, but to have her own equivocation thus glaringly expoſed, was infinitely more dangerous. The juſt ſuſpicions to which it muſt give riſe filled her with dread, and the palpable evaſion in which ſhe had been diſcovered, overwhelmed her with confuſion.

‘"So you had forgotton,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſ⯑port, looking at her with much archneſs, ‘"that you had ſeen him within the two months? but no wonder; for where is the lady who having ſo many admirers, can be at the trouble to remember which of them ſhe ſaw laſt? or who, being ſo accuſtomed to adulation, can hold it worth while to enquire whence it comes? A thouſand Mr. Delviles are to Miſs Beverley but as one; uſed from them all to the ſame tale, ſhe regards them not individually as lovers, but collectively as men; and to gather, even from herſelf, which ſhe is moſt in⯑clined to favour, ſhe muſt probably deſire, like Portia in the Merchant of Venice, that their names may be run over one by one, before ſhe can diſtinctly tell which is which."’

The gallant gaiety of this ſpeech was ſome relief to Cecilia, who was beginning a laughing reply, when Morrice called out, [134] ‘"That man looks as if he was upon the ſcout."’ And, raiſing her eyes, ſhe per⯑ceived a man on horſeback, who, though much muffled up, his hat flapped, and a handkerchief held to his mouth and chin, ſhe inſtantly, by his air and figure, recog⯑nized to be Delvile.

In much conſternation at this ſight, ſhe forgot what ſhe meant to ſay, and dropping her eyes, walked ſilently on. Mr. Goſ⯑port, attentive to her motions, looked from her to the horſeman, and after a ſhort exa⯑mination, ſaid, ‘"I think I have ſeen that man before; have you, Miſs Beverley?"’ ‘"Me?—no,"’—anſwered ſhe, ‘"I believe not,—I hardly, indeed, ſee him now."’

‘"I have, I am pretty ſure,"’ ſaid Mor⯑rice; ‘"and if I could ſee his face, I dare ſay I ſhould recollect him."’

‘"He ſeems very willing to know if he can recollect any of us,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"and, if I am not miſtaken, he ſees much better than he is ſeen."’

He was now come up to them, and though a glance ſufficed to diſcover the object of his ſearch, the ſight of the party with which ſhe was ſurrounded made him not care ſtop or ſpeak to her, and therefore, clapping ſpurs to his horſe, he gallopped paſt them.

[135] ‘"See,"’ cried Morrice, looking after him, ‘"how he turns round to examine us! I wonder who he is."’

‘"Perhaps ſome highwayman!"’ cried Miſs Larolles; ‘"I aſſure you I am in a prodigious fright: I ſhould hate to be robbed ſo you can't think."’

‘"I was going to make much the ſame conjecture,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"and, if I am not greatly deceived, that man is a robber of no common ſort. What think you, Miſs Beverley, can you diſcern a thief in diſguiſe?"’

‘"No, indeed; I pretend to no ſuch ex⯑traordinary knowledge."’

‘"That's true; for all that you pretend is extraordinary ignorance."’

‘"I have a good mind,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"to ride after him, and ſee what he is about."’

‘"What for?"’ exclaimed Cecilia, greatly alarmed; ‘"there can certainly be no oc⯑caſion!"’

‘"No, pray don't,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"for, I aſſure you, if he ſhould come back to rob us, I ſhould die upon the ſpot. No⯑thing could be ſo diſagreeable; I ſhould ſcream ſo, you've no idea."’

Morrice then gave up the propoſal, and they walked quietly on; but Cecilia was [136] extremely diſturbed by this accident; ſhe readily conjectured that, impatient for her arrival, Delvile had ridden that way, to ſee what had retarded her, and ſhe was ſenſible that nothing could be ſo deſirable as an im⯑mediate explanation of the motive of her journey. Such a meeting, therefore, had ſhe been alone, was juſt what ſhe could have wiſhed, though, thus unluckily en⯑compaſſed, it only added to her anxiety.

Involuntarily, however, ſhe quickened her pace, through her eagerneſs to be relieved from ſo troubleſome a party: but Miſs La⯑rolles, who was in no ſuch haſte, proteſted ſhe could not keep up with her; ſaying, ‘"You don't conſider that I have got this ſweet little dog to carry, and he is ſuch a ſhocking plague to me you've no notion. Only conceive what a weight he is!"’

‘"Pray, ma'am,"’ cried Morrice, ‘"let me take him for you; I'll be very careful of him, I promiſe you; and you need not be afraid to truſt me, for I underſtand more about dogs than about any thing."’

Miſs Larolles, after many fond careſſes, being really weary, conſented, and Morrice placed the little animal before him on horſeback: but while this matter was ad⯑juſting, and Miſs Larolles was giving direc⯑tions how ſhe would have it held, Morrice exclaimed, ‘"Look, Look! that man is [137] coming back! He is certainly watching us. There! now he's going off again!—I ſuppoſe he ſaw me remarking him."’

‘"I dare ſay he's laying in wait to rob us,"’ ſaid Miſs Larolles; ‘"ſo when we turn off the high road, to go to Mrs. Mears, I ſuppoſe he'll come gallopping after us. It's exceſſive horrid, I aſſure you."’

‘"'Tis a petrifying thing,"’ ſaid the cap⯑tain, ‘"that one muſt always be degouté by ſome wretched being or other of this ſort; but pray be not deranged, I will ride after him, if you pleaſe, and do mon poſſible to get rid of him."’

‘"Indeed I wiſh you would,"’ anſwered Miſs Larolles, ‘"for I aſſure you he has put ſuch ſhocking notions into my head, it's quite diſagreeable."’

‘"I ſhall make it a principle,"’ ſaid the captain, ‘"to have the honour of obeying you."’ And was riding off, when Cecilia, in great agitation, called out ‘"Why ſhould you go, Sir?—he is not in our way,—pray let him alone,—for what purpoſe ſhould you purſue him?"’

‘"I hope,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"for the purpoſe of making him join our company, to ſome part of which I fancy he would be no very intolerable addition."’

This ſpeech again ſilenced Cecilia, who perceived, with the utmoſt confuſion, that [138] both Delvile and herſelf were undoubtedly ſuſpected by Mr. Goſport, if not already actually betrayed to him. She was obliged, therefore, to let the matter take its courſe, though quite ſick with apprehenſion leſt a full diſcovery ſhould follow the projected purſuit.

The Captain, who wanted not courage, however deeply in vanity and affectation he had buried common ſenſe, ſtood ſuſpended, upon the requeſt of Cecilia, that he would not go, and, with a ſhrug of diſtreſs, ſaid, ‘"Give me leave to own I am parfaitment in a ſtate the moſt accablant in the world: nothing could give me greater plea⯑ſure than to profit of the occaſion to ac⯑commodate either of theſe ladies; but as they proceed upon different principles, I am indecidé to a degree which way to turn myſelf!"’

‘"Put it to the vote, then,"’ ſaid Mor⯑rice; ‘"the two ladies have both ſpoke; now, then, for the gentleman. Come, Sir,"’ to Mr. Goſport, ‘"what ſay you?"’

‘"O, fetch the culprit back, by all means,"’ anſwered he; ‘"and then let us all inſiſt upon his opening his cauſe, by telling us in what he has offended us; for there is no part of his buſineſs, I believe, with which we are leſs acquainted."’

[139] ‘"Well,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"I'm for aſking him a few queſtions too; ſo is the Captain; ſo every body has ſpoke but you, Sir,"’ ad⯑dreſſing himſelf to Mr. Meadows, ‘"So now, Sir, let's hear your opinion."’

Mr. Meadows, appearing wholly inat⯑tentive, rode on. ‘"Why, Sir! I ſay!"’ cried Morris, louder, ‘"we are all wait⯑ing for your vote. Pray what is the gen⯑tleman's name? it's duced hard to make him hear one."’

‘"His name is Meadows,"’ ſaid Miſs Larolles, in a low voice, ‘"and I aſſure you ſometimes he won't hear people by the hour together. He's ſo exceſſive abſent you've no notion. One day he made me ſo mad, that I could not help crying; and Mr. Sawyer was ſtanding by the whole time! and I aſſure you I believe he laughed at me. Only conceive how diſtreſſing!"’

‘"May be,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"its out of baſhfulneſs: perhaps he thinks we ſhall cut him up."’

‘"Baſhfulneſs,"’ repeated Miſs Larolles; ‘"Lord, you don't conceive the thing at all. Why he's at the very head of the ton. There's nothing in the world ſo faſhionable as taking no notice of things, and never ſeeing people, and ſaying nothing at all, and never hearing a word, and not knowing one's own acquaintance. All the ton people [140] do ſo, and I aſſure you as to Mr. Meadows, he's ſo excceſſively courted by every body, that if he does but ſay a ſyllable, he thinks it ſuch an immenſe favour, you've no idea."’

This account, however little alluring in itſelf, of his celebrity, was yet ſufficient to make Morrice covet his further acquaint⯑ance: for Morrice was ever attentive to turn his pleaſure to his profit, and never negligent of his intereſt, but when ignorant how to purſue it. He returned, therefore, to the charge, though by no means with the ſame freedom he had begun it, and lowering his voice to a tone of reſpect and ſubmiſſion, he ſaid, ‘"Pray, Sir, may we take the liberty to aſk your advice, whether we ſhall go on, or take a turn back?"’

Mr. Meadows made not any anſwer; but when Morrice was going to repeat his queſtion, without appearing even to know that he was near him, he abruptly ſaid to Miſs Larolles, ‘"Pray what is become of Mrs. Mears? I don't ſee her amongſt us."’

‘"Lord, Mr. Meadows,"’ exclaimed ſhe, ‘"how can you be ſo odd? Don't you re⯑member ſhe went on in a chaiſe to the inn?"’

‘"O, ay, true,"’ cried he; ‘"I proteſt I had quite forgot it; I beg your pardon, indeed. Yes, I recollect now,—ſhe fell off her horſe."’

[141] ‘"Her horſe? Why you know ſhe was in her chaiſe."’

‘"Her chaiſe, was it?—ay, true, ſo it was. Poor thing!—I am glad ſhe was not hurt."’

‘"Not hurt? Why ſhe's ſo exceſſively bruiſed, ſhe cant ſtir a ſtep! Only con⯑ceive what a memory you've got!"’

‘"I am moſt extremely ſorry for her in⯑deed,"’ cried he, again ſtretching himſelf and yawning; ‘"poor ſoul!—I hope ſhe won't die. Do you think ſhe will!"’

‘"Die!"’ repeated Miſs Larolles, with a ſcream, ‘"Lord, how ſhocking! You are really enough to frighten one to hear you."’

‘"But Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"I wiſh you would be ſo kind as to give us your vote; the man will elſe be gone ſo far, we ſha'n't be able to overtake him.—Though I do really believe that is the very fellow com⯑ing back to peep at us again!"’

‘"I am ennuyé to a degree,"’ cried the Captain; ‘"he is certainly ſet upon us as a ſpy, and I muſt really beg leave to enquire of him upon what principle he incom⯑modes us."’—And inſtantly he rode after him.

‘"And ſo will I too,"’ cried Morrice, following.

[142] Miſs Larolles ſcreamed after him to give her firſt her little dog; but with a ſchool⯑boy's eagerneſs to be foremoſt, he gal⯑lopped on without heeding her.

The uneaſineſs of Cecilia now encreaſed every moment; the diſcovery of Delvile ſeemed unavoidable, and his impatient and indiſcreet watchfulneſs muſt have rendered the motives of his diſguiſe but too glaring. All ſhe had left to hope was arriving at the inn before the detection was announced, and at leaſt ſaving herſelf the cruel mortifi⯑cation of hearing the raillery which would follow it.

Even this, however, was not allowed her; Miſs Larolles, whom ſhe had no means to quit, hardly ſtirred another ſtep, from her anxiety for her dog, and the earneſtneſs of her curioſity about the ſtranger. She loitered, ſtopt now to talk, and now to liſten, and was ſcarce moved a yard from the ſpot where ſhe had been left, when the Captain and Morrice returned.

‘"We could not for our lives overtake the fellow,"’ ſaid Morrice; ‘"he was well mounted, I promiſe you, and I'll warrant he knows what he's about, for he turned off ſo ſhort at a place where there were two narrow lanes, that we could not make out wh [...] way he went."’

[143] Cecilia, relieved and delighted by this unexpected eſcape, now recovered her compoſure, and was content to ſaunter on without repining.

‘"But though we could not ſeize his perſon,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"we have debar⯑raſſed ourſelves tout a fait from his purſuit; I hope, therefore, Miſs Larolles will make a revoke of her apprehenſions."’

The anſwer to this was nothing but a loud ſcream, with an exclamation, ‘"Lord, where's my dog?"’

‘"Your dog!"’ cried Morrice, looking aghaſt, ‘"good ſtars! I never thought of him!"’

‘"How exceſſive barbarous!"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"you've killed him, I dare ſay. Only think how ſhocking! I had rather have ſeen any body ſerved ſo in the world. I ſhall never forgive it, I aſſure you."’

‘"Lord, ma'am,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"How can you ſuppoſe I've killed him? Poor, pretty creature, I'am ſure I liked him pro⯑digiouſly. I can't think for my life where he can be: but I have a notion he muſt have dropt down ſome where while I hap⯑pened to be on the full gallop. I'll go [...]ok him, however, for we went at ſuch a rate that I never miſſed him."’

Away again rode Morrice.

‘"I am abimé to the greateſt degree,"’ [144] ſaid the Captain, ‘"that the poor little ſweet fellow ſhould be loſt: if I had thought him in any danger, I would have made it a principle to have had a regard to his perſon myſelf. Will you give me leave, ma'am, to have the honour of ſeeking him partout?"’

‘"O, I wiſh you would with all my heart; for I aſſure you if I don't find him, I ſhall think it ſo exceſſive diſtreſſing you can't conceive."’

The Captain touched his hat, and was gone.

Theſe repeated impediments almoſt robbed Cecilia of all patience; yet her total inability of reſiſtance obliged her to ſubmit, and compelled her to go, ſtop, or turn, according to their own motions.

‘"New if Mr. Meadows had the leaſt good-nature in the world,"’ ſaid Miſs La⯑rolles, ‘"he would offer to help us; but he's ſo exceſſive odd, that I believe if we were all of us to fall down and break our necks, he would be ſo abſent he would hardly take the trouble to aſk us how we did."’

‘"Why in ſo deſperate a caſe,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"the trouble would be rather ſuperfluous. However, don't repine that one of the cavaliers ſtays with us by way of guard, leſt your friend the ſpy ſhould [145] take us by ſurprize while our troop is diſperſed."’

‘"O Lord,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"now you put it in my head, I dare ſay that wretch has got my dog! only think how horrid!"’

‘"I ſaw plainly,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, looking ſignificantly at Cecilia, ‘"that he was feloniouſly inclined, though I muſt confeſs I took him not for a dog-ſtealer."’

Miſs Larolles then, running up to Mr. Meadows, called out, ‘"I have a pro⯑digious immenſe favour to aſk of you, Mr. Meadows."’

‘"Ma'am!"’ cried Mr. Meadows, with his uſual ſtart.

‘"It's only to know, whether if that hor⯑rid creature ſhould come back, you could not juſt ride up to him and ſhoot him, before he gets to us? Now will you pro⯑miſe me to do it?"’

‘"You are vaſtly good,"’ ſaid he, with a vacant ſmile; ‘"what a charming evening! Do you love the country?’

‘"Yes, vaſtly; only I'm ſo monſtrouſly tired, I can hardly ſtir a ſtep. Do you like it?"’

‘"The country? O no! I deteſt it! Duſty hedges, and chirping ſparrows! 'Tis amazing to me any body can exiſt upon ſuch terms."’

[146] ‘"I aſſure you,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"I'm quite of your opinion. I hate the country ſo you've no notion. I wiſh with all my heart it was all under ground. I declare, when I firſt go into it for the ſum⯑mer, I cry ſo you can't think. I like nothing but London.—Don't you?"’

‘"London!"’ repeated Mr. Meadows, ‘"O melancholy! the ſink of all vice and depravity. Streets without light! Houſes without air! Neighbourhood without ſo⯑ciety! Talkers without liſteners!—'Tis aſtoniſhing any rational being can endure to be ſo miſerably immured."’

‘"Lord, Mr. Meadows,"’ cried ſhe, an⯑grily, ‘"I believe you would have one live no where!"’

‘"True, very true, ma'am,"’ ſaid he, yawn⯑ing, ‘one really lives no where; one does but vegetate, and wiſh it all at an end. Don't you find it ſo, ma'am?"’

‘"Me? no indeed; I aſſure you I like living of all things. Whenever I'm ill, I'm in ſuch a fright you've no idea. I always think I'm going to die, and it puts me ſo out of ſpirits you can't think. Does not it you, too?"’

Here Mr. Meadows, looking another way, began to whiſtle.

‘"Lord,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"how [147] exceſſive diſtreſſing! to aſk one queſtions, and then never hear what one anſwers!"’

Here the Captain returned alone; and Miſs Larolles, flying to meet him, de⯑manded where was her dog?

‘"I have the malheur to aſſure you,"’ anſwered he, ‘"that I never was more ane⯑anti in my life! the pretty little fellow has broke another leg!"’

Miſs Larolles, in a paſſion of grief, then declared ſhe was certain that Morrice had maimed him thus on purpoſe, and deſired to know where the vile wretch was?

‘"He was ſo much diſcompoſed at the incident,"’ replied the Captain, ‘"that he rode inſtantly another way. I took up the pretty fellow therefore myſelf, and have done mon poſſible not to derange him."’

The unfortunate little animal was then delivered to Miſs Larolles; and after much lamentation, they at length continued their walk, and, without further adventure, ar⯑rived at the inn.

CHAPTER I. AN INTERRUPTION.

BUT here, inſtead of finding, as ſhe expected, Mrs. Charlton and freſh horſes in readineſs, Cecilia ſaw neither chaiſe nor preparation; Mrs. Charlton was quietly ſeated in a parlour, and drinking tea with Mrs. Mears.

Vexed and diſappointed, ſhe ordered horſes immediately to the chaiſe, and en⯑treated Mrs. Charlton to loſe no more time. But the various delays which had already retarded them, had made it now ſo late that it was impoſſible to get into London by day⯑light, and Mrs. Charlton not having cou⯑rage to be upon the road after dark, had ſettled to ſleep at the inn, and purpoſed not to proceed till the next morning.

Half diſtracted at this new difficulty, Ce⯑cilia begged to ſpeak with her alone, and then [149] repreſented in the moſt earneſt manner, the abſolute neceſſity there was for her being in London that night: ‘"Every thing,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"depends upon it, and the whole purpoſe of my journey will otherwiſe be loſt, for Mr. Delvile will elſe think him⯑ſelf extremely ill uſed, and to make him reparation, I may be compelled to ſubmit to almoſt whatever terms he ſhall propoſe."’

Mrs. Charlton, kind and yielding, with⯑ſtood not this entreaty, which Cecilia made with infinite pain to herſelf, from the reluc⯑tance ſhe felt to purſuing her own intereſt and inclination in oppoſition to thoſe of her worthy old friend: but as ſhe was now cir⯑cumſtanced, ſhe conſidered the immediate proſecution of her journey as her only re⯑ſource againſt firſt irritating Delvile by an abrupt diſappointment, and appeaſing him next by a conceſſion which would make that diſappointment end in nothing.

The chaiſe was ſoon ready, and Mrs. Charlton and Cecilia were riſing to take leave of the company, when a man and horſe gallopped full ſpeed into the inn-yard, and in leſs than a minute, Morrice bounced into the room.

‘"Ladies and gentlemen,"’ cried he, quite out of breath with haſte, ‘"I have got ſome news for you! I've juſt ſound out [150] who that perſon is that has been watching us."’

Cecilia, ſtarting at this moſt unwelcome intelligence, would now have run into the chaiſe without hearing him proceed; but Mrs. Charlton, who knew neither whom nor what he meant, involuntarily ſtopt, and Cecilia, whoſe arm ſhe leant upon, was compelled to ſtay.

Every one elſe eagerly deſired to know who he was.

‘"Why I'll tell you,"’ ſaid he, ‘"how I found him out. I was thinking in my own mind what I could poſſibly do to make amends for that unlucky accident about the dog, and juſt then I ſpied the very man that had made me drop him; ſo I thought at leaſt I'd find out who he was. I rode up to him ſo quick that he could not get away from me, though I ſaw plainly it was the thing he meant. But ſtill he kept himſelf muffled up, juſt as he did before. Not ſo ſnug, thought I, my friend, I ſhall have you yet! It's a fine evening, Sir, ſays I; but he took no notice: ſo then I came more to the point; Sir, ſays I, I think I have had the pleaſure of ſeeing you, though I quite forget where. Still he made no anſwer: if you have no objection, Sir, ſays I, I ſhall be glad to ride with you, for the night's com⯑ing on, and we have neither of us a ſervant. [151] But then, without a word ſpeaking, he rode on the quicker. However, I jogged by his ſide, as faſt as he, and ſaid, Pray, Sir, did you know any thing of that company you were looking at ſo hard juſt now? And at this he could hold out no longer; he turned to me in a moſt fierce paſſion, and ſaid pray, Sir, don't be troubleſome. And then he got off; for when I found by his voice who he was, I let him alone."’

Cecilia, who could bear to hear no more, again haſtened Mrs. Charlton, who now moved on; but Morrice, ſtepping between them both and the door, ſaid ‘"Now do pray, Miſs Beverley, gueſs who it was."’

‘"No indeed, I cannot,"’ ſaid ſhe, in the utmoſt confuſion, ‘"nor have I any time to hear. Come, dear madam, we ſhall be very late indeed."’

‘"O but I muſt tell you before you go;—why it was young Mr. Delvile! the ſame that I ſaw with you one night at the Pan⯑theon, and that I uſed to meet laſt ſpring at Mr. Harrel's."’

‘"Mr. Delvile!"’ repeated every one; ‘"very ſtrange he ſhould not ſpeak."’

‘"Pray, ma'am,"’ continued Morrice, ‘"is it not the ſame gentleman that was at Mr. Biddulph's?"’

Cecilia, half dead with ſhame and vexa⯑tion, ſtammered out ‘"No, no,—I be⯑lieve [152] not,—I can't tell;—I have not a mo⯑ment to ſpare."’

And then, at laſt, got Mrs. Charlton out of the room, and into the chaiſe. But thither, before ſhe could drive off, ſhe was followed by Mr. Goſport, who gravely came to offer his advice that ſhe would im⯑mediately lodge an information at the Pub⯑lic Office in Bow-Street, that a very ſuſpi⯑cious looking man had been obſerved loi⯑tering in thoſe parts, who appeared to har⯑bour moſt dangerous deſigns againſt her perſon and property.

Cecilia was too much confounded to rally or reply, and Mr. Goſport returned to his party with his ſpeech unanſwered.

The reſt of the journey was without any new caſualty, for late as it was, they eſ⯑caped being robbed: but neither robbers nor new caſualties were wanting to make it unpleaſant to Cecilia; the incidents which had already happened ſufficed for that pur⯑poſe; and the conſciouſneſs of being ſo generally betrayed, added to the delay of her recantation, prepared her for nothing but mortifications to herſelf, and conflicts with Delvile the moſt bitter and ſevere.

It was near ten o'clock before they ar⯑rived in Pall-Mall. The houſe to which Delvile had given directions was eaſily [153] found, and the ſervant ſent forward had prepared the people of it for their reception.

In the cruelleſt anxiety and trepidation, Cecilia then counted every moment till Del⯑vile came. She planned an apology for her conduct with all the addreſs of which ſhe was miſtreſs, and determined to bear his diſappointment and indignation with firmneſs: yet the part ſhe had to act was both hard and artificial; ſhe ſighed to have it over, and repined ſhe muſt have it at all.

The inſtant there was a knock at the door, ſhe flew out upon the ſtairs to liſten; and hearing his well-known voice enquir⯑ing for the ladies who had juſt taken the lodgings, ſhe ran back to Mrs. Charlton, ſaying, ‘"Ah, madam, aſſiſt me I entreat! for now muſt I merit, or forfeit your eſteem for-ever!"’

‘"Can you pardon,"’ cried Delvile, as he entered the room, ‘"an intruſion which was not in our bond? But how could I wait till to-morrow, when I knew you were in town to-night?"’

He then made his compliments to Mrs. Charlton, and, after enquiring how ſhe had borne her journey, turned again to Cecilia, whoſe uneaſy ſenſations he ſaw but too plainly in her countenance: ‘"Are you [154] angry,"’ cried he, anxiouſly, ‘"that I have ventured to come hither to night?"’

‘"No,"’ anſwered ſhe, ſtruggling with all her feelings for compoſure; ‘"what we wiſh is eaſily excuſed; and I am glad to ſee you to night, becauſe otherwiſe—"’

She heſitated; and Delvile, little ima⯑gining why, thanked her in the warmeſt terms for her condeſcenſion. He then re⯑lated how he had been tormented by Mor⯑rice, enquired why Mr. Monckton had not accompanied her, and what could poſſibly have induced her to make her journey ſo late, or, with ſo large a party, to be walk⯑ing upon the high road inſtead of haſten⯑ing to London.

‘"I wonder not,"’ anſwered ſhe, more ſteadily, ‘"at your ſurpriſe, though I have now no time to leſſen it. You have never, I find, received my letter?"’

‘"No,"’ cried he, much ſtruck by her manner; ‘"was it to forbid our meeting till to-morrow?"’

‘"To-morrow!"’ ſhe repeated expreſ⯑ſively, ‘"no; it was to forbid—"’

Here the door was ſuddenly opened, and Morrice burſt into the room.

The diſmay and aſtoniſhment of Delvile at ſight of him could only be equalled by the confuſion and conſternation of Cecilia; but Morrice, perceiving neither, abruptly [155] called out ‘"Miſs Beverley, I quite beg your pardon for coming ſo late, but you muſt know—"’ then ſtopping ſhort upon ſeeing Delvile, ‘"Good lord,"’ he exclaimed, ‘"if here is not our gentleman ſpy! Why, Sir, you have not ſpared the ſpur! I left you gallopping off quite another way."’

‘"However that may be, Sir,"’ cried Delvile, equally enraged at the interruption and the obſervation, ‘"you did not, I pre⯑ſume, wait upon Miſs Beverley to talk of me?"’

‘"No, Sir,"’ anſwered he, lightly, ‘"for I had told her all about you at the inn. Did not I, Miſs Beverley? Did not I tell you I was ſure it was Mr. Delvile that was dodg⯑ing us about ſo? Though I believe, Sir, you thought I had not found you out?"’

‘"And pray, young man,"’ ſaid Mrs. Charlton, much offended by this familiar intruſion, ‘"how did you find us out?"’

‘"Why, ma'am, by the luckieſt acci⯑dent in the world! Juſt as I was riding in⯑to town, I met the returned chaiſe that brought you; and I knew the poſtilion very well, as I go that road pretty often: ſo, by the mereſt chance in the world, I ſaw him by the light of the moon. And then he told me where he had ſet you down."’

‘"And pray, Sir,"’ again aſked Mrs. [156] Charlton, ‘"what was your reaſon for mak⯑ing the enquiry?"’

‘"Why, ma'am, I had a little favour to aſk of Miſs Beverley, that made me think I would take the liberty to call."’

‘"And was this time of night, Sir,"’ ſhe returned, ‘"the only one you could chuſe for that purpoſe?"’

‘"Why, ma'am, I'll tell you how that was; I did not mean to have called till to⯑morrow morning; but as I was willing to know if the poſtilion had given me a right direction, I knocked one ſoft little knock at the door, thinking you might be gone to bed after your journey, merely to aſk if it was the right houſe; but when the ſervant told me there was a gentleman with you al⯑ready, I thought there would be no harm in juſt ſtepping for a moment up ſtairs."’

‘"And what, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, whom mingled ſhame and vexation had hitherto kept ſilent, ‘"is your buſineſs with me?"’

‘"Why, ma'am, I only juſt called to give you a direction to a moſt excellent dog-doctor, as we call him, that lives at the corner of —"’

‘"A dog-doctor, Sir?"’ repeated Cecilia, ‘"and what have I to do with any ſuch di⯑rection?"’

