'For I disclaim all relation to you. I have just now had a letter
from Faulkland, wherein I am at once informed of your having
finally rejected him, and of his being married to Miss Burchell.
As for the first, your own folly be on your head. You will have
time enough for repentance, and I need wish you no other
punishment than what _will_, and for me _shall_, be the
consequences of your obstinate adherence to your own romantic wild
opinions. But what in the name of blind infatuation could provoke
you to urge the man, to whom you owed such obligations, to his
destruction? _You_ I know have done it; he could not be so mad but
under _your_ influence. You and my mother I suppose fancy you have
done a righteous deed; but you have done what I am afraid poor
Faulkland will have reason to--I will suppress the shocking word,
that my indignation suggested.
'Why was I not made acquainted with this precious design of
marrying my friend to that insinuating little viper? I might
perhaps have prevented the mischief; for I cannot think if she had
not imposed upon you, that you would have pushed your chimerical
notions of honour to such extremities.
'Perhaps you meant well; but it has ever been your peculiar
misfortune I think to have your good intentions productive of
nothing but evil; this last action I fear will be a severe proof
of the truth of this observation. I warned you in time against
this woman, but my advice has always been despised.
'I will say no more on the hateful subject; what is done is
irrevocable: but I believe you will hardly be able to answer it to
yourself, if you find that you have condemned one of the noblest
fellows in the world to the arms of a prostitute.'
Lord bless me! my Cecilia, was there ever such a barbarian? with what an
implacable aversion does he pursue this poor girl! But what does he mean
by the odious epithet with which he closes his horrid letter? Sure Miss
Burchell merits not that name. Her weakness in regard to Mr Faulkland
cannot bring on her so detestable a charge. If George knows any thing
more of her character than I do, why did he not tell me so before? It
cannot be; his aversion to her makes him cruel and unjust. He says true;
I should not indeed forgive myself if I were the means of making Mr
Faulkland unhappy; and his observation would be dreadfully verified,
that all my good intentions produce nothing but evil, if this marriage
should prove to be unfortunate.
_July 20_
I have had a letter from Mrs Faulkland. She and her husband are arrived
safely at his estate on the borders of the north of Ireland, within less
than thirty miles of the capital. It is a pleasant part of the country
she says, but as Mr Faulkland has no house there, they have taken up
their lodgings for the present at the house of his steward. Her letter
is filled with declarations of the felicity she enjoys; she says, she
would not change her lot to be the greatest Queen on earth.--May she
continue to deserve her happy fortune, and to render her husband as
satisfied with _his_ lot as she is with _hers_! then shall I triumph
over Sir George for his vile insinuations.
I have heard from my good lady V----, in answer to the letter I wrote
her, giving an account of Mr Faulkland's marriage. As he had not made
her acquainted with his return to England, I knew not whether he had
informed her of this particular; and I find he had not. As lady V----
was a stranger to his former connection with Miss Burchell (with whom I
have already told you she was acquainted, and that she entertained a
very favourable opinion of her) she expressed no displeasure at the
alliance; but said, she supposed he married, in a tifft, upon my refusal
of him; for which I gave her such reasons as I had before given Mr
Faulkland, excepting those which related to Miss Burchell; which, for
both their sakes, must now be no more mentioned. Lady V---- says, she
_will not condemn the delicacy of my sentiments, though she owns her
wish was, that it could have been got over, as she is sure that Mr
Faulkland can never be happy with any one but me_.
[Here follows an interval of near two months, in which nothing
material occurred.]
_September 13_
The time approaches, my Cecilia, when thy friend shall be poor and
destitute. I know thy generous heart will more than sympathize with
me in my calamity, from the aggravating reflexion that it is not in your
power to assist me. The account you have given me of your
husband's close disposition has too fully convinced me of this. Nor
should I have mentioned my apprehensions to you at this time, but
that I am bound not to conceal a thought from the friend of my heart.
Sir George has dropt all correspondence with us, I have nothing to
expect from him; nor does that mortal live (yourself excepted) to
whom I would, on such an occasion, be indebted. I have already
sighed too often under the weight of obligations which I could not
repay.
My mother is hastening apace to a better world, She sees her end
approaching with such a calmness, such a truly pious joy, as almost
makes me ashamed of lamenting her loss; for what is it in me, my
dear but selfishness? 'Tis true, the loss of a tender parent, a faithful
friend, at a time when all other comforts of life are fled, is an evil one
would wish wholly to avoid, or at least to postpone for the longest
date possible: but when I consider _her_ welfare, ought I to indulge
myself in such a wish? Her life is already become a burden to her;
her infirmities are painful, and without hope of cure; she longs to be
released, and to receive that reward of her righteousness, which
cannot be obtained on this side of the grave.
