My dear! cry'd my mother, and took me by the hand--

Poor Sidney, said Sir George, how you are to be pitied! Mr Faulkland

purposes waiting on you in the afternoon, if he is not _forbid_; and he

looked so teazingly sly, that my mother bid him leave off his _pranks_.

The day is ever--Mr Faulkland spent the evening with us; no other

company but our own family. My mother likes him better even than

before--Thy _mother_--disingenuous girl! why dost thou not speak thy

_own_ sentiments! (There is an apostrophe for thy use, my Cecilia). Well

then, _my_ sentiments you shall have; you have an undoubted right to

know them on all subjects, but particularly on this interesting one.

I _do_ think Mr Faulkland the most amiable of men; and if my heart were

(happily for me it is not) _very_ susceptible of tender impressions, I

really believe I should in time be absolutely in love with him. This

confession will not satisfy you: may be it is not enough--yet, in truth,

Cecilia, it is all that at present I can afford you.

The thoughts of the aukward figure I should make in the evening visit,

sat heavy on my spirits all day.--Can you conceive any thing more

distressing than the situation of a poor girl, receiving the visit of a

man, who, for the first time, comes professedly as her admirer? I had

conceived a frightful idea of such an interview, having formed my

notions of it only from romances, where set speeches of an ell long are

made by the lover, and answers of a proportionable size are returned in

form by the lady. But Mr Faulkland soon delivered me from my anxiety.

His easy, but incomparably polite and sensible freedom of address,

quickly made me lose my ridiculous fears.--He made no other use of this

visit, than to recommend himself more strongly to our esteem, by such

means as proved how well he deserved it. If he was particular to me,

either in his looks or manner, it was under the regulation of such a

nice decorum, that I (who supposed I must have sunk with downright

confusion) was hardly disconcerted during the whole visit.

_June 10_

I do really think my good mother grows so fond of Mr Faulkland, that if

he goes on at this rate, he will get the start even of Sir George in her

affections--'Mr _Faulkland_ said so and so; Mr _Faulkland_ is of

opinion; and I am sure you will allow Mr _Faulkland_ to be a good judge

of such and such things.'

To say the truth, the man improves upon you every hour you know him. And

yet I have discovered in him some of those little (and they are _but_

little) alloys to his many good qualities, which Sir George at first

told me of. The interest I may one day have in him makes me a closer

observer than I should otherwise be. There _is_ that sly turn to

ridicule which my brother mentioned; yet, to do him justice, he never

employs it, but where it is deserved; and then too with so much vivacity

and good humour, that one cannot be angry with him.

We had a good deal of company at dinner with us to day; amongst the

rest, young Sayers, who is just returned from his travels, as _he_ calls

it. You remember he went away a good humoured, inoffensive, quiet fool;

he has brought no one ingredient of that character back with him but the

last; for such a stiff, conceited, overbearing, talkative, impertinent

coxcomb, does not now exist. His mother, who, poor woman, you know

originally made a simpleton of the boy, contributes now all in her power

to finish the sop; and she carries him about with her everywhere for a

show. We were assembled in the drawing room before dinner: in _burst_

(for it was not a common entry) Master Sayers, and his mamma, the cub

handing in the old lady--_So_ stiff, and _so_ aukward, and _so_

ungraceful, and so _very_ unlike Mr Faulkland, that I pitied the poor

thing, who thought that every body would admire him as much as his

mother did. After he had been presented to the ladies (for it was the

first time we had seen him since he came home), he took a turn or two

about the room, to exhibit his person: then applying himself to a

picture which hung over the door (a fine landscape of Claude Lorrain,

which Mr Faulkland himself had brought over and given to Sir George), he

asked my brother, in a tone scarce articulate, whether we had any

_painters_ in England? My mother, who by chance heard him, and by

greater chance understood him, answered, before Sir George had time,

_Painters_, Sir! yes, sure, and some very good ones too; why, you cannot

have forgot _that_; it is not much above a year since you went

abroad, (for you must know he had been recalled upon the death of

an uncle, who had left him his estate). I observed Mr Faulkland

constrained a very fly laugh, on account both of the _manner_ of my

mother's taking his question, and her innocently-undesigned reprimand.

Sayers pretended not to hear her, but looking through his fingers, as if

to throw the picture into perspective, that is a pretty good piece, said

he, for a copy. Oh! cry'd his mother, there is no pleasing _you_--people

who have been _abroad_ are such connoisseurs in painting--No body making

any immediate answer, Mr Faulkland stepped up to Mr Sayers, with such a

roguish humility in his countenance, that you would have sworn he was a

very ignoramus, said, 'Are you of opinion, Sir, that that picture is

nothing but a copy?' Nothing more, take my word for it, Sir: When _I_

was at Rome, there was a Dutchman there who made it his business to take

copies _of_ copies, which he dispersed, and had people to sell for him

in different parts, as pretty good prices; and they did mighty well; for

very few people _know_ a picture; and I'll answer for it there are not

many masters of eminence, but what have a hundred originals palmed upon

them, more than ever they painted in their lives.

Mr Faulkland then proceeded to ask him abundance of questions, which any

one, who did not know him well, would have thought he proposed for no

other end but a desire of information; and the poor coxcomb Sayers

plumed himself upon displaying so much travelled knowlege, to a

wondering ignorant Englishman, who had never been out of his own

country. The company were divided into little chattering parties, as is

usual when people are whiling away an half hour before dinner. Mrs.

Sayers, my mother, and I, were sitting together on a couch, near enough

to hear the conversation that passed between the two gentlemen; at least

as much as was not sunk in the affected, half-pronounced sentences of Mr

Sayers. His mother, to whom he was the principal object of attention in

the company, seemed mightily pleased at the opportunity her son had,

from the inquisitiveness of Mr Faulkland (whom she did not know) of

shewing his taste in the polite arts, and often looked about to observe

if any body else attended to them. My mother, dear literal woman! (as I

often call her to you) took every thing seriously, and whispered to me,

how pretty that is, Sidney! how condescending in Mr Faulkland! you see

he does not make a parade of his _own_ knowledge in these matters, but

is pleased to reap the benefit of other people's. I, who saw the latent

roguery, could hardly contain myself. Indeed I was amazed at Mr

Faulkland's grave inquisitive face, and was very glad my mother did not

find him out.

Sayers, elated with having shone so conspicuously (for he observed that

both my mother and I attended to his discourse) proceeded to shew away

with an immensity of vanity and frothy chat, beginning every new piece

of history with, 'When _I_ was at Rome, or, when _I_ was at Paris'--At

last, unluckily for him, speaking of an incident (which made a good deal

of noise, and happened at the first-mentioned place) in which two

English gentlemen had been concerned, he said it was about eleven months

ago, just before he left Rome. My mother, who had heard Mr Faulkland

relate the same story, but with some very different circumstances,

immediately said, Mr Faulkland, have I not heard you speak of that? you

were at Rome yourself when the affair happened; and if I be not

mistaken, it was through your interest with the cardinal of ---- that

the business was made up.

If a spectre had appeared to poor Sayers, he could not have looked more

aghast. He dropped his visage half-way down his breast, and for the

_first_ time speaking very _plain_, and very loud too, with a share of

astonishment, Have _you_ been at _Rome_, Sir? I was there for a little

time, Sir, answered Mr Faulkland, with real modesty; for he pitied the

mortified buzzard; and I know the story was _represented_ as you have

told it; the circumstances differed in a few particulars, but the facts

were nearly as you have related them.

How obligingly did he reconcile the out-of-countenance Sayers to himself

and to the company? Were you long abroad, pray Sir, said the coxcomb?

About five years, Sir, answered Mr Faulkland; but I perceive, by the

conversation I have had the honour of holding with you to-day, that many

accurate and curious observations escaped me, which you made in a much

shorter space of time; for the communication of which I think myself

extremely obliged to you. Whether the poor soul thought him serious (as

my mother did) I cannot tell; he made him a bow, however, for the

compliment; but was so lowered, that he did not say a word more of Rome

or Paris for the rest of the day: and in this we had a double advantage;

for as he had nothing else to talk of, his mouth was effectually

stopped, except when Mr Faulkland, out of compassion, asked him (as he

often did) such questions as he thought he could answer, without

exposing his ignorance: for he was contented to have enjoyed it in their

tête à tête, and was far from wishing the company to be witnesses of it.

I think such a bagatelle may give you some idea of this man's turn. I

told it to Sir George; he laughed heartily, and said it was _so_ like

him! My brother loves even his faults, though he will not allow me to

call them by that name.

