BOOK VI

CHAPTER i. -- A DEBATE.

It was still early, and Mrs Delvile was not expected till late. Cecilia,

therefore, determined to make a visit to Miss Belfield, to whom she had

been denied during the late disorders at Mr Harrel's, and whom she could

not endure to mortify by quitting town without seeing, since whatever

were her doubts about Delvile, of her she had none.

To Portland-street, therefore, she ordered her chair, deliberating

as she went whether it were better to adhere to the reserve she

had hitherto maintained, or to satisfy her perplexity at once by an

investigation into the truth. And still were these scruples undecided,

when, looking in at the windows as she passed them to the door of the

house, she perceived Miss Belfield standing in the parlour with a letter

in her hand, which she was fervently pressing to her lips.

Struck by this sight, a thousand painful conjectures occurred to her,

all representing that the letter was from Delvile, and all explaining

to his dishonour the mystery of his late conduct. And far were her

suspicions from diminishing, when, upon being shown into the parlour,

Miss Belfield, trembling with her eagerness to hide it, hastily forced

the letter into her pocket.

Cecilia, surprised, dismayed, alarmed, stopt involuntarily at the door;

but Miss Belfield, having secured what was so evidently precious to her,

advanced, though not without blushing, and taking her hand, said “How

good this is of you, madam, to come to me! when I did not know where to

find you, and when I was almost afraid I should have found you no more!”

She then told her, that the first news she had heard the preceding

morning, was the violent death of Mr Harrel, which had been related to

her, with all its circumstances, by the landlord of their lodgings, who

was himself one of his principal creditors, and had immediately been at

Portman-square to put in his claims; where he had learnt that all the

family had quitted the house, which was entirely occupied by bailiffs.

“And I was so sorry,” she continued, “that you should meet with any

hardships, and not know where to go, and have another home to seek, when

I am sure the commonest beggar would never want an habitation, if you

had one in your power to give him!--But how sad and melancholy you look!

I am afraid this bad action of Mr Harrel has made you quite unhappy? Ah

madam! you are too good for this guilty world! your own compassion and

benevolence will not suffer you to rest in it!”

Cecilia, touched by this tender mistake of her present uneasiness,

embraced her, and with much kindness, answered, “No, sweet Henrietta! it

is you who are good, who are innocent, who are guileless!--you, too, I

hope are happy!”

“And are not you, madam?” cried Henrietta, fondly returning her caress.

“Oh if you are not, who will ever deserve to be! I think I should rather

be unhappy myself, than see you so; at least I am sure I ought, for the

whole world may be the better for your welfare, and as to me,--who would

care what became of me!”

“Ah Henrietta!” cried Cecilia, “do you speak sincerely? do you indeed

think yourself so little valued?”

“Why I don't say,” answered she, “but that I hope there are some who

think a little kindly of me, for if I had not that hope, I should wish

to break my heart and die! but what is that to the love and reverence so

many have for you?”

“Suppose,” said Cecilia, with a forced smile, “I should put your love

and reverence to the proof? do you think they would stand it?”

“O yes, indeed I do! and I have wished a thousand and a thousand times

that I could but shew you my affection, and let you see that I did not

love you because you were a great lady, and high in the world, and full

of power to do me service, but because you were so good and so kind, so

gentle to the unfortunate, and so sweet to every body!”

“Hold, hold,” cried Cecilia, “and let me try if indeed, fairly and

truly, you will answer what I mean to ask.”

“O yes,” cried she warmly, “if it is the dearest secret I have in the

world! there is nothing I will not tell you; I will open my whole heart

to you, and I shall be proud to think you will let me trust you, for I

am sure if you did not care a little for me, you would not take such a

trouble.”

“You are indeed a sweet creature!” said Cecilia, hesitating whether or

not to take advantage of her frankness, “and every time I see you, I

love you better. For the world would I not injure you,--and perhaps your

confidence--I know not, indeed, if it is fair or right to exact it--”

she stopt, extremely perplext, and while Henrietta waited her further

enquiries, they were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Belfield.