If we had a friend, who, in compassion to our wants or weakness,
consented to live with us, though under the pressure of years and
bodily pain; and that friend were invited to a remote country, with an
assurance of recovering health, of having youth renewed, and of
possessing all the riches, power, honours, and accumulated pleasures
that this world can bestow; should we not blush to own even a wish to
detain him from such a station? What but a love of ourselves,
superior to that which we bear to our friend, could suggest such a
thought? How much more to be desired then is the change, to which
my mother looks forward, with an assured hope!
But there is something dismal in the idea of death! 'tis only our
prejudices make it so. I have been endeavouring for many days past
to familiarise it to my thoughts, and to consider death only as the
name of a region through which my mother is to pass, in order to get
at that delightful country to which she is invited, and whither _I_ shall
assuredly follow her. Such is the present frame of my mind; judge
then, my sister, if this philosophy will not bear me up against the
unexpected blow when it falls upon me.
_September 15_
'Tis strange, my Cecilia, that this best of parents, who had always so
tenderly loved me, expresses now not the least uneasiness at the
forlorn condition in which she must soon leave me. Her thoughts are
employed on higher objects, and she seems to have weaned herself
from all worldly attachments.
I am going from you, my daughter, said she to me just now, and have no
other legacy to leave you but a parent's blessing. Your brother
possesses all when I die; I wish you had the means of enjoying life with
comfort; but you must be contented. See that you bear your lot as
becomes you. I perceive your grief for the melancholy condition to which
I am now reduced; but added she smiling, I shall soon be released.
Remember how David behaved on the death of that son, whose life he had
so earnestly besought of his maker: let that serve you as an example,
not to give yourself up to unprofitable sorrow. Bring up your children
in the principles that I taught _you_, and God will take care of them;
for _I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging
their bread_.
She said, she found herself drowsy, and desired me to leave her for a
while. I have left her, going I hope to get a little sleep; she breathes
with so much difficulty that she cannot bear to lie down, and never gets
any rest but by snatches, as she sits in an arm-chair supported by
pillows.
How heavy and cast down do I feel my spirits; but I know the
worst--_that_ is something.--
It is all over: and my mother, blessed woman! opens not her eyes again
but to a joyful resurrection. Oh, my dear, there is no terror in death
when he seizes us not unprepared! I went into my mother's chamber, in
about half an hour after I had quitted it, at her desire: I found her
leaning back in her chair, her eyes shut, and a complacent air diffused
over her face, which made me hope that her slumber was sweeter, and more
profound than usual. I sat down by her to contemplate her benign
countenance; and was some minutes before I discovered that she did not
breathe. I took her hand, she had no pulse; and I soon found that the
happy spirit had escaped from its house of clay. May _I_ die the death
of the righteous, and my latter end be like hers! No murmurings, no, no
my sister, I will be patience itself!
_September 25_
I have sent the remains of my venerable parent down to Sidney-Castle,
there to be interred with her ancestors. I wrote my brother an
account of her death on the day it happened, but have as yet received
no answer. Unnatural son! but I will not reproach him; some accident
might have prevented his writing immediately on the receipt of my
letter. He never intirely forsook the duty he owed his mother, but he
has of late been quite estranged from us; his wife, vain, weak and
imperious, governs him totally. I must now begin to look about me for
a place of abode suited to my present circumstances. My whole
income would not pay more than half the rent of these lodgings in
which I have lived with my dear mother. My poor Patty! I am grieved
for _her_. I begged of her to seek another mistress, who might be able
to reward her merit, and provide for her as she deserves; but the
worthy affectionate girl told me, it would break her heart, if I talked
of parting with her. You must have a servant of some sort, Madam,
said she, why may not I do as well as another? If I were able to make
you a proper return, Patty, said I, you should not leave me; but I
cannot afford to pay a servant of your abilities as you deserve; and I
must be my own maid for the future. Never, never, Madam, cried the
honest creature, bursting into tears, while I have hands to serve you.
Let me but attend on you, and the two dear children; I desire
nothing.--I want nothing. Your goodness has all along supplied me
so, that I am sure I have clothes enough to serve me during my life;
and if I could not put up with the same humble way of living that my
mistress does, sure I should be a presumptuous wretch! My tears
thanked the grateful girl; and taking her by the hand, I told her, that I
would not talk of parting for the present, but when any thing worth
her acceptance offered, I should then insist on her embracing it.
I am determined to retire to some village at a distance from
London, and either to take a little cottage to myself, or board with my
children at some farm-house, as I shall find most convenient. Fifty
pounds a year will be but a slender support for three persons brought
up in affluence. My little ones indeed will not now be sensible of the
change, and by the time they are grown up, they will be so inured to
their homely board, that they will not, I hope, aspire after what
cannot consistently (perhaps,) with virtue, lie within their reach.