_July 4_

You are unkind, Cecilia, and do not do justice to my sincerity, when you

say, _you are sure I am in love with Mr Faulkland_. If I were, can you

conceive it possible that I would deny it to you? Ah! my sister, must I

suspect _you_ of wanting candour by your making a charge of disingenuity

against your friend? Indeed, Cecilia, if I _am_ in love with him, I do

not _yet_ know it myself. I will repeat it to you, I think him the most

amiable of men, and should certainly give him the preference, if I were

left to a free choice, over all the rest of his sex; at least all that I

have ever yet seen; though possibly there _may_ be handsomer, wiser,

better men, but they have not fallen within my observation. I am not

however so prepossessed in his favour, as to suppose him a phoenix; and

if any unforeseen event were to prevent my being his, I am sure I should

bear it, and behave very handsomely.

And yet perhaps this may be only bragging like a coward, because I think

a very short time will put it out of the power of fortune to divide us.

Yet certain as the event of our marriage appears to me at present, I

still endeavour to keep a sort of guard over my wishes, and will not,

give my heart leave to center _all_ its happiness in him; and therefore

I cannot rank myself amongst the first-rate lovers, who have neither

eyes, nor ears, nor sensations, but for one object. _This_, Mr Faulkland

says, is his case, in regard to me. But I think we women should not love

at such a rate, till _duty_ makes the passion a virtue; and till _that_

becomes my case, I am so much a philosopher in love that I am determined

not to let it absorbe any of the other cordial affections, which I owe

to my relations and my friends.

I think we ought always to form some laws to ourselves for the

regulation of our conduct: without this, what an impertinent dream must

the life be of almost every young person of our sex? You, my dear,

though with an uncommon understanding of your own, have always been

intirely conducted by your wise parents; and in this I make it my boast

to have followed your example. I have been accustomed from my infancy to

pay an implicit obedience to the best of mothers; the conforming to this

never yet cost me an uneasy minute, and I am sure never will.

_July 5_

A little incident happened to-day, which pleased my mother wonderfully.

She had been at morning prayers (as you know is her daily custom); when

returning home in her chair, one of the men happened to flip his foot,

and fell down just before Mr Faulkland's house. He was so much hurt,

that he could go no farther; and the footman immediately opening the

chair, told her she had better step into Mr Faulkland's, till he called

another, or got a man to assist in carrying her home. One of Mr

Faulkland's servants happened to be standing at the door; so that,

without any previous notice, she was immediately conducted into a

parlour, where Mr Faulkland was sitting at breakfast. She found with him

two pretty little children at his knee, to one of whom he had given some

cake; and the elder of the two, a boy of about five years old, he was

gravely lecturing, though with great gentleness, for having told a lye.

My mother asked him, with some surprise, whose children those were? He

smiled, and told her they were his coachman's; and then ordered the

footman to carry them down, bidding the little boy be sure to remember

what he had said to him.

My mother enquired, if he permitted them to be in the house? He said, he

did; and had been induced to do it from the distress he had seen their

poor father in, a few days before. He is an honest careful fellow,

continued Mr Faulkland, and has lived in my family from a boy. He was

married to a good sort of a body, who took great care of these children,

and helped to maintain them decently by her work. The poor woman died in

childbed last week; and the person who attended her in her illness (for

she had no servant) took that opportunity of robbing the lodgings; and

after plundering the poor creature of every thing that was worth

carrying away, locked up those two children, which you saw with me, and

the new-born infant, with the corpse of their mother.

The poor little wretches continued in that dismal situation all night,

having cried themselves to sleep, without being heard, though there were

some other people in the house. The morning following I happened to make

an early visit in the neighbourhood of this distressed little family,

and my coachman, who was a very affectionate husband and father, took

that opportunity of calling on his wife whom he had not been able to see

for three days. The cries of his children (now awake and almost starved)

obliged him hastily to break open the room door, where the poor fellow

was shocked with the dismal spectacle of his wife lying breathless in

her bed, the infant almost expiring at her side, and the other two poor

little famished creatures calling to their dead mother for bread.

The sight almost deprived the man of his senses. He snatched up his two

eldest children in his arms, and ran raving to the house where I was;

tearing his hair like a madman. He told me his mournful story; with

which I was so affected, that I ordered one of my footmen to carry the

two children home to my house directly, and desired their father to look

out for some body to take care of the young one, which he soon did.

The honest poor fellow was delighted, when he came home, to find his two

children well and merry; for they were sensible of no want but their

food. But his grief returned on him with great violence at the thoughts

of his being obliged to put them into the hands of people, who, he said,

he was sure would not be so kind to them as their own poor mother had

been; and my man told me he did nothing but kiss them, and cry over them

the whole day. To make his mind easy at once, I let him know they should

remain here under his own eye, till they were old enough to be put to

school; and accordingly directed my housekeeper to see that they were

taken care of; which has made their father very happy.

The little rogues have found their way up to me, and I love some times

to hear them prattle; but this morning the eldest having told me a lye

of his brother, I was checking him for it when you came in.

My mother was so pleased with Mr Faulkland's conduct in his little

history, that she repeated it to me word for word as soon as she came

home, and concluded with observing, how _good a creature_ Mr Faulkland

must be, who in so tender a manner interested himself in his poor

servant's misfortune. Most young gentlemen, said she, would have thought

they had done enough in giving the servant money to have provided for

his children how he could: it is in such trifles as these that we often

discover the excellence of the heart.

You will suppose, my dear, that I am not displeased at any circumstance

that can raise Mr Faulkland's character in my pious mother's esteem. I

heard the story with great pleasure; but not making any comments on it,

Sir George (who was present at the relation), said, Well, Sidney, you

are either very affected, or the greatest stoic in the world; why, any

other girl would be in raptures at such a proof of the honest tenderness

of that heart which she knows she possesses intirely, and on which the

whole of her future happiness depends. I am very sensible of Mr

Faulkland's worth, brother, I replied, and I can feel without being

transported. I will be hanged, said Sir George, if I think you love

Faulkland, at least not half as well as he deserves; and I dare swear

you have not been honest enough to tell him yet whether you do or not.

It is time enough for that, I replied; if Mr Faulkland and I should be

married, I hope I shall give him no cause to complain of my want of

affection.

_If_ you marry, said my brother! I know of no possible _ifs_, unless

they are of your own making. I know of none neither, answered my mother;

yet I think Sidney is in the right to be doubtful about all human

events. Many things, added she gravely (for she has a great veneration

for old sayings), fall out between the cup and the lip.

I think, mother, said Sir George, bluntly, _you_ were disappointed in

your _first_ love; I have heard you speak of it, but I forget the

circumstances. As I had never heard my mother make any mention of this

particular, I begged she would oblige me with relating it.

When I was about one-and-twenty, daughter, said she, a match was

concluded by my father between me and a very fine gentleman. I loved

him, and (as I suppose all young women do in the like circumstances)

believed myself equally beloved by him. The courtship had been of a

year's standing; for you must know I was not very easily won. Every

thing was settled, and the day appointed for our marriage arrived; when,

instead of the bridegroom, whom we every minute expected, there came a

letter from him directed to me. The contents were, that having formerly

been engaged to a young lady by the most solemn vows, he had,

unfortunately for them both, forgot them all on seeing me, and had broke

through every obligation divine and human to obtain me. He intreated

mine, and my family's pardon, in the most pathetic manner, for having

engaged our esteem so far as to consent to an union, of which he found

himself unworthy, and which it was impossible for him to accomplish;

for, said he, the wrongs I have done the woman, whose youth I seduced,

rise to my imagination with so much horror, that, for the empire of the

world, I would not complete my guilt, by devoting that hand to another,

to which she only has a right. He enlarged greatly on the sufferings of

his heart, in the struggle between his love for me, and his duty to the

person who had his first vows; and whom, he declared, his infidelity had

almost brought to the grave. He claimed my pity, both on his own and her

account; and repeatedly intreated my forgiveness of his fault.

The whole letter, which was very long, was so expressive of a mind

overwhelmed with despair, that I was exceedingly shocked at the reading

of it. What could I say? The plea he offered for his seemingly strange

conduct, was too just to admit of any objections. I own the

disappointment afflicted me, but I bore it with a becoming resolution.