“Sure, Child,” cried she, to her daughter, “you might have let me know

before now who was here, when you knew so well how much I wished an

opportunity to see the young lady myself; but here you come down upon

pretence to see your brother, and then stay away all the morning, doing

nobody knows what.” Then, turning to Cecilia, “Ma'am,” she continued, “I

have been in the greatest concern in the world for the little accident

that happened when I saw you before; for to be sure I thought, and

indeed nobody will persuade me to the contrary, that it was rather an

odd thing for such a young lady as you to come so often after Henny,

without so much as thinking of any other reason; especially when, to be

sure, there's no more comparison between her and my son, than between

anything in the world; however, if it is so, it is so, and I mean to say

no more about it, and to be sure he's as contented to think so as if he

was as mere an insignificant animal as could be.”

“This matter, madam,” said Cecilia, “has so long been settled, that I am

sorry you should trouble yourself to think of it again.”

“O, ma'am, I only mention it by the way of making the proper apology,

for as to taking any other notice of it, I have quite left it off;

though to be sure what I think I think; but as to my son, he has so got

the upper hand of me, that it all goes for nothing, and I might just

as well sing to him. Not that I mean to find fault with him neither; so

pray, ma'am, don't let what I say be to his prejudice, for I believe all

the time, there's nobody like him, neither at this end of the town nor

the other; for as to the other, he has more the look of a lord, by

half, than of a shopman, and the reason's plain, for that's the sort of

company he's always kept, as I daresay a lady such as you must have seen

long ago. But for all that, there's some little matters that we mothers

fancy we can see into as well as our children; however, if they don't

think so, why it answers no purpose to dispute; for as to a better son,

to be sure there never was one, and that, as I always say, is the best

sign I know for making a good husband.”

During this discourse, Henrietta was in the utmost confusion, dreading

lest the grossness of her mother should again send off Cecilia in anger;

but Cecilia, who perceived her uneasiness, and who was more charmed

with her character than ever, from the simplicity of her sincerity,

determined to save her that pain, by quietly hearing her harangue, and

then quietly departing; though she was much provoked to find from the

complaining hints every instant thrown out, that Mrs Belfield was

still internally convinced her son's obstinate bashfulness was the only

obstacle to his chusing whom he pleased; and that though she no longer

dared speak her opinion with openness, she was fully persuaded Cecilia

was at his service.

“And for that reason,” continued Mrs Belfield, “to be sure any lady that

knew her own true advantage, could do nothing better than to take the

recommendation of a mother, who must naturally know more of her own

children's disposition than can be expected from a stranger; and as to

such a son as mine, perhaps there a'n't two such in the world, for he's

had a gentleman's education, and turn him which way he will, he'll see

never a handsomer person than his own; though, poor dear love, he was

always of the thinnest. But the misfortunes he's had to struggle with

would make nobody fatter.”

Here she was interrupted, and Cecilia not a little surprised, by the

entrance of Mr Hobson and Mr Simkins.

“Ladies,” cried Mr Hobson, whom she soon found was Mrs Belfield's

landlord; “I would not go up stairs without just stopping to let you

know a little how the world goes.”

Then perceiving and recollecting Cecilia, he exclaimed “I am proud to

see you again, ma'am,--Miss, I believe I should say, for I take it you

are too young a lady to be entered into matrimony yet.”

“Matrimony?” cried Mr Simkins, “no, to be sure, Mr Hobson, how can you

be so out of the way? the young lady looks more like to a Miss from a

boarding-school, if I might take the liberty for to say so.”

“Ay, more's the pity,” cried Mrs Belfield, “for as to young ladies

waiting and waiting, I don't see the great good of it; especially if a

proper match offers; for as to a good husband, I think no lady should

be above accepting him, if he's modest and well-behaved, and has been

brought up with a genteel education.”

“Why as to that, ma'am,” said Mr Simkins, “it's another guess matter,

for as to the lady's having a proper spouse, if I may be so free, I

think as it's no bad thing.”

Cecilia now, taking Henrietta's hand, was wishing her good morning;

but hearing Mr Hobson say he was just come from Portman-square, her

curiosity was excited, and she stayed a little longer.