_October 27_
After paying the expences of my mother's funeral, discharging our
lodgings, and some other demands, I find my purse will be so extremely
reduced, that I shall have but barely enough to keep out want, till my
small income becomes due to me. I must therefore, for the present, defer
putting my scheme into execution, as I am not qualified to undertake a
journey with my little family; especially as I am as yet uncertain what
place to fix on for my residence; neither will I afford my brother
(though I have no reason to expect any thing from him), a farther
pretence for reproaching me, by giving him room to say, I left London
without consulting him, or waiting for his return to it. I shall
therefore look out a lodging of a small price, where I will conceal
myself from every body that knows me, and wait for Sir George's arrival.
_October 28_
How happy you make me, my ever dear friend, by your approbation of my
conduct; since my receiving your last packet, which came into my hand
late last night, I am better reconciled to my present lot than I was
before I heard from you. I _could not do otherwise_, you say, after my
solemn promise given to Miss Burchell, than use my utmost endeavours to
promote her marriage with Mr Faulkland. True; I could not: but I wish
you had entered more into my sentiments, in regard to those punctilios,
which, you tell me, you think _might_ have been got over, if that young
woman had been out of the question. I could not help smiling at your
wish, unchristian as it was; but my dear, if that _were_ to happen, do
you think Mr Faulkland so void of reason, nay of feeling, as after all
that has past to persevere? Or if he did, that I could be so mean as to
owe the very bread that I and my children should eat, to his generosity?
Would you, my Cecilia, wish to see your friend so humbled? 'Tis not in
the power even of the cold, hard hand of poverty itself, to dash me so
low as that would do. But where is the need of forming resolutions, or
even making declarations about what never _can_ happen? I see
notwithstanding, that you think my heart has _again_ done itself some
violence: You know that heart too well for me to attempt to hide from
you its secret workings. I own to you honestly I now feel my own
unhappiness in its full extent. I look back, and take a survey of the
past, and cannot help thinking that I have had the most wayward fate
allotted me that ever woman had.
Disappointment in a first love, has, I think been ever accounted a grief
scarce surmountable even by time: but this can only be the case, where
the heart, extremely vulnerable by nature (like Miss Burchell's) suffers
itself to be so entirely immersed in that passion, that all other duties
of life are swallowed up in it; and where an indolent turn of mind, a
want of rational avocations, and perhaps of a new object, all contribute
to indulge and confirm the disease. This you know was not my case. I
loved, 'tis true; but it was with temperance; and though my
disappointment afflicted me, it did not subdue me. I got the better of
it, I think I got the better of it even before I married; but sure I am,
I totally conquered all remembrance of it after I became a wife. I then
laid down a new scheme of happiness, and was for a time in possession of
it; how I was thrown from this is still bitter to remembrance. You well
know what I suffered, when I found myself deprived of my husband's love,
and suspected of a crime at which my soul shrunk. But it pleased the
just God to deliver me from this heavy misfortune, and I think the
happiest days of my marriage were those which I passed with Mr Arnold
after our reunion. Then it was, I was thoroughly sensible that the heart
_can_ love a second time, truly and ardently; but I was soon again
plunged into affliction by the death of a husband endeared to me more
than ever by his misfortunes. My grief for him was proportionate to my
love. Yet, my friend, as time is an universal conqueror, it might have
healed this wound as well as the former one; and a few, a very few years
would perhaps have disposed me to return Mr Faulkland's still unabated
passion, if a variety of circumstances had not interposed, that strongly
forbad our union. Convinced as I was of this, I acted agreeably to the
dictates both of my reason, and my conscience, in persuading Mr
Faulkland to make Miss Burchell his wife. I should have been grieved and
mortified had he rejected her, and I had determined never to have seen
him more. Yet how deceitful is the human heart! this very act which I
laboured with so much assiduity to accomplish, and on the accomplishment
of which, I had founded, I know not how, a sort of contentment for
myself, has been the very means of destroying what little peace of mind
I was beginning to taste before. Sure that man was born to torment me in
a variety of ways! If I was disappointed in my early love, I had however
duty, and a consciousness of what I then thought superior worth, to
support me. If on his account I suffered cruel and injurious aspersions,
the innocence of my own self-acquitted heart bore me up under it: but he
has at length found the way to punish me without leaving me any
resource. My pride is of no use, he has raised himself in my esteem
superior to every thing! His whole behaviour so generous, so candid; a
love so disinterested, so fervent; what noble, what uncommon proofs has
he given me of it! and at length what a triumphant sacrifice has he made
of that overruling passion, to the sober calls of reason and humanity!