‘"Why you muſt know, ma'am, I have been in the greateſt concern imaginable [157] about that accident which happened to me with the poor little dog, and ſo—"’

‘"What little dog, Sir?"’ cried Delvile, who now began to conclude he was not ſober, ‘"do you know what you are talk⯑ing of?"’

‘"Yes, Sir, for it was that very little dog you made me drop out of my arms, by which means he broke his other leg."’

‘"I made you drop him?"’ cried Delvile, angrily, ‘"I believe, Sir, you had much better call ſome other time; it does not ap⯑pear to me that you are in a proper ſituation for remaining here at preſent."’

‘"Sir, I ſhall be gone in an inſtant,"’ an⯑ſwered Morrice; ‘"I merely wanted to beg the favour of Miſs Beverley to tell that young lady that owned the dog, that if ſhe will carry him to this man, I am ſure he will make a cure of him."’

‘"Come, Sir,"’ ſaid Delvile, convinced now of his inebriety, ‘"if you pleaſe we will walk away together."’

‘"I don't mean to take you away, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, looking very ſignificantly, ‘"for I ſuppoſe you have not rode ſo hard to go ſo ſoon; but as to me, I'll only write the direction, and be off."’

Delvile, amazed and irritated at ſo many following ſpecimens of ignorant aſſurance, would not, in his preſent eagerneſs, have [158] ſcrupled turning him out of the houſe, had he not thought it imprudent, upon ſuch an occaſion, to quarrel with him, and im⯑proper, at ſo late an hour, to be left be⯑hind: he therefore only, while he was writ⯑ing the direction, told Cecilia, in a low voice, that he would get rid of him and re⯑turn in an inſtant.

They then went together; leaving Cecilia in an agony of diſtreſs ſurpaſſing all ſhe had hitherto experienced." ‘"Ah, Mrs. Charl⯑ton,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"what refuge have I now from ridicule, or perhaps diſgrace! Mr. Delvile has been detected watching me in diſguiſe! he has been diſcovered at this late hour meeting me in private! The ſtory will reach his family with all the hyperbole of exaggeration;—how will his noble mother diſdain me! how cruelly ſhall I ſink before the ſeverity of her eye!"’

Mrs. Charlton tried to comfort her, but the effort was vain, and ſhe ſpent her time in the bittereſt repining till eleven o'clock. Delvile's not returning then added wonder to her ſadneſs, and the impropriety of his returning at all ſo late, grew every inſtant more glaring.

At laſt, though in great diſturbance, and evidently much ruffled in his temper, he came: ‘"I feared,"’ he cried, ‘"I had paſ⯑ſed the time for admittance, and the tor⯑ture [159] I have ſuffered from being detained has almoſt driven me wild. I have been in mi⯑ſery to ſee you again,—your looks, your manner,—the letter you talk of,—all have filled me with alarm; and though I know not what it is, I have to dread, I find it im⯑poſſible to reſt a moment without ſome ex⯑planation. Tell me, then, why you ſeem thus ſtrange and thus depreſſed? Tell me what that letter was to forbid? Tell me any thing, and every thing, but that you re⯑pent your condeſcenſion."’

‘"That letter,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"would have explained to you all. I ſcarce know how to communicate its contents: yet I hope you will hear with patience what I acknow⯑ledge I have reſolved upon only from ne⯑ceſſity. That letter was to tell you that to⯑morrow we muſt not meet;—it was to pre⯑pare you, indeed, for our meeting, perhaps, never more!"’

‘"Gracious heaven!"’ exclaimed he, ſtart⯑ing, ‘"what is it you mean?"’

‘"That I have made a promiſe too raſh to be kept; that you muſt pardon me if, late as it is, I retract, ſince I am convinced it was wrong, and muſt be wretched in per⯑forming it."’

Confounded and diſmayed, for a moment he continued ſilent, and then paſſionately called out, ‘"Who has been with you to [160] defame me in your opinion? Who has bar⯑barouſly wronged my character ſince I left you laſt Monday? Mr. Monckton received me coldly,—has he injured me in your eſ⯑teem? Tell, tell me but to whom I owe this change, that my vindication, if it re⯑ſtores not your favour, may at leaſt make you ceaſe to bluſh that once I was honoured with ſome ſhare of it!'’

‘"It wants not to be reſtored,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, with much ſoftneſs, ‘"ſince it has never been alienated. Be ſatisfied that I think of you as I thought when we laſt parted, and generouſly forbear to reproach me, when I aſſure you I am actuated by principles which you ought not to diſap⯑prove."’

‘"And are you then, unchanged?"’ cried he, more gently, ‘"and is your eſteem for me ſtill—"’

‘"I thought it juſtice to ſay ſo once,"’ cried ſhe, haſtily interrupting him, ‘"but exact from me nothing more. It is too late for us now to talk any longer; to-mor⯑row you may find my letter at Mrs. Ro⯑berts's, and that, ſhort as it is, contains my reſolution and its cauſe."’

‘"Never,"’ cried he vehemently, ‘"can I quit you without knowing it! I would not linger till to-morrow in this ſuſpence to be maſter of the univerſe!"’

[161] ‘"I have told it you, Sir, already: what⯑ever is clandeſtine carries a conſciouſneſs of evil, and ſo repugnant do I find it to my diſ⯑poſition and opinions, that till you give me back the promiſe I ſo unworthily made, I muſt be a ſtranger to peace, becauſe at war with my own actions and myſelf."’

‘"Recover, then, your peace,"’ cried Delvile, with much emotion, ‘"for I here acquit you of all promiſe!—to fetter, to compel you, were too inhuman to afford me any happineſs. Yet hear me, diſpaſ⯑ſionately hear me, and deliberate a moment before you reſolve upon my exile. Your ſcruples I am not now going combat, I grieve that they are ſo powerful, but I have no new arguments with which to oppoſe them; all I have to ſay, is, that it is now too late for a retreat to ſatisfy them."’

‘"True, Sir, and far too true! yet is it always beſt to do right, however tardily; al⯑ways better to repent, than to grow callous in wrong."’

‘"Suffer not, however, your delicacy for my family to make you forget what is due to yourſelf as well as to me: the fear of ſhock⯑ing you led me juſt now to conceal what a greater fear now urges me to mention. The honour I have had in view is already known to many, and in a very ſhort time there are none will be ignorant of it. That impu⯑dent [162] young man, Morrice, had the effron⯑tery to rally me upon my paſſion for you, and though I reproved him with great aſpe⯑rity, he followed me into a coffee-houſe, whither I went merely to avoid him. There I forced myſelf to ſtay, till I ſaw him en⯑gaged with a news-paper, and then, through various private ſtreets and alleys, I returned hither; but judge my indignation, when the moment I knocked at the door, I per⯑ceived him again at my ſide!"’

‘"Did he, then, ſee you come in?"’

‘"I angrily demanded what he meant by thus purſuing me; he very ſubmiſſively begged my pardon, and ſaid he had had a notion I ſhould come back, and had there⯑fore only followed me to ſee if he was right! I heſitated for an inſtant whether to chaſtiſe, or confide in him, but believing a few hours would make his impertinence immaterial, I did neither,—the door opened, and I came in."’

He ſtopt; but Cecilia was too much ſhocked to anſwer him.

‘"Now, then,"’ ſaid he, ‘"weigh your objections againſt the conſequences which muſt follow. It is diſcovered I attended you in town; it will be preſumed I had your permiſſion for ſuch attendance: to ſe⯑parate, therefore, now, will be to no pur⯑poſe with reſpect to that delicacy which [163] makes you wiſh it. It will be food for con⯑jecture, for enquiry, for wonder, almoſt while both our names are remembered, and while to me it will bring the keeneſt miſery in the ſeverity of my diſappointment, it will caſt over your own conduct a veil of myſtery and obſcurity wholly ſubverſive of that un⯑clouded openneſs, that fair, tranſparent in⯑genuouſneſs, by which it has hitherto been diſtinguiſhed."’

‘"Alas, then,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"how dread⯑fully have I erred, that whatever path I now take muſt lead me wrong!"’

‘"You overwhelm me with grief,"’ cried Delvile, ‘"by finding you thus diſtreſſed, when I had hoped—Oh cruel Cecilia! how different to this did I hope to have met you!—all your doubts ſettled, all your fears removed, your mind perfectly compoſed, and ready, unreluctantly, to ratify the pro⯑miſe with ſo much ſweetneſs accorded me!—where now are thoſe hopes!—where now—"’

‘"Why will you not begone?"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, uneaſily, ‘"indeed it is too late to ſtay."’

‘"Tell me firſt,"’ cried he, with great energy, ‘"and let good Mrs. Charlton ſpeak too,—ought not every objection to our union, however potent, to give way, without further heſitation, to the certainty [164] that our intending it muſt become public? Who that hears of our meeting in London, at ſuch a ſeaſon, in ſuch circumſtances, and at ſuch hours,—"’

‘"And why,"’ cried Cecilia, angrily, ‘"do you mention them, and yet ſtay?"’

‘"I muſt ſpeak now,"’ anſwered he with quickneſs, ‘"or loſe for-ever all that is dear to me, and add to the miſery of that loſs, the heart-piercing reflection of having in⯑jured her whom of all the world I moſt love, moſt value, and moſt revere!"’

‘"And how injured?"’ cried Cecilia, half alarmed and half diſpleaſed: ‘"Surely I muſt ſtrangely have lived to fear now the voice of calumny?"’

‘"If any one has ever,"’ returned he, ‘"ſo lived as to dare defy it, Miſs Beverley is ſhe: but though ſafe by the eſtabliſhed pu⯑rity of your character from calumny, there are other, and ſcarce leſs invidious attacks, from which no one is exempt, and of which the refinement, the ſenſibility of your mind, will render you but the more ſuſceptible: ridicule has ſhafts, and impertinence has arrows, which though againſt innocence they may be levelled in vain, have always the power of wounding tranquility."’

Struck with a truth which ſhe could not controvert, Cecilia ſighed deeply, but ſpoke not.

[165] ‘"Mr. Delvile is right;"’ ſaid Mrs. Charlton, ‘"and though your plan, my dear Cecilia, was certainly virtuous and proper, when you ſet out from Bury, the purpoſe of your journey muſt now be made ſo public, that it will no longer be judicious nor rational."’

Delvile poured forth his warmeſt thanks for this friendly interpoſition, and then, ſtrengthened by ſuch an advocate, re-urged all his arguments with redoubled hope and ſpirit.

Cecilia, diſturbed, uncertain, comfortleſs, could frame her mind to no reſolution; ſhe walked about the room, deliberated,—de⯑termined,—wavered and deliberated again. Delvile then grew more urgent, and repre⯑ſented ſo ſtrongly the various mortifications which muſt follow ſo tardy a renunciation of their intentions, that, terrified and per⯑plexed, and fearing the breach of their union would now be more injurious to her than its ratification, ſhe ceaſed all oppoſi⯑tion to his arguments, and uttered no words but of ſolicitation that he would leave her.

‘"I will,"’ cried he, ‘"I will begone this very moment. Tell me but firſt you will think of what I have ſaid, and refer me not to your letter, but deign yourſelf to pro⯑nounce my doom, when you have conſi⯑dered if it may not be ſoftened."’

[166] To this ſhe tacitly conſented; and elated with freſh riſing hope, he recommended his cauſe to the patronage of Mrs. Charlton, and then, taking leave of Cecilia, ‘"I go,"’ he ſaid, ‘"though I have yet a thouſand things to propoſe and to ſupplicate, and though ſtill in a ſuſpenſe that my temper knows ill how to endure; but I ſhould rather be ren⯑dered miſerable than happy, in merely over⯑powering your reaſon by entreaty. I leave you, therefore, to your own reflections; yet remember,—and refuſe not to remember with ſome compunction, that all chance, all poſſibility of earthly happineſs for me de⯑pends upon your deciſion."’

He then tore himſelf away.

Cecilia, ſhocked at the fatigue ſhe had occaſioned her good old friend, now com⯑pelled her to go to reſt, and dedicated the remaining part of the night to uninter⯑rupted deliberation.

It ſeemed once more in her power to be miſtreſs of her deſtiny; but the very liberty of choice ſhe had ſo much coveted, now at⯑tained appeared the moſt heavy of calami⯑ties; ſince, uncertain even what ſhe ought to do, ſhe rather wiſhed to be drawn than to lead, rather deſired to be guided than to guide. She was to be reſponſible not only to the world but to herſelf for the whole of this momentous tranſaction, and the terror [167] of leaving either diſſatisfied, made indepen⯑dence burthenſome, and unlimited power a grievance.

The happineſs or miſery which awaited her reſolution were but ſecondary conſider⯑ations in the preſent ſtate of her mind; her conſent to a clandeſtine action ſhe lamented as an eternal blot to her character, and the undoubted publication of that conſent as equally injurious to her fame. Neither re⯑tracting nor fulfilling her engagement could now retrieve what was paſt, and in the bit⯑terneſs of regret for the error ſhe had com⯑mitted, ſhe thought happineſs unattainable for the remainder of her life.

In this gloomy deſpondence paſſed the night, her eyes never cloſed, her determi⯑nation never formed. Morning, however, came, and upon ſomething to fix was in⯑deſpenſable.

She now, therefore, finally employed herſelf in briefly comparing the good with the evil of giving Delvile wholly up, or becoming his for-ever.

In accepting him, ſhe was expoſed to all the diſpleaſure of his relations, and, which affected her moſt, to the indignant ſeverity of his mother: but not another obſtacle could be found that ſeemed of any weight to oppoſe him.

In refuſing him ſhe was liable to the de⯑riſion [168] of the world, to ſneers from ſtrangers, and remonſtrances from her friends, to be⯑coming a topic for ridicule, if not for ſlan⯑der, and an object of curioſity if not of con⯑tempt.

The ills, therefore, that threatened her marriage, though moſt afflicting, were leaſt diſgraceful, and thoſe which awaited its breach, if leſs ſerious, were more mortifying.

At length, after weighing every circum⯑ſtance as well as her perturbed ſpirits would permit, ſhe concluded that ſo late to reject him muſt bring miſery without any allevia⯑tion, while accepting him, though followed by wrath and reproach, left ſome opening for future hope, and ſome proſpect of better days.

To fulfil, therefore, her engagement was her final reſolution.

CHAP. II. AN EVENT.

SCARCE leſs unhappy in her deciſion than in her uncertainty, and every way diſſatisfied with her ſituation, her views and herſelf, Cecilia was ſtill ſo diſtreſſed and uncomfortable, when Delvile called the next morning, that he could not diſ⯑cover what her determination had been, and fearfully enquired his doom with hardly any hope of finding favour

But Cecilia was above affectation, and a ſtranger to art. ‘"I would not, Sir,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"keep you an inſtant in ſuſpenſe, when I am no longer in ſuſpenſe myſelf. I may have appeared trifling, but I have been nothing leſs, and you would readily exculpate me of caprice, if half the diſtreſs of my irre⯑ſolution was known to you. Even now, when I heſitate no more, my mind is ſo ill at eaſe, that I could neither wonder nor be diſpleaſed ſhould you heſitate in your turn."’

‘"You heſitate no more?"’ cried he, al⯑moſt breathleſs at the ſound of thoſe words, ‘"and is it poſſible—Oh my Cecilia!— [170] is it poſſible your reſolution is in my fa⯑vour?"’

‘"Alas!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"how little is your reaſon to rejoice! a dejected and melan⯑choly gift is all you can receive!"’

‘"Ere I take it, then,"’ cried he, in a voice that ſpoke joy, pain, and fear all at once in commotion, ‘"tell me if your re⯑luctance has its origin in me, that I may rather even yet relinquiſh you, than merely owe your hand to the ſelfiſhneſs of perſecu⯑tion?"’

‘"Your pride,"’ ſaid ſhe, half ſmiling, ‘"has ſome right to be alarmed, though I meant not to alarm it. No! it is with my⯑ſelf only I am at variance, with my own weakneſs and want of judgement that I quarrel,—in you I have all the reliance that the higheſt opinion of your honour and integrity can give me."’

This was enough for the warm heart of Delvile, not only to reſtore peace, but to awaken rapture. He was almoſt as wild with delight, as he had before been with ap⯑prehenſion, and poured forth his acknow⯑ledgements with ſo much fervour of grati⯑tude, that Cecilia imperceptibly grew re⯑conciled to herſelf, and before ſhe miſſed her dejection, participated in his content⯑ment.

She quitted him as ſoon as ſhe had [171] power, to acquaint Mrs. Charlton with what had paſſed, and aſſiſt in preparing her to accompany them to the altar; while Delvile flew to his new acquaintance, Mr. Singleton, the lawyer, to requeſt him to ſupply the place of Mr. Monckton in giv⯑ing her away.

All was now haſtened with the utmoſt ex⯑pedition, and to avoid obſervation, they agreed to meet at the church; their deſire of ſecreſy, however potent, never urging them to wiſh the ceremony ſhould be per⯑formed in a place leſs awful.

When the chairs, however, came, which were to carry the two ladies thither, Cecilia trembled and hung back. The greatneſs of her undertaking, the hazard of all her fu⯑ture happineſs, the diſgraceful ſecreſy of her conduct, the expected reproaches of Mrs. Delvile, and the boldneſs and indelicacy of the ſtep ſhe was about to take, all ſo forc⯑ibly ſtruck, and ſo painfully wounded her, that the moment ſhe was ſummoned to ſet out, ſhe again loſt her reſolution, and re⯑gretting the hour that ever Delvile was known to her, ſhe ſunk into a chair, and gave up her whole ſoul to anguiſh and ſor⯑row.

The good Mrs. Charlton tried in vain to conſole her; a ſudden horror againſt herſelf had now ſeized her ſpirits, which, ex⯑hauſted [172] by long ſtruggles, could rally no more.

In this ſituation ſhe was at length ſur⯑priſed by Delvile, whoſe uneaſy aſtoniſh⯑ment that ſhe had failed in her appointment, was only to be equalled by that with which he was ſtruck at the ſight of her tears. He demanded the cauſe with the utmoſt ten⯑derneſs and apprehenſion; Cecilia for ſome time could not ſpeak, and then, with a deep ſigh ‘"Ah!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"Mr. Delvile! how weak are we all when unſupported by our own eſteem! how feeble, how incon⯑ſiſtent, how changeable, when our courage has any foundation but duty!"’

Delvile, much relieved by finding her ſadneſs fprung not from any new affliction, gently reproached her breach of promiſe, and earneſtly entreated her to repair it. ‘"The clergyman,"’ cried he, ‘"is waiting; I have left him with Mr. Singleton in the veſtry; no new objections have ſtarted, and no new obſtacles have intervened; why, then, torment ourſelves with diſcuſſing again the old ones, which we have already conſidered till every poſſible argument upon them is exhauſted? Tranquilize, I conjure you, your agitated ſpirits, and if the trueſt tenderneſs, the moſt animated eſteem, and the grate⯑fulleſt admiration, can ſoften your future cares, and enſure your future peace, every [173] anniverſary of this day will recompenſe my Cecilia for every pang ſhe now ſuffers!"’

Cecilia, half ſoothed and half aſhamed, finding ſhe had in fact nothing new to ſay or to object, compelled herſelf to riſe, and; penetrated by his ſolicitations, endeavoured to compoſe her mind, and promiſed to fol⯑low him.

He would not truſt her, however, from his ſight, but ſeizing the very inſtant of her renewed conſent, he diſmiſſed the chairs, and ordering a hackney-coach, preferred any riſk to that of her again wavering, and inſiſted upon accompanying her in it him⯑ſelf.

Cecilia had now ſcarce time to breathe, before ſhe found herſelf at the porch of — church. Delvile hurried her out of the car⯑riage, and then offered his arm to Mrs. Charlton. Not a word was ſpoken by any of the party till they went into the veſtry, where Delvile ordered Cecilia a glaſs of water, and having haſtily made his compli⯑ments to the clergyman, gave her hand to Mr. Singleton, who led her to the altar.

The ceremony was now begun; and Ce⯑cilia, finding herſelf paſt all power of re⯑tracting, ſoon called her thoughts from wiſhing it, and turned her whole attention to the awful ſervice; to which though ſhe liſtened with reverence, her full ſatisfaction [174] in the object of her vows, made her liſten without terror. But when the prieſt came to that ſolemn adjuration, If any man can ſhew any juſt cauſe why they may not lawfully be joined together, a conſcious tear ſtole into her eye, and a ſigh eſcaped from Delvile that went to her heart: but, when the prieſt concluded the exhortation with let him now ſpeak, or elſe hereafter for-ever hold his peace, a female voice at ſome diſtance, called out in ſhrill accents, ‘"I do!"’

The ceremony was inſtantly ſtopt. The aſtoniſhed prieſt immediately ſhut up the book to regard the intended bride and bride⯑groom; Delvile ſtarted with amazement to ſee whence the ſound proceeded; and Ceci⯑lia, aghaſt, and ſtruck with horror, faintly ſhriekt, and caught hold of Mrs. Charl⯑ton.

The conſternation was general, and general was the ſilence, though all of one ac⯑cord turned round towards the place whence the voice iſſued: a female form at the ſame moment was ſeen ruſhing from a pew, who glided out of the church with the quickneſs of lightning.

Not a word was yet uttered, every one ſeeming rooted to the ſpot on which he ſtood, and regarding in mute wonder the place this form had croſſed.

[175] Delvile at length exclaimed, ‘"What can this mean?"’

‘"Did you not know the woman, Sir?"’ ſaid the clergyman.

‘"No, Sir, I did not even ſee her."’

‘"Nor you, madam?"’ ſaid he, addreſſing Cecilia.

‘"No, Sir,"’ ſhe anſwered, in a voice that ſcarce articulated the two ſyllables, and changing colour ſo frequently, that Del⯑vile, apprehenſive ſhe would faint, flew to her, calling out ‘"Let me ſupport you!"’

She turned from him haſtily, and ſtill holding by Mrs. Charlton, moved away from the altar.

‘"Whither,"’ cried Delvile, fearfully fol⯑lowing her, ‘whither are you going?"’

She made not any anſwer; but ſtill, though tottering as much from emotion as Mrs. Charlton from infirmity, ſhe walked on.

‘"Why did you ſtop the ceremony, Sir?"’ cried Delvile, impatiently ſpeaking to the clergyman.

‘"No ceremony, Sir,"’ he returned, ‘"could proceed with ſuch an interrup⯑tion."’

‘"It has been wholly accidental,"’ cried he, ‘"for we neither of us know the wo⯑man, who could not have any right or au⯑thority for the prohibition."’ Then yet [176] more anxiouſly purſuing Cecilia, ‘"why,"’ he continued, ‘"do you thus move off?—Why leave the ceremony unfiniſhed?—Mrs. Charlton, what is it you are about?—Cecilia, I beſeech you return, and let the ſervice go on!"’

Cecilia, making a motion with her hand to forbid his following her, ſtill ſilently pro⯑ceeded, though drawing along with equal difficulty Mrs. Charlton and herſelf.

‘"This is inſupportable!"’ cried Delvile, with vehemence, ‘"turn, I conjure you!—my Cecilia!—my wife!—why is it you thus abandon me?—Turn, I implore you, and receive my eternal vows!—Mrs. Charlton, bring her back,—Cecilia, you muſt not go!—"’

He now attempted to take her hand, but ſhrinking from his touch, in an emphatic but low voice, ſhe ſaid ‘"Yes, Sir, I muſt!—an interdiction ſuch as this!—for the world could I not brave it!"’

She then made an effort to ſomewhat quicken her pace.

‘"Where,"’ cried Delvile, half frantic, ‘"where is this infamous woman? This wretch who has thus wantonly deſtroyed me!"’

And he ruſhed out of the church in pur⯑ſuit of her.

The clergyman and Mr. Singleton, who [177] had hitherto been wondering ſpectators, came now to offer their aſſiſtance to Cecilia. She declined any help for herſelf, but gladly accepted their ſervices for Mrs. Charlton, who, thunderſtruck by all that had paſt, ſeemed almoſt robbed of her fa⯑culties. Mr. Singleton propoſed calling a hackney coach, ſhe conſented, and they ſtopt for it at the church porch.

The clergyman now began to enquire of the pew-opener, what ſhe knew of the wo⯑man, who ſhe was, and how ſhe had got into the church? She knew of her, ſhe an⯑ſwered, nothing, but that ſhe had come in to early prayers, and ſhe ſuppoſed ſhe had hid herſelf in a pew when they were over, as ſhe had thought the church entirely empty.

An hackney coach now drew up, and while the gentlemen were aſſiſting Mrs. Charlton into it, Delvile returned.

‘"I have purſued and enquired,"’ cried he, ‘"in vain, I can neither diſcover nor hear of her.—But what is all this? Whither are you going?—What does this coach do here?—Mrs. Charlton, why do you get into it?—Cecilia, what are you doing?"’

Cecilia turned away from him in ſilence. The ſhock ſhe had received, took from her all power of ſpeech, while amazement and terror deprived her even of relief from tears. She believed Delvile to blame, [178] though ſhe knew not in what, but the ob⯑ſcurity of her fears ſerved only to render them more dreadful.

She was now getting into the coach her⯑ſelf, but Delvile, who could neither brook her diſpleaſure, nor endure her departure, forcibly caught her hand, and called out ‘"You are mine, you are my wife!—I will part with you no more, and go whitherſoever you will, I will follow and claim you!"’

‘"Stop me not!"’ cried ſhe, impatiently though faintly, ‘"I am ſick, I am ill al⯑ready,—if you detain me any longer, I ſhall be unable to ſupport myſelf!"’

‘"Oh then reſt on me!"’ cried he, ſtill holding her; ‘"reſt but upon me till the ceremony is over!—you will drive me to deſpair and to madneſs if you leave me in this barbarous manner!"’

A crowd now began to gather, and the words bride and bridegroom reached the ears of Cecilia; who half dead with ſhame, with fear, and with diſtreſs, haſtily ſaid ‘"You are determined to make me miſer⯑able!"’ and ſnatching away her hand, which Delvile at thoſe words could no longer hold, ſhe threw herſelf into the carriage.

Delvile, however, jumped in after her, and with an air of authority ordered the coachman to Pall-Mall, and then drew up [179] the glaſſes, with a look of fierceneſs at the mob.

Cecilia had neither ſpirits nor power to reſiſt him; yet, offended by his violence, and ſhocked to be thus publickly purſued by him, her looks ſpoke a reſentment far more mortifying than any verbal reproach.

‘"Inhuman Cecilia!"’ cried he, paſſion⯑ately, ‘"to deſert me at the very altar!—to caſt me off at the inſtant the moſt ſacred rites were uniting us!—and then thus to look at me!—to treat me with this diſdain at a time of ſuch diſtraction!—to ſcorn me thus injuriouſly at the moment you unjuſtly abandon me!—"’

‘"To how dreadful a ſcene,"’ ſaid Cecilia, recovering from her conſternation, ‘"have you expoſed me! to what ſhame, what indignity, what irreparable diſgrace!"’

‘"Oh heaven!"’ cried he with horror, ‘"if any crime, any offence of mine has occaſioned this fatal blow, the whole world holds not a wretch ſo culpable as myſelf, nor one who will ſooner allow the juſtice of your rigour! my veneration for you has ever equalled my affection, and could I think it was through me you have ſuffered any indignity, I ſhould ſoon abhor myſelf as you ſeem to abhor me. But what is it I have done? How have I thus incenſed you? [180] By what action, by what guilt, have I in⯑curred this diſpleaſure?"’

‘"Whence,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"came that voice which ſtill vibrates in my ear? The prohibition could not be on my account, ſince none to whom I am known have either right or intereſt in even wiſhing it."’

‘"What an inference is this! over me, then, do you conclude this woman had any power?"’

Here they ſtopt at the lodgings. Del⯑vile handed both the ladies out. Cecilia, eager to avoid his importunities, and dread⯑fully diſturbed, haſtily paſt him, and ran up ſtairs; but Mrs. Charlton refuſed not his arm, on which ſhe lent till they reached the drawing-room.

Cecilia then rang the bell for her ſervant, and gave orders that a poſt-chaiſe might be ſent for immediately.

Delvile now felt offended in his turn; but ſuppreſſing his vehemence, he gravely and quietly ſaid ‘"Determined as you are to leave me, indifferent to my peace, and in⯑credulous of my word, deign, at leaſt, be⯑fore we part, to be more explicit in your accuſation, and tell me if indeed it is poſ⯑ſible you can ſuſpect that the wretch who broke off the ceremony, had ever from me received provocation for ſuch an action?"’