“Sad work, ma'am,” said he; “who'd have thought Mr Harrel asked us all

to supper for the mere purpose of such a thing as that! just to serve

for a blind, as one may say. But when a man's conscience is foul, what

I say is it's ten to one but he makes away with himself. Let every man

keep clear of the world, that's my notion, and then he will be in no

such hurry to get out of it.”

“Why indeed, ma'am,” said Mr Simkins, advancing with many bows to

Cecilia, “humbly craving pardon for the liberty, I can't pretend for to

say I think Mr Harrel did quite the honourable thing by us; for as to

his making us drink all that champagne, and the like, it was a sheer

take in, so that if I was to speak my mind, I can't say as I esteem it

much of a favour.”

“Well,” said Mrs Belfield, “nothing's to me so surprising as a person's

being his own executioner, for as to me, if I was to die for it fifty

times, I don't think I could do it.”

“So here,” resumed Mr Hobson, “we're all defrauded of our dues! nobody's

able to get his own, let him have worked for it ever so hard. Sad doings

in the square, Miss! all at sixes and sevens; for my part I came off

from Vauxhall as soon as the thing had happened, hoping to get the

start of the others, or else I should have been proud to wait upon you,

ladies, with the particulars; but a man of business never stands

upon ceremony, for when money's at stake, that's out of the question.

However, I was too late, for the house was seized before ever I could

get nigh it.”

“I hope, ma'am, if I may be so free,” said Mr Simkins, again profoundly

bowing, “that you and the other lady did not take it much amiss my not

coming back to you, for it was not out of no disrespect, but only I got

so squeezed in by the ladies and gentlemen that was looking on, that I

could not make my way out, do what I could. But by what I see, I must

needs say if one's never in such genteel company, people are always

rather of the rudest when one's in a crowd, for if one begs and prays

never so, there's no making 'em conformable.”

“Pray,” said Cecilia, “is it likely any thing will remain for Mrs

Harrel?”

“Remain, ma'am?” repeated Mr Hobson, “Yes, a matter of a hundred bills

without a receipt to 'em! To be sure, ma'am, I don't want to affront

you, that was his intimate acquaintance, more especially as you've

done nothing disrespectful by me, which is more than I can say for

Mrs Harrel, who seemed downright ashamed of me, and of Mr Simkins too,

though all things considered, it would have been as well for her not to

have been quite so high. But of that in its proper season!”

“Fie, Mr Hobson fie,” cried the supple Mr Simkins, “how can you be

so hard? for my share, I must needs own I think the poor lady's to be

pitied; for it must have been but a melancholy sight to her, to see her

spouse cut off so in the flower of his youth, as one may say; and you

ought to scorn to take exceptions at a lady's proudness when she's in so

much trouble. To be sure, I can't say myself as she was over-complaisant

to make us welcome; but I hope I am above being so unpitiful as for to

owe her a grudge for it now she's so down in the mouth.”

“Let everybody be civil!” cried Mr Hobson, “that's my notion; and then I

shall be as much above being unpitiful as anybody else.”

“Mrs Harrel,” said Cecilia, “was then too unhappy, and is now, surely,

too unfortunate, to make it possible any resentment should be harboured

against her.”

“You speak, ma'am, like a lady of sense,” returned Mr Hobson, “and,

indeed, that's the character I hear of you; but for all that, ma'am,

every body's willing to stand up for their own friends, for which

reason, ma'am, to be sure you'll be making the best of it, both for the

Relict, and the late gentleman himself; but, ma'am, if I was to make

bold to speak my mind in a fair manner, what I should say would be this;

a man here to go shooting himself with all his debts unpaid, is a mere

piece of scandal, ma'am! I beg pardon, but what I say is, the truth's

the truth, and I can't call it by no other nomination.”

Cecilia now, finding she had not any chance of pacifying him, rang for

her servant and chair.