He has left me, my dear, to gaze after him with grateful admiration! and
sometimes perhaps to sigh that our fates rendered it impossible for us
to meet. But if I do sometimes sigh, it is not at the advantages of
fortune, which I might have enjoyed with him; no, no, surrounded as I am
with distress, I do not envy Miss Burchell's affluence or splendor. If
_that_ motive could have had weight with me, I might have been mean
enough not to have acted as I have done. 'Tis the qualities of the man's
mind I esteem; I think our souls have something congenial in them, and
that we were originally designed for each other. And if I believed the
doctrine which teaches us that there are little officious spirits that
preside over the actions of men, I should think that our two evil
geniuses laid their heads together in conjunction with Miss Burchell's
active demon, to thwart and cross all our measures.
I have nothing now left but to pray for the happiness of one whose lot
in this life he has suffered _me_ to determine; and to beseech Heaven
that he may never stand in that fatal predicament which Sir George, with
such outrageous barbarity, marked out in his vile letter.
I now return to myself, and to my present state; which I think I may say
brings up the rear of my misfortunes. Let the chastisement stop here,
and I shall bow me to it with resignation.
_October 29_
Ah, my Cecilia, what an aggravation is here to the already too deep
regret I began to feel on Mr Faulkland's account! His triumph over me is
now complete!
In sorting my mother's papers (as I am to leave these lodgings tomorrow)
I found that letter which Mr Faulkland wrote to my brother from Bath.
You may remember I told you my mother had, in her resentment, flung it
to Sir George, and that, as it happened to fall on the ground, he had
quitted the room in a passion without taking it up. My mother, I
suppose, when she cooled, laid it by, though I dare say she never looked
into it afterwards. Read it, and see by what a fatality we have been
governed.
Mr Faulkland's letter to Sir George Bidulph.
_Bath, May 9, 1703_
'How you mortify me, my dear Bidulph, when you tell me of the
happiness I lost by staying so long at Bath! _The ladies are
impatient to see me_, say you? Ah, Sir George, thou hast spoke
better of me than I deserve, I fear.
'I am sadly out of humour with myself at present. I have got into
a very foolish sort of a scrape here. My wrist is quite well, and
I should have thrown myself at Miss Bidulph's feet before now,
but to tell you a secret, my virtue not being proof against
temptation, I have been intercepted.
''Tis but a slight lapse, however, a flying affair; neither my
honour, nor my heart in the question. A little vagrant Cupid has
contented himself with picking my pocket, just lightly fluttering
through my breast, and away.
'Are you fallen so low as that, Faulkland, say you? to _buy_ the
favour of the fair? No, George, no; not quite so contemptible as
that neither; and yet, faith, I did _buy_ it too, for it cost me
three hundred pounds; but the lady to whom I am obliged knows
nothing of this part of her own history; at least, I hope so, for
my credit sake. The case in short is this: an old gouty officer,
and his wife (a very notable dame; a fine woman too) happened to
lodge in the same house with me. The man came hither to get rid of
his aches; the lady of her money, and her virtue, if she has any,
for she is eternally at the card tables.
'Under the conduct of this hopeful guide, came a niece of the
husband's; an extremely fine girl, innocent too, I believe, and
the best dancer I ever saw. I don't know how it happened, but she
took a fancy to me, which, upon my word, and I am sure you have no
doubts of me, I was far from wishing to improve. You know I always
despise the mean triumph of gaining a heart, for which I could not
give another in return. I saw with pain her growing inclination
for me; but as we lived in the same house, and met every day in
the rooms, it was impossible for me to avoid her as much as I
wished to do. The aunt I found, had her eyes upon me, and took
some pains to promote a liking on my side. I saw her design, and
was so much upon my guard, that she, who I soon found was an adept
in love-matters, almost despaired of gaining her ends. The young
lady's inclination however seemed to increase; a pair of fine blue
eyes told me so every day; and I was upon the point of flying to
avoid the soft contagion, when an accident happened that totally
overthrew all my good resolutions.
'I had not seen the young lady for two or three days; I enquired
for her, and her aunt answered, with a mysterious smile, She is
ill, poor thing, why don't you look in upon her, and ask her how
she does? I replied, if the lady will permit me, I will do myself
that honour, and intended literally to have kept my word, by just
asking her at her chamber door how she did.
'You are very cruel, said the aunt; would you persuade me that you
don't know the girl is in love with you? Oh, your Servant, Madam;
if you think me vain, I thank you for the reprimand. Come, come,
said she, this is all affectation, we'll drink tea with her this
evening. Upon my word, said I, if I am to believe what you say, I
think you ought not to desire me. I am not blind to the young
lady's merit, but am so unfortunate as not to have it in my power
to make such returns as she deserves. I found the occasion
required my being serious.