‘"I know not what to ſuſpect,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, [181] ‘"where every thing is thus involved in obſcurity; but I muſt own I ſhould have ſome difficulty to think thoſe words the ef⯑fect of chance, or to credit that their ſpeaker was concealed without deſign."’

‘"You are right, then, madam,"’ cried he, reſentfully, ‘"to diſcard me! to treat me with contempt, to baniſh me without repugnance, ſince I ſee you believe me ca⯑pable of duplicity, and imagine I am bet⯑ter informed in this affair than I appear to be. You have ſaid I ſhall make you miſer⯑able,—no, madam, no! your happineſs and miſery depend not upon one you hold ſo worthleſs!"’

‘"On whatever they depend,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, ‘"I am too little at eaſe for diſcuſſion. I would no more be daring than ſuperſti⯑tious, but none of our proceedings have proſpered, and ſince their privacy has al⯑ways been contrary both to my judgment and my principles, I know not how to repine at a failure I cannot think unmerited. Mrs. Charlton, our chaiſe is coming; you will be ready, I hope, to ſet off in it directly?"’

Delvile, too angry to truſt himſelf to ſpeak, now walked about the room, and en⯑deavoured to calm himſelf; but ſo little was his ſucceſs, that though ſilent till the chaiſe was announced, when he heard that dreaded ſound, and ſaw Cecilia ſteady in her pur⯑poſe [182] of departing, he was ſo much ſhocked and afflicted, that, claſping his hands in a tranſport of paſſion and grief, he exclaimed ‘"This, then, Cecilia, is your faith! this is the felicity you bid me hope! this is the recompenſe of my ſufferings, and the per⯑formance of your engagement!"’

Cecilia, ſtruck by theſe reproaches, turned back; but while ſhe heſitated how to anſwer them, he went on. ‘"You are inſenſible to my miſery, and impenetrable to my entreaties; a ſecret enemy has had power to make me odious in your ſight, though for her enmity I can aſſign no cauſe, though even her exiſtence was this morning unknown to me! Ever ready to abandon, and moſt willing to condemn me, you have more confidence in a vague conjecture, than in all you have obſerved of the whole tenour of my character. Without know⯑ing why, you are diſpoſed to believe me criminal, without deigning to ſay where⯑fore, you are eager to baniſh me your pre⯑ſence. Yet ſcarce could a conſciouſneſs of guilt itſelf, wound me ſo forcibly, ſo keenly, as your ſuſpecting I am guilty!"’

‘"Again, then,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"ſhall I ſubject myſelf to a ſcene of ſuch diſgrace and horror? No, never!—The puniſh⯑ment of my error ſhall at leaſt ſecure its re⯑formation. Yet if I merit your reproaches, [183] I deſerve not your regard; ceaſe, therefore, to profeſs any for me, or make them no more."’

‘"Shew but to them,"’ cried he, ‘"the ſmalleſt ſenſibility, ſhew but for me the moſt diſtant concern, and I will try to bear my diſappointment without murmuring, and ſubmit to your decrees as to thoſe from which there is no appeal: but to wound without deigning even to look at what you deſtroy,—to ſhoot at random thoſe arrows that are pointed with poiſon,—to ſee them faſten on the heart, and corrode its vital functions, yet look on without compunc⯑tion, or turn away with cold diſdain,—Oh where is the candour I thought lodged in Cecilia! where the juſtice, the equity, I believed a part of herſelf!"’

‘"After all that has paſt,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſenſibly touched by his diſtreſs, ‘"I ex⯑pected not theſe complaints, nor that, from me, any aſſurances would be wanted; yet, if it will quiet your mind, if it will better reconcile you to our ſeparation—"’

‘"Oh fatal prelude!"’ interrupted he, ‘"what on earth can quiet my mind that leads to our ſeparation?—Give to me no condeſcenſion with any ſuch view,—pre⯑ſerve your indifference, perſevere in your coldneſs, triumph ſtill in your power of in⯑ſpiring thoſe feelings you can never return, [184] —all, every thing is more ſupportable than to talk of our ſeparation!"’

‘"Yet how,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"parted, torn aſunder as we have been, how is it now to be avoided?"’

‘"Truſt in my honour! Shew me but the confidence which I will venture to ſay I de⯑ſerve, and then will that union no longer be impeded, which in future, I am certain, will never be repented!"’

‘"Good heaven, what a requeſt! faith ſo implicity would be frenzy."’

‘"You doubt, then, my integrity? You ſuſpect—"’

‘"Indeed I do not; yet in a caſe of ſuch importance, what ought to guide me but my own reaſon, my own conſcience, my own ſenſe of right? Pain me not, therefore, with reproaches, diſtreſs me no more with entreaties, when I ſolemnly declare that no earthly conſideration ſhall ever again make me promiſe you my hand, while the terror of Mrs. Delvile's diſpleaſure has poſſeſſion of my heart. And now adieu."’

‘"You give me, then, up?"’

‘"Be patient, I beſeech you; and at⯑tempt not to follow me; tis a ſtep I cannot permit."’

‘"Not follow you? And who has power to prevent me?"’

‘"I have, Sir, if to incur my endleſs re⯑ſentment [185] is of any conſequence to you."’

She then, with an air of determined ſtea⯑dineſs, moved on; Mrs. Charlton, aſſiſted by the ſervants, being already upon the ſtairs.

‘"O tyranny!"’ cried he, ‘"what ſubmiſſion is it you exact!—May I not even enquire into the dreadful myſtery of this morning?"’

‘"Yes, certainly."’

‘"And may I not acquaint you with it, ſhould it be diſcovered?"’

‘"I ſhall not be ſorry to hear it. Adieu."’

She was now half way down the ſtairs; when, loſing all forbearance, he haſtily flew after her, and endeavouring to ſtop her, called out, ‘"If you do not hate and deteſt me,—if I am not loathſome and ab⯑horrent to you, O quit me not thus inſen⯑ſibly!—Cecilia! my beloved Cecilia!—ſpeak to me, at leaſt, one word of leſs ſe⯑verity! Look at me once more, and tell me we part not for-ever!"’

Cecilia then turned round, and while a ſtarting tear ſhewed her ſympathetic diſtreſs, ſaid, ‘"Why will you thus oppreſs me with entreaties I ought not to gratify?—Have I not accompanied you to the altar,—and can you doubt what I have thought of you?"’

‘"Have thought?—Oh Cecilia!—is it then all over?"’

[186] ‘"Pray ſuffer me to go quietly, and fear not I ſhall go too happily! Suppreſs your own feelings, rather than ſeek to awaken mine. Alas! there is little occaſion!—Oh Mr. Delvile! were our connexion op⯑poſed by no duty, and repugnant to no friends, were it attended by no impro⯑priety, and carried on with no neceſſity of diſguiſe,—you would not thus charge me with indifference, you would not ſuſpect me of inſenſibility,—Oh no! the choice of my heart would then be its glory, and all I now bluſh to feel, I ſhould openly and with pride acknowledge!"’

She then hurried to the chaiſe, Del⯑vile purſuing her with thanks and bleſſings, and gratefully aſſuring her, as he handed her into it, that he would obey all her injunc⯑tions, and not even attempt to ſee her, till he could bring her ſome intelligence con⯑cerning the morning's tranſaction.

The chaiſe then drove off.

CHAP. III. A CONSTERNATION.

THE journey was melancholy and te⯑dious: Mrs. Charlton, extremely fa⯑tigued by the unuſual hurry and exerciſe both of mind and body which ſhe had lately gone through, was obliged to travel very ſlowly, and to lie upon the road. Ce⯑cilia, however, was in no haſte to proceed: ſhe was going to no one ſhe wiſhed to ſee, ſhe was wholly without expectation of meeting with any thing that could give her pleaſure. The unfortunate expedition in which ſhe had been engaged, left her now nothing but regret, and only promiſed her in future ſorrow and mortification.

Mrs. Charlton, after her return home, ſtill continued ill, and Cecilia, who con⯑ſtantly attended her, had the additional af⯑fliction of imputing her indiſpoſition to herſelf. Every thing ſhe thought conſpired to puniſh the error ſhe had committed; her proceedings were diſcovered, though her motives were unknown; the Delvile family could not fail to hear of her enterprize, and while they attributed it to her teme⯑rity, [188] they would exult in its failure: but chiefly hung upon her mind the unac⯑countable prohibition of her marriage. Whence that could proceed ſhe was wholly without ability to divine, yet her ſurmizes were not more fruitleſs than various. At one moment ſhe imagined it ſome frolic of Morrice, at another ſome perfidy of Monckton, and at another an idle and unmeaning trick of ſome ſtranger to them all. But none of theſe ſuppoſitions carried with them any air of probability; Morrice, even if he had watched their motions and purſued them to the church, which his in⯑quiſitive impertinence made by no means impoſſible, could yet hardly have had either time or opportunity to engage any woman in ſo extraordinary an undertaking; Mr. Monckton, however averſe to the connec⯑tion, ſhe conſidered as a man of too much honour to break it off in a manner ſo alarm⯑ing and diſgraceful; and miſchief ſo wan⯑ton in any ſtranger, ſeemed to require a ſhare of unfeeling effrontery, which could fall to the lot of ſo few as to make this ſug⯑geſtion unnatural and incredible.

Sometimes ſhe imagined that Delvile might formerly have been affianced to ſome woman, who, having accidentally diſcovered his intentions, took this deſperate method of rendering them abortive: but this was a [189] ſhort-lived thought, and ſpeedily gave way to her eſteem for his general character, and her confidence in the firmneſs of his probity.

All, therefore, was dark and myſterious; conjecture was baffled, and meditation was uſeleſs. Her opinions were unfixed, and her heart was miſerable; ſhe could only be ſteady in believing Delvile as unhappy as herſelf, and only find conſolation in believ⯑ing him, alſo, as blameleſs.

Three days paſſed thus, without incident or intelligence; her time wholly occupied in attending Mrs. Charlton; her thoughts all engroſſed upon her own ſituation: but upon the fourth day ſhe was informed that a lady was in the parlour, who deſired to ſpeak with her.

She preſently went down ſtairs,—and, upon entering the room, perceived Mrs. Delvile!

Seized with aſtoniſhment and fear, ſhe ſtopt ſhort, and, looking aghaſt, held by the door, robbed of all power to receive ſo unexpected and unwelcome a viſitor, by an internal ſenſation of guilt, mingled with a dread of diſcovery and reproach.

Mrs. Delvile, addreſſing her with the coldeſt politeneſs, ſaid, ‘"I fear I have ſurpriſed you; I am ſorry I had not time [190] to acquaint you of my intention to wait upon you."’

Cecilia then, moving from the door, faintly anſwered, ‘"I cannot, madam, but be honoured by your notice, whenever you are pleaſed to confer it."’

They then ſat down; Mrs. Delvile pre⯑ſerving an air the moſt formal and diſtant, and Cecilia half ſinking with apprehenſive diſmay.

After a ſhort and ill-boding ſilence, ‘"I mean not,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"to em⯑barraſs or diſtreſs you; I will not, there⯑fore, keep you in ſuſpenſe of the purport of my viſit. I come not to make enquiries, I come not to put your ſincerity to any trial, nor to torture your delicacy; I diſ⯑penſe with all explanation, for I have not one doubt to ſolve: I know what has paſſed, I know that my ſon loves you."’

Not all her ſecret alarm, nor all the perturbation of her fears, had taught Ce⯑cilia to expect ſo direct an attack, nor enabled her to bear the ſhock of it with any compoſure: ſhe could not ſpeak, ſhe could not look at Mrs. Delvile; ſhe aroſe, and walked to the window, without know⯑ing what ſhe was doing.

Here, however, her diſtreſs was not likely to diminiſh; for the firſt ſight ſhe ſaw was [191] Fidel, who barked, and jumped up at the window to lick her hands.

‘"Good God! Fidel here!"’ exclaimed Mrs. Delvile, amazed.

Cecilia, totally overpowered, covered her glowing face with both her hands, and ſunk into a chair.

Mrs. Delvile for a few minutes was ſilent; and then, following her, ſaid, ‘"Imagine not I am making any diſcovery, nor ſuſpect me of any deſign to develop your ſenti⯑ments. That Mortimer could love in vain I never believed; that Miſs Beverley, poſ⯑ſeſſing ſo much merit, could be blind to it in another, I never thought poſſible. I mean not, therefore, to ſolicit any account or explanation, but merely to beg your patience while I talk to you myſelf, and your permiſſion to ſpeak to you with open⯑neſs and truth."’

Cecilia, though relieved by this calm⯑neſs from all apprehenſion of reproach, found in her manner a coldneſs that con⯑vinced her of the loſs of her affection, and in the introduction to her buſineſs a ſolemnity that aſſured her what ſhe ſhould decree would be unalterable. She uncovered her face to ſhew her reſpectful attention, but ſhe could not raiſe it up, and could not utter a word.

[192] Mrs. Delvile then ſeated herſelf next her, and gravely continued her diſcourſe.

‘"Miſs Beverley, however little ac⯑quainted with the ſtate of our family affairs, can ſcarcely have been uninformed that a fortune ſuch as hers ſeems almoſt all that family can deſire; nor can ſhe have failed to obſerve, that her merit and accompliſh⯑ments have no where been more felt and admired: the choice therefore of Mortimer ſhe could not doubt would have our ſanc⯑tion, and when ſhe honoured his propoſals with her favour, ſhe might naturally con⯑clude ſhe gave happineſs and pleaſure to all his friends."’

Cecilia, ſuperior to accepting a palli⯑ation of which ſhe ſelt herſelf undeſerving, now lifted up her head, and forcing herſelf to ſpeak, ſaid ‘"No, madam, I will not deceive you, for I have never been deceived myſelf: I preſumed not to expect your ap⯑probation,—though in miſſing it I have for ever loſt my own!"’

‘"Has Mortimer, then,"’ cried ſhe with eagerneſs, ‘"been ſtrictly honourable? has he neither beguiled nor betrayed you?"’

‘"No, madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, bluſhing, ‘"I have nothing to reproach him with."’

‘"Then he is indeed my ſon!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, with emotion; ‘"had he been treacherous to you, while diſobedient to us, I had indiſputably renounced him."’

[193] Cecilia, who now ſeemed the only cul⯑prit, felt herſelf in a ſtate of humiliation not to be borne; ſhe collected, therefore, all her courage, and ſaid, ‘"I have cleared Mr. Delvile; permit me, madam, now, to ſay ſomething for myſelf."’

‘"Certainly; you cannot oblige me more than by ſpeaking without diſguiſe."’

‘"It is not in the hope of regaining your good opinion,—that, I ſee, is loſt!—but merely—"’

‘"No, not loſt,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"but if once it was yet higher, the fault was my own, in indulging an expectation of perfec⯑tion to which human nature is perhaps unequal."’

Ah, then, thought Cecilia, all is over! the contempt I ſo much feared is incurred, and though it may be ſoftened, it can never be removed!

‘"Speak, then, and with ſincerity,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"all you wiſh me to hear, and then grant me your attention in return to the purpoſe of my preſent journey."’

‘"I have little, madam,"’ anſwered the depreſſed Cecilia, ‘"to ſay; you tell me you already know all that has paſt; I will not, therefore, pretend to take any merit from revealing it: I will only add, that my conſent to this tranſaction has made me miſerable almoſt from the moment I gave [194] it; that I meant and wiſhed to retract as ſoon as reflection pointed out to me my error, and that circumſtances the moſt per⯑verſe, not blindneſs to propriety, nor ſtub⯑bornneſs in wrong, led me to make, at laſt, that fatal attempt, of which the recollec⯑tion, to my laſt hour, muſt fill me with regret and ſhame."’

‘"I wonder not,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"that in a ſituation where delicacy was ſo much leſs requiſite than courage, Miſs Be⯑verley ſhould feel herſelf diſtreſſed and un⯑happy. A mind ſuch as hers could never err with impunity; and it is ſolely from a certainty of her innate ſenſe of right, that I venture to wait upon her now, and that I have any hope to influence her upon whoſe influence alone our whole family muſt in future depend. Shall I now pro⯑ceed, or is there any thing you wiſh to ſay firſt?"’

‘"No, madam, nothing."’

‘"Hear me, then, I beg of you, with no pre-determination to diſregard me, but with an equitable reſolution to attend to reaſon, and a candour that leaves an opening to conviction. Not eaſy, indeed, is ſuch a taſk, to a mind pre-occupied with an in⯑tention to be guided by the dictates of in⯑clination,—"’

‘"You wrong me, indeed, madam!"’ in⯑terrupted [195] Cecilia, greatly hurt, ‘"my mind harbours no ſuch intention, it has no deſire but to be guided by duty, it is wretched with a conſciouſneſs of having failed in it! I pine, I ſicken to recover my own good opinion; I ſhould then no longer feel un⯑worthy of yours; and whether or not I might be able to regain it, I ſhould at leaſt loſe this cruel depreſſion that now ſinks me in your preſence!"’

‘"To regain it,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"were to exerciſe but half your power, which at this moment enables you, if ſuch is your wiſh, to make me think of you more highly than one human being ever thought of another. Do you condeſcend to hold this worth your while?"’

Cecilia ſtarted at the queſtion; her heart beat quick with ſtruggling paſſions; ſhe ſaw the ſacrifice which was to be re⯑quired, and her pride, her affronted pride, aroſe high to anticipate the rejection; but the deſign was combated by her affections, which oppoſed the indignant raſhneſs, and told her that one haſty ſpeech might ſe⯑parate her from Delvile for ever. When this painful conflict was over, of which Mrs. Delvile patiently waited the iſſue, ſhe anſwered, with much heſitation, ‘"To re⯑gain your good opinion, madam, greatly, truly as I value it,—is what I now ſcarcely dare hope."’

[196] ‘"Say not ſo,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"ſince, if you hope, you cannot miſs it. I purpoſe to point out to you the means to recover it, and to tell you how greatly I ſhall think myſelf your debtor if you refuſe not to employ them."’

She ſtopt; but Cecilia hung back; fear⯑ful of her own ſtrength, ſhe dared venture at no profeſſions; yet, how either to ſup⯑port, or diſpute her compliance, ſhe dreaded to think.

‘"I come to you, then,"’ Mrs. Delvile ſolemnly reſumed, ‘"in the name of Mr. Delvile, and in the name of our whole fa⯑mily; a family as ancient as it is honour⯑able, as honourable as it is ancient. Con⯑ſider me as its repreſentative, and hear in me its common voice, common opinion, and common addreſs.’

‘"My ſon, the ſupporter of our houſe, the ſole guardian of its name, and the heir of our united fortunes, has ſelected you, we know, for the lady of his choice, and ſo fondly has fixed upon you his affections, that he is ready to relinquiſh us all in pre⯑ference to ſubduing them. To yourſelf alone, then, can we apply, and I come to you—"’

‘"O hold, madam, hold!"’ interrupted Cecilia, whoſe courage now revived from reſentment, ‘"I know what you would ſay; [197] you come to tell me of your diſdain; you come to reproach my preſumption, and to kill me with your contempt! There is little occaſion for ſuch a ſtep; I am de⯑preſſed, I am ſelf-condemned already: ſpare me, therefore, this inſupportable hu⯑miliation, wound me not with your ſcorn, oppreſs me not with your ſuperiority! I aim at no competition, I attempt no vin⯑dication, I acknowledge my own littleneſs as readily as you can deſpiſe it, and nothing but indignity could urge me to defend it!"’

‘"Believe me,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"I meant not to hurt or offend you, and I am ſorry if I have appeared to you either ar⯑rogant or aſſuming. The peculiar and pe⯑rilous ſituation of my family has perhaps betrayed me into offenſive expreſſions, and made me guilty myſelf of an oſtentation which in others has often diſguſted me. Ill, indeed, can we any of us bear the teſt of experiment, when tried upon thoſe ſub⯑jects which call forth our particular pro⯑penſities. We may ſtrive to be diſin⯑tereſted, we may ſtruggle to be impartial, but ſelf will ſtill predominate, ſtill ſhew us the imperfection of our natures, and the narrowneſs of our ſouls. Yet acquit me, I beg, of any intentional inſolence, and imagine not that in ſpeaking highly of my own family, I mean to depreciate yours: [198] on the contrary, I know it to be reſpec⯑table, I know, too, that were it the loweſt in the kingdom, the firſt might envy it that it gave birth to ſuch a daughter."’

Cecilia, ſomewhat ſoothed by this ſpeech, begged her pardon for having interrupted her, and ſhe proceeded.

‘"To your family, then, I aſſure you, whatever may be the pride of our own, you being its offspring, we would not object. With your merit we are all well acquainted, your character has our higheſt eſteem, and your fortune exceeds even our moſt ſan⯑guine deſires. Strange at once and afflict⯑ing! that not all theſe requiſites for the ſatisfaction of prudence, nor all theſe al⯑lurements for the gratification of happineſs, can ſuffice to fulfil or to ſilence the claims of either! There are yet other demands to which we muſt attend, demands which anceſtry and blood call upon us aloud to ratify! Such claimants are not to be neg⯑lected with impunity; they aſſert their rights with the authority of preſcription, they forbid us alike either to bend to in⯑clination, or ſtoop to intereſt, and from generation to generation their injuries will call out for redreſs, ſhould their noble and long unſullied name be voluntarily con⯑ſigned to oblivion!"’

Cecilia, extremely ſtruck by theſe words, [199] ſcarce wondered, ſince ſo ſtrong and ſo eſtabliſhed were her opinions, that the ob⯑ſtacle to her marriage, though but one, ſhould be conſidered as inſuperable.

‘"Not, therefore, to your name are we averſe,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"but ſimply to our own more partial. To ſink that, indeed, in any other, were baſe and unworthy:—what, then, muſt be the ſhock of my diſ⯑appointment, ſhould Mortimer Delvile, the darling of my hopes, the laſt ſurvivor of his houſe, in whoſe birth I rejoiced as the promiſe of its ſupport, in whoſe accom⯑pliſhments I gloried, as the revival of its luſtre,—ſhould he, ſhould my ſon be the firſt to abandon it! to give up the name he ſeemed born to make live, and to cauſe in effect its utter annihilation!—Oh how ſhould I know my ſon when an alien to his family! how bear to think I had cheriſhed in my boſom the betrayer of its deareſt in⯑tereſts, the deſtroyer of its very exiſtence!"’

Cecilia, ſcarce more afflicted than of⯑fended, now haſtily anſwered, ‘"Not for me, madam, ſhall he commit this crime, not on my account ſhall he be reprobated by his family! Think of him, therefore, no more, with any reference to me, for I would not be the cauſe of unwor⯑thineſs or guilt in him to be miſtreſs of the univerſe!"’

‘"Nobly ſaid!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, her [200] eyes ſparkling with joy, and her cheeks glowing with pleaſure, ‘"now again do I know Miſs Beverley! now again ſee the re⯑fined, the excellent young woman, whoſe virtues taught me to expect the renuncia⯑tion even of her own happineſs, when found to be incompatible with her duty!"’

Cecilia now trembled and turned pale; ſhe ſcarce knew herſelf what ſhe had ſaid, but, ſhe found by Mrs. Delvile's conſtruc⯑tion of her words, they had been regarded as her final relinquiſhing of her ſon. She ardently wiſhed to quit the room before ſhe was called upon to confirm the ſentence, but ſhe had not courage to make the effort, nor to riſe, ſpeak, or move.

‘"I grieve, indeed,"’ continued Mrs. Delvile, whoſe coldneſs and auſterity were changed into mildneſs and compaſſion, ‘"at the neceſſity I have been under to draw from you a concurrence ſo painful: but no other reſource was in my power. My influence with Mortimer, whatever it may be, I have not any right to try, with⯑out obtaining your previous conſent, ſince I regard him myſelf as bound to you in honour, and only to be releaſed by your own virtuous deſire. I will leave you, how⯑ever, for my preſence, I ſee, is oppreſſive to you. Farewell; and when you can for⯑give me, I think you will."’

[201] ‘"I have nothing, madam,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, coldly, ‘"to forgive; you have only aſſerted your own dignity, and I have no⯑body to blame but myſelf, for having given you occaſion."’

‘"Alas,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"if worth and nobleneſs of ſoul on your part, if eſteem and tendereſt affection on mine, were all which that dignity which offends you re⯑quires, how ſhould I crave the bleſſing of ſuch a daughter! how rejoice in joining my ſon to excellence ſo like his own, and enſuring his happineſs while I ſtimulated his virtue!"’

‘"Do not talk to me of affection, madam,"’ ſaid Cecilia, turning away from her; ‘"whatever you had for me is paſt,—even your eſteem is gone,—you may pity me, indeed, but your pity is mixed with contempt, and I am not ſo abject as to find comfort from exciting it."’

‘"O little,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, looking at her with the utmoſt tenderneſs, ‘"little do you ſee the ſtate of my heart, for never have you appeared to me ſo worthy as at this moment! In tearing you from my ſon, I partake all the wretchedneſs I give, but your own ſenſe of duty muſt ſomething plead for the ſtrictneſs with which I act up to mine."’

She then moved towards the door.

‘"Is your carriage, madam,"’ ſaid Cecilia, [202] ſtruggling to diſguiſe her inward anguiſh under an appearance of ſullenneſs, ‘"in waiting?"’

Mrs. Delvile then came back, and hold⯑ing out her hand, while her eyes gliſtened with tears, ſaid, ‘"To part from you thus frigidly, while my heart ſo warmly admires you, is almoſt more than I can endure. Oh gentleſt Cecilia! condemn not a mother who is impelled to this ſeverity, who per⯑forming what ſhe holds to be her duty, thinks the office her bittereſt misfortune, who foreſees in the rage of her huſband, and the reſiſtance of her ſon, all the miſery of domeſtic contention, and who can only ſe⯑cure the honour of her family by de⯑ſtroying its peace!—You will not, then, give me your hand?—"’

Cecilia, who had affected not to ſee that ſhe waited for it, now coldly put it out, diſtantly courteſying, and ſeeking to preſerve her ſteadineſs by avoiding to ſpeak. Mrs. Delvile took it, and as ſhe repeated her adieu, affectionately preſſed it to her lips; Cecilia, ſtarting, and breathing ſhort, from encreaſing yet ſmothered agitation, called out ‘"Why, why this condeſcenſion?—pray,—I entreat you, madam!—"’

‘"Heaven bleſs you, my love!"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, dropping a tear upon the hand ſhe ſtill held, ‘"heaven bleſs you, [203] and reſtore the tranquillity you ſo nobly deſerve!"’

‘"Ah madam!"’ cried Cecilia, vainly ſtriving to repreſs any longer the tears which now forced their way down her cheeks, ‘"why will you break my heart with this kindneſs! why will you ſtill compel me to love,—when now I almoſt wiſh to hate you!—"’

‘"No, hate me not,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, kiſſing from her cheeks the tears that wa⯑tered them, ‘"hate me not, ſweeteſt Ce⯑cilia, though in wounding your gentle boſom, I am almoſt deteſtable to myſelf. Even the cruel ſcene which awaits me with my ſon will not more deeply afflict me. But adieu,—I muſt now prepare for him!"’

She then left the room: but Cecilia, whoſe pride had no power to reſiſt this tenderneſs, ran haſtily after her, ſaying ‘"Shall I not ſee you again, madam?"’

‘"You ſhall yourſelf decide,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"if my coming will not give you more pain than pleaſure, I will wait upon you whenever you pleaſe."’

Cecilia ſighed and pauſed; ſhe knew not what to deſire, yet rather wiſhed any thing to be done, than quietly to ſit down to uninterrupted reflection.

‘"Shall I poſtpone quitting this place,"’ continued Mrs. Delvile, ‘"till to-morrow [204] morning, and will you admit me this after⯑noon, ſhould I call upon you again?"’

‘"I ſhould be ſorry,"’ ſaid ſhe, ſtill heſi⯑tating, ‘"to detain you,—"’

‘"You will rejoice me,"’ cried Mrs. Del⯑vile, ‘"by bearing me in your ſight."’

And ſhe then went into her carriage.