Mr Simkins then, affecting to lower his voice, said reproachfully to his

friend “Indeed, Mr Hobson, to speak ingenusly, I must needs say I don't

think it over and above pelite in you to be so hard upon the young

lady's acquaintance that was, now he's defunct. To be sure I can't

pretend for to deny but he behaved rather comical; for not paying of

nobody, nor so much as making one a little compliment, or the like,

though he made no bones of taking all one's goods, and always chused to

have the prime of every thing, why it's what I can't pretend to stand

up for. But that's neither here nor there, for if he had behaved as bad

again, poor Miss could not tell how to help it; and I dares to say she

had no more hand in it than nobody at all.”

“No, to be sure,” cried Mrs Belfield, “what should she have to do

with it? Do you suppose a young lady of her fortune would want to take

advantage of a person in trade? I am sure it would be both a shame and

a sin if she did, for if she has not money enough, I wonder who has. And

for my part, I think when a young lady has such a fine fortune as that,

the only thing she has to do, is to be thinking of making a good use

of it, by dividing it, as one may say, with a good husband. For as

to keeping it all for herself, I dare say she's a lady of too much

generosity; and as to only marrying somebody that's got as much of his

own, why it is not half so much a favour; and if the young lady would

take my advice, she'd marry for love, for as to lucre, she's enough in

all conscience.”

“As to all that,” said Mr Hobson, “it makes no alteration in my

argument; I am speaking to the purpose, and not for the matter of

complaisance; and therefore I'm bold to say Mr Harrel's action had

nothing of the gentleman in it. A man has a right to his own life,

you'll tell me; but what of that? that's no argument at all, for it does

not give him a bit the more right to my property; and a man's running in

debt, and spending other people's substances, for no reason in the world

but just because he can blow out his own brains when he's done,--though

it's a thing neither lawful nor religious to do,--why it's acting quite

out of character, and a great hardship to trade into the bargain.”

“I heartily wish it had been otherwise,” said Cecilia; “but I still

hope, if any thing can be done for Mrs Harrel, you will not object to

such a proposal.”

“Ma'am, as I said before,” returned Mr Hobson, “I see you're a lady of

sense, and for that I honour you; but as to any thing being done, it's

what I call a distinct thing. What's mine is mine, and what's another

man's is his; that's my way of arguing; but then if he takes what's

mine, where's the law to hinder my taking what's his? This is what I

call talking to the purpose. Now as to a man's cutting his throat,

or the like of that, for blowing out his own brains may be called the

self-same thing, what are his creditors the better for that? nothing

at all, but so much the worse it's a false notion to respect it, for

there's no respect in it; it's contrary to law, and a prejudice against

religion.”

“I agree entirely in your opinion,” said Cecilia, “but still Mrs

Harrel”--

“I know your argument, ma'am,” interrupted Mr Hobson; “Mrs Harrel i'n't

the worse for her husband's being shot through the head, because she

was no accessory to the same, and for that reason, it's a hardship she

should lose all her substance; this, ma'am, is what I say, speaking to

your side of the argument. But now, ma'am, please to take notice what I

argue upon the reply; what have we creditors to do with a man's family?

Suppose I am a cabinet-maker? When I send in my chairs, do I ask who is

to sit upon them? No; it's all one to me whether it's the gentleman's

progeny or his friends, I must be paid for the chairs the same, use them

who may. That's the law, ma'am, and no man need be ashamed to abide by

it.”

The truth of this speech palliating its sententious absurdity, made

Cecilia give up her faint attempt to soften him; and her chair being

ready, she arose to take leave.

“Lack-a-day, ma'am,” cried Mrs Belfield, “I hope you won't go yet, for I

expect my son home soon, and I've a heap of things to talk to you about

besides, only Mr Hobson having so much to say stopt my mouth. But

I should take it as a great favour, ma'am, if you would come some

afternoon and drink a dish of tea with me, for then we should have time

to say all our say. And I'm sure, ma'am, if you would only let one of

your footmen just take a run to let me know when you'd come, my son

would be very proud to give you the meeting; and the servants can't have

much else to do at your house, for where there's such a heap of 'em,

they commonly think of nothing all day long but standing and gaping at

one another.”

“I am going out of town to-morrow,” said Cecilia, “and therefore cannot

have the pleasure of calling upon Miss Belfield again.”