'If you have not love, said she, you may at least have a little
complaisance. Was there ever such a barbarian, not to go and see a
woman that is dying for him? I promised to bring you, and she
expects you. What is the pretty creature afraid of (patting my
cheek). I'll stay by it all the while. There was no withstanding
this; I promised to wait on her.
'She knocked at my door about six o'clock, and looking in, asked
if the coy Narcissus was ready? I went with her, and she led me
directly to her niece's chamber. The young lady looked pale and
languishing, but very pretty. I was really grieved to see her, and
enquired with an unaffected concern after her health. The
tea-things were set, and I tried to force something like
conversation, but I believe I was rather formal.
'When we had done tea, the aunt looked at her watch, started off
her chair, said she had outstaid her appointment with the party
she was to meet at cards, and turning to me, I hope, Sir, you will
have the _Charity_ to stay with my niece; and then hurried out of
the room. I begged leave to hand her to her chair, intending to
take that opportunity of slipping away, and resolved to quit the
house the next morning. But the determined gipsey was prepared for
this motion, and insisting that I should not stir, thrust me back
from the door, which she shut, and flew down stairs.
'What was to become of me now, George? My situation was dangerous,
and really critical. To be short, I forgot my prudence, and found
the young lady's heart too, too tender.
'I never felt remorse before. I never had cause. I accuse myself
of indiscretion, but I have not the aggravating addition to my
fault of oaths and promises to fly in my face. I made none--love,
foolish love did all, and led a willing victim to his altar, who
asked nothing in return for the sacrifice she offered; and
received nothing but unavailing repentance on my side.
'I know not any thing now that would give me so much pleasure as
to find that the girl hated me heartily, though I have given her
no cause.
A just reparation I cannot make her. Every thing forbids that
thought. I do not consider myself as free; but if I were so, I am
not a seducer, and therefore do not think myself bound to carry my
penitence to such lengths. The damned aunt has been the serpent.
And here let me explain to you what I call buying the lady's
favour. You must know the aunt one night (the greatest part of
which she had spent at hazard) lost two hundred pounds; at least
she told me so the next morning, and with tears in her eyes
besought me, in the most earnest manner, to lend her that sum. She
said, she should be undone if her husband were to know it, and
that she would pay me in a very few days, as she had as much due
to her from different people who had lost to her at play. Though
our very short acquaintance could hardly warrant her making such a
request, I nevertheless did not hesitate, but gave her the money
directly. She meant indeed to pay me, but it was in a different
coin, and this I suppose was the price she set on the unhappy
girl's honour.
'My reflections on this unlucky affair make me very grave. I have
explained my situation to the young lady, and expressed my concern
at not having it in my power to be any other than a friend to her.
She blames her own weakness, and her aunt's conduct, but does not
reproach me. She cannot with justice, yet I wish she would, for
then I should reproach myself less.
''Tis a foolish business, and I must get off as handsomely as I
can. Prithee, Bidulph, say something to encourage me, and put me
into more favour with myself. You have often been my confessor,
but I never wanted absolution so much as now; nor ever was so well
intitled to it, for I am really full of penitence, and look _so_
mortified, you would pity me. I am ashamed of having been
surprised into a folly; I who _ought_ to have been upon my guard,
knowing the natural impetuosity of my temper.
'I must not conclude without telling you, that this very morning,
the precious aunt, instead of paying me the two hundred pounds she
had of me before, very modestly requested I would oblige her with
another hundred, to redeem a pair of diamond ear-rings which she
had been obliged to part with for the supply of some other
necessary demands; and with abundance of smooth speeches, she
assured me, in a fortnight she would pay me all together, having
notes to that value which would then become due to her. I was such
a booby as to give it to her.--Why, fare it well--I never expect
to see a shilling of it. She thinks, perhaps, there is value
received for it. Vile woman! The affair fortunately for us all,
has not taken wind; and for me, the names of both aunt and niece,
may ever stand enrolled amongst those of chaste matrons and
virgins. The family quits this place soon, as the old gentleman is
better.
'I thank you for your care, in relation to my house, I hope to
take possession of it in a week or ten days; you are very good in
fixing me so near yourself. Adieu.
'I am, &c.
What do you think of this letter, my Cecilia, written in confidence to
my brother? Mr Faulkland could not conceive it probable that any body
but Sir George should ever see it; he had no reason therefore to gloss
over any of the circumstances. _Had_ I seen it but in time--Oh what
anguish of heart might we all have been spared! Miss Burchell singly as
she _ought_, would have borne the punishment of her folly.