Cecilia, unfitted to attend her old friend, and unequal to the taſk of explaining to her the cruel ſcene in which ſhe had juſt been engaged, then haſtened to her own apartment. Her hitherto ſtifled emotions broke forth in tears and repinings: her fate was finally determined, and its determina⯑tion was not more unhappy than humiliat⯑ing; ſhe was openly rejected by the family whoſe alliance ſhe was known to wiſh; ſhe was compelled to refuſe the man of her choice, though ſatisfied his affections were her own. A miſery ſo peculiar ſhe found hard to ſupport, and almoſt burſting with conflicting paſſions, her heart alternately ſwelled from offended pride, and ſunk from diſappointed tenderneſs.

CHAP. IV. A PERTURBATION.

CECILIA was ſtill in this tempeſtuous ſtate, when a meſſage was brought her that a gentleman was below ſtairs, who beg⯑ged to have the honour of ſeeing her. She concluded he was Delvile, and the thought of meeting him merely to communicate what muſt ſo bitterly afflict him, redoubled her diſtreſs, and ſhe went down in an agony of perturbation and ſorrow.

He met her at the door, where, before he could ſpeak, ‘"Mr. Delvile,"’ ſhe cried, in a hurrying manner, ‘"why will you come? Why will you thus inſiſt upon ſee⯑ing me, in defiance of every obſtacle, and in contempt of my prohibition?"’

‘"Good heavens,"’ cried he, amazed, ‘"whence this reproach? Did you not per⯑mit me to wait upon you with the reſult of my enquiries? Had I not your conſent—but why do you look thus diſturbed?—Your eyes are red,—you have been weeping.—Oh my Cecilia! have I any ſhare in your ſorrow?—Thoſe tears, which never flow [206] weakly, tell me, have they—has one of them been ſhed upon my account?"’

‘"And what,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"has been the re⯑ſult of your enquiries?—Speak quick, for I wiſh to know,—and in another inſtant I muſt be gone."’

‘"How ſtrange,"’ cried the aſtoniſhed Delvile, ‘"is this language! how ſtrange are theſe looks! What new has come to paſs? Has any freſh calamity happened? Is there yet ſome evil which I do not ex⯑pect?"’

‘"Why will you not anſwer firſt?"’ cried ſhe; ‘"When I have ſpoken, you will perhaps be leſs willing."’

‘"You terrify, you ſhock, you amaze me! What dreadful blow awaits me? For what horror are you preparing me?—That which I have juſt experienced, and which tore you from me even at the foot of the altar, ſtill remains inexplicable, ſtill continues to be involved in darkneſs and myſtery; for the wretch who ſeparated us I have never been able to diſcover."’

‘"Have you procured, then, no intelli⯑gence?"’

‘"No, none; though ſince we parted I have never reſted a moment."’

‘"Make, then, no further enquiry, for now all explanation would be uſeleſs. That we were parted, we know, though why we [207] cannot tell: but that again we ſhall ever meet—"’

She ſtopt; her ſtreaming eyes caſt up⯑wards, and a deep ſigh burſting from her heart.

‘"Oh what,"’ cried Delvile, endeavour⯑ing to take her hand, which ſhe haſtily with⯑drew from him, ‘"what does this mean? love⯑lieſt, deareſt Cecilia, my betrothed, my af⯑fianced wife! why flow thoſe tears which agony only can wring from you? Why re⯑fuſe me that hand which ſo lately was the pledge of your faith? Am I not the ſame Delvile to whom ſo few days ſince you gave it? Why will you not open to him your heart? Why thus diſtruſt his honour, and repulſe his tenderneſs? Oh why, giving him ſuch exquiſite miſery, refuſe him the ſmalleſt conſolation?"’

‘"What conſolation,"’ cried the weeping Cecilia, ‘"can I give?" Alas! it is not, per⯑haps, you who moſt want it!—"’

Here the door was opened by one of the Miſs Charltons, who came into the room with a meſſage from her grand-mother, re⯑queſting to ſee Cecilia. Cecilia, aſhamed of being thus ſurpriſed with Delvile, and in tears, waited not either to make any excuſe to him, or any anſwer to Miſs Charlton, but inſtantly hurried out of the room;—not, however, to her old friend, whom now leſs [208] than ever ſhe could meet, but to her own apartment, where a very ſhort indulgence of grief was ſucceeded by the ſevereſt exa⯑mination of her own conduct.

A retroſpection of this ſort rarely brings much ſubject of exultation, when made with the rigid ſincerity of ſecret impartiality: ſo much ſtronger is our reaſon than our virtue, ſo much higher our ſenſe of duty than our performance!

All ſhe had done ſhe now repented, all ſhe had ſaid ſhe diſapproved; her conduct, ſeldom equal to her notions of right, was now infinitely below them, and the re⯑proaches of her judgment made her forget for a while the afflictions which had miſled it.

The ſorrow to which ſhe had openly given way in the preſence of Delvile, though their total ſeparation but the mo⯑ment before had been finally decreed, ſhe conſidered as a weak effuſion of tenderneſs, injurious to delicacy, and cenſurable by propriety. ‘"His power over my heart,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"it were now, indeed, too late to conceal, but his power over my underſtand⯑ing it is time to cancel. I am not to be his,—my own voice has ratified the renun⯑ciation, and ſince I made it to his mother, it muſt never, without her conſent, be in⯑validated. Honour, therefore, to her, and [209] regard for myſelf, equally command me to fly him, till I ceaſe to be thus affected by his ſight."’

When Delvile, therefore, ſent up an en⯑treaty that he might be again admitted in⯑to her preſence, ſhe returned for anſwer that ſhe was not well, and could not ſee any body.

He then left the houſe, and, in a few minutes, ſhe received the following note from him.

[210]The mixture of fondneſs and reſentment with which this letter was dictated, marked ſo ſtrongly the ſufferings and diſordered ſtate of the writer, that all the ſoftneſs of Cecilia returned when ſhe peruſed it, and left her not a wiſh but to leſſen his inqui⯑etude, by aſſurances of unalterable regard: yet ſhe determined not to truſt herſelf in his ſight, certain they could only meet to grieve over each other, and conſcious that a partici⯑pation of ſorrow would but prove a recipro⯑cation of tenderneſs. Calling, therefore, upon her duty to reſiſt her inclination, ſhe reſolved to commit the whole affair to the will of Mrs. Delvile, to whom, though under no promiſe, ſhe now conſidered her⯑ſelf reſponſible. Deſirous, however, to ſhorten the period of Delvile's uncertainty, ſhe would not wait till the time ſhe had ap⯑pointed to ſee his mother, but wrote the following note to haſten their meeting.

When ſhe had ſent off this letter, her heart was more at eaſe, becauſe reconciled with her conſcience: ſhe had ſacrificed the ſon, ſhe had reſigned herſelf to the mother; it now only remained to heal her wounded pride, by ſuffering the ſacrifice with dignity, and to recover her tranquility in virtue, by making the reſignation without repining.

Her reflections, too, growing clearer as the miſt of paſſion was diſperſed, ſhe recol⯑lected with confuſion her cold and ſullen behaviour to Mrs. Delvile. That lady had but done what ſhe had believed was her duty, and that duty was no more than ſhe had been taught to expect from her. In the beginning of her viſit, and while doubt⯑ful of its ſucceſs, ſhe had indeed, been auſtere, but the moment victory appeared in view, ſhe became tender, affectionate and gentle. Her juſtice, therefore, con⯑demned the reſentment to which ſhe had given way, and ſhe fortified her mind for [112] the interview which was to follow, by an earneſt deſire to make reparation both to Mrs. Delvile and herſelf for that which was paſt.

In this reſolution ſhe was not a little ſtrengthened, by ſeriouſly conſidering with herſelf the great abatement to all her poſ⯑ſible happineſs, which muſt have been made by the humiliating circumſtance of forcing herſelf into a family which held all connec⯑tion with her as diſgraceful. She deſired not to be the wife even of Delvile upon ſuch terms, for the more ſhe eſteemed and admired him, the more anxious ſhe became for his honour, and the leſs could ſhe en⯑dure being regarded herſelf as the occaſion of its diminution.

Now, therefore, her plan of conduct ſet⯑tled, with calmer ſpirits, though a heavy heart, ſhe attended upon Mrs. Charlton; but fearing to loſe the ſteadineſs ſhe had juſt acquired before it ſhould be called upon, if ſhe truſted herſelf to relate the deciſion which had been made, ſhe beſought her for the preſent to diſpenſe with the account, and then forced herſelf into converſation upon leſs intereſting ſubjects.

This prudence had its proper effect, and with tolerable tranquility ſhe heard Mrs. Delvile again announced, and waited upon [213] her in the parlour with an air of com⯑poſure.

Not ſo did Mrs. Delvile receive her; ſhe was all eagerneſs and emotion; ſhe flew to her the moment ſhe appeared, and throw⯑ing her arms around her, warmly exclaimed ‘"Oh charming girl! Saver of our family! preſerver of our honour! How poor are words to expreſs my admiration! how in⯑adequate are thanks in return for ſuch obli⯑gations as I owe you!"’

‘"You owe me none, madam,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, ſuppreſſing a ſigh; ‘"on my ſide will be all the obligation, if you can pardon the petulance of my behaviour this morn⯑ing."’

‘"Call not by ſo harſh a name,"’ anſwered Mrs. Delvile, ‘"the keenneſs of a ſenſibility by which you have yourſelf alone been the ſufferer. You have had a trial the moſt ſe⯑vere, and however able to ſuſtain, it was impoſſible you ſhould not feel it. That you ſhould give up any man whoſe friends ſolicit not your alliance, your mind is too delicate to make wonderful; but your ge⯑neroſity in ſubmitting, unaſked, the arrange⯑ment of that reſignation to thoſe for whoſe intereſt it is made, and your high ſenſe of honour in holding yourſelf accountable to me, though under no tie, and bound by no promiſe, mark a greatneſs of mind which [214] calls for reverence rather than thanks, and which I never can praiſe half ſo much as I admire."’

Cecilia, who received this applauſe but as a confirmation of her rejection, thanked her only by courtſying; and Mrs. Delvile, having ſeated herſelf next her, continued her ſpeech.

‘"My ſon, you have the goodneſs to tell me, is here,—have you ſeen him?"’

‘"Yes, madam,"’ anſwered ſhe, bluſh⯑ing, ‘"but hardly for a moment."’

‘"And he knows not of my arrival?"’

‘"No,—I believe he certainly does not."’

‘"Sad, then, is the trial which awaits him, and heavy for me the office I muſt perform! Do you expect to ſee him again?"’

‘"No,—yes,—perhaps—indeed I hardly—"’

She ſtammered, and Mrs. Delvile, taking her hand, ſaid ‘"Tell me, Miſs Beverley, why ſhould you ſee him again?"’

Cecilia was thunderſtruck by this queſ⯑tion, and, colouring yet more deeply, looked down, but could not anſwer.

‘"Conſider,"’ continued Mrs. Delvile, ‘"the purpoſe of any further meeting; your union is impoſſible, you have nobly con⯑ſented to relinquiſh all thoughts of it: why then tear your own heart, and torture [215] his, by an intercourſe which ſeems nothing but an ill-judged invitation to fruitleſs and unavailing ſorrow?"’

Cecilia was ſtill ſilent; the truth of the expoſtulation her reaſon acknowledged, but to aſſent to its conſequence her whole heart refuſed.

‘"The ungenerous triumph of little fe⯑male vanity,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"is far, I am ſure, from your mind, of which the en⯑largement and liberality will rather find conſolation from leſſening than from im⯑bittering his ſufferings. Speak to me, then, and tell me, honeſtly, judiciouſly, candidly tell me,—will it not be wiſer and more right, to avoid rather than ſeek an object which can only give birth to regret? an in⯑terview which can excite no ſenſations but of miſery and ſadneſs?"’

Cecilia then turned pale, ſhe endeavoured to ſpeak, but could not; ſhe wiſhed to comply,—yet to think ſhe had ſeen him for the laſt time, to remember how abruptly ſhe had parted from him, and to fear ſhe had treated him unkindly;—theſe were ob⯑ſtacles which oppoſed her concurrence, though both judgment and propriety de⯑manded it.

‘"Can you, then,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, after a pauſe, ‘"can you wiſh to ſee Mor⯑timer merely to behold his grief? Can you [216] deſire he ſhould ſee you, only to ſharpen his affliction at your loſs?"’

‘O no!"’ cried Cecilia, to whom this re⯑proof reſtored ſpeech and reſolution, ‘"I am not ſo deſpicable, I am not, I hope, ſo un⯑worthy!—I will be ruled by you wholly; I will commit to you every thing;—yet once, perhaps,—no more!—"’

‘"Ah, my dear Miſs Beverley! to meet confeſſedly for once,—what were that but planting a dagger in the heart of Mor⯑timer? What were it but infuſing poiſon in⯑to your own?"’

‘"If you think ſo, madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I had better—I will certainly—"’ ſhe ſighed, ſtammered, and ſtopt.

‘"Hear me,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"and rather let me try to convince than perſuade you. Were there any poſſibility, by argu⯑ment, by reflection, or even by accident, to remove the obſtacles to our connection, then would it be well to meet, for then might diſcuſſion turn to account, and an in⯑terchange of ſentiments be productive of ſome happy expedient: but here—"’

She heſitated, and Cecilia, ſhocked and aſhamed, turned away her face, and cried ‘"I know, madam, what you would ſay,—here all is over! and therefore—"’

‘"Yet ſuffer me,"’ interrupted ſhe, ‘"to be explicit, ſince we ſpeak upon this matter [217] now for the laſt time. Here, then, I ſay, where not ONE doubt remains, where ALL is finally, though not happily decided, what can an interview produce? Miſchief of every ſort, pain, horror, and repining! To Mortimer you may think it would be kind, and grant it to his prayers, as an alleviation of his miſery; miſtaken notion! nothing could ſo greatly augment it. All his paſ⯑ſions would be raiſed, all his prudence would be extinguiſhed, his ſoul would be torn with reſentment and regret, and force, only, would part him from you, when pre⯑viouſly he knew that parting was to be eter⯑nal. To yourſelf—"’

‘"Talk not, madam, of me,"’ cried the unhappy Cecilia, ‘"what you ſay of your ſon is ſufficient, and I will yield—"’

‘"Yet hear me,"’ proceeded ſhe, ‘"and be⯑lieve me not ſo unjuſt as to conſider him alone; you, alſo, would be an equal, though a leſs ſtormy ſufferer. You fancy, at this moment, that once more to meet him would ſoothe your uneaſineſs, and that to take of him a farewell, would ſoften the pain of the ſeparation: how falſe ſuch reaſoning! how dangerous ſuch conſolation! acquaint⯑ed ere you meet that you were to meet him no more, your heart would be all ſoftneſs and grief, and at the very moment when tenderneſs ſhould be baniſhed from your in⯑tercourſe, [218] it would bear down all oppoſition of judgment, ſpirit, and dignity: you would hang upon every word, becauſe every word would ſeem the laſt, every look, every ex⯑preſſion would be rivetted in your memory, and his image in this parting diſtreſs would be painted upon your mind, in colours that would eat into its peace, and perhaps never be eraſed."’

‘"Enough, enough,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I will not ſee him,—I will not even deſire it!"’

‘"Is this compliance or conviction? Is what I have ſaid true, or only terrifying?"’

‘"Both, both! I believe, indeed, the con⯑flict would have overpowered me.—I ſee you are right,—and I thank you, madam, for ſaving me from a ſcene I might ſo cruelly have rued."’

‘"Oh Daughter of my mind!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, riſing and embracing her, ‘"noble, generous, yet gentle Cecilia! what tie, what connection, could make you more dear to me? Who is there like you? Who half ſo excellent? So open to reaſon, ſo in⯑genuous in error! ſo rational! ſo juſt! ſo feeling, yet ſo wiſe!"’

‘"You are very good,"’ ſaid Cecilia, with a forced ſerenity, ‘"and I am thankful that your reſentment for the paſt obſtructs not your lenity for the preſent."’

[219] ‘"Alas, my love, how ſhall I reſent the paſt, when I ought myſelf to have foreſeen this calamity! and I ſhould have foreſeen it, had I not been informed you were engaged, and upon your engagement built our ſecu⯑rity. Elſe had I been more alarmed, for my own admiration would have bid me look forward to my ſon's. You were juſt, indeed, the woman he had leaſt chance to reſiſt, you were preciſely the character to ſeize his very ſoul. To a ſoftneſs the moſt fatally al⯑luring, you join a dignity which reſcues from their own contempt even the moſt humble of your admirers. You ſeem born to have all the world wiſh your exaltation, and no part of it murmur at your ſuperiority. Were any obſtacle but this inſuperable one in the way, ſhould nobles, nay, ſhould princes offer their daughters to my election, I would reject without murmuring the moſt magnificent propoſals, and take in triumph to my heart my ſon's nobler choice!"’

‘"Oh madam,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"talk not to me thus!—ſpeak not ſuch flattering words!—ah, rather ſcorn and upbraid me, tell me you deſpiſe my character, my fa⯑mily and my connections,—load, load me with contempt, but do not thus torture me with approbation!"’

‘"Pardon me, ſweeteſt girl, if I have awakened thoſe emotions you ſo wiſely ſeek [220] to ſubdue. May my ſon but emulate your example, and my pride in his virtue ſhall be the ſolace of my affliction for his misfor⯑tunes."’

She then tenderly embraced her, and ab⯑ruptly took her leave.

Cecilia had now acted her part, and acted it to her own ſatisfaction; but the curtain dropt when Mrs. Delvile left the houſe, na⯑ture reſumed her rights, and the ſorrow of her heart was no longer diſguiſed or repreſſ⯑ed. Some faint ray of hope had till now broke through the gloomieſt cloud of her miſery, and ſecretly flattered her that its diſperſion was poſſible, though diſtant: but that ray was extinct, that hope was no more; ſhe had ſolemnly promiſed to baniſh Del⯑vile her ſight, and his mother had abſolutely declared that even the ſubject had been diſ⯑cuſſed for the laſt time.

Mrs. Charlton, impatient of ſome expla⯑nation of the morning's tranſactions, ſoon ſent again to beg Cecilia would come to her. Cecilia reluctantly obeyed, for ſhe feared encreaſing her indiſpoſition by the in⯑telligence ſhe had to communicate; ſhe ſtruggled, therefore, to appear to her with tolerable calmneſs, and in briefly relating what had paſſed, forbore to mingle with the narrative her own feelings and unhappi⯑neſs.

[221] Mrs. Charlton heard the account with the utmoſt concern; ſhe accuſed Mrs. Del⯑vile of ſeverity, and even of cruelty; ſhe lamented the ſtrange accident by which the marriage ceremony had been ſtopt, and re⯑gretted that it had not again been begun, as the only means to have rendered ineffec⯑tual the preſent fatal interpoſition.

But the grief of Cecilia, however violent, induced her not to join in this regret: ſhe mourned only the obſtacle which had occaſioned the ſeparation, and not the inci⯑dent which had merely interrupted the ce⯑remony: convinced, by the converſations in which ſhe had juſt been engaged, of Mrs. Delvile's inflexibility, ſhe rather rejoiced than repined that ſhe had put it to no near⯑er trial: ſorrow was all ſhe felt; for her mind was too liberal to harbour reſentment againſt a conduct which ſhe ſaw was dic⯑tated by a ſenſe of right; and too ductile and too affectionate to remain unmoved by the perſonal kindneſs which had ſoftened the rejection, and the many marks of eſteem and regard which had ſhewn her it was la⯑mented, though conſidered as indiſpen⯑ſable.

How and by whom this affair had been betrayed to Mrs. Delvile ſhe knew not; but the diſcovery was nothing leſs than ſur⯑priſing, ſince, by various unfortunate ac⯑cidents, [222] it was known to ſo many, and ſince, in the horror and confuſion of the myſte⯑rious prohibition to the marriage, neither Delvile nor herſelf had thought of even at⯑tempting to give any caution to the wit⯑neſſes of that ſcene, not to make it known: an attempt, however, which muſt almoſt ne⯑ceſſarily have been unavailing, as the inci⯑dent was too extraordinary and too ſingular to have any chance of ſuppreſſion.

During this converſation, one of the ſer⯑vants came to inform Cecilia, that a man was below to enquire if there was no anſwer to the note he had brought in the fore⯑noon.

Cecilia, greatly diſtreſſed, knew not upon what to reſolve; that the patience of Delvile ſhould be exhauſted, ſhe did not, indeed, wonder, and to relieve his anxiety was now almoſt her only wiſh; ſhe would therefore inſtantly have written to him, confeſſed her ſympathy in his ſufferings, and beſought him to endure with fortitude an evil which was no longer to be withſtood: but ſhe was uncertain whether he was yet acquainted with the journey of his mother to Bury, and having agreed to commit to her the whole management of the affair, ſhe feared it would be diſhonourable to take any ſtep in it without her concurrence. She returned, [223] therefore, a meſſage that ſhe had yet no anſwer ready.

In a very few minutes Delvile called him⯑ſelf, and ſent up an earneſt requeſt for per⯑miſſion to ſee her.

Here, at leaſt, ſhe had no perplexity; an interview ſhe had given her poſitive word to refuſe, and therefore, without a moment's heſitation, ſhe bid the ſervant inform him ſhe was particularly engaged, and ſorry it was not in her power to ſee any company.

In the greateſt perturbation he left the houſe, and immediately wrote to her the following lines.

[224] The man who brought this note, waited not for any anſwer.

Cecilia read it in an agony of mind inex⯑preſſible: ſhe ſaw, by its ſtyle, how much Delvile was irritated, and her knowledge of his temper made her certain his irritation proceeded from believing himſelf ill-uſed. She ardently wiſhed to appeaſe and to quiet him, and regretted the neceſſity of appear⯑ing obdurate and unfeeling, even more, at that moment, than the ſeparation itſelf. To a mind priding in its purity, and animated in its affections, few ſenſations can excite keener miſery, than thoſe by which an appre⯑henſion is raiſed of being thought worth⯑leſs or ungrateful by the objects of our choſen regard. To be deprived of their ſociety is leſs bitter, to be robbed of our own tranquillity by any other means, is leſs afflicting.

Yet to this it was neceſſary to ſubmit, or incur the only penalty which, to ſuch a mind, would be more ſevere, ſelf-reproach: ſhe had promiſed to be governed by Mrs. Del⯑vile, ſhe had nothing, therefore, to do but obey her.

Yet to turn, as he expreſſed himſelf, from the door, a man who, but for an incident the moſt incomprehenſible, would now have been ſole maſter of herſelf and her ac⯑tions, ſeemed ſo unkind and ſo tyrannical, [225] that ſhe could not endure to be within hearing of his repulſe: ſhe begged, there⯑fore, the uſe of Mrs. Charlton's carriage, and determined to make a viſit to Mrs. Harrel till Delvile and his mother had wholly quitted Bury. She was not, indeed, quite ſatisfied in going to the houſe of Mr. Arnott, but ſhe had no time to weigh ob⯑jections, and knew not any other place to which ſtill greater might not be ſtarted.

She wrote a ſhort letter to Mrs. Delvile, acquainting her with her purpoſe, and its reaſon, and repeating her aſſurances that ſhe would be guided by her implicitly; and then, embracing Mrs. Charlton, whom ſhe left to the care of her grand-daughters, ſhe got into a chaiſe, accompanied only by her maid, and one man and horſe, and ordered the poſtilion to drive to Mr. Arnott's.

CHAP. V. A COTTAGE.

THE evening was already far advanced, and before ſhe arrived at the end of her little journey it was quite dark. When they came within a mile of Mr. Arnott's houſe, the poſtilion, in turning too ſud⯑denly from the turnpike to the croſs-road, overſet the carriage. The accident, how⯑ever, occaſioned no other miſchief than de⯑laying their proceeding, and Cecilia and her maid were helped out of the chaiſe unhurt. The ſervants, aſſiſted by a man who was walking upon the road, began lifting it up; and Cecilia, too buſy within to be attentive to what paſſed without, diſ⯑regarded what went forward, till ſhe heard her footman call for help. She then haſtily advanced to enquire what was the matter, and found that the paſſenger who had lent his aid, had, by working in the dark, un⯑fortunately ſlipped his foot under one of the wheels, and ſo much hurt it, that with⯑out great pain he could not put it to the ground.

Cecilia immediately deſired that the ſuf⯑ferer [227] might be carried to his own home in the chaiſe, while ſhe and the maid walked on to Mr. Arnott's, attended by her ſer⯑vant on horſeback.

This little incident proved of ſingular ſervice to her upon firſt entering the houſe; Mrs. Harrel was at ſupper with her brother, and hearing the voice of Cecilia in the hall, haſtened with the extremeſt ſurpriſe to en⯑quire what had occaſioned ſo late a viſit; followed by Mr. Arnott, whoſe amazement was accompanied with a thouſand other ſenſations too powerful for ſpeech. Cecilia, unprepared with any excuſe, inſtantly re⯑lated the adventure ſhe had met with on the road, which quieted their curioſity, by turning their attention to her perſonal ſafety. They ordered a room to be pre⯑pared for her, entreated her to go to reſt with all ſpeed, and poſtpone any fur⯑ther account till the next day. With this requeſt ſhe moſt gladly complied, happy to be ſpared the embarraſment of enquiry, and rejoiced to be relieved from the fatigue of converſation.

Her night was reſtleſs and miſerable: to know how Delvile would bear her flight was never a moment from her thoughts, and to hear whether he would obey or op⯑poſe his mother was her inceſſant wiſh. She was fixt, however, to be faithful in refuſing [228] to ſee him, and at leaſt to ſuffer nothing new from her own enterprize or fault.

Early in the morning Mrs. Harrel came to ſee her. She was eager to learn why, after invitations repeatedly refuſed, ſhe was thus ſuddenly arrived without any; and ſhe was ſtill more eager to talk of herſelf, and relate the weary life ſhe led thus ſhut up in the country, and confined to the ſociety of her brother.

Cecilia evaded giving any immediate anſwer to her queſtions, and Mrs. Harrel, happy in an opportunity to rehearſe her own complaints, ſoon forgot that ſhe had aſked any, and, in a very ſhort time, was per⯑fectly, though imperceptibly, contented to be herſelf the only ſubject upon which they converſed.

But not ſuch was the ſelfiſhneſs of Mr. Arnott; and Cecilia, when ſhe went down to breakfaſt, perceived with the utmoſt concern that he had paſſed a night as ſleep⯑leſs as her own. A viſit ſo ſudden, ſo un⯑expected, and ſo unaccountable, from an object that no diſcouragement could make him think of with indifference, had been a ſubject to him of conjecture and wonder that had revived all the hopes and the fears which had lately, though ſtill unextin⯑guiſhed, lain dormant. The enquiries, however, which his ſiſter had given up, he [229] ventured not to renew, and thought himſelf but too happy in her preſence, whatever might be the cauſe of her viſit.

He perceived, however, immediately, the ſadneſs that hung upon her mind, and his own was redoubled by the ſight: Mrs. Harrel, alſo, ſaw that ſhe looked ill, but attributed it to the fatigue and fright of the preceding evening, well knowing that a ſimilar accident would have made her ill herſelf, or fancy that ſhe was ſo.

During breakfaſt, Cecilia ſent for the poſtilion, to enquire of him how the man had fared, whoſe good-natured aſſiſtance in their diſtreſs had been ſo unfortunate to himſelf. He anſwered that he had turned out to be a day labourer, who lived about half a mile off. And then, partly to gra⯑tify her own humanity, and partly to find any other employment for herſelf and friends than unintereſting converſation, ſhe propoſed that they ſhould all walk to the poor man's habitation, and offer him ſome amends for the injury he had received. This was readily aſſented to, and the poſti⯑lion directed them whither to go.

The place was a cottage, ſituated upon a common; they entered it without cere⯑mony, and found a clean looking woman at work.

Cecilia enquired for her huſband, and [230] was told that he was gone out to day⯑labour.

‘"I am very glad to hear it,"’ returned ſhe; ‘"I hope then he has got the better of the accident he met with laſt night?"’

‘"It was not him, madam,"’ ſaid the woman, ‘"met with the accident, it was John;—there he is, working in the garden."’

To the garden then they all went, and ſaw him upon the ground, weeding.

The moment they approached he aroſe, and, without ſpeaking, began to limp, for he could hardly walk, away.

‘"I am ſorry, maſter,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"that you are ſo much hurt. Have you had any thing put to your foot?"’