She then slightly courtsied, and left the room.

The gentle Henrietta, her eyes swimming in tears, followed her to her

chair; but she followed her not alone, Mrs Belfield also attended,

repining very loudly at the unlucky absence of her son; and the cringing

Mr Simkins, creeping after her and bowing, said in a low voice, “I

humbly crave pardon, ma'am, for the liberty, but I hope you won't think

as I have any share in Mr Hobson's behaving so rude, for I must needs

say, I don't think it over genteel in no shape.” And Mr Hobson himself,

bent upon having one more sentence heard, called out, even after she

was seated in her chair, “All I say, ma'am, is this; let every man be

honest; that's what I argue, and that's my notion of things.”

Cecilia still reached home before Mrs Delvile; but most uneasy were her

sensations, and most unquiet was her heart; the letter she had seen in

the hands of Henrietta seemed to corroborate all her former suspicions,

since if it came not from one infinitely dear to her she would not

have shewn such fondness for it, and if that one was not dear to her in

secret, she would not have concealed it.

Where then was the hope that any but Delvile could have written it? in

secret she could not cherish two, and that Delvile was cherished most

fondly, the artlessness of her character unfitted her for disguising.

And why should he write to her? what was his pretence? That he loved her

she could now less than ever believe, since his late conduct to herself,

though perplexing and inconsistent, evinced at least a partiality

incompatible with a passion for another. What then, could she infer, but

that he had seduced her affections, and ruined her peace, for the idle

and cruel gratification of temporary vanity?

“And if such,” cried she, “is the depravity of this accomplished

hypocrite, if such is the littleness of soul that a manner so noble

disguises, shall be next, urged, perhaps, rather by prudence than

preference, make me the object of his pursuit, and the food of his

vain-glory? And shall I, warned and instructed as I am, be as easy a

prey and as wretched a dupe? No, I will be better satisfied with his

conduct, before I venture to trust him, and since I am richer than

Henrietta and less likely to be deserted, when won, I will be more on my

guard to know why I am addressed, and vindicate the rights of innocence,

if I find she has been thus deluded, by forgetting his talents in his

treachery, and renouncing him for ever!”

Such were the reflections and surmises that dampt all the long-sought

pleasure of her change of residence, and made her habitation in St

James's-square no happier than it had been at Mr Harrel's!

She dined again with only Mr and Mrs Delvile, and did not see their son

all day; which, in her present uncertainty what to think of him, was an

absence she scarcely regretted.

When the servants retired, Mr Delvile told her that he had that morning

received two visits upon her account, both from admirers, who each

pretended to having had leave to wait upon her from Mr Harrel.

He then named Sir Robert Floyer and Mr Marriot.

“I believe, indeed,” said Cecilia, “that neither of them were treated

perfectly well; to me, however, their own behaviour has by no means

been strictly honourable. I have always, when referred to, been very

explicit; and what other methods they were pleased to take, I cannot

wonder should fail.”

“I told them,” said Mr Delvile, “that, since you were now under my roof,

I could not refuse to receive their proposals, especially as there would

be no impropriety in your alliance with either of them but I told them,

at the same time, that I could by no means think of pressing their suit,

as that was an office which, however well it might do for Mr Harrel,

would be totally improper and unbecoming for me.”

“Certainly;” said Cecilia, “and permit me, Sir, to entreat that, should

they again apply to you, they may be wholly discouraged from repeating

their visits, and assured that far from having trifled with them

hitherto, the resolutions I have declared will never be varied.”

“I am happy,” said Mrs Delvile, “to see so much spirit and discernment

where arts of all sorts will be practised to ensnare and delude. Fortune

and independence were never so securely lodged as in Miss Beverley, and

I doubt not but her choice, whenever it is decided, will reflect as

much honour upon her heart, as her difficulty in making it does upon her

understanding.”

Mr Delvile then enquired whether she had fixed upon any person to choose

as a guardian in the place of Mr Harrel. No, she said, nor should she,

unless it were absolutely necessary.