My family were at first exceedingly exasperated against my doubly

unfaithful lover; but, upon enquiring into the facts, they found the

truth to be as he had represented it. The conclusion was, that, upon the

very day on which he was to have been married to me, and on which he had

writ me that gloomy letter, he was seized with a melancholy, with

increasing on him daily, soon after ended in absolute madness, and he

was obliged to be confined for the remainder for his life. The young

lady lived but a short time after the melancholy fate of her lover, and

died, as it was said, of a broken heart.

It was a great comfort to me to reflect that my fate disposed otherwise

of me than to this unhappy gentleman; for I am very sure, had these

fatal events happened in consequence of my marriage with him, that I

should never have survived it.

This extraordinary anecdote of my mother's life, which I had never had a

hint of before (for she could not speak of it without great emotion),

very much affected me. Sir George said, the story was more tragical than

he had apprehended, and told my mother, _that_ was an accident which

fell out between the cup and the lip, with a vengeance.

My mother continued thoughtful for a good while; and I was sorry that

the memory of this melancholy story had been revived; but Sir George

talked and laughed us both in spirits again.

_July 6_

This Mr Faulkland is a princely man; he has sent me _such_ a set of

jewels! My mother says they are too fine for a private gentlewoman; but

George tells her they are not a bit too fine for Mr Faulkland's _wife_,

and only suitable to his fortune. You know I have but few of my own,

those only which were my mother's when she was a maiden. The greatest

part of her's, and by much the finest, were presented to her by my

father; but those she reserves for Sir George, against the time of his

marriage, as a present for his lady; for they are family jewels.

_July 8_

My probation is over, my Cecilia.--The formidable question has been put

to me, and I have answered it--Ay marry, say you, but how? In the

_negative_, to be sure, my dear--No, no, my Cecilia; a valuable (psha!

what an affected cold word that is), a lovely and most worthy man, with

six thousand pounds a year, is a prize that a country girl must not

expect to draw every day. Mr Faulkland, in _lover-like_ phrase, demanded

from me the time of his destined happiness: I referred him to my mother.

She, good and delicate as she is, referred him back to Sir George.

George blurted out some sudden day that startled us both, when Mr

Faulkland reported it to us. I stammered out something; my mother

hesitated; Sir George came in, and blundered at us all; so I think we

compounded for the time, and amongst us fixed upon this day month--And

full soon enough, says my Cecilia: you have known the man but about six

weeks, and surely a month is as little time as you can take, in

preparing fineries. True, my girl, true; but it is all George's doings.

Indeed, my Cecilia, without affectation, I had much rather have had a

longer day; though I think I _know_ the man as well in those six weeks,

as if I had been acquainted with him so many years; for he has spent

most of his hours with us every day during that time; and my mother says

he is one of those in _whom there is no guile_.

Sir George is downright insolent; he declares I am not sensible of my

own happiness, and that I deserve to be married to some little petty

Wiltshire 'squire. He so piques himself upon making this match, there is

no bearing him. He has taken all matters of settlement upon himself, and

insists on my mother's not interposing. She acquiesces, but charges my

brother not to let Mr Faulkland's generosity carry him too far, and bids

him remember what is due to his friend, as well as to his sister.

_July 10_

I really begin to be hurried. My mother, you know, is exactly

punctilious in every thing. Such a quantity of things _are_ bought, and

such a quantity to _be_ bought, that there is no end of journies into

the city. Then milaners and mantua-makers!--One would think I was going

to pass the remainder of my life in a remote country, where there were

no kind of manufactures or artificers to be come at, and that I was to

provide cloathing for half a century.

_July 12_

I have much upon my hands, and Sir George is so impatient, and

troublesome, that I believe I must employ an amanuensis, to give you a

minute detail of all our foppery; for I shall not have patience to do it

myself.

_July 17_

Sir George has often told me, that he knows of no fault Mr Faulkland

has, but a violence of temper when provoked. I saw an instance of it

to-day, which I was sorry for, and the more so, as I was in some measure

accessary to it. Mr Faulkland, my brother, a lady of our acquaintance,

and myself, took a ride in Hide-Park this morning. We were to dine at

Kensington (where my mother was to meet us), at the house of the lady (a

relation of Mr Faulkland's), who was with us.

We rode into the stable-yard of her house, in order to alight. My horse,

which happened to be a young one that Sir George had newly bought, saw

some object that made him shy of advancing, and he turned suddenly

about. A footman of Mr Faulkland's, who chanced to stand just behind me,

very imprudently, though I am sure with design of harm, gave him a

stroke with his whip, which made the animal plunge and throw me, as I

had not time to recover my seat from the first short turn he made. I

luckily received not the least hurt, and was on my feet in an instant.

But Mr Faulkland, who had leaped off his horse even before I fell, was

so enraged at the fellow, that he gave him two or three sound lashes

with his whip across the shoulders, which fell on him as quick as

lightning. I am inclined to think the servant was not sober; for he had

the insolence to lay hold of his master's whip, and muttered an oath or

two. Mr Faulkland's attention being quickly turned to me, he took no

farther notice of the man. We went into the house; and after I had

assured them all I was not in the least hurt, I begged of Mr Faulkland

to forgive the footman, who had undesignedly caused the accident. He

made a thousand apologies, for having let his anger so far transport

him, as to chastise his servant in a manner he was not used to do; but

the peril he put you into, madam, addressing himself to me, made me

forget myself. I repeated, I hope, Sir, you have forgiven him. I wish,

my dear Miss Bidulph, said he, that the fellow were guilty of no other

fault but this, that I might shew you my readiness to obey you; but he

is such an intolerable sot, that there is no keeping him with safety. I

have forgiven him several idle things; but as I had determined to part

with him before this happened, I hope you will be so good as not to

insist on my retaining him. I could not intercede for the foolish fellow

after this: so said no more.

This little incident convinces me that Mr Faulkland is of too warm a

temper; yet I am not alarmed at the discovery; you know I am the very

reverse; and I hope in time, by gentle methods, in some measure to

subdue it in Mr Faulkland. His own good sense and good nature must

incline him to wish it corrected. My brother says, he has often lamented

this vice of his nature to him, and said he had taken infinite pains to

get the better of it; and had so far succeeded, that he seldom was

surprized by it, but on very sudden and extraordinary occasions; such

as, I suppose, he looked upon this to be, which I have related.

We passed the day delightfully at Kensington, and did not return to town

till late. I think I have got cold, as we walked a long time in the

gardens.

_July 13_

I have got an ugly sore throat; my mother insists on my being let blood;

I am afraid of alarming her by complaining, though I had very little

rest all night. Mr Faulkland came early this morning to enquire after my

health: my mother told him I was not well. How tenderly dejected were

his looks, when I came into the room. Sir George made him stay to

breakfast; he scarce tasted any thing; he was quite cast down. My

brother rallied him (I thought it unreasonable) on the chance he had the

day before of losing his wife. Mr Faulkland answered, I wish I had

followed the first motion of my thoughts, and discharged that wicked

fellow a month ago. Sir George said, as it happened, there had been no

harm done; but he thought Mr Faulkland would do well to dismiss such an

insolent rogue from his service. He has saved me that trouble, said Mr

Faulkland, he has dismissed himself; but took care to first to rob me.

To rob you! we all repeated in the same breath. Yes, said Mr Faulkland:

I told him, after I got home, that he was to deliver up such things as

he had in his charge to my own man, as I meant to discharge him in the

morning. He made me no reply, for he was a sullen fellow; but when the

family were asleep, he contrived to pick the lock of a bureau in my

dressing room, where I sometimes keep money. I believe what induced him

to it was, his having seen me yesterday morning, when I was going to

ride (a precaution which I generally use), put my pocket book into this

place, and I suppose he concluded there were bank notes in it, for he

took _that_ (I presume without staying to examine it) and all the money

he could find besides, and very cleverly made his escape out of a back

window, which was found open this morning.

My mother lectured Mr Faulkland a little, for suffering a servant,

whose fidelity he was not sure of, to see where he deposited his money;

which, she said, might prove a temptation to one, who was _not_ so ill

inclined as this man. Mr Faulkland acknowleged it was careless in him;

but said, in his justification, he had been accustomed to very honest

people about him, which rendered him less suspicious.

He appeared so anxious and unhappy about my indisposition, that I

affected to make as light of it as possible; though indeed I find myself

very much out of order. With what a kind sorrow did he observe my looks;

sighs now and then stole from him, as his eyes were fixed on my face. I

am obliged to him, yet I think I should be as much concerned for _him_,

if he were ill.

Here is a whole cargo of silks and laces just sent in to me--Heigh-ho! I

can't look at them--I am not well--and I have such a gantlope to run of

visiting and racketting, that the thought makes me sicker.