The man made no anſwer, but ſtill turned away from her; a glance, however, of his eye, which the next inſtant he fixed upon the ground, ſtartled her; ſhe moved round to look at him again,—and per⯑ceived Mr. Belfield!

‘"Good God!"’ ſhe exclaimed; but ſeeing him ſtill retreat, ſhe recollected in a moment how little he would be obliged to her for betraying him, and, ſuffering him to go on, turned back to her party, and led the way again into the houſe.

As ſoon as the firſt emotion of her ſur⯑priſe was over, ſhe enquired how long John [231] had belonged to this cottage, and what was his way of life.

The woman anſwered he had only been with them a week, and that he went out to day-labour with her huſband.

Cecilia then, finding their ſtay kept him from his employment, and willing to ſave him the diſtreſs of being ſeen by Mr. Ar⯑nott or Mrs. Harrel, propoſed their re⯑turning home. She grieved moſt ſincerely at beholding in ſo melancholy an occupa⯑tion a young man of ſuch talents and abi⯑lities; ſhe wiſhed much to aſſiſt him, and began conſidering by what means it might be done, when, as they were walking from the cottage, a voice at ſome diſtance called out ‘"Madam! Miſs Beverley!"’ and, looking round, to her utter amazement ſhe ſaw Belfield endeavouring to follow her.

She inſtantly ſtopt, and he advanced, his hat in his hand, and his whole air indicat⯑ing he ſought not to be diſguiſed.

Surpriſed at this ſudden change of beha⯑viour, ſhe then ſtept forward to meet him, accompanied by her friends: but when they came up to each other, ſhe checked her deſire of ſpeaking, to leave him fully at liberty to make himſelf known, or keep concealed.

He bowed with a look of aſſumed gaiety and eaſe, but the deep ſcarlet that tinged [232] his whole face manifeſted his internal con⯑fuſion; and in a voice that attempted to ſound lively, though its tremulous accents betrayed uneaſineſs and diſtreſs, he ex⯑claimed, with a forced ſmile, ‘"Is it poſ⯑ſible Miſs Beverley can deign to notice a poor miſerable day-labourer ſuch as I am? how will ſhe be juſtified in the beau monde, when even the ſight of ſuch a wretch ought to fill her with horror? Henceforth let hyſtericks be blown to the winds, and let nerves be diſcarded from the female voca⯑bulary, ſince a lady ſo young and fair can ſtand this ſhock without hartſhorn or fainting!"’

‘"I am happy,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"to find your ſpirits ſo good; yet my own, I muſt confeſs, are not raiſed by ſeeing you in this ſtrange ſituation."’

‘"My ſpirits!"’ cried he, with an air of defiance, ‘"never were they better, never ſo good as at this moment. Strange as ſeems my ſituation, it is all that I wiſh; I have found out, at laſt, the true ſecret of happineſs! that ſecret which ſo long I pur⯑ſued in vain, but which always eluded my graſp, till the inſtant of deſpair arrived, when, ſlackening my pace, I gave it up as a phantom. Go from me, I cried, I will be cheated no more! thou airy bubble! thou fleeting ſhadow! I will live no longer [233] in thy ſight, ſince thy beams dazzle without warming me! Mankind ſeems only com⯑poſed as matter for thy experiments, and I will quit the whole race, that thy deluſions may be preſented to me no more!"’

This romantic flight, which ſtartled even Cecilia, though acquainted with his cha⯑racter, gave to Mrs. Harrel and Mr. Ar⯑nott the utmoſt ſurprize; his appearance, and the account they had juſt heard of him, having by no means prepared them for ſuch ſentiments or ſuch language.

‘"Is then this great ſecret of happineſs,’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"nothing, at laſt, but total ſecluſion from the world?"’

‘"No, madam,"’ anſwered he, ‘"it is Labour with Independence."’

Cecilia now wiſhed much to aſk ſome explanation of his affairs, but was doubtful whether he would gratify her before Mrs. Harrel and Mr. Arnott, and hurt to keep him ſtanding, though he leant upon a ſtick; ſhe told him, therefore, ſhe would at pre⯑ſent detain him no longer, but endeavour again to ſee him before ſhe quitted her friends.

Mr. Arnott then interfered, and deſired his ſiſter would entreat Miſs Beverley to invite whom ſhe pleaſed to his houſe.

Cecilia thanked him, and inſtantly aſked Belfield to call upon her in the afternoon.

[234] ‘"No, madam, no,"’ cried he, ‘"I have done with viſits and ſociety! I will not ſo ſoon break through a ſyſtem with much difficulty formed, when all my future tran⯑quility depends upon adhering to it. The worthleſſneſs of mankind has diſguſted me with the world, and my reſolution in quit⯑ting it ſhall be immoveable as its baſeneſs."’

‘"I muſt not venture then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"to enquire—"’

‘"Enquire, madam,"’ interrupted he with quickneſs, ‘"what you pleaſe: there is nothing I will not anſwer to you,—to this lady, to this gentleman, to any and to every body. What can I wiſh to conceal, where I have nothing to gain or to loſe? When firſt, indeed, I ſaw you, I involun⯑tarily ſhrunk; a weak ſhame for a moment ſeized me, I felt fallen and debaſed, and I wiſhed to avoid you: but a little recollec⯑tion brought me back to my ſenſes. And where, cried I, is the diſgrace of exerciſing for my ſubſiſtence the ſtrength with which I am endued? and why ſhould I bluſh to lead the life which uncorrupted Nature firſt preſcribed to man?"’

‘"Well, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, more and more intereſted to hear him, ‘"if you will not viſit us, will you at leaſt permit us to return with you to ſome place where you can be ſeated?"’

[235] ‘"I will with pleaſure,"’ cried he, ‘"go to any place where you may be ſeated your⯑ſelves; but for me, I have ceaſed to regard accommodation or inconvenience."’

They then all went back to the cottage, which was now empty, the woman being out at work.

‘"Will you then, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"give me leave to enquire whether Lord Vannelt is acquainted with your retirement, and if it will not much ſurprize and diſap⯑point him?"’

‘"Lord Vannelt,"’ cried he, haughtily, ‘"has no right to be ſurpriſed. I would have quitted his houſe, if no other, not even this cottage, had a roof to afford me ſhelter!"’

‘"I am ſorry, indeed, to hear it,"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"I had hoped he would have known your value, and merited your regard."’

‘"Ill-uſage,"’ anſwered he, ‘"is as hard to relate as to be endured. There is com⯑monly ſomething pitiful in a complaint; and though oppreſſion in a general ſenſe provokes the wrath of mankind, the in⯑veſtigation of its minuter circumſtances ex⯑cites nothing but deriſion. Thoſe who give the offence, by the worthy few may be hated, but thoſe who receive it, by the world at large will be deſpiſed. Conſcious [236] of this, I diſdained making any appeal; myſelf the only ſufferer, I had a right to be the only judge, and, ſhaking off the baſe trammels of intereſt and ſubjection, I quitted the houſe in ſilent indignation, not chuſing to remonſtrate, where I deſired not to be reconciled."’

‘"And was there no mode of life,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"to adopt, but living with Lord Vannelt, or giving up the whole world?"’

‘"I weighed every thing maturely,"’ an⯑ſwered he, ‘"before I made my determina⯑tion, and I found it ſo much the moſt eli⯑gible, that I am certain I can never repent it. I had friends who would with pleaſure have preſented me to ſome other noble⯑man; but my whole heart revolted againſt leading that kind of life, and I would not, therefore, idly rove from one great man to another, adding ill-will to diſgrace, and purſuing hope in defiance of common ſenſe; no; when I quitted Lord Vannelt, I re⯑ſolved to give up patronage for ever.’

‘"I retired to private lodgings to delibe⯑rate what next could be done. I had lived in many ways, I had been unfortunate or imprudent in all. The law I had tried, but its rudiments were tedious and diſguſt⯑ing; the army, too, but there found my mind more fatigued with indolence, than my body with action; general diſſipation [237] had then its turn, but the expence to which it led was ruinous, and ſelf-reproach baffled pleaſure while I purſued it; I have even—yes, there are few things I have left un⯑tried,—I have even,—for why now diſguiſe it?—"’

He ſtopt and coloured, but in a quicker voice preſently proceeded.

‘"Trade, alſo, has had its ſhare in my expe⯑riments; for that, in truth, I was originally deſtined,—but my education had ill ſuited me to ſuch a deſtination, and the trader's firſt maxim I reverſed, in laviſhing when I ought to have accumulated.’

‘"What, then, remained for me? to run over again the ſame irkſome round I had not patience, and to attempt any thing new I was unqualified: money I had none; my friends I could bear to burthen no longer; a fortnight I lingered in wretched irreſo⯑lution,—a ſimple accident at the end of it happily ſettled me; I was walking, one morning, in Hyde Park, forming a thou⯑ſand plans for my future life, but quar⯑relling with them all; when a gentleman met me on horſeback, from whom, at my Lord Vannelt's, I had received particular civilities; I looked another way not to be ſeen by him, and the change in my dreſs ſince I left his Lordſhip's made me eaſily paſs unnoticed. He had rode on, however, [238] but a few yards, before, by ſome accident or miſmanagement, he had a fall from his horſe. Forgetting all my caution, I flew inſtantly to his aſſiſtance; he was bruiſed, but not otherwiſe hurt; I helpt him up, and he leant upon my arm; in my haſte of enquiring how he had fared, I called him by his name. He knew me, but looked ſurpriſed at my appearance; he was ſpeak⯑ing to me, however, with kindneſs, when ſeeing ſome gentlemen of his acquaintance gallopping up to him, he haſtily diſengaged himſelf from me, and inſtantly beginning to recount to them what had happened, he ſedulouſly looked another way, and joining his new companions, walked off without taking further notice of me. For a moment I was almoſt tempted to trouble him to come back; but a little recollection told me how ill he deſerved my reſentment, and bid me transfer it for the future from the pitiful individual to the worthleſs community.’

‘"Here finiſhed my deliberation; the diſguſt to the world which I had already conceived, this little incident confirmed; I I ſaw it was only made for the great and the rich;—poor, therefore, and low, what had I to do in it? I determined to quit it for ever, and to end every diſappointment, by cruſhing every hope.’

[239] ‘"I wrote to Lord Vannelt to ſend my trunks to my mother; I wrote to my mother that I was well, and would ſoon let her hear more: I then paid off my lodg⯑ings, and ‘"ſhaking the duſt from my feet,"’ bid a long adieu to London; and, com⯑mitting my route to chance, ſtrole on into the country, without knowing or caring which way.’

‘"My firſt thought was ſimply to ſeek retirement, and to depend for my future repoſe upon nothing but a total ſecluſion from ſociety: but my ſlow method of tra⯑velling gave me time for reflection, and reflection ſoon ſhewed me the error of this notion.’

‘"Guilt, cried I, may, indeed, be avoid⯑ed by ſolitude; but will miſery? will re⯑gret? will deep dejection of mind? no; they will follow more aſſiduouſly than ever; for what is there to oppoſe them, where neither buſineſs occupies the time, nor hope the imagination? where the paſt has left nothing but reſentment, and the future opens only to a diſmal, unintereſting void? No ſtranger to life, I knew human nature could not exiſt on ſuch terms; ſtill leſs a ſtranger to books, I reſpected the voice of wiſdom and experience in the firſt of mo⯑ [...]aliſts, and moſt enlightened of men,^* and [240] reading the letter of Cowley, I ſaw the vanity and abſurdity of panting after ſolitude. ^*’

‘"I ſought not, therefore, a cell; but, ſince I purpoſed to live for myſelf, I deter⯑mined for myſelf alſo to think. Servility of imitation has ever been as much my ſcorn as ſervility of dependence; I reſolved, therefore, to ſtrike out ſomething new, and no more to retire as every other man had retired, than to linger in the world as every other man had lingered.’

‘"The reſult of all you now fee. I found out this cottage, and took up my abode in it. I am here out of the way of all ſociety, yet avoid the great evil of retreat, having nothing to do. I am conſtantly, not capri⯑ciouſly employed, and the exerciſe which benefits my health, imperceptibly raiſes my ſpirits in deſpight of adverſity. I am re⯑moved from all temptation, I have ſcarce even the power to do wrong; I have no object for ambition, for repining I have no time:—I have found out, I repeat, the true ſecret of happineſs, Labour with In⯑dependence."’

He ſtopt; and Cecilia, who had liſtened to this narrative with a mixture of com⯑paſſion, admiration and cenſure, was too [241] much ſtruck with its ſingularity to be readily able to anſwer it. Her curioſity to hear him had ſprung wholly from her deſire to aſſiſt him, and ſhe had expected from his ſtory to gather ſome hint upon which her ſervices might be offered. But none had occurred; he profeſſed himſelf fully ſatis⯑fied with his ſituation; and though reaſon and probability contradicted the profeſſion, ſhe could not venture to diſpute it with any delicacy or prudence.

She thanked him, therefore, for his rela⯑tion, with many apologies for the trouble ſhe had given him, and added, ‘"I muſt not expreſs my concern for misfortunes which you ſeem to regard as conducive to your contentment, nor remonſtrate at the ſtep you have taken, ſince you have been led to it by choice, not neceſſity: but yet, you muſt pardon me if I cannot help hoping I ſhall ſome time ſee you happier, according to the common, however vulgar ideas of the reſt of the world."’

‘"No, never, never! I am ſick of man⯑kind, not from theory, but experience; and the precautions I have taken againſt mental fatigue, will ſecure me from repentance, or any deſire of change; for it is not the active, but the indolent who weary; it is not the temperate, but the pampered who are capricious."’

[242] ‘"Is your ſiſter, Sir, acquainted with this change in your fortune and opinions?"’

‘"Poor girl, no! She and her unhappy mother have borne but too long with my enterprizes and misfortunes. Even yet they would ſacrifice whatever they poſſeſs to enable me to play once more the game ſo often loſt; but I will not abuſe their affec⯑tion, nor ſuffer them again to be ſlaves to my caprices, nor dupes to their own delu⯑ſive expectations. I have ſent them word I am happy; I have not yet told them how or where. I fear much the affliction of their diſappointment, and, for a while, ſhall conceal from them my ſituation, which they would fancy was diſgraceful, and grieve at as cruel."’

‘"And is it not cruel?"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"is labour indeed ſo ſweet? and can you ſeri⯑ouſly derive happineſs from what all others conſider as miſery?"’

‘"Not ſweet,"’ anſwered he, ‘"in itſelf; but ſweet, moſt ſweet and ſalutary in its effects. When I work, I forget all the world; my projects for the future, my diſ⯑appointments from the paſt. Mental fa⯑tigue is overpowered by perſonal; I toil till I require reſt, and that reſt which na⯑ture, not luxury demands, leads not to idle meditation, but to ſound, heavy, neceſſary ſleep. I awake the next morning to the [243] ſame thought-exiling buſineſs, work again till my powers are exhauſted, and am re⯑lieved again at night by the ſame health⯑recruiting inſenſibility."’

‘"And if this,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"is the life of happineſs, why have we ſo many complaints of the ſufferings of the poor, and why ſo eternally do we hear of their hardſhips and diſtreſs?"’

‘"They have known no other life. They are ſtrangers, therefore, to the felicity of their lot. Had they mingled in the world, fed high their fancy with hope, and looked forward with expectation of enjoyment; had they been courted by the great, and offered with profuſion adulation for their abilities, yet, even when ſtarving, been offered nothing elſe!—had they ſeen an attentive circle wait all its entertainment from their powers, yet found themſelves forgotten as ſoon as out of ſight, and per⯑ceived themſelves avoided when no longer buffoons!—Oh had they known and felt provocations ſuch as theſe, how gladly would their reſentful ſpirits turn from the whole unfeeling race, and how would they reſpect that noble and manly labour, which at once diſentangles them from ſuch ſub⯑jugating ſnares, and enables them to fly the ingratitude they abhor! Without the contraſt of vice, virtue unloved may be [244] lovely; without the experience of miſery, happineſs is ſimply a dull privation of evil."’

‘"And are you ſo content,"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, ‘"with your preſent ſituation, as even to think it offers you reparation for your paſt ſufferings?"’

‘"Content!"’ repeated he with energy, ‘"O more than content, I am proud of my preſent ſituation! I glory in ſhewing to the world, I glory ſtill more in ſhewing to myſelf, that thoſe whom I cannot but de⯑ſpiſe I will not ſcruple to defy, and that where I have been treated unworthily, I will ſcorn to be obliged."’

‘"But will you pardon me,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſhould I aſk again, why in quitting Lord Vannelt, you concluded no one elſe worthy a trial?"’

‘"Becauſe it was leſs my Lord Vannelt, madam, than my own ſituation, that diſ⯑guſted me: for though I liked not his be⯑haviour, I found him a man too generally eſteemed to flatter myſelf better uſage would await me in merely changing my abode, while my ſtation was the ſame. I believe, indeed, he never meant to offend me; but I was offended the more that he ſhould think me an object to receive in⯑dignity without knowing it. To have had this pointed out to him, would have been [245] at once mortifying and vain; for delicacy, like taſte, can only partially be taught, and will always be ſuperficial and erring where it is not innate. Thoſe wrongs, which though too trifling to reſent, are too humi⯑liating to be borne, ſpeech can convey no idea of; the ſoul muſt feel, or the under⯑ſtanding can never comprehend them."’

‘"But ſurely,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"though people of refinement are rare, they yet exiſt; why, then, remove yourſelf from the poſſibility of meeting with them?"’

‘"Muſt I run about the nation,"’ cried he, ‘"proclaiming my diſtreſs, and de⯑ſcribing my temper? telling the world that though dependent I demand reſpect as well as aſſiſtance; and publiſhing to mankind, that though poor I will accept no gifts if offered with contumely? Who will liſten to ſuch an account? who will care for my misfortunes, but as they may humble me to his ſervice? who will hear my mortifications, but to ſay I deſerve them? what has the world to do with my feelings and peculiarities? I know it too well to think calamity will ſoften it; I need no new leſſons to inſtruct me that to conquer affliction is more wiſe than to relate it."’

‘"Unfortunate as you have been,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I cannot wonder at your aſpe⯑rity; but yet, it is ſurely no more than [246] juſtice to acknowledge, that hard-hearted⯑neſs to diſtreſs is by no means the fault of the preſent times: on the contrary, it is ſcarce ſooner made known, then every one is ready to contribute to its relief."’

‘"And how contribute?"’ cried he, ‘"by a paltry donation of money? Yes, the man whoſe only want is a few guineas, may, in⯑deed, obtain them; but he who aſks kind⯑neſs and protection, whoſe oppreſſed ſpirit calls for conſolation even more than his ruined fortune for repair, how is his ſtruggling foul, if ſuperior to his fate, to brook the oſtentation of patronage, and the inſolence of condeſcenſion? Yes, yes, the world will ſave the poor beggar who is ſtarving; but the fallen wretch, who will not cringe for his ſupport, may conſume in his own wretchedneſs without pity and with⯑out help!"’

Cecilia now ſaw that the wound his ſen⯑ſibility had received was too painful for argument, and too recent immediately to be healed. She forbore, therefore, to de⯑tain him any longer, but expreſſing her beſt wiſhes, without venturing to hint at her ſervices, ſhe aroſe, and they all took their leave;—Belfield haſtening, as they went, to return to the garden, where, looking over the hedge as they paſſed, they ſaw him employed again in weeding, with the [247] eagerneſs of a man who purſues his ſa⯑vourite occupation.

Cecilia half forgot her own anxieties and ſadneſs, in the concern which ſhe felt for this unfortunate and extraordinary young man. She wiſhed much to deviſe ſome means for drawing him from a life of ſuch hardſhip and obſcurity; but what to a man thus ‘"jealous in honour,"’ thus ſcrupulous in delicacy, could ſhe propoſe, without more riſk of offence, than probability of obliging? His account had, indeed, con⯑vinced her how much he ſtood in need of aſſiſtance, but it had ſhewn her no leſs how faſtidious he would be in receiving it.

Nor was ſhe wholly without fear that an earneſt ſolicitude to ſerve him, his youth, talents, and ſtriking manners conſidered, might occaſion even in himſelf a miſcon⯑ſtruction of her motives, ſuch as ſhe al⯑ready had given birth to in his forward and partial mother.

The preſent, therefore, all circumſtances weighed, ſeemed no ſeaſon for her libera⯑lity, which ſhe yet reſolved to exert the firſt moment it was un-oppoſed by propriety.

CHAP. VI. A CONTEST.

THE reſt of the day was paſſed in diſ⯑cuſſing this adventure; but in the evening, Cecilia's intereſt in it was all ſunk, by the reception of the following letter from Mrs. Delvile.

‘"Alas,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"when ſhall I be at reſt? when ceaſe to be perſecuted by new conflicts! Oh why muſt I ſo often, ſo cruelly, though ſo reluctantly, reject and reprove the man who of all men I wiſh to accept and to pleaſe!"’

But yet, though repining at this hard neceſſity, ſhe heſitated not a moment in complying with Mrs. Delvile's requeſt, and immediately ſent an anſwer that ſhe would meet her the next morning at Mrs. Charlton's.

She then returned to the parlour, and apologized to Mrs. Harrel and Mr. Arnott for the abruptneſs of her viſit, and the ſuddenneſs of her departure. Mr. Arnott heard her in ſilent dejection; and Mrs. Harrel uſed all the perſuaſion in her power to prevail with her to ſtay, her preſence being ſome relief to her ſolitude: but find⯑ing it ineffectual, ſhe earneſtly preſſed her to [251] haſten her entrance into her own houſe, that their abſence might be ſhortened, and their meeting more ſprightly.

Cecilia paſſed the night in planning her behaviour for the next day; ſhe found how much was expected from her by Mrs. Del⯑vile, who had even exhorted her to de⯑cline the interview if doubtful of her own ſtrength. Delvile's firmneſs in inſiſting the refuſal ſhould come directly from her⯑ſelf, ſurpriſed, gratified and perplexed her in turn; ſhe had imagined, that from the moment of the diſcovery, he would im⯑plicitly have ſubmitted to the award of a parent at once ſo reverenced and ſo be⯑loved, and how he had ſummoned courage to contend with her ſhe could not conjec⯑ture: yet that courage and that contention aſtoniſhed not more than they ſoothed her, ſince, from her knowledge of his filial ten⯑derneſs, ſhe conſidered them as the moſt in⯑dubitable proofs ſhe had yet received of the fervour and conſtancy of his regard for her. But would he, when ſhe had ratified the deciſion of his mother, forbear all further ſtruggle, and for ever yield up all pretenſions to her? this was the point upon which her uncertainty turned, and the ruling ſubject of her thoughts and me⯑ditation.

To be ſteady, however, herſelf, be his [252] conduct what it might, was invariably her intention, and was all her ambition: yet earneſtly ſhe wiſhed the meeting over, for ſhe dreaded to ſee the ſorrow of Delvile, and ſhe dreaded ſtill more the ſuſceptibility of her own heart.

The next morning, to her great con⯑cern, Mr. Arnott was waiting in the hall when ſhe came down ſtairs, and ſo much grieved at her departure, that he handed her to the chaiſe without being able to ſpeak to her, and hardly heard her thanks and compliments but by recollection after ſhe was gone.

She arrived at Mrs. Charlton's very early, and found her old friend in the ſame ſtate ſhe had left her. She communicated to her the purpoſe of her return, and begged ſhe would keep her grand daughters up ſtairs, that the conference in the parlour might be uninterrupted and unheard.

She then made a forced and haſty break⯑faſt, and went down to be ready to receive them. The came not till eleven o'clock, and the time of her waiting was paſſed in agonies of expectation.

At length they were announced, and at length they entered the room.

Cecilia, with her utmoſt efforts for cou⯑rage, could hardly ſtand to receive them. They came in together, but Mrs. Delvile, [253] advancing before her ſon, and endeavour⯑ing ſo to ſtand as to intercept his view of her, with the hope that in a few inſtants her emotion would be leſs viſible, ſaid, in the moſt ſoothing accents, ‘"What honour Miſs Beverley does us by permitting this viſit! I ſhould have been ſorry to have left Suffolk without the ſatisfaction of again ſeeing you; and my ſon, ſenſible of the high reſpect he owes you, was moſt unwil⯑ling to be gone, before he had paid you his devoirs."’

Cecilia courtſied; but depreſſed by the cruel taſk which awaited her, had no power to ſpeak; and Mrs. Delvile, finding ſhe ſtill trembled, made her ſit down, and drew a chair next to her.

Mean while Delvile, with an emotion far more violent, becauſe wholly unre⯑ſtrained, waited impatiently till the cere⯑monial of the reception was over, and then, approaching Cecilia, in a voice of pertur⯑bation and reſentment, ſaid, ‘"In this pre⯑ſence, at leaſt, I hope I may be heard; though my letters have been unanſwered, my viſits refuſed, though inexorably you have flown me—"’

‘"Mortimer,"’ interrupted Mrs. Delvile, ‘"forget not that what I have told you is irrevocable; you now meet Miſs Beverley for no other purpoſe than to give and to [254] receive a mutual releaſe of all tie or en⯑gagement with each other."’

‘"Pardon me, madam,"’ cried he, ‘"this is a condition to which I have never aſ⯑ſented. I come not to releaſe, but to claim her! I am hers, and hers wholly! I pro⯑teſt it in the face of the world! The time, therefore, is now paſt for the ſacrifice which you demand, ſince ſcarce are you more my mother, than I conſider her as my wife."’

Cecilia, amazed at this dauntleſs decla⯑ration, now almoſt loſt her fear in her ſurpriſe; while Mrs. Delvile, with an air calm though diſpleaſed, anſwered, ‘"This is not a point to be at preſent diſcuſſed, and I had hoped you knew better what was due to your auditors. I only conſented to this interview as a mark of your reſpect for Miſs Beverley, to whom in propriety it belongs to break off this unfortunate con⯑nexion."’

Cecilia, who at this call could no longer be ſilent, now gathered fortitude to ſay, ‘"Whatever tie or obligation may be ſup⯑poſed to depend upon me, I have already relinquiſhed; and I am now ready to de⯑clare—"’

‘"That you wholly give me up?"’ inter⯑rupted Delvile, ‘"is that what you would ſay?—Oh how have I offended you? how [255] have I merited a diſpleaſure that can draw upon me ſuch a ſentence?—Anſwer, ſpeak to me, Cecilia, what is it I have done?"’

‘"Nothing, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, con⯑founded at this language in the preſence of his mother, ‘"you have done nothing,—but yet—"’

‘"Yet what?—have you conceived to me an averſion? has any dreadful and hor⯑rible antipathy ſucceeded to your eſteem?—tell, tell me without diſguiſe, do you hate, do you abhor me?"’

Cecilia ſighed, and turned away her head; and Mrs. Delvile indignantly exclaimed, ‘"What madneſs and abſurdity! I ſcarce know you under the influence of ſuch irrational violence. Why will you interrupt Miſs Be⯑verley in the only ſpeech you ought to hear from her? Why, at once, oppreſs her, and irritate me, by words of more paſſion than reaſon? Go on, charming girl, finiſh what ſo wiſely, ſo judiciouſly you were beginning, and then you ſhall be releaſed from this turbulent perſecution."’

‘"No, madam, ſhe muſt not go on!"’ cried Delvile, ‘"if ſhe does not utterly abhor me, I will not ſuffer her to go on;—Pardon, pardon me, Cecilia, but your too exquiſite delicacy is betraying not only my happineſs, but your own. Once more, therefore, I conjure you to hear me, and [256] then if, deliberately and unbiaſſed, you re⯑nounce me, I will never more diſtreſs you by reſiſting your decree."’

Cecilia, abaſhed and changing colour, was ſilent, and he proceeded.

‘"All that has paſt between us, the vows I have offered you of faith, conſtancy and affection, the conſent I obtained from you to be legally mine, the bond of ſettlement I have had drawn up, and the high honour you conferred upon me in ſuffering me to lead you to the altar,—all theſe particulars are already known to ſo many, that the leaſt reflection muſt convince you they will ſoon be concealed from none: tell me, then, if your own fame pleads not for me, and if the ſcruples which lead you to refuſe, by taking another direction, will not, with much more propriety, urge, nay enjoin you to accept me?—You heſitate at leaſt,—O Miſs Beverley! I ſee in that heſita⯑tion—"’

‘"Nothing, nothing!"’ cried ſhe, haſtily, and checking her riſing irreſolution; ‘"there is nothing for you to ſee, but that every way I now turn I have rendered myſelf miſerable!"’