“I believe, indeed,” said Mrs Delvile, “your affairs will not much

miss him! Since I have heard of the excess of his extravagance, I have

extremely rejoiced in the uncommon prudence and sagacity of his fair

ward, who, in such dangerous hands, with less penetration and sound

sense, might have been drawn into a thousand difficulties, and perhaps

defrauded of half her fortune.”

Cecilia received but little joy from this most unseasonable compliment,

which, with many of the same sort that were frequently, though

accidentally made, intimidated her from the confession she had planned

and finding nothing but censure was likely to follow the discovery, she

at length determined to give it up wholly, unless any connection should

take place which might render necessary its avowal. Yet something she

could not but murmur, that an action so detrimental to her own interest,

and which, at the time, appeared indispensable to her benevolence,

should now be considered as a mark of such folly and imprudence that she

did not dare own it.

CHAPTER ii. -- A RAILING.

The next morning the family purposed setting off as soon as breakfast

was over; young Delvile, however, waited not so long; the fineness of

the weather tempted him, he said, to travel on horse-back, and therefore

he had risen very early, and was already gone. Cecilia could not but

wonder, yet did not repine.

Just as breakfast was over, and Mr and Mrs Delvile and Cecilia were

preparing to depart, to their no little surprise, the door was opened,

and, out of breath with haste and with heat, in stumpt Mr Briggs! “So,”

cried he to Cecilia, “what's all this? hay?--where are you going?--a

coach at the door! horses to every wheel! Servants fine as lords! what's

in the wind now? think to chouse me out of my belongings?”

“I thought, Sir,” said Cecilia, who instantly understood him, though Mr

and Mrs Delvile stared at him in utter astonishment, “I had explained

before I left you that I should not return.”

“Didn't, didn't!” answered he, angrily; “waited for you three days,

dressed a breast o' mutton o' purpose; got in a lobster, and two crabs;

all spoilt by keeping; stink already; weather quite muggy, forced to

souse 'em in vinegar; one expense brings on another; never begin the

like agen.”

“I am very sorry, indeed,” said Cecilia, much disconcerted, “if

there has been any mistake through my neglect; but I had hoped I was

understood, and I have been so much occupied--”

“Ay, ay,” interrupted he, “fine work! rare doings! a merry Vauxhalling,

with pistols at all your noddles! thought as much! thought he'd tip

the perch; saw he wasn't stanch; knew he'd go by his company,--a set of

jackanapes! all blacklegs! nobody warm among 'em; fellows with a month's

good living upon their backs, and not sixpence for the hangman in their

pockets!”

Mrs Delvile now, with a look of arch congratulation at Cecilia as the

object of this agreeable visit, finding it not likely to be immediately

concluded, returned to her chair; but Mr Delvile, leaning sternly upon

his cane, moved not from the spot where he stood at his entrance, but

surveyed him from head to foot, with the most astonished contempt at his

undaunted vulgarity.

“Well I'd all your cash myself; seized that, else!--run out the

constable for you, next, and made you blow out your brains for company.

Mind what I say, never give your mind to a gold lace hat! many a one

wears it don't know five farthings from twopence. A good man always

wears a bob wig; make that your rule. Ever see Master Harrel wear such

a thing? No, I'll warrant! better if he had; kept his head on his own

shoulders. And now, pray, how does he cut up? what has he left behind

him? a twey-case, I suppose, and a bit of a hat won't go on a man's

head!”

Cecilia, perceiving, with great confusion, that Mr Delvile, though

evidently provoked by this intrusion, would not deign to speak, that Mr

Briggs might be regarded as belonging wholly to herself, hastily said “I

will not, Sir, as your time is precious, detain you here, but, as soon

as it is in my power, I will wait upon you in the city.”

Mr Briggs, however, without listening to her, thought proper to continue

his harangue.

“Invited me once to his house; sent me a card, half of it printed like a

book! t'other half a scrawl could not read; pretended to give a supper;

all a mere bam; went without my dinner, and got nothing to eat; all

glass and shew; victuals painted all manner of colours; lighted up like

a pastry-cook on twelfth-day; wanted something solid, and got a great

lump of sweetmeat; found it as cold as a stone, all froze in my mouth

like ice; made me jump again, and brought the tears in my eyes; forced

to spit it out; believe it was nothing but a snowball, just set up for

show, and covered over with a little sugar. Pretty way to spend money!