_July 27_

After a fortnight's, a dreadful fortnight's intermission, I reassume my

pen. I have often told you, Cecilia, I was not born to be happy. Oh! I

prophesied when I said so, though I knew not why I said it.

I will try to recollect all the circumstances of this miserable

interval, and relate them as well as I can. The last line in my journal

(which I have not yet ventured to send you, as your stay at Paris is so

uncertain) informs you that I was ill. I was let blood; but my disorder

increased, and I was in a high fever before next morning. I remember

what my reflections were, and am sure my apprehensions of death were not

on my _own_ account afflicting, but grievously so at the thoughts of

what those should feel whom I was to leave behind.

My mother and Mr Faulkland, I believe, chiefly engaged my mind; but I

did not long continue capable of reflection. The violence of my disorder

deprived me of my senses on the fourth day, and they tell me I raved of

Mr Faulkland. I remember nothing, but that, in my intervals of reason, I

always saw my poor mother in tears by my bedside. I was in the utmost

danger, but it pleased God to restore me to the ardent prayers of my

dear parent. In about ten days I began to shew some symptoms of

amendment, and enquired how Mr Faulkland did. My mother answered, he is

well, my dear, and gone out of town, but I believe will return in a day

or two. Gone out of town, said I, and leave me dying! Indeed that was

not kind of Mr Faulkland, and I shall tell him so. My mother was sitting

on the bedside, and had hold of my hand; my brother was standing with

his back to the fire place. I observed they looked at one another, but

neither made me any answer. Pray, Sir George, I cried, would you serve

the woman so whom you were so near making your wife? My brother was

going to reply, but my mother frowned at him; he looked displeased, and

went out of the room. Dear madam, said I, there is something the matter

with Mr Faulkland; don't keep me in suspence. I _know_ there is

something, which you and my brother would conceal from me. Is Mr

Faulkland sick? Not that I know of, I assure you, answered my mother; he

was well yesterday, for we had a message from him to enquire after your

health, as we have had every day, for he is but at Richmond; and you

know if he were in town, he could receive no other satisfaction than

hearing from you, as you are too ill to admit of any visits. My mother

rang the bell immediately, and asked me to take something; I saw she

wanted to turn the conversation. My maid Ellen came into the room, and I

asked no more questions.

My mother staid with me till it was time for her to go to rest; but

avoided mentioning Mr Faulkland's name, or giving me any opportunity of

doing it; for she tenderly conjured me to keep myself quite composed,

and not to talk. The doctor assured her this night that he thought me

out of danger; and she retired with looks of cordial delight.

She was no sooner gone, than I called Ellen to my bedside, and charged

her to tell me all she knew concerning Mr Faulkland. The poor girl

looked concerned, and seemed to study for an answer. Lord bless me,

madam! what should I know of him more than my lady has told you? When

did you see him, said I? Not for several days, she answered. Where is

he? At Richmond, I heard Sir George say; but I suppose he will come to

town as soon as he hears you are well enough to receive him. I catched

hold of her hand; 'Ellen, I know there is something, relative to Mr

Faulkland, which you all want to hide from me; don't attempt to deceive

me; you may be sure, whatever it be, I must soon be informed of it; in

the mean while, my doubts make me very unhappy.'

The good-natured girl's trouble and confusion increased as I spoke: My

dear madam, she replied, when you are better my lady will tell you all:

'No, no, Ellen, I must know it now; tell it me this minute, or you must

never expect to see me better under such uncertainty. What is the _all_,

the frightful _all_, that I am to be told? How you have shocked me with

that little word!' I know nothing, madam, answered Ellen, but what I

gathered from Sir George's loud angry talk with my lady; and I should be

undone if her ladyship were to know I mentioned it to you. I assured

her my mother should not know it. Why then, madam (speaking lower), I am

afraid that Mr Faulkland has misbehaved, or has been belied to my

lady--She stopped at this--How? how? cried I eagerly; What has she heard

of him? Something of another courtship, she replied; but I hope it is

all false--You trifle with me--speak out, and say all you know. The poor

creature started at my impatience: 'I know no more, madam, than that I

heard my lady say to Sir George, I had rather Sidney were in her grave,

than married to him. Sir George said, But why will not you not let Mr

Faulkland justify himself, madam? Justify himself! my lady answered;

What can he say? Is it not plain that he is false to another woman? They

talked lower; but at last Sir George raised his voice, and said, he

would give half his estate to have the villain punished--All this,

madam, I over-heard by mere accident. Sir George was going abroad; his

linen was lying ready for him in his dressing-room; and his man desired

me to put a stitch in one of his master's point ruffles which was a

little ripped in the gathering. I had come up the back stairs into the

dressing-room, just as my lady (who was with Sir George in the

bed-chamber) said the words I first repeated; and while I stood doing

the ruffle, I heard the rest. There was a great deal more said, but I

could not distinguish any thing besides, except a word here and there,

which Sir George seemed to speak in a very angry tone. This was the

second day of your illness. Mr Faulkland had been here in the morning to

enquire how you did; my lady saw him, and I thought they parted very

friendly. I met Mr Faulkland coming down stairs; he looked full of

grief; my lady stood at the dining-room door, and wished him a good

morning. About an hour after came a letter directed to you; it was

brought by a porter, who said it required no answer. As you were too ill

to read it, I gave it to my lady; and it was soon after this, that I

heard the conversation between Sir George and her ladyship. Mr Faulkland

came again in the evening. Sir George was not at home; but my lady had

him above an hour in the drawing-room; and the footman, who let him out,

said, he looked as if he were in sad trouble. He has never been here

since, but sends constantly every day to know how you do. My lady

ordered me, if any letters came for you, to deliver them to her. And has

there any come to me? No madam; word was always sent to Mr Faulkland of

your being so ill, that to be sure he thought it would be in vain for

him to write to you.'

This was all I could gather from the maid. What a night did I pass? I

scarce closed my eyes. Ellen lay in a field-bed by me; she had watched

several nights, and I obliged her now to undress and go into bed. She

slept soundly; how I envied her tranquility! If I forgot myself for a

few minutes, my slumbers were distracted, and I started at the

recollection of what I had already heard, and the dread of what I had

_still_ to hear. Mr Faulkland absenting himself from the house so long;

my mother wishing me in the grave, rather than be his wife; my brother

denouncing vengeance on the _villain_! These were the terrible ideas

that haunted me till morning. What can he have done, I cried aloud

several times? I summoned to my aid all the fortitude I was mistress of,

and resolved not to sink under the calamity, be it of what nature it

would.

My mother, ever kind and tender, came early the next morning into my

room. She enquired after my health, and looked as if she _pitied_ me. I

was ready to cry at her compassionate glances; they mortified me, but I

was determined not to let her perceive it. I told her I was much better;

and, what is surprizing, I was really so, notwithstanding the uneasy

state of my mind. She talked of indifferent things, and said, she hoped

I should soon be able to go into the country for a few days, to recover

a little strength. I answered, I hope so too, madam. We were both silent

for a while; my mother had her indulgent eyes fixed upon me; mine were

cast down: at last I resolved to speak out. Madam, said I, looking

steadfastly at her, what is the cause of your coldness towards Mr

Faulkland? 'Tis in vain for you to hide it longer; you say he is _well_,

and gone out of town. If he has shewn any slight towards me, tell me so

at once; and do not entertain so mean an opinion of your daughter, as to

suppose she cannot bear the news. Your tenderness, I see, would conceal

_something_ from me; but believe me, madam, I am prepared for the worst.

My dear, replied my mother, it gives me great pleasure to hear you say

so. I pray God preserve my child, and grant her a better lot than she

could hope for in a union with Mr Faulkland. What has he done, madam? My

dearest Sidney, she answered, this is the first trial you have ever had

of your patience; but I have no doubt that your goodness and discretion

will teach you to act as becomes your character.

I did not intend to have spoken to you on the subject, till you were

better able to bear the knowlege of what I am going to acquaint you

with; but your prudence, I think, makes you equal to every thing; and I

hope your health will not be endangered by the discovery of Mr

Faulkland's baseness. (What a dreadful preface!)

The day after you were taken ill, a letter, directed to you, was brought

hither by a porter, which your maid (very discretely) delivered to me.

As you were not in a condition to read it yourself, I thought proper to

open it. The cover contained a few lines addressed to you; and in it was

inclosed a letter directed to Mr Faulkland. Good God, added she, taking

the papers out of her pocket, how little reliance ought we to have on a

fair outside!