My mother had not patience to read this letter through; nice and
punctilious as her virtue was, she passed a censure on the crime in
gross, without admitting any palliating circumstance. But I blame her
not; the excellence of her own morals, made her scrupulous in weighing
those of others; she read the letter in a cursory way, and it is plain
but half of it; prepossessed as she was before, by knowing the material
point.
The account was given with levity at the _first_ mention of the young
lady. Then she understood he had bought her of her aunt; there is a
paragraph which _looks_ like it, and to be sure she attended not to the
explanation. Fatal oversight! she read not far enough to have this
matter cleared up. She took nothing but the bare facts into her account.
A young lady dishonoured, her disgrace likely to be public, then her
tenderness for the man who had undone her, and that man rejecting her,
and on the point of marrying another. These were the only points of view
in which my mother beheld the story. Her justice, her humanity, and her
religion prompted her to act as she did; and her conduct stands fully
acquitted to my judgment, though my heart must upon this full conviction
of Mr Faulkland's honour, sigh at recollecting the past.
I know that the memory of my mother's own first disastrous love wrought
strongly on her mind. She was warm in her passions, liable to deep
impressions, and always adhered strictly to those opinions she first
imbibed. Her education had been severe and recluse; and she had drawn
all her ideas of mankind from her own father and mine, who, I have been
told, were both men of exemplary lives. From all these considerations, I
must again say, that I entirely acquit my dear mother, in regard to her
whole conduct, however I have suffered by it.
_October 30_
I am now fixed in a very humble situation. Shall I own it to you, my
Cecilia? I was shocked at the change. A room two pairs of stairs high,
with a closet, and a small indifferent parlour, compose the whole of my
apartment. Hither did my faithful Patty, my two children, and myself,
remove this day. It put us not to much trouble, having nothing to take
with us but our wearing apparel, which is all the worldly goods of which
I am now possessed.
When I wrote to Lady V----, (which was a day or two before my mother's
death) I mentioned not that she was then in so dangerous a way. I know
the generosity and good nature of that worthy woman; but I have already
been too much obliged to her to lay any fresh tax on her friendship,
which I am sure she would too readily pay, if she were acquainted with
my situation. I shall therefore, as long as I can, defer acquainting her
with my mother's death; and when I do, I shall not give her room to
suspect that my brother has cast me off, which I have now too much
reason to believe he has; otherwise sure, in more than a fortnight, he
might have found time to write to me. I neither expect ceremony, nor
tenderness from him; but the occasion of my letter demanded some notice.
_November 2_
Patty has just now been informed, that Lady Sarah Bidulph is arrived in
town. She met one of their servants, who told her that my brother is not
come with her; it seems, they parted on the road. He is gone to Sidney
Castle, which is now his, and Lady Sarah chose to come to London. She
has, I find, been in London four days, though she has not yet vouchsafed
to send me any notice of her arrival. She could not be at a loss where
to find me, as I left my direction at my former lodging, in case of any
letter or message, coming from any of my friends; though I desired the
people of the house not to inform any indifferent visitants where I was
to be found.
Though George has, in his turbulent way, renounced me as his
sister, yet sure his wife, whom I never disobliged, ought not to depart
so from humanity and common good breeding, as not to enquire after
the sister of her husband, who has an occasion of grief so recent, in
which she ought to partake. I shall not however take notice of this
slight, but am preparing to send Patty to her, with an enquiry after
her health, and to know when my brother is expected in town.--
Patty is just returned from her embassy to Lady Sarah; I will give
you the conversation she had with her.
Patty sent in her message, with great respect, by a footman, and
waited for her answer in the hall; though her pretty figure and
genteel mourning-dress had induced the servant to ask her into the
house-keeper's room.