Stuffing, and piping, and hopping! never could rest till every farthing

was gone; nothing left but his own fool's pate, and even that he could

not hold together.”

“At present, Sir,” said Cecilia, “we are all going out of town; the

carriage is waiting at the door, and therefore--”

“No such thing,” cried he; “Sha'n't go; come for you myself; take you to

my own house. Got every thing ready, been to the broker's, bought a nice

blanket, hardly a brack in it. Pick up a table soon; one in my eye.”

“I am sorry you have so totally mistaken me, Sir; for I am now going

into the country with Mr and Mrs Delvile.”

“Won't consent, won't consent! what will you go there for? hear of

nothing but dead dukes; as well visit an old tomb.”

Here Mr Delvile, who felt himself insulted in a manner he could least

support, after looking at him very disdainfully, turned to Cecilia, and

said “Miss Beverley, if this person wishes for a longer conference with

you, I am sorry you did not appoint a more seasonable hour for your

interview.”

“Ay, ay,” cried the impenetrable Mr Briggs; “want to hurry her off!

see that! But 't won't do; a'n't to be nicked; chuse to come in for my

thirds; won't be gulled, sha'n't have more than your share.”

“Sir!” cried Mr Delvile, with a look meant to be nothing less than

petrific.

“What!” cried he, with an arch leer; “all above it, hay? warrant your

Spanish Don never thinks of such a thing! don't believe 'em my duck!

great cry and little wool; no more of the ready than other folks; mere

puff and go one.”

“This is language, Sir,” said Mr Delvile, “so utterly incomprehensible,

that I presume you do not even intend it should be understood;

otherwise, I should very little scruple to inform you, that no man of

the name of Delvile brooks the smallest insinuation of dishonour.”

“Don't he?” returned Mr Briggs, with a grin; “why how will he help it?

will the old grandees jump up out of their graves to frighten us?”

“What old grandees, Sir? to whom are you pleased to allude?”

“Why all them old grandfathers and aunts you brag of; a set of poor

souls you won't let rest in their coffins; mere clay and dirt! fine

things to be proud of! a parcel of old mouldy rubbish quite departed

this life! raking up bones and dust, nobody knows for what! ought to be

ashamed; who cares for dead carcases? nothing but [carrion]. My little

Tom's worth forty of 'em!”

“I can so ill make out, Miss Beverley,” said the astonished Mr Delvile,

“what this person is pleased to dive at, that I cannot pretend to enter

into any sort of conversation with him; you will therefore be so good

as to let me know when he has finished his discourse, and you are at

leisure to set off.”

And then, with a very stately air, he was quitting the room; but was

soon stopt, upon Mr Briggs calling out “Ay, ay, Don Duke, poke in the

old charnel houses by yourself, none of your defunct for me! didn't care

if they were all hung in a string. Who's the better for 'em?'

“Pray, Sir,” cried Mr Delvile, turning round, “to whom were you pleased

to address that speech?”

“To one Don Puffendorff,” replied Mr Briggs; “know ever such a person,

hay?”

“Don who? Sir!” said Mr Delvile, stalking nearer to him, “I must trouble

you to say that name over again.”

“Suppose don't chuse it? how then?”

“I am to blame,” said Mr Delvile, scornfully waving his hand with a

repulsive motion, “to suffer myself to be irritated so unworthily; and

I am sorry, in my own house, to be compelled to hint that the sooner I

have it to myself, the better I shall be contented with it.”

“Ay, ay, want to get me off; want to have her to yourself! won't be so

soon choused; who's the better man? hay? which do you think is warmest?

and all got by myself; obliged to never a grandee for a penny; what do

you say to that? will you cast an account with me?”

“Very extraordinary this!” cried Mr Delvile; “the most extraordinary

circumstance of the kind I ever met with! a person to enter my house in

order to talk in this incomprehensible manner! a person, too, I hardly

know by sight!”