‘"Mortimer,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ſeized with terror as ſhe penetrated into the mental yielding of Cecilia, ‘"you have now ſpoken to Miſs Beverley; and unwilling as [257] I am to obtrude upon her our difference of ſentiment, it is neceſſary, ſince ſhe has heard you, that I, alſo, ſhould claim her at⯑tention."’

‘"Firſt let her ſpeak!"’ cried Delvile, who in her apparent wavering built new hopes, ‘"firſt let her anſwer what ſhe has already deigned to liſten to."’

‘"No, firſt let her hear!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"for ſo only can ſhe judge what anſwer will reflect upon her moſt honour."’

Then, ſolemnly turning to Cecilia, ſhe continued: ‘"You ſee here, Miſs Beverley, a young man who paſſionately adores you, and who forgets in his adoration friends, family, and connections, the opinions in which he has been educated, the honour of his houſe, his own former views, and all his primitive ſenſe of duty, both public and private!—A paſſion built on ſuch a defal⯑cation of principle renders him unworthy your acceptance; and not more ignoble for him would be a union which would blot his name from the injured ſtock whence he ſprung, than indelicate for you, who upon ſuch terms ought to deſpiſe him."’

‘"Heavens, madam,"’ exclaimed Del⯑vile, ‘"what a ſpeech!"’

‘"O never,"’ cried Cecilia, riſing, ‘"may I hear ſuch another! Indeed, madam, there is no occaſion to probe me ſo deeply, for I [258] would not now enter your family, for all that the whole world could offer me!"’

‘"At length, then, madam,"’ cried Del⯑vile, turning reproachfully to his mother, ‘"are you ſatisfied? is your purpoſe now anſwered? and is the dagger you have transfixed in my heart ſunk deep enough to appeaſe you?"’

‘"O could I draw it out,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"and leave upon it no ſtain of ignominy, with what joy ſhould my own boſom receive it, to heal the wound I have moſt compulſatorily inflicted!—Were this excellent young creature portionleſs, I would not heſitate in giving my conſent; every claim of intereſt would be over⯑balanced by her virtues, and I would not grieve to ſee you poor, where ſo conſcious you were happy; but here to concede, would annihilate every hope with which hitherto I have looked up to my ſon."’

‘"Let us now, then, madam,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, ‘"break up this conference. I have ſpoken, I have heard, the decree is paſt, and therefore,—"’

‘"You are indeed an angel!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, riſing and embracing her; ‘"and never can I reproach my ſon with what has paſt, when I conſider for what an object the ſacrifice was planned. You cannot be un⯑happy, you have purchaſed peace by the ex⯑erciſe [259] of virtue, and the cloſe of every day will bring to you a reward, in the ſweets of a ſelf-approving mind.—But we will part, ſince you think it right; I do wrong to oc⯑caſion any delay."’

‘"No, we will not part!"’ cried Delvile, with encreaſing vehemence; ‘"if you force me, madam, from her, you will drive me to diſtraction! What is there in this world that can offer me a recompenſe? And what can pride even to the proudeſt afford as an equivalent? Her perfections you acknow⯑ledge, her greatneſs of mind is like your own; ſhe has generouſly given me her heart,—Oh ſacred and faſcinating charge! Shall I, after ſuch a depoſite, conſent to an eternal ſeparation? Repeal, repeal your ſen⯑tence, my Cecilia! let us live to ourſelves and our conſciences, and leave the vain pre⯑judices of the world to thoſe who can be paid by them for the loſs of all beſides!"’

‘"Is this conflict, then,"’ ſaid Mrs. Del⯑vile, ‘"to laſt for-ever? Oh end it, Mor⯑timer, finiſh it, and make me happy! ſhe is juſt, and will forgive you, ſhe is noble⯑minded, and will honour you. Fly, then, at this critical moment, for in flight alone is your ſafety; and then will your father ſee the ſon of his hopes, and then ſhall the fond bleſſings of your idolizing mother [260] ſoothe all your affliction, and ſoften all your regret!"’

‘"Oh madam!"’ cried Delvile, ‘"for mercy, for humanity, forbear this cruel ſup⯑plication!"’

‘"Nay, more than ſupplication, you have my commands; commands you have never yet diſputed, and miſery, ten-fold miſery, will follow their diſobedience. Hear me, Mortimer, for I ſpeak prophetically; I know your heart, I know it to be formed for rectitude and duty, or deſtined by their neglect to repentance and horror."’

Delvile, ſtruck by theſe words, turned ſuddenly from them both, and in gloomy deſpondence walked to the other end of the room. Mrs. Delvile perceived the moment of her power, and determined to purſue the blow: taking, therefore, the hand of Cecilia, while her eyes ſparkled with the animation of reviving hope, ‘"See,"’ ſhe cried, pointing to her ſon, ‘"ſee if I am de⯑ceived! can he bear even the ſuggeſtion of future contrition? Think you when it falls upon him, he will ſupport it better? No; he will ſink under it. And you, pure as you are of mind, and ſtedfaſt in principle, what would your chance be of happineſs with a man who never erring till he knew you, could never look at you without re⯑gret, be his fondneſs what it might?"’

[261] ‘"Oh madam,"’ cried the greatly ſhocked Cecilia, ‘"let him, then, ſee me no more!—take, take him all to yourſelf! forgive, conſole him! I will not have the miſery of involving him in repentance, nor of incurring the reproaches of the mother he ſo much reverences!"’

‘"Exalted creature!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile; ‘"tenderneſs ſuch as this would confer ho⯑nour upon a monarch."’ Then, calling out exultingly to her ſon, ‘"See,"’ ſhe added, ‘"how great a woman can act, when ſtimu⯑lated by generoſity, and a juſt ſenſe of duty! Follow then, at leaſt, the example you ought to have led, and deſerve my eſteem and love, or be content to forego them."’

‘"And can I only deſerve them,"’ ſaid Delvile, in a tone of the deepeſt anguiſh, ‘"by a compliance to which not merely my happineſs, but my reaſon muſt be ſacrificed? What honour do I injure that is not facti⯑tious? What evil threatens our union, that is not imaginary? In the general commerce of the world it may be right to yield to its prejudices, but in matters of ſerious im⯑portance, it is weakneſs to be ſhackled by ſcruples ſo frivolous, and it is cowardly to be governed by the cuſtoms we condemn. Religion and the laws of our country ſhould then alone be conſulted, and where thoſe are neither oppoſed nor infringed, we ſhould [262] hold ourſelves ſuperior to all other conſi⯑derations."’

‘"Miſtaken notions!"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile; ‘"and how long do you flatter yourſelf this independant happineſs would endure? How long could you live contented by mere ſelf⯑gratification, in defiance of the cenſure of mankind, the renunciation of your family, and the curſes of your father?"’

‘"The curſes of my father!"’ repeated he, ſtarting and ſhuddering, ‘"O no, he could never be ſo barbarous!"’

‘"He could,"’ ſaid ſhe, ſteadily, ‘"nor do I doubt but he would. If now, how⯑ever, you are affected by the proſpect of his diſclaiming you, think but what you will feel when firſt forbid to appear before either of us! and think of your remorſe for involving Miſs Beverley in ſuch diſgrace!"’

‘"O ſpeak not ſuch words!"’ cried he, with agonizing earneſtneſs, ‘"to diſgrace her,—to be baniſhed by you,—preſent not, I conjure you, ſuch ſcenes to my ima⯑gination!"’

‘"Yet would they be unavoidable,"’ con⯑tinued ſhe; ‘"nor have I ſaid to you all; blinded as you now are by paſſion, your nobler feelings are only obſcured, not extir⯑pated; think, then, how they will all riſe in revenge of your inſulted dignity, when your name becomes a ſtranger to your ears, [263] and you are firſt ſaluted by one ſo meanly adopted!—"’

‘"Hold, hold, madam,"’ interrupted he, ‘"this is more than I can bear!"’

‘"Heavens!"’ ſtill continued ſhe, diſre⯑garding his entreaty, ‘"what in the uni⯑verſe can pay you for that firſt moment of indignity! Think of it well ere you pro⯑ceed, and anticipate your ſenſations, leſt the ſhock ſhould wholly overcome you. How will the blood of your wronged anceſtors riſe into you guilty cheeks, and how will your heart throb with ſecret ſhame and re⯑proach, when wiſhed joy upon your marri⯑age by the name of Mr. Beverley!"’

Delvile, ſtung to the ſoul, attempted not any anſwer, but walked about the room in the utmoſt diſorder of mind. Cecilia would have retired, but feared irritating him to ſome extravagance; and Mrs. Del⯑vile, looking after him, added ‘"For my⯑ſelf, I would ſtill ſee, for I ſhould pity your wife,—but NEVER would I behold my ſon when ſunk into an object of compaſ⯑ſion!"’

‘"It ſhall not be!"’ cried he, in a tranſ⯑port of rage; ‘"ceaſe, ceaſe to diſtract me!—be content, madam,—you have con⯑quered!"’

‘"Then you are my ſon!"’ cried ſhe, rap⯑turouſly embracing him; ‘"now I know [264] again my Mortimer! now I ſee the fair pro⯑miſe of his upright youth, and the flatter⯑ing completion of my maternal expecta⯑tions!"’

Cecilia, finding all thus concluded, de⯑ſired nothing ſo much as to congratulate them on their reconciliation; but having only ſaid ‘"Let me, too,—"’ her voice failed her, ſhe ſtopt ſhort, and hoping ſhe had been unheard, would have glided out of the room.

But Delvile, penetrated and tortured, yet delighted at this ſenſibility, broke from his mother, and ſeizing her hand, exclaimed, ‘"Oh Miſs Beverley, if you are not happy—"’

‘"I am! I am!"’ cried ſhe, with quick⯑neſs; ‘"let me paſs,—and think no more of me."’

‘"That voice,—thoſe looks,—"’ cried he, ſtill holding her, ‘"they ſpeak not ſe⯑renity!—Oh if I have injured your peace,—if that heart, which, pure as angels, de⯑ſerves to be as ſacred from ſorrow, through my means, or for my ſake, ſuffers any di⯑minution of tranquility—"’

‘"None, none!"’ interrupted ſhe, with precipitation.

‘"I know well,"’ cried he, ‘"your great⯑neſs of ſoul; and if this dreadful ſacrifice gives laſting torture only to myſelf,—if of [265] your returning happineſs I could be aſſured,—I would ſtruggle to bear it."’

‘"You may be aſſured of it,"’ cried ſhe, with reviving dignity, ‘"I have no right to expect eſcaping all calamity, but while I ſhare the common lot, I will ſubmit to it without repining."’

‘"Heaven then bleſs, and hovering an⯑gels watch you!"’ cried he, and letting go her hand, he ran haſtily out of the room.

‘"Oh Virtue, how bright is thy tri⯑umph!"’ exclaimed Mrs. Delvile, flying up to Cecilia, and folding her in her arms; ‘"Noble, incomparable young creature! I knew not that ſo much worth was compat⯑ible with human frailty!"’

But the heroiſm of Cecilia, in loſing its object, loſt its force; ſhe ſighed, ſhe could not ſpeak, tears guſhed into her eyes, and kiſſing Mrs. Delvile's hand with a look that ſhewed her inability to converſe with her, ſhe haſtened, though ſcarce able to ſupport herſelf, away, with intention to ſhut herſelf up in her own apartment: and Mrs. Delvile, who perceived that her utmoſt fortitude was exhauſted, oppoſed not her going, and wiſely forebore to encreaſe her emotion, by following her even with her bleſſings.

But when ſhe came into the hall, ſhe ſtarted, and could proceed no further; for there ſhe beheld Delvile, who in too great [266] agony to be ſeen, had ſtopt to recover ſome compoſure before he quitted the houſe.

At the firſt ſound of an opening door, he was haſtily eſcaping; but perceiving Ce⯑cilia, and diſcerning her ſituation, he more haſtily turned back, ſaying, ‘"Is it poſſible?—To me were you coming?"’

She ſhook her head, and made a motion with her hand to ſay no, and would then have gone on.

‘"You are weeping!"’ cried he, ‘"you are pale!—Oh Miſs Beverley! is this your happineſs!"’

‘"I am very well,—"’ cried ſhe, not know⯑ing what ſhe anſwered, ‘"I am quite well,—pray go,—I am very—"’ her words died away inarticulated.

‘"Oh what a voice is that!"’ exclaimed he, ‘"it pierces my very ſoul!"’

Mrs. Delvile now came to the parlour door, and looked aghaſt at the ſituation in which ſhe ſaw them: Cecilia again moved on, and reached the ſtairs, but tottered, and was obliged to cling to the baniſters.

‘"O ſuffer me to ſupport you,"’ cried he; ‘"you are not able to ſtand,—whither is it you would go?"’

‘"Any where,—I don't know,—"’ an⯑ſwered ſhe, in faltering accents, ‘"but if you would leave me, I ſhould be well."’

And, turning from him, ſhe walked again towards the parlour, finding by her ſhak⯑ing [267] frame, the impoſſibility of getting un⯑aided up the ſtairs.

‘"Give me your hand, my love,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, cruelly alarmed by this re⯑turn; and the moment they re-entered the parlour, ſhe ſaid impatiently to her ſon, ‘"Mortimer, why are you not gone?"’

He heard her not, however; his whole attention was upon Cecilia, who, ſinking into a chair, hid her face againſt Mrs. Del⯑vile: but, reviving in a few moments, and bluſhing at the weakneſs ſhe had betrayed, ſhe raiſed her head, and, with an aſſumed ſerenity, ſaid, ‘"I am better,—much bet⯑ter,—I was rather ſick,—but it is over; and now, if you will excuſe me, I will go to my own room."’

She then aroſe, but her knees trembled, and her head was giddy, and again ſeating herſelf, ſhe forced a faint ſmile, and ſaid, ‘"Perhaps I had better keep quiet."’

‘"Can I bear this!"’ cried Delvile, ‘"no, it ſhakes all my reſolution!—lovelieſt and moſt beloved Cecilia! forgive my raſh de⯑claration, which I here retract and forſwear, and which no falſe pride, no worthleſs va⯑nity ſhall again ſurpriſe from me!—raiſe, then, your eyes—"’

‘"Hot-headed young man!"’ interrupted Mrs. Delvile, with an air of haughty diſ⯑pleaſure, ‘"if you cannot be rational, at [268] leaſt be ſilent. Miſs Beverley, we will both leave him."’

Shame, and her own earneſtneſs, now reſtored ſome ſtrength to Cecilia, who read with terror in the looks of Mrs. Delvile the paſſions with which ſhe was agitated, and inſtantly obeyed her by riſing; but her ſon, who inherited a portion of her own ſpirit, ruſhed between them both and the door, and exclaimed ‘"Stay, madam, ſtay! I can⯑not let you go: I ſee your intention, I ſee your dreadful purpoſe; you will work up⯑on the feelings of Miſs Beverley, you will extort from her a promiſe to ſee me no more!"’

‘"Oppoſe not my paſſing!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, whoſe voice, face and manner, ſpoke the encreaſing diſturbance of her ſoul; ‘"I have but too long talked to you in vain; I muſt now take ſome better method for the ſecurity of the honour of my family."’

This moment appeared to Delvile deci⯑ſive; and caſting off in deſperation all ti⯑midity and reſtraint, he ſuddenly ſprang forward, and ſnatching the hand of Cecilia from his mother, he exclaimed, ‘"I cannot, I will not give her up!—nor now, madam, nor ever!—I proteſt it moſt ſolemnly! I af⯑firm it by my beſt hopes! I ſwear it by all that I hold ſacred!"’

Grief and horror next to frenzy at a diſ⯑appointment thus unexpected, and thus [269] peremptory, roſe in the face of Mrs. Del⯑vile, who, ſtriking her hand upon her forehead, cried ‘"My brain is on fire!"’ and ruſhed out of the room.

Cecilia had now no difficulty to diſen⯑gage herſelf from Delvile, who, ſhocked at the exclamation, and confounded by the ſudden departure of his mother, haſtened eagerly to purſue her: ſhe had only flown into the next parlour; but, upon following her thither, what was his dread and his alarm, when he ſaw her extended upon the floor, her face, hands and neck all covered with blood! ‘"Great Heaven!"’ he ex⯑claimed, proſtrating himſelf by her ſide, ‘"what is it you have done!—where are you wounded?—what direful curſe have you denounced againſt your ſon!"’

Not able to ſpeak, ſhe angrily ſhook her head, and indignantly made a motion with her hand, that commanded him from her ſight.

Cecilia, who had followed, though half dead with terror, had yet the preſence of mind to ring the bell. A ſervant came im⯑mediately; and Delvile, ſtarting up from his mother, ordered him to fetch the firſt ſurgeon or phyſician he could find.

The alarm now brought the reſt of the ſervants into the room, and Mrs. Delvile ſuffered herſelf to be raiſed from the ground, [270] and ſeated in a chair; ſhe was ſtill ſilent, but ſhewed a diſguſt to any aſſiſtance from her ſon, that made him deliver her into the hands of the ſervants, while, in ſpeechleſs agony, he only looked on and watched her.

Neither did Cecilia, though forgetting her own ſorrow, and no longer ſenſible of perſonal weakneſs, venture to approach her: uncertain what had happened, ſhe yet conſidered herſelf as the ultimate cauſe of this dreadful ſcene, and feared to riſk the effect of the ſmalleſt additional emotion.

The ſervant returned with a ſurgeon in a few minutes: Cecilia, unable to wait and hear what he would ſay, glided haſtily out of the room; and Delvile, in ſtill greater agitation, followed her quick into the next parlour; but having eagerly advanced to ſpeak to her, he turned precipitately about, and hurrying into the hall, walked in haſty ſteps up and down it, without courage to enquire what was paſſing.

At length the ſurgeon came out: Del⯑vile flew to him, and ſtopt him, but could aſk no queſtion. His countenance, how⯑ever, rendered words unneceſſary; the ſur⯑geon underſtood him, and ſaid, ‘"The lady will do very well; ſhe has burſt a blood veſſel, but I think it will be of no conſequence. She muſt be kept quiet and [271] eaſy, and upon no account ſuffered to talk, or to uſe any exertion."’

Delvile now let him go, and flew him⯑ſelf into a corner to return thanks to heaven that the evil, however great, was leſs than he had at firſt apprehended. He then went into the parlour to Cecilia, ea⯑gerly calling out, ‘"Heaven be praiſed, my mother has not voluntarily curſed me!"’

‘"O now then,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"once more make her bleſs you! the violence of her agitation has already almoſt deſtroyed her, and her frame is too weak for this ſtruggle of contending paſſions;—go to her, then, and calm the tumult of her ſpirits, by acquieſcing wholly in her will, and being to her again the ſon ſhe thinks ſhe has loſt!"’

‘"Alas!"’ ſaid he, in a tone of the deepeſt dejection; ‘"I have been preparing myſelf for that purpoſe, and waited but your commands to finally determine me."’

‘"Let us both go to her inſtantly,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"the leaſt delay may be fatal."’

She now led the way, and approaching Mrs. Delvile, who, faint and weak, was ſeated upon an arm chair, and reſting her head upon the ſhoulder of a maid ſervant, ſaid, ‘"Lean, deareſt madam, upon me, and ſpeak not, but hear us!"’

She then took the place of the maid, and [272] deſired her and the other ſervants to go out of the room. Delvile advanced, but his mother's eye, recovering, at his ſight, its wanted fire, darted upon him a glance of ſuch diſpleaſure, that, ſhuddering with the ap⯑prehenſion of inflaming again thoſe paſſions which threatened her deſtruction; he haſtily ſunk on one knee, and abruptly exclaimed, ‘"Look at me with leſs abhorrence, for I come but to reſign myſelf to your will."’

‘"Mine, alſo,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"that will ſhall be; you need not ſpeak it, we know it, and here ſolemnly we promiſe that we will ſeparate for ever."’

‘"Revive, then, my mother,"’ ſaid Del⯑vile, ‘"rely upon our plighted honours, and think only of your health, for your ſon will never more offend you."’

Mrs. Delvile, much ſurpriſed, and ſtrongly affected, held out her hand to him, with a look of mingled compaſſion and obligation, and dropping her head upon the boſom of Cecilia, who with her other arm ſhe preſſed towards her, ſhe burſt into an agony of tears.

‘"Go, go, Sir!"’ ſaid Cecilia, cruelly alarmed, ‘"you have ſaid all that is ne⯑ceſſary; leave Mrs. Delvile now, and ſhe will be more compoſed."’

Delvile inſtantly obeyed, and then his mother, whoſe mouth ſtill continued to fill [273] with blood, though it guſhed not from her with the violence it had begun, was pre⯑vailed upon by the prayers of Cecilia to conſent to be conveyed into her room; and, as her immediate removal to another houſe might be dangerous, ſhe complied alſo, though very reluctantly, with her urgent entreaties, that ſhe would take entire poſ⯑ſeſſion of it till the next day.

This point gained, Cecilia left her, to communicate what had paſt to Mrs. Charl⯑ton; but was told by one of the ſervants, that Mr. Delvile begged firſt to ſpeak with her in the next room.

She heſitated for a moment whether to grant this requeſt; but recollecting it was right to acquaint him with his mother's intention of ſtaying all night, ſhe went to him.

‘"How indulgent you are,"’ cried he, in a melancholy voice as ſhe opened the door; ‘"I am now going poſt to Dr. Lyſter, whom I ſhall entreat to come hither in⯑ſtantly; but I am fearful of again diſturbing my mother, and muſt therefore rely upon you to acquaint her what is become of me."’

‘"Moſt certainly; I have begged her to remain here to night, and I hope I ſhall prevail with her to continue with me till Dr. Lyſter's arrival; after which ſhe will, doubtleſs, be guided either in ſtaying [274] longer, or removing elſewhere, by his advice."’

‘"You are all goodneſs,"’ ſaid he, with a deep ſigh; ‘"and how I ſhall ſupport—but I mean not to return hither, at leaſt not to this houſe,—unleſs, indeed, Dr. Lyſ⯑ter's account ſhould be alarming. I leave my mother, therefore, to your kindneſs, and only hope, only entreat, that your own health,—your own peace of mind—neither by attendance upon her—by anxiety—by pity for her ſon—"’

He ſtopt, and ſeemed gaſping for breath; Cecilia turned from him to hide her emo⯑tion, and he proceeded with a rapidity of ſpeech that ſhewed his terror of continuing with her any longer, and his ſtruggle with himſelf to be gone: ‘"The promiſe you have made in both our names to my mother, I ſhall hold myſelf bound to ob⯑ſerve. I ſee, indeed, that her reaſon or her life would fall the ſacrifice of further oppoſition: of myſelf, therefore, it is no longer time to think.—I take of you no leave—I cannot! yet I would fain tell you the high reverence—but it is better to ſay nothing—"’

‘"Much better,"’ cried Cecilia, with a forced and faint ſmile; ‘"loſe not, there⯑fore, an inſtant, but haſten to this good Dr. Lyſter."’

[275] ‘"I will;"’ anſwered he, going to the door; but there, ſtopping and turning round, ‘"one thing I ſhould yet,"’ he added, ‘"wiſh to ſay,—I have been impe⯑tuous, violent, unreaſonable,—with ſhame and with regret I recollect how impe⯑tuous, and how unreaſonable: I have perſecuted, where I ought in ſilence to have ſubmitted; I have reproached, where I ought in candour to have approved; and in the vehemence with which I have pur⯑ſued you, I have cenſured that very dignity of conduct which has been the baſis of my admiration, my eſteem, my devotion! but never can I forget, and never without freſh wonder remember, the ſweetneſs with which you have borne with me, even when moſt I offended you. For this impatience, this violence, this inconſiſtency, I now moſt ſincerely beg your pardon; and if, before I go, you could ſo far condeſcend as to pro⯑nounce my forgiveneſs, with a lighter heart, I think, I ſhould quit you."’

‘"Do not talk of forgiveneſs,"’ ſaid Ceci⯑lia, ‘"you have never offended me; I al⯑ways knew—always was ſure—always imputed—"’ ſhe ſtopt, unable to proceed.

Deeply penetrated by her apparent di⯑ſtreſs, he with difficulty reſtrained himſelf from falling at her feet; but after a mo⯑ment's pauſe and recollection, he ſaid, ‘"I [276] underſtand the generous indulgence you have ſhewn me, an indulgence I ſhall ever revere, and ever grieve to have abuſed. I aſk you not to remember me,—far, far happier do I wiſh you than ſuch a remem⯑brance could make you; but I will pain the humanity of your diſpoſition no longer. You will tell my mother—but no matter!—Heaven preſerve you, my angelic Ceci⯑lia!—Miſs Beverley, I mean,—Heaven guide, protect, and bleſs you! And ſhould I ſee you no more, ſhould this be the laſt ſad moment—"’

He pauſed, but preſently recovering himſelf, added, ‘"May I hear, at leaſt, of your tranquillity, for that alone can have any chance to quiet or repreſs the anguiſh I feel here!"’

He then abruptly retreated, and ran out of the houſe.

Cecilia for a while remained almoſt ſtu⯑pified with ſorrow; ſhe forgot Mrs. Del⯑vile, ſhe forgot Mrs. Charlton, ſhe forgot her own deſign of apologizing to one, or aſſiſting the other: ſhe continued in the poſture in which he had left her, quite without motion, and almoſt without ſen⯑ſibility.

CHAP. VII. A MESSAGE.

FROM this lethargy of ſadneſs Cecilia was ſoon, however, awakened by the return of the ſurgeon, who had brought with him a phyſician to conſult upon Mrs. Delvile's ſituation. Terror for the mother once more drove the ſon from her thoughts, and ſhe waited with the moſt apprehenſive impatience to hear the reſult of the con⯑ſultation. The phyſician declined giving any poſitive opinion, but, having written a preſcription, only repeated the injunction of the ſurgeon, that ſhe ſhould be kept extremely quiet, and on no account be ſuffered to talk.

Cecilia, though ſhocked and frighened at the occaſion, was yet by no means ſorry at an order which thus precluded all con⯑verſation; unfitted for it by her own mi⯑ſery, ſhe was glad to be relieved from all neceſſity of impoſing upon herſelf the irk⯑ſome taſk of finding ſubjects for diſcourſe to which ſhe was wholly indifferent, while [278] obliged with ſedulity to avoid thoſe by which alone her mind was occupied.

The worthy Mrs. Charlton heard the events of the morning with the utmoſt concern, but charged her grand-daughters to aſſiſt her young friend in doing the ho⯑nours of her houſe to Mrs. Delvile, while ſhe ordered another apartment to be pre⯑pared for Cecilia, to whom ſhe admini⯑ſtered all the conſolation her friendly zeal could ſuggeſt.

Cecilia, however unhappy, had too juſt a way of thinking to indulge in ſelfiſh grief, where occaſion called her to action for the benefit of others: ſcarce a moment, therefore now did ſhe allow to ſorrow and herſelf, but aſſiduouſly beſtowed the whole of her time upon her two ſick friends, di⯑viding her attention according to their own deſire or convenience, without conſulting or regarding any choice of her own. Choice, indeed, ſhe had none; ſhe loved Mrs. Charlton, ſhe revered Mrs. Delvile; the warmeſt wiſh with which her heart glowed, was the recovery of both, but too deep was her affliction to receive pleaſure from either.

Two days paſſed thus, during which the conſtancy of her attendance, which at ano⯑ther time would have fatigued her, proved the only relief ſhe was capable of receiving. [279] Mrs. Delvile was evidently affected by her vigilant tenderneſs, but ſeemed equally de⯑ſirous with herſelf to make uſe of the pro⯑hibition to ſpeech as an excuſe for unin⯑terrupted ſilence. She enquired not even after her ſon, though the eagerneſs of her look towards the door whenever it was opened, ſhewed either a hope, or an ap⯑prehenſion that he might enter. Cecilia wiſhed to tell her whither he was gone, but dreaded truſting her voice with his name; and their ſilence, after a while, ſeemed ſo much by mutual conſent, that ſhe had ſoon as little courage as ſhe had inclination to break it.