Here are the letters; read what is in the cover first. I did so; it was

ill writ, and worse spelt. These were the contents:

Madam,

I hear you are soon to be married to Mr Faulkland; but as I think

it a great pity that so virtuous a young lady should be thrown

away, this is to inform you, that he does not deserve you.

The inclosed letter, wrote to him by a fine and beautiful young

lady that he decoyed, shews you how false he is. When you tax him

with it, he will know from whence you got your information; but

let him deny it if he can.

I am, madam,

You unknown friend,

and humble servant.

The letter to Mr Faulkland, in a very pretty female hand, and the date

but a week old (from the time it was sent to me) was as follows:

"Oh! Mr Faulkland, I am the most unfortunate woman in the world!

Fatal have you been to me, and I am undone for ever--I was in

hopes that our mutual fault might have been concealed; for, while

we staid at Bath, I kept my aunt intirely ignorant of what passed

between us, though she often pressed me to confess the truth; but

it can now no longer be concealed. I am but too sensibly reminded

of the unhappy consequences of my own weakness, and your

ungoverned (would I could call it) love. I never meant to trouble

you with complaints; but my present condition calls loudly for

your compassion. Are you then really going to be married? There

wants but this to complete my destruction! Oh! Sir, before it is

too late, take pity on me! I dare not continue in the house with

my uncle much longer. My aunt says, that, when my affliction

becomes so conspicuous as not to be any longer hid, she will form

a pretence, on account of my health, for me to be absent for some

months, under colour of going to Bath, or to London, for better

advice than I can have here. But what will this avail me? I have

no relations, no friends, nor acquaintance, that I can trust with

the secret of my miserable situation. To whom then can I fly, but

to you, the cause of all my sorrow? I beseech you, for Heaven's

sake, write to me, and tell me, if indeed you are going to give

your self away for ever! If you are, your intended bride, perhaps,

may have no other advantage of me, but what you in an evil hour

deprived me of. Write to me, dear, though cruel as you are; and

think of some place of refuge for your unhappy

A.B."

When I had read these letters, my mother asked me, What I thought of Mr

Faulkland? Indeed, I was so astonished, that I scarce knew what answer

to make; but replied, Madam, are you satisfied that this letter is not

forged, with a design to injure Mr Faulkland? Ah! my dear said she, I am

sorry you strive to catch at so slender a twig; you may be sure I am but

too well convinced that the letter is genuine, or you should never have

had a moment's uneasiness by the knowlege of it. Mr Faulkland himself

does not deny it, and it is with his permission that I kept it. I

promised to return it, but desired leave to retain it for a few days. He

could not refuse me this, though he might easily imagine I designed to

shew it to you. That, indeed, _was_ my intention, when I desired to keep

it a little while in my hands, and I did so, that I might have your

judgment on the letter itself, as well as fully to justify my own

proceedings in what I have done. Ah! dear madam, cry'd I, scarce knowing

what I said, I rely on your maternal goodness; I am sure you have done

what is proper. Yet has Mr Faulkland nothing to say for himself?--But I

will ask no more questions--I know too much already--My love, said my

mother, you have a right to know every thing relative to this affair.

I shewed the letters to your brother, as soon as I received them. Sir

George at first seemed quite confounded, but afterwards, to my very

great surprize, he smiled, and said, he knew of that foolish business

before. I asked him, if he knew of it before, how he could answer it to

his honour, his conscience, or the love he ought to bear his sister, not

to divulge it immediately? Why, said he, I assure you it is a _trivial_

affair, that ought not to make you uneasy.

What, George! I answered I, a trivial matter for a man to ruin a fine

young lady, forsake her, and dare to involve an innocent creature in his

crimes! Do you call this a _trivial_ affair? If you knew the

_circumstances_, said he, you would not view it in so disadvantageous a

light. Faulkland certainly gained the affections of a young lady, though

without seeking to do so; he never courted her, never attempted to

please her, much less to win her heart, and least of all to ruin her

virtue. I know that is an action he is not capable of committing. How

comes it to pass then that he _did_ so, said I, interrupting him? Why,

the girl was silly, and she was thrown in his way by a vile designing

woman that had the care of her, 'And was he (again stopping him) to take

advantage of her folly, and join with that _vile designing_ woman, to

destroy a poor young creature's honour?' The _best_ men, said he

confidently, may fall into an error; and if you expect to find a man

entirely free from them, you look for what is not possible in human

nature.

I may expect to find a man without flagrant crimes to answer for, I

hope; and I believe I spoke it with warmth. Do you call _this_ one,

madam, said he, with still more assurance? I hope Sidney will not be

such a chit as to think in this manner, when she comes to hear the

affair explained. I really grew down-right angry, and could not forbear

saying, I would rather see you married to your grave than to such a man.

Your brother then begged I would hear Mr Faulkland _justified_, and be a

little cool till that was done. I told him there was a terrible fact

alleged, of which I could not conceive it possible for him to acquit

himself.

George said, he had a letter to shew me on the subject, which he had

received from Mr Faulkland while he was at Bath, and which he was sure

would convince me, that the whole affair was so trifling, it ought by no

means to be objected to Mr Faulkland, nor, in his opinion, even

mentioned to him.

I told him I was sorry to find that he and I thought so differently; for

that I was determined to speak to Mr Faulkland immediately about it,

and, if he could not satisfy me intirely on the score of the injured

lady, that he must never think of Sidney more.

Your brother said, that the letter which was sent to you had come from

the revengeful dog who had robbed his master, and that he would give

half his estate to have the villain punished as he deserved. Mr

Faulkland, it seems, had told him this himself. The fellow found it in

the pocket-book which he had taken out of the escrutore, and his

disappointment, perhaps, at not getting a better booty, (for he found

but twenty moidores besides), joined to his malice against his master,

incited him to make the use he did of this letter. Now, continued my

mother, though the fellow is undoubtedly a vile creature, yet, my dear,

I think _we_ are obliged to him for this discovery, providentially as it

has come, to save you from what, in my opinion, would be the worst of

misfortunes.

The loss of this letter had alarmed Mr Faulkland so much, that he put an

advertisement into the papers next day, worded in so particular a

manner, as shewed how very fearful he was of that letter's coming to

light; for, no doubt, he suspected the man might make a dangerous use of

it. The advertisement said, that if the servant, who had absconded from

his master's house in St James's Square the night before, would restore

the papers which he took with him, they should be received without any

questions being asked, and a reward of twenty guineas paid to any person

who should bring them back. This advertisement, which, to be sure, the

fellow either did not see at all, or had not time enough to avail

himself of it, shews you to what sad resources people are driven, who,

having done unwarrantable actions, are often in the power of the lowest

wretches. I own this circumstance gave me a very ill impression of Mr

Faulkland. Your brother says, he remembers this man was one of the

servants he took with him to Bath, and, without doubt, he knew of his

amour. The advertisement has since been changed, by Sir George's advice.

I find the man is named, his person described, and a reward of fifty

pounds offered for the apprehending him; but I take it for granted he

has got out of reach.

Though his little digression was very pertinent, I was impatient to know

what had passed between my mother and Mr Faulkland on the fatal subject,

and could not forbear asking her.

I shall tell you, said she, in order. Your brother and I had some

farther altercations; and indeed, my dear, it amazes me to find, that a

young man, educated as Sir George was, in the early part of life, in the

strictest principles of virtue, and the son of parents, who, thank God,

always gave him the best example, should have so far deviated from the

sober paths he was brought up in, as to treat the most glaring vices

with a levity that shocked me. But, I suppose, the company he kept

abroad, among whom this hypocrite Faulkland was his chief, has quite

perverted him. He gave me the letter to read, which he had received

from his friend whilst he was at Bath; and which, he said, was to

convince me that it was such a _trifling_ affair, that we ought not to

take the least notice of it. And all his reason for this was, truly,

because that loose man treats the subject as lightly as he does. I am

afraid Sir George is no better than himself, or he would not have

ventured to make him the confidant of his wild amours; and that at a

time too when he was encouraged to address you. He tells him of a very

pretty young lady (innocent he says too) that he got acquainted with,

who came to Bath under the care of an aunt and uncle; he talks some idle

stuff of avoiding her, when he found she liked him, and that the aunt

(wicked woman!) contrived to leave them together one evening, when, I

understand, the poor young creature fell into the snare that was

prepared for her. For, would you believe it, my dear, the monstrous

libertine, notwithstanding his pretences, owned that he had paid a price

for the girl to her aunt. The betrayed creature herself knew not of

this.