Lady Sarah was alone in the parlour, and desired her to be called
to the door. So, young woman, said she, your mistress desires to
know when Sir George will be in town. I am really surprised, after
the letter she received from him, that she can fancy Sir George
means to concern himself about her. Do you know her business with
him? you are in your mistress's secrets I suppose. I do not know,
Madam, answered Patty, what particular business my lady may have;
but I believe it would be a comfort to her to see her brother in her
present melancholy circumstances. I don't know that there is any
thing uncommonly melancholy in her circumstances, replied the lady;
her mother's years and infirmities made her death a thing to be
looked for; I suppose your mistress is not in _want_. My poor
ingenuous Patty said she blushed at the cruel indifference with which
Lady Sarah said this. Not in immediate want, Madam, I hope, but
your ladyship must needs think she is in a destitute way, with two
children, and but fifty pounds a year in the world. What do you
mean, woman, cried Lady Sarah? it is impossible but Lady Bidulph
must have left money behind her; Sir George, I am sure, has got
nothing but what she could not keep from him. Patty answered, Lady
Bidulph, Madam, left no money behind her more than what was
barely sufficient to defray some necessary expences that occurred
immediately after her death. Well, and so your mistress, I suppose,
after having behaved so ill as she has done to her brother, expects he
should provide handsomely for her, and her children; _Arnold's_
children for the rest of their lives. I know not, Madam, returned
Patty, what my Lady's expectations are, but I believe she would be
very glad to see Sir George before she goes out of town, or at least
inform him of her design. What _is_ her design, pray, asked Lady
Sarah? To retire into the country, Madam, as she has not
wherewithal to subsist on in London. She can't do better, I think,
said the Lady. Where does she live now? My poor maid, who thought
this question tended to the proud woman's calling on, or at least
sending to me, made haste to inform her; she lodges, Madam, at a
milliner's, at the corner of the Haymarket, the left hand as you turn--Oh
dear! pray stop: you need not be so particular, I have no design of
paying her a visit in her corner-shop; my only reason for enquiring
was, to know whether she had thought proper to keep those
expensive lodgings her mother was in, in expectation of Sir George's
continuing _her_ in them. My Lady has no such view, I believe,
Madam. Well, you may tell your _Lady_, that if she will go out of town
with her children, I will prevail on Sir George to allow her
something. He will not be in town this month, so that she need not
wait for his arrival. She might, if she would have been guided by her
brother, have been a credit to her friends, instead of what she now is.
Patty owns, she was so full of indignation, that she wished at that
moment not to have been a servant, that she might have reproached
her with her hard-heartedness. Oh, my dear, these are the stings of
poverty! It is not the hard bed, nor the homely board, but the
oppressive insolence of proud prosperity; 'tis that only which can
inflict a wound on the ingenuous mind.
As for that mean woman, I despise her too much to suffer myself
to be obliged to her. _She will endeavour to prevail on my brother._ If his
own heart cannot prevail on him, I disclaim her influence; I know she
means not to use it in my favour; on the contrary, I make no doubt
but she will endeavour to irritate Sir George gainst me by
misrepresentations. Her pride makes her wish to have an indigent
relation out of the way, yet her avarice would not suffer her to enable
me to retire; and she will make my continuing here through necessity
a pretence for still with-holding any assistance from me. Let it be so;
I would rather submit to the most abject drudgery, than owe a
wretched dependant existence to such a woman. I am sure my
brother, notwithstanding his resentment, if he knew what my
situation truly is, would not behave with cruelty; but my mind is not
become so sordid, fallen as I am, as to turn petitioner for relief. But
no more, my Cecilia, let not my fate interrupt your happiness.
_November 4_
I have had a letter from Mrs Faulkland, filled with the overflowings of
a joyful heart. She says, Mr Faulkland is so delighted with the country
he is in, and finds his estate capable of such vast improvement, that he
thinks of making a longer residence there than he at first intended: the
rather as he has some suspicions that his agent has not acted faithfully
by him; and as he is sure the extensive plan that he has now laid down,
will be better executed under his own eye. He purposes building a little
convenient lodge on a very charming spot in the centre of his estate,
where he may reside whilst his works are carrying on; so that Mrs
Faulkland promises herself much pleasure, in spending her time partly
there and partly in Dublin. She has already made a large circle of
acquaintance, and bestows high encomiums on the great politeness and
hospitality with which they are received by all the fashionable people
in the county.
She knows not of my mother's death; yet in my answer to her letter, I
cannot avoid mentioning it. Though I could wish for obvious reasons to
conceal it. Mr Faulkland well knows the ruin of our fortune; and though
he cannot suppose while I have a brother living that I am driven to such
streights, yet I know what his liberal heart may suggest to him on this
occasion, which might lay me under fresh difficulties.
I have but just now apprised Lady V---- of the decease of my dear
mother, but have not insinuated any other grief than the loss of a
tender parent, and an agreeable companion. Indeed I have carried my
dissimulation so far as not to desire this lady to change her address to
me, lest if I gave her my present direction, she might be led to think,
necessity had obliged me to change my former lodgings for worse. I shall
use the same precaution towards Mrs Faulkland, as I have obtained
permission from the gentlewoman whose house I lately left, to have my
letters sent thither: when I go into the country a general direction to
the post-house may suffice. I shall now look out for some little spot to
retire to, where I can support life on the cheapest terms. In two months
I shall have my small pittance due to me, which I reserve to carry me
out of town, and to settle me in my new scheme of oeconomy in the
country. If I could persuade my poor Patty to quit me, and see her
settled in some eligible situation, I should then have no material
concern to attend to, but the bringing up my children in the paths of
virtue and humility. Humility, that happy frame of mind, on which so
much of our temporal as well as our eternal welfare depends.