The arrival of Dr. Lyſter gave her much ſatisfaction, for upon him reſted her hopes of Mrs. Delvile's re-eſtabliſhment. He ſent for her down ſtairs, to enquire whether he was expected; and hearing that he was not, deſired her to announce him, as the ſmalleſt emotion might do miſchief.

She returned up ſtairs, and after a ſhort preparation, ſaid, ‘"Your favourite Dr. Lyſter, madam, is come, and I ſhall be much the happier for having you under his care."’

‘"Dr. Lyſter?"’ cried ſhe, ‘"who ſent for him?"’

‘"I believe—I fancy—Mr. Delvile fetched him."’

[280] ‘"My ſon?—is he here, then?"’

‘"No,—he went, the moment he left you, for Dr. Lyſter,—and Dr. Lyſter is come by himſelf."’

‘"Does he write to you?"’

‘"No, indeed!—he writes not—he comes not—deareſt madam be ſatisfied, he will do neither to me ever more!"’

‘"Exemplary young man!"’ cried ſhe, in a voice hardly audible, ‘"how great is his loſs!—unhappy Mortimer!—ill-fated, and ill-rewarded!"’

She ſighed, and ſaid no more; but this ſhort converſation, the only one which had paſſed between them ſince her illneſs, agi⯑tated her ſo much, that Dr. Lyſter, who now came up ſtairs, found her in a ſtate of trembling and weakneſs that both alarmed and ſurpriſed him. Cecilia, glad of an op⯑portunity to be gone, left the room, and ſent, by Dr. Lyſter's deſire, for the phy⯑ſician and ſurgeon who had already at⯑tended.

After they had been ſome time with their patient, they retired to a conſultation, and when it was over, Dr. Lyſter waited upon Cecilia in the parlour, and aſſured her he had no apprehenſion of danger for Mrs. Delvile, ‘"Though, for another week, he added, I would have her continue your pa⯑tient, as ſhe is not yet fit to be removed. [281] But pray mind that ſhe is kept quiet; let nobody go near her, not even her own ſon. By the way he is waiting for me at the inn, ſo I'll juſt ſpeak again to his mother, and be gone."’

Cecilia was well pleaſed by this acciden⯑tal information, to learn both the anxiety of Delvile for his mother, and the ſteadi⯑neſs of his forbearance for himſelf. When Dr. Lyſter came down ſtairs again, ‘"I ſhall ſtay,"’ he ſaid, ‘"till to-morrow, but I hope ſhe will be able in another week to get to Briſtol. In the mean time I ſhall leave her, I ſee, with an excellent nurſe. But, my good young lady, in your care of her, don't neglect yourſelf; I am not quite pleaſed with your looks, though it is but an old faſhioned ſpeech to tell you ſo.—What have you been doing to yourſelf?"’

‘"Nothing;"’ ſaid ſhe, a little embar⯑raſſed; ‘"but had you not better have ſome tea?"’

‘"Why yes, I think I had;—but what ſhall I do with my young man?"’

Cecilia underſtood the hint, but co⯑loured, and made no anſwer.

‘"He is waiting for me,"’ he continued, ‘"at the inn; however, I never yet knew the young man I would prefer to a young woman; ſo if you will give me ſome tea here, I ſhall certainly jilt him."’

[282] Cecilia inſtantly rang the bell, and or⯑dered tea.

‘"Well now,"’ ſaid he, ‘"remember the ſin of this breach of appointment lies wholly at your door. I ſhall tell him you laid violent hands on me; and if that is not enough to excuſe me, I ſhall deſire he will try whether he could be more of a ſtoic with you himſelf."’

‘"I think I muſt unorder the tea,"’ ſaid ſhe, with what gaiety ſhe could aſſume," ‘"if I am to be reſponſible for any miſchief from your drinking it."’

‘"No, no, you ſhan't be off now; but pray would it be quite out of rule for you to ſend and aſk him to come to us?"’

‘"Why I believe—I think—"’ ſaid ſhe, ſtammering, ‘"it's very likely he may be engaged."’

‘"Well, well, I don't mean to propoſe any violent incongruity. You muſt excuſe my blundering; I underſtand but little of the etiquette of young ladies. 'Tis a ſcience too intricate to be learned without more ſtudy than we plodding men of buſineſs can well ſpare time for. However, when I have done writing preſcriptions, I will ſet about reading them, provided you will be my in⯑ſtructreſs."’

Cecilia, though aſhamed of a charge in which prudery and affectation were implied, [283] was compelled to ſubmit to it, as either to ſend for Delvile, or explain her objections, was equally impoſſible. The Miſs Charl⯑tons, therefore, joined them, and they went to tea.

Juſt as they had done, a note was deli⯑vered to Dr. Lyſter; ‘"See here,"’ cried he, when he had read it, ‘"what a fine thing it is to be a young man! Why now, Mr. Mortimer underſtands as much of all this etiquette as you ladies do yourſelves; for he only writes a note even to aſk how his mother does."’

He then put it into Cecilia's hand.

‘"So you ſee,"’ continued the doctor, ‘"I need not do pennance for engaging myſelf to you, when this young gentleman can find ſuch good entertainment for him⯑ſelf."’

Cecilia, who well knew the honourable motive of Delvile's engagement, with dif⯑ficulty [284] forbore ſpeaking in his vindication. Dr. Lyſter immediately began an anſwer, but before he had finiſhed it, called out, ‘"Now as I am told you are a very good young woman, I think you can do no leſs than aſſiſt me to puniſh this gay ſpark, for playing the macaroni, when he aught to viſit his ſick mother."’

Cecilia, much hurt for Delvile, and much confuſed for herſelf, looked abaſhed, but knew not what to anſwer.

‘"My ſcheme,"’ continued the doctor, ‘"is to tell him, that as he has found one engagement for tea, he may find another for ſupper; but that as to me, I am better diſpoſed of, for you inſiſt upon keeping me to yourſelf. Come, what ſays etiquette? may I treat myſelf with this puff?"’

‘"Certainly,"’ ſaid Cecilia, endeavour⯑ing to look pleaſed, ‘"if you will favour us with your company, Miſs Charltons and myſelf will think the puffing ſhould rather be ours than yours."’

‘"That, then,"’ ſaid the doctor, ‘"will not anſwer my purpoſe, for I mean the puff to be my own, or how do I puniſh him? So, ſuppoſe I tell him I ſhall not only ſup with three young ladies, but be invited to a tête à tête with one of them into the bar⯑gain?"’

The young ladies only laughed, and the Dr. finiſhed his note, and ſent it away; and [285] then, turning gayly to Cecilia, ‘"Come,"’ he ſaid, ‘"why don't you give me this in⯑vitation? ſurely you don't mean to make me guilty of perjury?"’

Cecilia, but little diſpoſed for pleaſantry, would gladly now have dropt the ſubject; but Dr. Lyſter, turning to the Miſs Charltons, ſaid, ‘"Young ladies, I call you both to witneſs if this is not very bad uſage: this young woman has connived at my writing a downright falſehood, and all the time took me in to believe it was a truth. The only way I can think of to cure her of ſuch frolics, is for both of you to leave us to⯑gether, and ſo make her keep her word whether ſhe will or no."’

The Miſs Charltons took the hint, and went away; while Cecilia, who had not at all ſuſpected he meant ſeriouſly to ſpeak with her, remained extremely perplexed to think what he had to ſay.

‘"Mrs. Delvile,"’ cried he, continuing the ſame air of eaſy good humour, ‘"though I allowed her not to ſpeak to me above twenty words, took up near ten of them to tell me that you had behaved to her like an angel. Why ſo ſhe ought, cried I; what elſe was ſhe ſent for here to look ſo like one? I charged her, therefore, to take all that as a thing of courſe; and to prove that [286] I really think what I ſay, I am now going to make a trial of you, that, if you are any thing leſs, will induce you to order ſome of your men to drive me into the ſtreet. The truth is, I have had a little commiſſion given me, which in the firſt place I know not how to introduce, and which, in the ſecond, as far as I can judge, appears to be abſolutely ſuperfluous."’

Cecilia now felt uneaſy and alarmed, and begged him to explain himſelf. He then dropt the levity with which he had begun the diſcourſe, and after a grave, yet gentle preparation, expreſſive of his unwillingneſs to diſtreſs her, and his firm perſuaſion of her uncommon worthineſs, he acquainted her that he was no ſtranger to her ſituation with reſpect to the Delvile family.

‘"Good God!"’ cried ſhe, bluſhing and much amazed; ‘"and who—"’

‘"I knew it,"’ ſaid he, ‘"from the mo⯑ment I attended Mr. Mortimer in his ill⯑neſs at Delvile-Caſtle. He could not con⯑ceal from me that the ſeat of his diſorder was his mind; and I could not know that, without readily conjecturing the cauſe, when I ſaw who was his father's gueſt, and when I knew what was his father's character. He found he was betrayed to me, and upon my adviſing a journey, he underſtood me properly. His openneſs to counſel, and the [287] manly firmneſs with which he behaved in quitting you, made me hope the danger was blown over. But laſt week, when I was at the Caſtle, where I have for ſome time attended Mr. Delvile, who has had a ſevere fit of the gout, I found him in an agitation of ſpirits that made me apprehend it would be thrown into his ſtomach. I deſired Mrs. Delvile to uſe her influence to calm him; but ſhe was herſelf in ſtill greater emotion, and acquainting me ſhe was obliged to leave him, deſired I would ſpend with him every moment in my power. I have therefore almoſt lived at the Caſtle during her abſence, and, in the courſe of our many converſations, he has acknow⯑ledged to me the uneaſineſs under which he laboured, from the intelligence concerning his ſon, which he had juſt received."’

Cecilia wiſhed here to enquire how re⯑ceived, and from whom, but had not the courage, and therefore he proceeded.

‘"I was ſtill with the father when Mr. Mortimer arrived poſt at my houſe to fetch me hither. I was ſent for home; he in⯑formed me of his errand without diſguiſe, for he knew I was well acquainted with the original ſecret whence all the evil aroſe. I told him my diſtreſs in what manner to leave his father; and he was extremely [288] ſhocked himſelf when acquainted with his ſituation. We agreed that it would be vain to conceal from him the indiſpoſition of Mrs. Delvile, which the delay of her re⯑turn, and a thouſand other accidents, might in ſome unfortunate way make known to him. He commiſſioned me, therefore, to break it to him, that he might conſent to my journey, and at the ſame time to quiet his own mind, by aſſuring him all he had ap⯑prehended was wholly at an end."’

He ſtopt, and looked to ſee how Cecilia bore theſe words.

‘"It is all at an end, Sir;"’ ſaid ſhe, with firmneſs; ‘"but I have not yet heard your commiſſion; what, and from whom is that?"’

‘"I am thoroughly ſatisfied it is unneceſ⯑ſary;"’ he anſwered, ‘"ſince the young man can but ſubmit, and you can but give him up."’

‘"But ſtill, if there is a meſſage, it is fit I ſhould hear it."’

‘"If you chuſe it, ſo it is. I told Mr. Delvile whither I was coming, and I re⯑peated to him his ſon's aſſurances. He was relieved, but not ſatisfied; he would not ſee him, and gave me for him a prohibition of extreme ſeverity,—and to you he bid me ſay—"’

‘"From him, then, is my meſſage?"’ [289] cried Cecilia, half frightened, and much diſappointed.

‘"Yes,"’ ſaid he, underſtanding her im⯑mediately, ‘"for the ſon, after giving me his firſt account, had the wiſdom and for⯑bearance not once to mention you."’

‘"I am very glad,"’ ſaid ſhe, with a mix⯑ture of admiration and regret, ‘"to hear it. But, what, Sir, ſaid Mr. Delvile?"’

‘"He bid me tell you that either he, or you muſt ſee his ſon never more."’

‘"It was indeed unneceſſary,"’ cried ſhe, colouring with reſentment, ‘"to ſend me ſuch a meſſage. I meant not to ſee him again, he meant not to deſire it. I return him, however, no anſwer, and I will make him no promiſe; to Mrs. Delvile alone I hold myſelf bound; to him, ſend what meſ⯑ſages he may, I ſhall always hold myſelf free. But believe me, Dr. Lyſter, if with his name, his ſon had inherited his cha⯑racter, his deſire of our ſeparation would be feeble, and trifling, compared with my own!"’

‘"I am ſorry, my good young lady,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to have given you this diſturb⯑ance; yet I admire your ſpirit, and doubt not but it will enable you to forget any little diſappointment you may have ſuffered. And what, after all, have you to regret? Mortimer Delvile is, indeed, a young man that any woman might wiſh to attach; but [290] every woman cannot have him, and you, of all women, have leaſt reaſon to repine in miſſing him, for ſcarcely is there another man you may not chuſe or reject at your pleaſure."’

Little as was the conſolation Cecilia could draw from this ſpeech, ſhe was ſen⯑ſible it became not her ſituation to make complaints, and therefore, to end the con⯑verſation, ſhe propoſed calling in the Miſs Charltons.

‘"No, no,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I muſt ſtep up again to Mrs. Delvile, and then be-gone. To-morrow morning I ſhall but call to ſee how ſhe is, and leave ſome directions, and ſet off. Mr. Mortimer Delvile accom⯑panies me back: but he means to return hither in a week, in order to travel with his mother to Briſtol. Mean time, I purpoſe to bring about a reconciliation between him and his father, whoſe prejudices are more intractable than any man's I ever met with."’

‘"It will be ſtrange indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſhould a reconciliation now be diffi⯑cult!"’

‘"True; but it is long ſince he was young himſelf, and the ſofter affections he never was acquainted with, and only re⯑gards them in his ſon as derogatory to his whole race. However, if there were not ſome few ſuch men, there would hardly be [291] a family in the kingdom that could count a great grand-father. I am not, I muſt own, of his humour myſelf, but I think it rather peculiarly ſtranger, than peculiarly worſe than moſt other peoples; and how, for ex⯑ample, was that of your uncle a whit the better? He was juſt as fond of his name, as if, like Mr. Delvile, he could trace it from the time of the Saxons."’

Cecilia ſtrongly felt the truth of this ob⯑ſervation, but not chuſing to diſcuſs it, made not any anſwer, and Dr. Lyſter, after a few good-natured apologies, both for his friends the Delvile's and himſelf, went up ſtairs.

‘"What continual diſturbance,"’ cried ſhe, when left alone, ‘"keeps me thus for⯑ever from reſt! no ſooner is one wound cloſed, but another is opened; mortification conſtantly ſucceeds diſtreſs, and when my heart is ſpared, my pride is attacked, that not a moment of tranquility may ever be allowed me! Had the loweſt of women won the affections of Mr. Delvile, could his father with leſs delicacy or leſs decency have acquainted her with his inflexible diſappro⯑bation? To ſend with ſo little ceremony a meſſage ſo contemptuous and ſo preremp⯑tory!—but perhaps it is better, for had he, too, like Mrs. Delvile, joined kindneſs with rejection, I might ſtill more keenly have felt the perverſeneſs of my deſtiny."’

CHAP. VII. A PARTING.

THE next morning Dr. Lyſter called early, and having viſited Mrs. Delvile, and again met the two gentlemen of the fa⯑culty in whoſe care ſhe was to remain, he took his leave. But not without contriving firſt to ſpeak a few words to Cecilia in pri⯑vate, in which he charged her to be careful of her health, and re-animate her ſpirits. ‘"Don't ſuppoſe,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that becauſe I am a friend of the Delvile family, I am either blind to your merits, or to their foibles, far from it; but then why ſhould they interfere with one another? Let them keep their prejudices, which, though differ⯑ent, are not worſe than their neighbours, and do you retain your excellencies, and draw from them the happineſs which they ought to give you. People reaſon and re⯑fine themſelves into a thouſand miſeries, by chuſing to ſettle that they can only be con⯑tented one way; whereas, there are fifty ways, if they would but look about them, that would commonly do as well."’

‘"I believe, indeed, you are right,"’ an⯑ſwered [293] Cecilia, ‘"and I thank you for the admonition; I will do what I can towards ſtudying your ſcheme of philoſophy, and it is always one ſtep to amendment, to be convinced that we want it."’

‘"You are a ſenſible and charming girl,"’ ſaid Dr. Lyſter, ‘"and Mr. Delvile, ſhould he find a daughter-in-law deſcended in a right line from Egbert, firſt king of all England, won't be ſo well off as if he had ſatisfied himſelf with you. However, the old gentleman has a fair right, after all, to be pleaſed his own way, and let us blame him how we will, we ſhall find, upon ſift⯑ing, it is for no other reaſon but becauſe his humour happens to claſh with our own."’

‘"That, indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſmiling, ‘"is a truth incontrovertable! and a truth to which, for the future, I will endeavour to give more weight. But will you permit me now to aſk one queſtion?—Can you tell me from whom, how, or when the intelli⯑gence which has cauſed all this diſturb⯑ance—"’

She heſitated, but, comprehending her readily, he anſwered ‘"How they got at it, I never heard, for I never thought it worth while to enquire, as it is ſo generally known, that nobody I meet with ſeems ig⯑norant of it."’

This was another, and a cruel ſhock to [294] Cecilia, and Dr. Lyſter, peceiving it, again attempted to comfort her. ‘"That the af⯑fair is ſomewhat ſpread,"’ ſaid he, ‘"is now not to be helped, and therefore little worth thinking of; every body will agree that the choice of both does honour to both, and nobody need be aſhamed to be ſucceſſor to either, whenever the courſe of things leads Mr. Mortimer and yourſelf to make another election. He wiſely intends to go abroad, and will not return till he is his own man again. And as to you, my good young lady, what, after a ſhort time given to vexation, need interrupt your happineſs? You have the whole world before you, with youth, fortune, talents, beauty and inde⯑pendence; drive, therefore, from your head this unlucky affair, and remember there can hardly be a family in the kingdom, this one excepted, that will not rejoice in a con⯑nection with you."’

He then good-humouredly ſhook hands with her, and went into his chaiſe.

Cecilia, though not ſlow in remarking the eaſe and philoſophy with which every one can argue upon the calamities, and mora⯑lize upon the miſconduct of others, had ſtill the candour and good ſenſe to ſee that there was reaſon in what he urged, and to reſolve upon making the beſt uſe in her [295] power of the hints for conſolation ſhe might draw from his diſcourſe.

During the following week, ſhe devoted herſelf almoſt wholly to Mrs. Delvile, ſhar⯑ing with the maid, whom ſhe had brought with her from the Caſtle, the fatigue of nurſing her, and leaving to the Miſs Charl⯑tons the chief care of their grand-mother. For Mrs. Delvile appeared every hour more ſenſible of her attention, and more deſir⯑ous of her preſence, and though neither of them ſpoke, each was endeared to the other by the tender offices of friendſhip which were paid and received.

When this week was expired, Dr. Lyſter was prevailed upon to return again to Bury, in order to travel himſelf with Mrs. Delvile to Briſtol. ‘"Well,"’ cried he, tak⯑ing Cecilia by the firſt opportunity aſide, ‘"how are you? Have you ſtudied my ſcheme of philoſophy, as you promiſed me?"’

‘"O yes,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"and made, I flat⯑ter myſelf, no little proficiency."’

‘"You are a good girl,"’ cried he, ‘"a very extraordinary girl! I am ſure you are; and upon my honour I pity poor Mortimer with all my ſoul! But he is a noble young fellow, and behaves with a courage and ſpi⯑rit that does me good to behold. To have obtained you, he would have moved heaven [296] and earth, but finding you out of his reach, he ſubmits to his fate like a man."’

Cecilia's eyes gliſtened at this ſpeech; ‘"Yes,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"he long ſince ſaid 'tis ſuſpence, 'tis hope, that make the miſery of life,—for there the Paſſions have all power, and Reaſon has none. But when evils are irremediable, and we have neither reſources to plan, nor caſtle-building to delude us, we find time for the cultivation of philo⯑ſophy, and flatter ourſelves, perhaps, that we have found inclination!"’

‘"Why you have conſidered this matter very deeply,"’ ſaid he; ‘"but I muſt not have you give way to theſe ſerious reflec⯑tions. Thought, after all, has a cruel ſpite againſt happineſs; I would have you, therefore, keep as much as you conveni⯑ently can, out of its company. Run about and divert yourſelf, 'tis all you have for it. The true art of happineſs in this moſt whim⯑ſical world, ſeems nothing more nor leſs than this—Let thoſe who have leiſure, find employment, and thoſe who have buſineſs, find leiſure."’

He then told her that Mr. Delvile ſenior was much better, and no longer confined to his room: and that he had had the plea⯑ſure of ſeeing an entire reconciliation take place between him and his ſon, of whom [297] he was more fond and more proud than any other father in the univerſe.

‘"Think of him, however, my dear young lady,"’ he continued, ‘"no more, for the matter I ſee is deſperate: you muſt pardon my being a little officious, when I confeſs to you I could not help propoſing to the old gentleman an expedient of my own; for as I could not drive you out of my head, I employed myſelf in thinking what might be done by way of accommodation. Now my ſcheme was really a very good one, only when people are prejudiced, all reaſon⯑ing is thrown away upon them I propoſed ſinking both your names, ſince they are ſo at variance with one another, and ſo adopt⯑ing a third, by means of a title. But Mr. Delvile angrily declared, that though ſuch a ſcheme might do very well for the needy Lord Ernolf, a Peer of twenty years, his own noble anceſtors ſhould never, by his conſent, forfeit a name which ſo many cen⯑turies had rendered honourable. His ſon Mortimer, he added, muſt inevitably in⯑herit the title of his grandfather, his uncle being old and unmarried; but yet he would rather ſee him a beggar, than loſe his dear⯑eſt hope that Delvile, Lord Delvile, would deſcend, both name and title, from gener⯑ation to generation unſullied and uninter⯑rupted."’

[298] ‘"I am ſorry, indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"that ſuch a propoſal was made, and I ear⯑neſtly entreat that none of any ſort may be repeated."’

‘"Well, well,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I would not for the world do any miſchief, but who would not have ſuppoſed ſuch a propoſal would have done good?"’

‘"Mr. Mortimer,"’ he then added, ‘"is to meet us at — for he would not, he ſaid, come again to this place, upon ſuch terms as he was here laſt week, for the whole worth of the king's dominions."’

The carriage was now ready, and Mrs. Delvile was prepared to depart. Cecilia approached to take leave of her, but Dr. Lyſter following, ſaid ‘"No talking! no thanking! no compliments of any ſort! I ſhall carry off my Patient without permit⯑ting one civil ſpeech, and for all the rude⯑neſs I make her guilty of, I am willing to be reſponſible."’

Cecilia would then have retreated, but Mrs. Delvile, holding out both her hands, ſaid ‘"To every thing elſe, Dr. Lyſter, I am content to ſubmit; but were I to die while uttering the words, I cannot leave this ineſtimable creature without firſt ſaying how much I love her, how I honour, and how I thank her! without entreating her to be careful of her health, and conjur⯑ing [299] her to compleat the greatneſs of her con⯑duct, by not ſuffering her ſpirits to ſink from the exertion of her virtue. And now my love, God bleſs you!"’

She then embraced her, and went on; Cecilia, at a motion of Dr. Lyſter's, forbear⯑ing to follow her.

‘"And thus,"’ cried ſhe, when they were gone, ‘"thus ends all my connection with this family! which it ſeems as if I was only to have known for the purpoſe of affording a new proof of the inſufficiency of ſituation to conſtitute happineſs. Who looks not upon mine as the perfection of human feli⯑city?—And ſo, perhaps, it is, for it may be that Felicity and Humanity are never permitted to come nearer."’

And thus, in philoſophic ſadneſs, by reaſoning upon the univerſality of miſery, ſhe reſtrained, at leaſt, all violence of ſor⯑row, though her ſpirits were dejected, and her heart was heavy.

But the next day brought with it ſome comfort that a little lightened her ſadneſs Mrs. Charlton, almoſt wholly recovered, was able to go down ſtairs, and Cecilia had at leaſt the ſatisfaction of ſeeing an happy concluſion to an illneſs of which, with the utmoſt concern and regret, ſhe conſidered herſelf as the cauſe. She attended her with the moſt unremitting aſſiduity, and being [300] really very thankful, endeavoured to appear happy, and ſlattered herſelf that, by con⯑tinual effort, the appearance in a ſhort time would become reality.

Mrs. Charlton retired early, and Cecilia accompanied her up ſtairs: and while ſhe was with her, was informed that Mr. Monckton was in the parlour.

The various, afflicting, and uncommon ſcenes in which ſhe had been engaged ſince ſhe laſt ſaw him, had almoſt wholly driven him from her remembrance, or when at any time he recurred to it, it was only to at⯑tribute the diſcontinuance of his viſits to the offence ſhe had given hm, in refuſing to follow his advice by relinquiſhing her Lon⯑don expedition.

Full, therefore, of the mortifying tranſ⯑actions which had paſſed ſince their parting, and fearful of his enquiries into diſgraces he had nearly foretold, ſhe heard him an⯑nounced with chagrin, and waited upon him in the moſt painful confuſion.

Far different were the feelings of Mr. Monckton; he read in her countenance the dejection of diſappointment, which im⯑preſſed upon his heart the vivacity of hope: her evident ſhame was to him ſecret tri⯑umph, her ill-concealed ſorrow revived all his expectations.

She haſtily began a converſation by men⯑tioning [301] her debt to him, and apologiſing for not paying it the moment ſhe was of age. He knew but too well how her time had been occupied, and aſſured her the delay was wholly immaterial.

He then led to an enquiry into the pre⯑ſent ſituation of her affairs; but unable to endure a diſquiſition, which could only be productive of cenſure and mortifi⯑cation, ſhe haſtily ſtopt it, exclaiming, ‘"Aſk me not, I entreat you, Sir, any detail of what has paſſed,—the event has brought me ſufferings that may well make blame diſpenſed with;—I acknowledge all your wiſdom, I am ſenſible of my own er⯑ror, but the affair is wholly dropt, and the unhappy connexion I was forming is broken off for-ever!"’

Little now was Mr. Monckton's effort in repreſſing his further curioſity, and he ſtarted other ſubjects with readineſs, gaiety and ad⯑dreſs. He mentioned Mrs. Charlton, for whom he had not the ſmalleſt regard; he talked to her of Mrs. Harrel, whoſe very exiſtence was indifferent to him; and he ſpoke of their common acquaintance in the country, for not one of whom he would have grieved, if aſſured of meeting no more. His powers of converſation were enlivened by his hopes; and his exhilarated ſpirits made all ſubjects ſeem happy to him. [302] A weight was removed from his mind which had nearly borne down even his remoteſt hopes; the object of his eager purſuit ſeemed ſtill within his reach, and the rival into whoſe power he had ſo lately al⯑moſt beheld her delivered, was totally re⯑nounced, and no longer to be dreaded. A revolution ſuch as this, raiſed expectations more ſanguine than ever; and in quitting the houſe, he exultingly conſidered himſelf releaſed from every obſtacle to his views—till, juſt as he arrived home, he recollected his wife!.

CHAP. VIII. A TALE.

A Week paſſed, during which Cecilia, however ſad, ſpent her time as uſual with the family, denying to herſelf all vo⯑luntary indulgence of grief, and forbearing to ſeek conſolation from ſolitude, or relief from tears. She never named Delvile, ſhe begged Mrs. Charlton never to mention him; ſhe called to her aid the account ſhe had received from Dr. Lyſter of his firm⯑neſs, and endeavoured, by an emulous am⯑bition, to fortify her mind from the weak⯑neſs of depreſſion and regret.

This week, a week of ſtruggle with all her feelings, was juſt elapſed, when ſhe re⯑ceived by the poſt the following letter from Mrs. Delvile.

The attempted philoſophy, and laboured reſignation of Cecilia, this letter deſtroy⯑ed: the ſtruggle was over, the apathy was at an end, and ſhe burſt into an agony of tears, which finding the vent they had long ſought, now flowed unchecked down her cheeks, ſad monitors of the weakneſs of reaſon oppoſed to the anguiſh of ſorrow!

A letter at once ſo careſſing, yet ſo ab⯑ſolute, forced its way to her heart, in ſpite of the fortitude ſhe had flattered herſelf was its guard. In giving up Delvile ſhe was ſatisfied of the propriety of ſeeing him no more, and convinced that even to talk of him would be folly and imprudence; but to be told that for the future they muſt re⯑main ſtrangers to the exiſtence of each other—there ſeemed in this a hardſhip, a rigour, that was inſupportable.