I own I had not patience to read the letter through. To say the truth, I

but run my eye in a cursory manner over it; I was afraid of meeting, at

every line, something offensive to decency. And _this_ was the account,

which, in your brother's opinion, was entirely to exculpate Mr

Faulkland. I think I never was so angry. I threw the letter to George

with indignation, telling him, I was ashamed to find, that he, after

knowing an incident of this kind, had so little regard to the honour of

his sister, as to promote a marriage between her and such a rake. He

answered, if I kept you unmarried till I found such a man as _I_ should

_not_ call a rake, you were likely to live and die a maid. That

for his part, he was very sorry, as well for Mr Faulkland's sake as

yours, he had ever proposed an union, which he found was likely to be

overthrown by unseasonable scruples. And the gentleman, in a violent

passion, flung out of the room, without deigning even to take up the

letter which had fallen on the floor.

I presume he went directly to his friend Faulkland, and told him all

that had passed; for the plausible man came to me in the evening, and

with looks, full of pretended sorrow, but _real_ guilt, begged I would

hear him on the subject of a letter which he said he found had

unfortunately prejudiced me against him. To be sure he was prepared, and

had, with George's help, contrived an artful story to impose on me. He

took me unawares; but I was resolved not to give him the advantage of

arguments, but proceed to ask him a few plain questions. I therefore cut

him short at once, by saying, Mr Faulkland, I am extremely concerned

and shocked at what has happened; I will say but a few words to you, and

desire to hear nothing more than answers to my questions: he bowed, and

remained silent.

I then asked him, taking the young lady's letter out of my pocket,

whether that was from the same person, of whom he had written an account

to my son whilst he was at Bath? He answered, It is, madam; and I hoped

from that letter, which I find Sir George has shewn you, you would be

induced to believe that I never formed a thought of injuring that young

lady, till some unfortunate circumstances combined, and suddenly

surprized me into the commission of a fault that has made us both

unhappy. Sir, said I, I don't pretend to know people's hearts, I can

only judge of them from their actions. You acknowlege that she was a

fine young woman, and you believe innocent: What excuse can you offer

for being her destroyer? Dear madam, don't use so severe an

expression--Sir, I can use no other: How can you extenuate the fault, by

which you merit so severe an appellation? To a lady of your rigid

delicacy, madam, said he, perhaps what youth could offer, in extenuation

of the fault, might appear but a weak plea: yet 'tis most certain, that

I was surprized into the fatal error: I am under no promises, no ties,

no engagements whatsoever to the lady. No ties, Sir! (interrupting him)

Is your own honour no tie upon you, supposing you free from any other

obligation? You see the consequence of this fatal error, as you call it:

here is a young person, of fashion, perhaps (I don't enquire who she is,

but she seems to have had no mean education), who is likely to bring a

child into the world, to the disgrace of herself and her family. On you,

Sir, she charges her dishonour, and mentions your marrying another, as

the blow which is to complete her ruin. Mr Faulkland, is not all this

truth? Be so good as to give me a direct answer. Madam, I cannot deny

it; you have the proof of it in your hands: from all that appears to

you, I am indeed very blameable; nay, I do not pretend to vindicate my

folly; but, Madam, do not aggravate my fault in your own thoughts, by

considering the affair in a more unfavourable light than what even her

letter puts it! I conjure you, madam, to suffer Sir George to be my

advocate on this occasion; he is acquainted with every particular of the

transaction, and can give you a detail that I will not presume to do. Be

pleased, Sir, replied I, to tell me what you mean to do in regard to

this lady? I mean to do all that I _can_ do, answered he; I shall

provide a place of retreat for her, where she will meet with the utmost

care, tenderness, and respect; and where she may continue with privacy

till she is in a condition to return home again to her friends. You may

be sure, madam, as to the rest, I shall acquit myself consistently with

honour. That is as much as to say, Sir, said I, that you will take care

of the maintenance of your poor babe. He looked as if he had a mind to

smile, forward man! but constrained it. Doubtless, madam, I shall do all

that is now in my power to do, in every circumstance relating to her.

I felt myself exceedingly displeased with him; I was so disappointed in

my opinion of him, that it increased my resentment. Sir, I proceeded, I

must inform you, that there is as much _now_ in your power as ever there

was. You are still unmarried; the way is open to you, to repair the

mischief you have done: I will never bring down the curses of an injured

maid upon my daughter's head, nor purchase her worldly prosperity at the

expence of the shame and sorrow of another woman, for ought I know, as

well born, as tenderly bred, and, till she knew you, perhaps as innocent

as herself. For heaven's sake, madam! he cry'd, don't, don't, I beseech

you, pronounce my fate so hastily--You must pardon me, Sir, said I, if I

beg to hear no more on this subject. Sir George has already said every

thing you could expect of your friend to say in your justification, and

more than became him to utter. All I can find by either you or him, is,

that you think the loss of honour to a young woman is a trifle, which a

man is not obliged to repair, because truly he did not _promise_ to do

so. This young creature, I understand, is a gentlewoman, very charming

in her person, by your own account; one who loves you tenderly, and will

shortly make you a father. Is not all this so? I grant it madam, said

the criminal. Then, Sir, what reason can you urge in your conscience for

not doing her justice? None--but your own inconstant inclinations, which

happen now to be better pleased with another woman, whom, perhaps, you

might forsake in a few months.

I cannot pretend to repeat to you all he said upon this last article:

worse of course, you may be sure. He intreated, over and over again,

that I would permit Sir George to plead for him. I told him, that after

the facts he had granted, it was impossible that either he or Sir George

could make the affair better; that I was very sorry to find myself

disappointed in a person of whom I had conceived so high an opinion; and

added, that as your illness made it very improper to let you know any

thing of the matter for the present, I should take it as a favour if he

would permit me to retain the lady's letter to him for a few days, or

till you were in a condition to have the matter broke to you. In the

mean while, I requested that he would dispense with my receiving any

more visits from him.

He said some frantic things (for the man seems of a violent temper); but

finding me peremptory, took his leave with respect.

I understand from Sir George, that he flew directly down to Richmond, to

a little house he has there, where he has remained ever since; but sends

every day to enquire after your health. Sir George, I am sure, sees him

often; for he frequently goes out early in the morning, and stays abroad

till night. The increase of your illness, from the time I received the

last visit from Mr Faulkland, to such a degree as to alarm us for your

life, I suppose, prevented your brother from reassuming the subject;

though I can perceive he is full of anger and vexation on the occasion.

You are now, my dear, God be praised, in a hopeful way of recovery, and

I expect that George (who has, by espousing this man's interests so

warmly, very much offended me), that George, I say, will renew his

sollicitations in his favour. What do you say, my child? I should be

glad to know your thoughts, with regard to the part I have acted, as

well as with respect to Mr Faulkland's conduct.

Shall I own my weakness to you, my dear Cecilia? I was ready to melt

into tears; my spirits, exhausted by sickness, were not proof against

this unexpected blow; a heavy sigh burst from my heart, that gave me a

little relief. You know my mother is rigid in her notions of virtue; and

I was determined to shew her that I would endeavour to imitate her. I

therefore suppressed the swelling passion in my breast, and, with as

much composure as I could assume, told her, I thought she acted as

became her; and that, with regard to Mr Faulkland, my opinion of his

conduct was such, that I never desired to see him more. This answer,

dictated perhaps by female pride (for I will not answer for the feelings

of my heart at that instant), was so agreeable to my mother, that she

threw her arms about my neck, and kissed me several times; blessing, and

calling me by the most endearing names at every interval. Her tenderness

overcame me; or, to deal with sincerity, I believe I was willing to make

it an excuse for weeping. Oh! my dear mother, cry'd I, I have need of

your indulgence; but indeed your goodness quite overpowers me. My dear

love, said she, you deserve it all, and more than it is in your mother's

power to shew you. What a blessed escape have you had, my sweet child,

of that wild man! Little did I think, my Sidney, when I told you the

story of my first disappointment, that a case so parallel would soon be

your own. With respect to you and me indeed, the incidents are nearly

alike; but there is a wide difference between the two men. My lover had

the grace to repent, and would have returned to his first engagements,

if a dreadful malady had not overtaken him; but this graceless Faulkland

persists in his infidelity, and would make you as culpable as himself. I

own to you, daughter, that the recollection of that melancholy event

which happened to me, has given me a sort of horror at the very thoughts

of a union between you and Mr Faulkland. You remember the sad

consequences which I related to you of an infidelity of this kind; the

poor forsaken woman died of grief, and the dishonest lover ran mad.