_November 9_
Who shall say, now is the measure of my griefs complete: Providence thou
canst inflict no more! Oh my sister, in the midst of other sorrows, I
thought not of one that still remained behind; my children, my two
little angels! both dangerously ill. The small-pox is their distemper,
and of the worst kind. The disease has been hanging over them for some
days, and my close attendance on them, prevented me from using my pen.
The cruel distemper now appears with the most malignant symptoms. The
eldest always slept with me; I have resigned my bed to her for these
three last nights, and have watched by her. Patty has done the same by
the youngest. A humane and skilful physician attends them, but my
reliance rests not on him.
_November 12_
Three days and nights of sorrowful anxiety have at length produced a
little comfort to me. The distemper has now reached one crisis, whence
the physician can form a judgment with some degree of certainty, and he
bids me hope. Oh if it were not for that healing word, how could the
wretched drag on existence from day to day? I do, I will hope, for there
is a merciful providence that superintends his works.
_November 21_
Thank God! thank God! my Cecilia, the dear babes are out of danger.
Fifteen melancholy days and nights has their disconsolate mother watched
by the poor little sufferers; but I am fully repaid by having them
restored to my prayers. They are now able to sit up, and open their
pretty eyes which had been closed for so many days; and to add to my
satisfaction I think they will not be marked: but they are still so
feeble that it will be at least another fortnight before I can think of
venturing their little tender frames out of doors.
The physician's care and diligence deserved a greater recompence than I
had it in my power to make him; however what I have done has reduced me
to a single guinea. But this affects me not I shall make no difficulty
of parting with some of my now unnecessary fineries, which neither I nor
my children probably will ever again have any pretensions to wear.
_November 22_
I have felt the wounds of grief, the pangs of disappointment, and the
smart of indignation! yet was my heart never more sensibly affected than
it was just now by a circumstance proceeding from a cause very different
from all these. I had taken out of my drawers a few superfluous
ornaments, which I desired Patty to dispose of as if they were her own,
to the woman where we lodge; being things in her own way of business.
The poor girl looked at me for some time with a grief in her countenance
that pierced me to the soul. There is no need, Madam, said she, with her
voice almost stifled, there is no need I hope as yet for this. You don't
consider, Patty, said I, that the children's weak constitution requires
now a more than ordinary attention to their diet; and I have not
sufficient to supply them long with such necessaries as they want. I
have no occasion for these trifles, and I cannot see my little ones
droop for want of such comfortable nourishment as may restore them to
their strength. Nor shall they want it Madam, answered Patty; don't be
angry with me Madam, if I beg you will let me use my endeavours to
supply them. What do you mean, said I, I know the goodness of your
disposition, but how have you it in your power? You know Madam, said
she, I am pretty expert at my needle; and as our landlady has always
abundance of work on her hands, I undertook to assist her, and have for
this fortnight past, while I was closely confined to miss's room,
finished a piece of curious work, for which she has this day paid me
thirty shillings. You amaze me, said I, I never saw you employed
otherwise than in your attendance on the child. I was afraid you would
be displeased, Madam, she replied, and always hid my work when you came
into the room, which I could easily do, as it was only a fine piece of
point which I was grounding; and as I sat up night and day, I had an
opportunity of sticking most constantly to it, which enabled me to do in
a fortnight, what to another hand would be a month's labour. Now, Madam,
with your leave, I can go on in this manner, and though perhaps I cannot
always earn so much, yet I am sure I can still procure enough to prevent
your being drove to the necessity of parting with your apparel, till we
are in a condition to leave such an expensive place as London is. And do
you think, my dear Patty, said I, with tears of affection and gratitude
in my eyes, that I will consent to take the fruits of your ingenious and
honest industry from you? No, no, if you can find time by these means to
procure a little supply for your own pocket, do so; but I will not
suffer you to expend a farthing of what you can earn, on my account. I
saw she looked distressed and confounded; excuse me, Madam, said she,
but I have made bold to lay out part of the money already; I thought the
poor children would want a little wine to nourish them, and indeed,
Madam, your spirits want some support after your long fatigue. I have
bought a few bottles of wine, Madam, and some other little necessaries;
I hope you will not take it ill.
I pressed the affectionate creature's hand; I cannot be angry with you,
Patty, for your goodness, but such proofs of it as these distress me
more than my wants could. I accept of your kindness for this time, but
insist on your not doing such a thing again. If there be occasion for
it, I can apply to my needle as well as you, and would sooner do so,
than part with any of my things, since it gives you so much uneasiness.
The poor girl was rejoiced at my acceptance of her friendly and tender
offer, and produced her little purchase, which was indeed both
seasonable and useful.
_November 23_