‘"Oh what,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"is human na⯑ture! in its beſt ſtate how imperfect! that a woman ſuch as this, ſo noble in character, ſo elevated in ſentiment, with heroiſm to ſacrifice to her ſenſe of duty the happineſs [306] of a ſon, whom with joy ſhe would die to ſerve, can herſelf be thus governed by pre⯑judice, thus enſlaved, thus ſubdued by opi⯑nion!"’ Yet never, even when miſerable, unjuſt or irrational; her grief was unmixed with anger, and her tears ſtreamed not from reſentment, but affliction. The ſitua⯑tion of Mrs. Delvile, however different, ſhe conſidered to be as wretched as her own. She read, therefore, with ſadneſs, but not bitterneſs, her farewell, and received not with diſdain, but with gratitude, her ſym⯑pathy. Yet though her indignation was not irritated, her ſufferings were doubled, by a farewell ſo kind, yet ſo deſpotic, a ſym⯑pathy ſo affectionate, yet ſo hopeleſs.

In this firſt indulgence of grief which ſhe had granted to her diſappointment, ſhe was ſoon interrupted by a ſummons down ſtairs to a gentleman.

Unfit and unwilling to be ſeen, ſhe begged that he might leave his name, and appoint a time for calling again.

Her maid brought for anſwer, that he believed his name was unknown to her, and deſired to ſee her now, unleſs ſhe was employed in ſome matter of moment.

She then put up her letter, and went into the parlour; and there, to her infinite amazement, beheld Mr. Albany.

[307] ‘"How little, Sir,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"did I expect this pleaſure."’

‘"This pleaſure,’ repeated he, ‘"do you call it?—what ſtrange abuſe of words! what cauſeleſs trifling with honeſty! is lan⯑guage of no purpoſe but to wound the ear with untruths? is the gift of ſpeech only granted us to pervert the uſe of underſtand⯑ing? I can give you no pleaſure, I have no power to give it any one; you can give none to me—the whole world could not inveſt you with the means!"’

‘"Well, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, who had little ſpirit to defend herſelf, ‘"I will not vindicate the expreſſion, but of this I will unfeignedly aſſure you, I am at leaſt as glad to ſee you juſt now, as I ſhould be to ſee any body."’

‘"Your eyes,"’ cried he, ‘"are red, your voice is inarticulate;—young, rich, and attractive, the world at your feet; that world yet untried, and its falſehood un⯑known, how have you thus found means to anticipate miſery? which way have you uncovered the cauldron of human woes? Fatal and early anticipation! that cover once removed, can never be replaced; thoſe woes, thoſe boiling woes, will pour out upon you continually, and only when your heart ceaſes to beat, will their ebullition ceaſe to torture you!"’

[308] ‘"Alas!"’ cried Cecilia, ſhuddering, ‘"how cruel, yet how true!"’

‘"Why went you,"’ cried he, ‘"to the cauldron? it came not to you. Miſery ſeeks not man, but man miſery. He walks out in the ſun, but ſtops not for a cloud; confident, he purſues his way, till the ſtorm which, gathering, he might have avoided, burſts over his devoted head. Scared and amazed, he repents his teme⯑rity; he calls, but it is then too late; he runs, but it is thunder which follows him! Such is the preſumption of man, ſuch at once is the arrogance and ſhailowneſs of his nature! And thou, ſimple and blind! haſt thou, too, followed whither Fancy has led thee, unheeding that thy career was too vehement for tranquility, nor miſſing that lovely companion of youth's early inno⯑cence, till, adventurous and unthinking, thou haſt loſt her for ever!"’

In the preſent weak ſtate of Cecilia's ſpirits, this attack was too much for her; and the tears ſhe had juſt, and with diffi⯑culty reſtrained, again forced their way down her cheeks, as ſhe anſwered, ‘"It is but too true,—I have loſt her for ever!"’

‘"Poor thing,"’ ſaid he, while the rigour of his countenance was ſoftened into the gentleſt commiſeration, ‘"ſo young!—looking, too, ſo innocent!—'tis hard!— [309] And is nothing left thee? no ſmall remain⯑ing hope, to cheat, humanely cheat thy yet not wholly extinguiſhed credulity?"’

Cecilia wept without anſwering.

‘"Let me not,"’ ſaid he, ‘"waſte my com⯑paſſion upon nothing; compaſſion is with me no effuſion of affectation; tell me, then, if thou deſerveſt it, or if thy misfortunes are imaginary, and thy grief is factitious?"’

‘"Factitious,"’ repeated ſhe, ‘"Good heaven!"’

‘"Anſwer me, then, theſe queſtions, in which I ſhall compriſe the only calamities for which ſorrow has no controul, or none from human motives. Tell me, then, have you loſt by death the friend of your boſom?"’

‘"No!"’

‘"Is your fortune diſſipated by extrava⯑gance, and your power of relieving the diſtreſſed at an end?"’

‘"No; the power and the will are I hope equally undiminiſhed."’

‘"O then, unhappy girl! have you been guilty of ſome vice, and hangs remorſe thus heavy on your conſcience?"’

‘"No, no; thank heaven, to that mi⯑ſery, at leaſt, I am a ſtranger!"’

His countenance now again reſumed its ſeverity, and, in the ſterneſt manner, ‘"Whence then,"’ he ſaid," ‘theſe tears? [310] and what is this caprice you dignify with the name of ſorrow?—ſtrange wantonneſs of indolence and luxury! perverſe repin⯑ing of ungrateful plenitude!—oh hadſt thou known what I have ſuffered!—"’

‘"Could I leſſen what you have ſuffered,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I ſhould ſincerely rejoice; but heavy indeed muſt be your affliction, if mine in its compariſon deſerves to be ſtyled caprice!"’

‘"Caprice!"’ repeated he, ‘"'tis joy! 'tis extacy compared with mine!—Thou haſt not in licentiouſneſs waſted thy inheritance! thou haſt not by remorſe barred each ave⯑nue to enjoyment! nor yet has the cold grave ſeized the beloved of thy ſoul!"’

‘"Neither,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I hope, are the evils you have yourſelf ſuſtained ſo ir⯑remediable?"’

‘"Yes, I have borne them all!—have borne? I bear them ſtill; I ſhall bear them while I breathe! I may rue them, perhaps, yet longer."’

‘"Good God!"’ cried Cecilia, ſhrinking, ‘"what a world is this! how full of woe and wickedneſs!"’

‘"Yet thou, too, canſt complain,"’ cried he, ‘"though happy in life's only bleſſing, Innocence! thou, too, canſt murmur, tho' ſtranger to death's only terror, Sin! Oh yet if thy ſorrow is unpolluted with guilt, [311] be regardleſs of all elſe, and rejoice in thy deſtiny!"’

‘"But who,"’ cried ſhe, deeply ſighing, ‘"ſhall teach me ſuch a leſſon of joy, when all within riſes to oppoſe it?"’

‘"I,"’ cried he, ‘"will teach it thee, for I will tell thee my own ſad ſtory. Then wilt thou find how much happier is thy lot, then wilt thou raiſe thy head in thankful triumph."’

‘"O no! triumph comes not ſo lightly! yet if you will venture to truſt me with ſome account of yourſelf, I ſhall be glad to hear it, and much obliged by the commu⯑nication."’

‘"I will,"’ he anſwered, ‘"whatever I may ſuffer: to awaken thee from this dream of fancied ſorrow, I will open all my wounds, and thou ſhalt probe them with freſh ſhame."’

‘"No, indeed,"’ cried Cecilia with quick⯑neſs, ‘"I will not hear you, if the relation will be ſo painful."’

‘"Upon me this humanity is loſt,"’ ſaid he, ‘"ſince puniſhment and penitence alone give me comfort. I will tell thee, there⯑fore, my crimes, that thou mayſt know thy own felicity, leſt, ignorant it means nothing but innocence, thou ſhouldſt loſe it, un⯑conſcious of its value. Liſten then to me, and learn what Miſery is! Guilt is alone [312] the baſis of laſting unhappineſs;—Guilt is the baſis of mine, and therefore I am a wretch for ever!"’

Cecilia would again have declined hear⯑ing him, but he refuſed to be ſpared: and as her curioſity had long been excited to know ſomething of his hiſtory, and the motives of his extraordinary conduct, ſhe was glad to have it ſatisfied, and gave him the utmoſt attention.

‘"I will not ſpeak to you of my family,"’ ſaid he; ‘"hiſtorical accuracy would little anſwer to either of us. I am a native of the Weſt Indies, and I was early ſent hither to be educated. While I was yet at the Univerſity, I ſaw, I adored, and I purſued the faireſt flower that ever put forth its ſweet buds, the ſofteſt heart that ever was broken by ill-uſage! She was poor and unprotected, the daughter of a villager; ſhe was untaught and unpretending, the child of ſimplicity! But fifteen ſummers had ſhe bloomed, and her heart was an eaſy con⯑queſt; yet, once made mine, it reſiſted all allurement to infidelity. My fellow ſtu⯑dents attacked her; ſhe was aſſaulted by all the arts of ſeduction; flattery, bribery, ſup⯑plication, all were employed, yet all failed; ſhe was wholly my own; and with ſincerity ſo attractive, I determined to marry her in defiance of all worldly objections.’

[313] ‘"The ſudden death of my father called me haſtily to Jamaica; I feared leaving this treaſure unguarded, yet in decency could neither marry nor take her directly; I pledged my faith, therefore, to return to her, as ſoon as I had ſettled my affairs, and I left to a boſom friend the inſpection of her conduct in my abſence.’

‘"To leave her was madneſs,—to truſt in man was madneſs,—Oh ha [...]ful race! how has the world been abhorrent to me ſince that time! I have loathed the light of the ſun, I have ſhrunk from the commerce of my fellow-creatures; the voice of man I have deteſted, his ſight I have abominated!—but oh, more than all ſhould I be abo⯑minated myſelf!’

‘"When I came to my fortune, intoxi⯑cated with ſudden power, I forgot this fair bloſſom, I revelled in licentiouſneſs and vice, and left it expoſed and forlorn. Riot ſucceeded riot, till a fever, incurred by my own intemperance, firſt gave me time to think. Then was ſhe revenged, for then firſt remorſe was my portion: her image was brought back to my mind with frantic fondneſs, and bittereſt contrition. The mo⯑ment I recovered, I returned to England; I flew to claim her,—but ſhe was loſt! no one knew whither ſhe was gone; the wretch I had truſted pretended to know leaſt of all; [314] yet, after a furious ſearch, I traced her to a cottage, where he had concealed her himſelf!’

‘"When ſhe ſaw me, ſhe ſcreamed and would have flown; I ſtopt her, and told her I came faithfully and honourably to make her my wife:—her own faith and honour, though ſullied, were not extin⯑guiſhed, for ſhe inſtantly acknowledged the fatal tale of her undoing!’

‘"Did I recompenſe this ingenuouſneſs? this unexampled, this beautiful ſacrifice to intuitive integrity? Yes! with my curſes!—I loaded her with execrations, I reviled her in language the moſt opprobrious, I in⯑ſulted her even for her confeſſion! I invoked all evil upon her from the bottom of my heart!—She knelt at my feet, ſhe implored my forgiveneſs and compaſſion, ſhe wept with the bitterneſs of deſpair,—and yet I ſpurned her from me!—Spurned?—let me not hide my ſhame! I barbarouſly ſtruck her!—nor ſingle was the blow!—it was doubled, it was reiterated!—Oh wretch, un⯑yielding and unpitying! where ſhall here⯑after be clemency for thee!—So fair a form! ſo young a culprit! ſo infamouſly ſeduced! ſo humbly penitent!’

‘In this miſerable condition, helpleſs and deplorable, mangled by theſe ſavage hands, and reviled by this inhuman tongue, I left [315] her, in ſearch of the villain who had deſ⯑troyed her: but, cowardly as treacherous, he had abſconded. Repenting my fury, I haſtened to her again; the fierceneſs of my cruelty ſhamed me when I grew calmer, the ſoftneſs of her ſorrow melted me upon re⯑collection: I returned, therefore, to ſoothe her,—but again ſhe was gone! terrified with expectation of inſult, ſhe hid herſelf from all my enquiries. I wandered in ſearch of her two long years to no purpoſe, regardleſs of my affairs, and of all things but that purſuit. At length, I thought I ſaw her—in London, alone, and walking in the ſtreets at midnight,—I fearfully followed her,—and followed her into an houſe of in⯑famy!’

‘"The wretches by whom ſhe was ſur⯑rounded were noiſy and drinking, they heeded me little,—but ſhe ſaw and knew me at once! She did not ſpeak, nor did I,—but in two moments ſhe fainted and fell.’

‘"Yet did I not help her; the people took their own meaſures to recover her, and when ſhe was again able to ſtand, would have removed her to another apartment.’

‘"I then went forward, and forcing them away from her with all the ſtrength of deſ⯑peration, I turned to the unhappy ſinner, who to chance only ſeemed to leave what became of her, and cried, From this ſcene [316] of vice and horror let me yet reſcue you! you look ſtill unfit for ſuch ſociety, truſt yourſelf, therefore, to me. I ſeized her hand, I drew, I almoſt dragged her away. She trembled, ſhe could ſcarce totter, but neither conſented nor refuſed, neither ſhed a tear, nor ſpoke a word, and her countenance preſented a picture of affright, amazement, and horror.’

‘"I took her to a houſe in the country, each of us ſilent the whole way. I gave her an apartment and a female attendant, and ordered for her every convenience I could ſuggeſt. I ſtayed myſelf in the ſame houſe, but diſtracted with remorſe for the guilt and ruin into which I had terrified her, I could not bear her ſight.’

‘"In a few days her maid aſſured me the the life ſhe led muſt deſtroy her; that ſhe would taſte nothing but bread and water, never ſpoke, and never ſlept.’

‘"Alarmed by this account, I flew into her apartment; pride and reſentment gave way to pity and fondneſs, and I beſought her to take comfort. I ſpoke, however, to a ſtatue, ſhe replied not, nor ſeemed to hear me. I then humbled myſelf to her as in the days of her innocence and firſt power, ſupplicating her notice, entreating even her commiſeration! all was to no purpoſe; ſhe neither received nor repulſed me, and was [317] alike inattentive to exhortation and to prayer.’

‘"Whole hours did I ſpend at her feet, vowing never to ariſe till ſhe ſpoke to me,—all, all, in vain! ſhe ſeemed deaf, mute, inſenſible; her face unmoved, a ſettled deſ⯑pair fixed in her eyes,—thoſe eyes that had never looked at me but with dove-like ſoft⯑neſs and campliance!—She ſat conſtantly in one chair, ſhe never changed her dreſs, no perſuaſions could prevail with her to lie down, and at meals ſhe juſt ſwallowed ſo much dry bread as might ſave her from dy⯑ing for want of food.’

‘"What was the diſtraction of my ſoul, to find her bent upon this courſe to her laſt hour!—quick came that hour, but never will it be forgotten! rapidly it was gone, but eternally it will be remembered!’

‘"When ſhe felt herſelf expiring, ſhe ac⯑knowledged ſhe had made a vow, upon en⯑tering the houſe, to live ſpeechleſs and mo⯑tionleſs, as a pennance for her offences!’

‘"I kept her loved corpſe till my own ſenſes failed me,—it was then only torn from me,—and I have loſt all recollection of three years of my exiſtence!"’

Cecilia ſhuddered at this hint, yet was not ſurpriſed by it; Mr. Goſport had ac⯑quainted her he had been formerly con⯑fined; and his flightineſs, wildneſs, florid [318] language, and extraordinary way of life, had long led her to ſuſpect his reaſon had been impaired.

‘"The ſcene to which my memory firſt leads me back,"’ he continued, ‘"is viſiting her grave; ſolemnly upon it I returned her vow, though not by one of equal ſeverity. To her poor remains did I pledge myſelf, that the day ſhould never paſs in which I would receive nouriſhment, nor the night come in which I would take reſt, till I had done, or zealouſly attempted to do, ſome ſervice to a fellow-creature.’

‘"For this purpoſe have I wandered from city to city, from the town to the country, and from the rich to the poor. I go into every houſe where I can gain admittance, I admoniſh all who will hear me, I ſhame even thoſe who will not. I ſeek the di⯑ſtreſſed where-ever they are hid, I follow the proſperous to beg a mite to ſerve them. I look for the Diſſipated in public, where, amidſt their licentiouſneſs, I check them; I purſue the Unhappy in private, where I counſel and endeavour to aſſiſt them. My own power is ſmall; my relations, during my ſufferings, limiting me to an annuity; but there is no one I ſcruple to ſolicit, and by zeal I ſupply ability.’

‘"Oh life of hardſhip and pennance! la⯑borious, toilſome, and reſtleſs! but I have [319] merited no better, and I will not repine at it; I have vowed that I will endure it, and I will not be forſworn.’

‘"One indulgence alone from time to time I allow myſelf,—'tis Muſic! which has power to delight me even to rapture! it quiets all anxiety, it carries me out of my⯑ſelf, I forget through it every calamity, even the bittereſt anguiſh.’

‘"Now then, that thou haſt heard me, tell me, haſt thou cauſe of ſorrow?"’

‘"Alas,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"this indeed is a Picture of Miſery to make my lot ſeem all happineſs!"’

‘"Art thou thus open to conviction?"’ cried he, mildly; ‘"and doſt thou not fly the voice of truth! for truth and reproof are one."’

‘"No, I would rather ſeek it; I feel myſelf wretched, however inadequate may be the cauſe; I wiſh to be more reſigned, and if you can inſtruct me how, I ſhall thankfully attend to you."’

‘"Oh yet uncorrupted creature!"’ cried he, ‘"with joy will I be thy monitor,—joy long untaſted! Many have I wiſhed to ſerve, all, hitherto, have rejected my of⯑fices; too honeſt to flatter them, they had not the fortitude to liſten to me; too low to advance them, they had not the virtue to bear with me. You alone have I yet found [320] pure enough not to fear inſpection, and good enough to wiſh to be better. Yet words alone will not content me; I muſt alſo have deeds. Nor will your purſe, how⯑ever readily opened, ſuffice, you muſt give to me alſo your time and your thoughts; for money ſent by others, to others only will afford relief; to lighten your own cares, you muſt diſtribute it yourſelf."’

‘"You ſhall find me,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"a do⯑cile pupil, and moſt glad to be inſtructed how my exiſtence may be uſeful."’

‘"Happy then,"’ cried he, ‘"was the hour that brought me to this county; yet not in ſearch of you did I come, but of the mutable and ill-fated Belfield. Erring, yet ingenious young man! what a leſſon to the vanity of talents, to the gaiety, the brilli⯑ancy of wit, is the ſight of that green fallen plant! not ſapleſs by age, nor withered by diſeaſe, but deſtroyed by want of pruning, and bending, breaking by its own luxu⯑riance!"’

‘"And where, Sir, is he now?"’

‘"Labouring wilfully in the field, with thoſe who labour compulſatorily; ſuch are we all by nature, diſcontented, perverſe, and changeable; though all have not cou⯑rage to appear ſo, and few, like Belfield, are worth watching when they do. He told me he was happy; I knew it could not be: [321] but his employment was innoffenſive, and I left him without reproach. In this neigh⯑bourhood I heard of you, and found your name was coupled with praiſe. I came to ſee if you deſerved it; I have ſeen, and am ſatisfied."’

‘"You are not, then, very difficult, for I have yet done nothing. How are we to begin theſe operations you propoſe? You have awakened me by them to an expecta⯑tion of pleaſure, which nothing elſe, I be⯑lieve, could juſt now have given me."’

‘"We will work,"’ cried he, ‘"together, till not a woe ſhall remain upon your mind. The bleſſings of the fatherleſs, the prayers of little children, ſhall heal all your wounds with balm of ſweeteſt fragrance. When ſad, they ſhall chear, when complaining, they ſhall ſoothe you. We will go to their roofleſs houſes, and ſee them re⯑paired; we will exclude from their dwel⯑lings the inclemency of the weather; we will clothe them from cold, we will reſcue them from hunger. The cries of diſtreſs ſhall be changed to notes of joy: your heart ſhall be enraptured, mine, too, ſhall revive—oh whither am I wandering? I am painting an Elyſium! and while I idly ſpeak, ſome fainting object dies for want of ſuccour! Farewell; I will fly to the a⯑bodes of wretchedneſs, and come to you to⯑morrow [322] to render them the abodes of hap⯑pineſs."’

He then went away.

This ſingular viſit was for Cecilia moſt fortunately timed: it almoſt ſurpriſed her out of her peculiar grief, by the view which it opened to her of general calamity; wild, flighty and imaginative as were his lan⯑guage and his counſels, their morality was ſtriking, and their benevolence was affect⯑ing. Taught by him to compare her ſtate with that of at leaſt half her ſpecies, ſhe began more candidly to weigh what was left with what was withdrawn, and found the balance in her favour, The plan he had preſented to her of good works was conſonant to her character and inclinations; and the active charity in which he propoſed to engage her, re-animated her fallen hopes, though to far different ſubjects from thoſe which had depreſſed them. Any ſcheme of worldly happineſs would have ſickened and diſguſted her; but her mind was juſt in the ſituation to be impreſſed with elevated piety, and to adopt any de⯑ſign in which virtue humoured melancholy.

CHAP. IX. A SHOCK.

CECILIA paſſed the reſt of the day in fanciful projects of beneſicence; ſhe de⯑termined to wander with her romantic new ally whither-ſo-ever he would lead her, and to ſpare neither fortune, time, nor trouble, in ſeeking and relieving the di⯑ſtreſſed. Not all her attempted philoſophy had calmed her mind like this plan; in merely refuſing indulgence to grief, ſhe had only locked it up in her heart, where eternally ſtruggling for vent, ſhe was almoſt overpowered by reſtraining it; but now her affliction had no longer her whole faculties to itſelf; the hope of doing good, the plea⯑ſure of eaſing pain, the intention of devot⯑ing her time to the ſervice of the unhappy, once more delighted her imagination,—that ſource of promiſſory enjoyment, which though often obſtructed, is never, in youth, exhauſted.

She would not give Mrs. Charlton the unneceſſary pain of hearing the letter with which ſhe had been ſo much affected, but ſhe told her of the viſit of Albany, and pleaſed her with the account of their ſcheme.

[324] At night, with leſs ſadneſs than uſual, ſhe retired to reſt. In her ſleep ſhe beſtowed riches, and poured plenty upon the land; ſhe humbled the oppreſſor, ſhe exalted the oppreſſed; ſlaves were raiſed to dignities, captives reſtored to liberty; beggars ſaw ſmiling abundance, and wretchedneſs was baniſhed the world. From a cloud in which ſhe was ſupported by angels, Cecilia beheld theſe wonders, and while enjoying the glorious illuſion, ſhe was awakened by her maid, with news that Mrs. Charlton was dying!

She ſtarted up, and, undreſſed, was running to her apartment,—when the maid, calling to ſtop her, confeſſed ſhe was already dead!

She had made her exit in the night, but the time was not exactly known; her own maid, who ſlept in the room with her, go⯑ing early to her bedſide to enquire how ſhe did, found her cold and motionleſs, and could only conclude that a paralytic ſtroke had taken her off.

Happily and in good time had Cecilia been ſomewhat recruited by one night of refreſhing ſlumbers and flattering dreams, for the ſhock ſhe now received promiſed her not ſoon another.

She loſt in Mrs. Charlton a friend, whom nearly from her infancy ſhe had conſidered [325] as a mother, and by whom ſhe had been cheriſhed with tenderneſs almoſt unequalled. She was not a woman of bright parts, or much cultivation, but her heart was excel⯑lent, and her diſpoſition was amiable. Ce⯑cilia had known her longer than her me⯑mory could look back, though the earlieſt circumſtances ſhe could trace were kind⯑neſſes received from her. Since ſhe had entered into life, and found the difficulty of the part ſhe had to act, to this worthy old lady alone had ſhe unboſomed her ſe⯑cret cares. Though little aſſiſted by her counſel, ſhe was always certain of her ſym⯑pathy; and while her own ſuperior judg⯑ment directed her conduct, ſhe had the re⯑lief of communicating her ſchemes, and weighing her perplexities, with a friend to whom nothing that concerned her was in⯑different, and whoſe greateſt wiſh and chief pleaſure was the enjoyment of her con⯑verſation.

If left to herſelf, in the preſent period of her life, Mrs. Charlton had certainly not been the friend of her choice. The delicacy of her mind, and the refinement of her ideas, had now rendered her ſaſtidious, and ſhe would have looked out for elegancies and talents to which Mrs. Charlton had no pretenſions: but thoſe who live in the country have little power of ſelection; con⯑fined to a ſmall circle, they muſt be con⯑tent [326] with what it offers; and however they may idolize extraordinary merit when they meet with it, they muſt not regard it as eſ⯑ſential to friendſhip, for in their circum⯑ſcribed rotation, whatever may be their diſcontent, they can make but little change.

Such had been the ſituation to which Mrs. Charlton and Mrs. Harrel owed the friendſhip of Cecilia. Greatly their ſupe⯑rior in underſtanding and intelligence, had the candidates for her favour been more numerous, the election had not fallen upon either of them. But ſhe became known to both before diſcrimination made her diffi⯑cult, and when her enlightened mind diſcerned their deficiencies, they had already an intereſt in her affections, which made her ſee them with lenity: and though ſome⯑times, perhaps, conſcious ſhe ſhould not have choſen them from many, ſhe adhered to them with ſincerity, and would have changed them for none.

Mrs. Harrel, however, too weak for ſi⯑milar ſentiments, forgot her when out of ſight, and by the time they met again, was inſenſible to every thing but ſhew and diſ⯑ſipation. Cecilia, ſhocked and ſurpriſed, firſt grieved from diſappointed affection, and then loſt that affection in angry con⯑tempt. But her fondneſs for Mrs. Charl⯑ton had never known abatement, as the kindneſs which had excited it had never [327] known allay. She had loved her firſt from childiſh gratitude; but that love, ſtrength⯑ened and confirmed by confidential inter⯑courſe, was now as ſincere and affectionate as if it had originated from ſympathetic ad⯑miration. Her loſs, therefore, was felt with the utmoſt ſeverity, and neither ſeeing nor knowing any means of replacing it, ſhe conſidered it as irreparable, and mourned it with bitterneſs.

When the firſt ſurprize of this cruel ſtroke was ſomewhat leſſened, ſhe ſent an expreſs to Mr. Monckton with the news, and entreated to ſee him immediately. He came without delay, and ſhe begged his counſel what ſtep ſhe ought herſelf to take in conſequence of this event. Her own houſe was ſtill unpre⯑pared for her; ſhe had of late neglected to haſten the workmen, and almoſt forgotten her intention of entering it. It was neceſſary, however, to change her abode immedi⯑ately; ſhe was no longer in the houſe of Mrs. Charlton, but of her grand-daughters and co-heireſſes, each of whom ſhe diſliked, and upon neither of whom ſhe had any claim.

Mr. Monckton then, with the quickneſs of a man who utters a thought at the very moment of its projection, mentioned a ſcheme upon which during his whole ride he had been ruminating; which was that ſhe would inſtantly remove to his houſe, [328] and remain there till ſettled to her ſa⯑tisfaction.

Cecilia objected her little right of ſur⯑priſing Lady Margaret; but, without wait⯑ing to diſcuſs it, leſt new objections ſhould ariſe, he quitted her, to fetch himſelf from her ladyſhip an invitation he meant to inſiſt upon her ſending.

Cecilia, though heartily diſliking this plan, knew not at preſent what better to adopt, and thought any thing preferable to to going again to Mrs. Harrel, ſince that only could be done by feeding the anxiety of Mr. Arnott.

Mr. Monckton ſoon returned with a meſſage of his own fabrication; for his lady, though obliged to receive whom he pleaſed, took care to guard inviolate the independence of ſpeech, ſullenly perſe⯑vering in refuſing to ſay any thing, or per⯑verſely ſaying only what he leaſt wiſhed to hear.

Cecilia then took a haſty leave of Miſs Charltons, who, little affected by what they had loſt, and eager to examine what they had gained, parted from her gladly, and, with a heavy heart and weeping eyes, borrowed for the laſt time the carriage of her late worthy old friend, and for-ever quitting her hoſpitable houſe, ſorrowfully ſet out for the Grove.