Think of this, my child, and let it encourage you to banish such an

unworthy man from your heart. I was afraid your regard for him might

make this a difficult task; but I rejoice to find your virtue is

stronger than your passion. _I_ loved as well as you, but I overcame it

when I found it a duty to do so; and I see your mother's example is not

lost upon you.

The honest pride that my mother endeavoured to inspire me with, had a

good effect, and kept up my spirits for a time. She told me, she was

sure that Sir George would quarrel with us both, when we came to talk

upon the subject of the marriage; but she was entirely easy as to that,

now she knew that _my_ sentiments corresponded with her own.

You know my mother has ever been despotic in her government of me; and

had I even been inclined to dissent from her judgment in a matter of

this importance, it would have been to no purpose; but this was really

far from my thoughts.

I was as much disgusted with Mr Faulkland as she was, and as heartily

pitied the unhappy young creature whom he had undone.

You may recollect, my dear, that my mother, tho' strictly nice in every

particular, has a sort of partiality to her own sex, and where there is

the least room for it, throws the whole of the blame upon the _man's_

side; who, from her own early prepossessions, she is always inclined to

think are deceivers of women. I am not surprized at this bias in her;

her early disappointment, with the attending circumstances, gave her

this impression. She is warm, and sometimes _sudden_, in her

attachments; and yet it is not always difficult to turn her from them.

The integrity of her own heart makes her liable to be imposed on by a

plausible outside; and yet the dear good woman takes a sort of pride in

her sagacity. She had admired and esteemed Mr Faulkland prodigiously;

her vexation was the greater, in finding her expectations disappointed;

and could I have been so unjust to the pretensions of another, or so

indelicate in regard to myself, as to have overlooked Mr Faulkland's

fault, I knew my mother would be inflexible. I therefore resolved in

earnest to banish him from my thoughts. I found my mother was mightily

pleased with her own management of the conversation she had held with Mr

Faulkland. I think I talked pretty _roundly_ to him, said she; but there

was no other way; he is an artful man, and I was resolved not to let him

wind me about. He would make a merit of having _formed no designs_ upon

the young lady; why, possibly, he did not, till he found the poor soul

was so smitten with him, that he thought she would be an easy prey. Sir

George impudently insinuated, that a man _must_ not reject a lady upon

these occasions. I was ashamed to hint to Mr Faulkland at the

circumstance of his having actually paid a price for the girl; it was

too gross; and I think, had I mentioned it, must have struck him dumb:

though very likely he might have had some subterfuge, even for that

aggravating part of the story.

How I am shock'd, my Cecilia, to think of this! I was glad my mother had

spared his confusion on this particular; for though probably, as she

observed, he had come prepared with some evasion to this charge, yet

what a mean figure must a man make, who is reduced to disingenuous

shifts, to excuse or palliate an action, despicable as well as wicked!

My brother came in, during our discourse, to ask me how I did. My mother

answered his question before I had time to speak. She is pretty well,

thank God! and not likely to break her heart, though she _knows_ your

friend Mr Faulkland's story (and she spoke it scornfully). My brother

said, Sidney, Are _you_ as averse to Mr Faulkland as my mother is? I

replied, Brother, I wonder you can ask me that question, after what you

have been just now told. I always said, answered he, that you did not

know the value of the man, and now I am convinced of it. I wish he had

never seen you! I wish so too, said I. Sir George walked about the room,

and seemed vexed to death. For Heaven's sake, madam, (turning to my

mother) now my sister is tolerably recovered, suffer her to see Mr

Faulkland; let her hear what he has to say in his own vindication: I

think you may trust to her honour, and her discretion; and if the affair

appears to her in so heinous a light as it does to you, I will be

contented to give Mr Faulkland up; but don't shut your own ears, and

your daughter's too, against conviction.

Sir, you are disrespectful, said my mother angrily. Dear brother, I

cry'd, I beg you will spare me on this subject; my mother _has_ given me

leave to judge for myself; she has repeated all that you have said, and

all that Mr Faulkland has been able to urge on the occasion; and I am

sorry to tell you, that I think myself bound never to have any farther

correspondence with him; therefore you must excuse me for not seeing

him. And so the match is broke off, cry'd Sir George. _It is_, said my

mother peremptorily. It is, echoed I faintly. Why then, replied Sir

George (and he swore), you will never get such another whilst you live.

A pretty figure you'll make in the world, when you give it for a reason

that you refused _such_ a man, after every thing was concluded upon,

because truly you found that he had had an intrigue! Why, Sidney, you'll

be so laugh'd at! He addressed himself to me, though I knew he meant the

reproof for my mother. Sir, answered she, neither your sister nor I

shall trouble ourselves much about the opinion of people who _can_ laugh

at such things. You may put the matter into as ridiculous a light as you

please: but this was no common intrigue; _you know_ it was not, however

you may affect to speak of it. I don't suppose _any_ of you are

_Saints_, but I trust in Heaven, some are better than others. Oh! madam,

madam, said my brother, if you knew the world as well _I_ do, you would

think that Mr Faulkland is one of the best. God forbid! my mother

answered coolly. Well, well, madam, cry'd Sir George, I see it is to no

purpose to argue; there are many families of more consequence than ours,

and ten times the fortune, that will be very proud of Faulkland's

alliance; and will hardly make it an objection to him, that he was led

into a foolish scrape by the wickedness of one woman, and the folly of

another. If you make my sister wait for a husband, till you find a man

who never offended in that way, I think, mother, you had better take a

little boy from his nurse, breed him up under your own eye, and by the

time Sidney is a good motherly gentlewoman, you may give her the baby to

make a play-thing of. For my own part, I am heartily sorry I ever

interfered.--People of such nice scruples had better chuse for

themselves; but I cannot help thinking, that both Faulkland and I are

very ill used. I told you (said my mother to me) how he would behave.

Sir George, I desire you will not distress your sister thus (She saw me

sadly cast down: I was ill and weak): if you have no respect for _me_,

have a little tenderness for her.--I beg your pardon, child, said he, I

did not mean to distress you, I pity _you_, indeed Sidney. I could have

cry'd at his using that expression, it humbles one so. Madam (to my

mother), you shall be troubled no farther by my friend or myself; all I

shall say is this, that whenever my sister gets a husband of your

ladyship's chusing, I wish he may have half the worth of the poor

rejected Faulkland.

My brother left the room with these words. My mother was downright in a

passion, but soon cooled on his withdrawing.

My spirits were quite fatigued; and my mother left me, that I might take

a little rest.

What a strange alteration have a few days produced! our domestic peace

broke in upon by the unlucky difference between my mother and my

brother. My near prospect of--of--oh! let me be ingenuous, and say

Happiness, vanished--Poor Mr Faulkland! _Poor_ do I call him? for shame,

Sidney--but let the word go; I will not blot it. Mr Faulkland forbid the

house, myself harassed by a cruel disorder, and hardly able to crawl out

of bed. All this fallen on me within these last fourteen black days.

Then I dread the going abroad, or seeing company, I shall look so silly;

for the intended wedding began to be talked of;--and the curiosity of

people to know the cause of it's being broke off--What wild guesses will

be made by some, and what lies invented by others! Then the ill-natured

mirth of one half of the girls of my acquaintance, and the _as_

provoking condolements of the other hand--I am fretted at the thoughts

of it--but it cannot be helped; I must bear it all--I wish I were well

enough to get into the country, to be out of the reach of such

impertinence.

I long to know who this ill-fated girl is, that has been the cause of

all this. _A gentlewoman, and very pretty; one that loves Mr Faulkland,

and will shortly make him a parent._ Thus my mother described her to Mr

Faulkland, and he assented to it. Oh! fie, fie, Mr Faulkland, how could

you be so cruel to _her_? How could you use _me_ so ill? and Sir George

knew of all this, and makes light of it! it is a strange story! My

mother is severe in her virtue, but she is in the right--My brother

would sacrifice every consideration to aggrandize his family--To make a

purchase of the unhappy creature, and that without her knowlege too, it

is horrid! Away, away from my thoughts, thou vile intruder--Return to

your Bath mistress, she has a better right to you than I have; she

implores your pity; she has no refuge but you; and she may be every way

preferable to me--I wish I knew her name, but what is it to me; _mine_

will never be Faulkland, _hers_ ought. Perhaps Mr Faulkland may be

induced to marry her, when he sees her in her present interesting

situation. He says he will provide a retreat for her; to be sure he will

have the compassion to visit her: and then who knows what may happen?

If I know my own heart, I think I do most sincerely wish he may make her

his wife; but then I would not chuse to have it known suddenly; that

might look as if he forsook me for her. _That_, I own, would a little

hurt my pride. I wish not the truth to be known, for Mr Faulkland's

sake; but then I should not like to have a slur thrown on me.

I will add no more to this, but send the packet off at all events; I

think it will find you at Paris.

_August 1_

My health promises to return: my mother praises me, and calls me a

Heroine. I begin to fancy myself one: our pride sometimes stands in the

place of virtue.

Sir George went to Richmond yesterday. We have scarce seen him since the

tift he had with us the other day. What strange creatures these men are,

even the best of them! and how light they make of faults in one another,

that shock us but to think of!

My mother takes his behaviour very ill: he staid all night with his

friend, and returned to town this morning: he only looked into my room,

to ask me how I did: my mother was sitting with me. I believe that

hindered him from coming in; for he looked as if he wanted to speak to

me. He bowed to my mother, but said not a word; he went abroad again as

soon as he was dressed, and did not come in till late. I fear his

conduct will oblige us to separate; for my mother will not brook any

liberties to be taken with her: she hinted as much, and said she

believed Sir George was tired of living regularly.

She anticipated the request I intended to make to her, of letting me go

out of town; for she said, as soon as I was able, I should remove into

the country for a while. Sidney Castle is too long a journey for me at

present to think of undertaking, and she talks of going into Essex, on a

visit to Lady Grimston, which we have long promised her. I shall like

this better than going down to Wiltshire, where the want of my Cecilia

would make my old abode a melancholy place, especially at this juncture.

_August 4_

Sir George continues sullen and cold to us: he never has had an

opportunity of saying any thing particular to me since the day he said

so much. My mother scarce ever leaves me; he seems nettled at this. I

believe he would endeavour to work on _me_, as he knows the attempt

would be vain in regard to _her_. As I am now well enough to receive the

visits of our intimate acquaintance, I am never without company. I am

really in pretty good spirits, and bear my disappointment (as I told you

I would) very handsomely. I never hear Mr Faulkland's name mentioned, no

more than if such a man did not exist. We are to set out for lady

Grimston's house on Tuesday; it is but twenty miles from London; and I

am already strong enough to bear a longer journey.

My mother told Sir George, that if he liked it, the house we are now in

was at his service during her time of it, of which there are some months

to come; for she said, she meant to go directly home from Essex. Sir

George thanked her, but did not say whether he would accept of her offer

or not.

_August 5_

I have been obliged to turn away my poor Ellen. She was so imprudent as

to receive a letter for me from Mr Faulkland's man, contrary to my

mother's express commands. She brought it to me, and I gave it to my

mother unopened; who put it directly into the fire without reading it,

and told me it would oblige her, if I would part with the servant who

had presumed to take it after her prohibition. I instantly obeyed, and

have just discharged her. I should have a sad loss of her, only I am in

hopes of having her place well supplied by an old acquaintance and

play-fellow of ours, poor Patty Main; her father is dead, and she is

obliged to go to service, for he has left a widow with six children. The

eldest son, you remember, served his time to his father, and is just now

setting out in business; but a young surgeon in a country town must take

some time to establish himself; though he is a very worthy youth, and I

hear clever in his profession.

Patty came to town last week with a lady from our neighbourhood, who

applied to my mother to recommend the girl to wait on some person of

fashion. My mother has been looking out for a suitable place for her;

but she told me today, she thought I could not do better than take her

to myself; I shall be very glad to have her, for she is an amiable young

woman.

_August 6_

We go out of town at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, as we are to dine

at Grimston-hall, and purpose going at our leisure. I will steal a few

minutes from sleep, though it is now very late, to give you a short

scene which passed in my chamber about an hour ago.

Sir George (who, according to his late custom, had been abroad all day)

came into my room, where my mother and I were sitting together. He asked

us, Did we hold our purpose of going out of town next day? Yes,

certainly, my mother said. And you intend going from lady Grimston's to

Sidney Castle? We do. Then, madam (to my mother), as it is the last

trouble you are likely to have from Mr Faulkland, I hope you will not

refuse to read this letter, which he has sent you; and he took one out

of his pocket, and presented it to her. She did not make an offer to

receive it, but answered, Sir George, it is to no purpose for Mr

Faulkland to sollicit me; you know I don't easily alter my resolutions

when once they are fixed: he has given himself an unnecessary trouble;

pray excuse me: it was not handsome of him to write to my daughter,

after he knew my sentiments. You need not be afraid of fresh

sollicitations, madam, said my brother; I knew enough of your _firmness_

(and he spoke the word firmness reluctantly, as if he would rather have

used another, perhaps less respectful term); I knew enough to assure

Faulkland there was not the least hope left for him; and though I do not

know the subject of that letter, I can venture to assure you, it is not

intended to move you in favour of his pretensions: this he declared to

me, before I would take the letter from him; but what puts it past

doubt, is, that he set out this very evening from London, in order to

embark for Germany. I could not help breathing a sigh when Sir George

said this; but no body heard me. He still held the letter in his hand,

and again offered it to my mother; you need not be afraid of it, madam;

I presume it may be no more than to take a civil leave of you. I wish

him well, said my mother, taking the letter; if that be all, what he

says may keep cold; and she put it into her pocket without opening.

This being the eve of our journey, some little domestic matters, which

my mother had to settle, called her out of the room. Sir George took

that opportunity to ask me, whether my mother had shewed me the letter

which he had received from Mr Faulkland while he was at Bath, relative

to that cursed affair, as he called it. I told him, my mother had

repeated great part of the contents of it to me; and that the principal

observation she had made, was not favourable to _him_, on account of his

being made the confidant of such an affair.

I am very sorry for your sake, Sidney, said he, that our mother is of so

inflexible a temper; you have lost by it, what you will have reason to

regret as long as you live. Such amazing obstinacy! such unaccountable

perverseness! I do not want to shake your filial obedience; but I, for

my own part, think that nothing but infatuation can account for your

mother's conduct--Does she want a man without passions? Or have _you_

filled your head with such chimærical notions as to--I interrupted him

(for my brother is not always nice in his choice of words);--Dear Sir

George, say no more; I am very well contented as I am. I will not

increase your uneasiness, said he, by telling you what Faulkland has

suffered on this occasion. If ever love was carried to adoration, it was

in the breast of that generous, charming fellow--but you have lost

him--and I have lost him; thanks to my wise scrupulous mother for that.

I begged of him to drop the subject. My mother came in to us again. Sir

George bid us good night, and wished us a good journey. The parting was

cool enough. I am glad, however, there is not a total rupture. I believe

he will continue in our house in town for a time, at least.

Patty Main, who gladly accepted of the offer of my service, came home to

me this evening. She is grown very tall and genteel. I hardly know how

to treat her as a servant; but the good girl is so humble, that she does

all in her power to make me forget that I ever knew her in a better

situation; but in this she fails of her purpose, for it only serves to

remind me the more strongly of it: she is so ready, and so handy, that

she does twenty little offices that do not belong to her place, and

which are not expected of her. My mother is exceedingly pleased with

her, and says it is such a happiness to have about me a young person

virtuously brought up, that she almost considers her as one of the

family.

_Grimston-hall, August 8_

We arrived here yesterday, and met a most friendly reception from the

lady of this mansion. But before I say any more of her, I will hasten to

a more interesting subject. I have got Mr Faulkland's letter to my

mother; she has just put it into my hands; and while she walks in the

garden with lady Grimston, I will make haste to transcribe it. Thus it

is:

Madam,

I submit to the sentence you have passed on me. I am miserable,

but do not presume to expostulate. I purpose leaving England

directly; but would wish if possible (a little to mitigate the

severity of my lot), to convince you, that the unhappy rejected

man, who aspired to the honour of being your son-in-law, is not

quite such a criminal as he now appears to you.

To Sir George's friendship I know I am much indebted for

endeavouring to vindicate me. It was not in his power, it was not

in my own; for you saw all which I, in unreserved freedom, wrote

to him on the subject of my acquaintance with Miss B.

I have but one resource left; perhaps, madam, you will think it a

strange one. To the lady herself I must appeal. She will do me

justice, and I am sure will be ready to acknowlege that I am no

betrayer of innocence, no breaker of promises; that I was

surprized into the commission of a fault, for which I have paid so

dear a price.