“Never mind, old Don,” cried Briggs, with a facetious nod, “Know me

better another time!”

“Old who, Sir!--what!”

“Come to a fair reckoning,” continued Mr Briggs; “suppose you were in my

case, and had never a farthing but of your own getting; where would

you be then? What would become of your fine coach and horses? you might

stump your feet off before you'd ever get into one. Where would be all

this fine crockery work for your breakfast? you might pop your head

under a pump, or drink out of your own paw; what would you do for that

fine jemmy tye? Where would you get a gold head to your stick?--You

might dig long enough in them cold vaults before any of your old

grandfathers would pop out to give you one.”

Mr Delvile, feeling more enraged than he thought suited his dignity,

restrained himself from making any further answer, but going up to the

bell, rang it with great violence.

“And as to ringing a bell,” continued Mr Briggs, “you'd never know what

it was in your life, unless could make interest to be a dust-man.”

“A dust-man!”--repeated Mr Delvile, unable to command his silence

longer, “I protest”--and biting his lips, he stopt short.

“Ay, love it, don't you? suits your taste; why not one dust as well as

another? Dust in a cart good as dust of a charnel-house; don't smell

half so bad.”

A servant now entering, Mr Delvile called out “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He then begged Mrs Delvile to go into the coach, and telling Cecilia to

follow when at leisure, left the room.

“I will come immediately, Sir,” said Cecilia; “Mr Briggs, I am sorry

to leave you, and much concerned you have had this trouble; but I can

detain Mr Delvile no longer.”

And then away she ran, notwithstanding he repeatedly charged her to

stay. He followed them, however, to the coach, with bitter revilings

that every body was to make more of his ward than himself, and with the

most virulent complaints of his losses from the blanket, the breast of

mutton, the crabs and the lobster!

Nothing, however, more was said to him; Cecilia, as if she had not heard

him, only bowed her head, and the coach driving off, they soon lost

sight of him.

This incident by no means rendered the journey pleasant, or Mr Delvile

gracious; his own dignity, that constant object of his thoughts and his

cares, had received a wound from this attack which he had not the sense

to despise; and the vulgarity and impudence of Mr Briggs, which ought

to have made his familiarity and boldness equally contemptible

and ridiculous, served only with a man whose pride out-ran his

understanding, to render them doubly mortifying and stinging. He could

talk, therefore, of nothing the whole way that they went, but the

extreme impropriety of which the Dean of had been guilty, in exposing

him to scenes and situations so much beneath his rank, by leaguing him

with a person so coarse and disgraceful.

They slept one night upon the road, and arrived the next day at Delvile

Castle.

CHAPTER iii. -- AN ANTIQUE MANSION.

Delvile Castle was situated in a large and woody park, and surrounded

by a moat. A drawbridge which fronted the entrance was every night, by

order of Mr Delvile, with the same care as if still necessary for the

preservation of the family, regularly drawn up. Some fortifications

still remained entire, and vestiges were every where to be traced of

more; no taste was shown in the disposition of the grounds, no openings

were contrived through the wood for distant views or beautiful objects;

the mansion-house was ancient, large and magnificent, but constructed

with as little attention to convenience and comfort, as to airiness and

elegance; it was dark, heavy and monastic, equally in want of repair and

of improvement. The grandeur of its former inhabitants was every where

visible, but the decay into which it was falling rendered such remains

mere objects for meditation and melancholy; while the evident struggle

to support some appearance of its ancient dignity, made the dwelling

and all in its vicinity wear an aspect of constraint and austerity.

Festivity, joy and pleasure, seemed foreign to the purposes of its

construction; silence, solemnity and contemplation were adapted to it

only.

Mrs Delvile, however, took all possible care to make the apartments

and situation of Cecilia commodious and pleasant, and to banish by

her kindness and animation the gloom and formality which her mansion

inspired. Nor were her efforts ungratefully received; Cecilia, charmed

by every mark of attention from a woman she so highly admired, returned

her solicitude by encreasing affection, and repaid all her care by

the revival of her spirits. She was happy, indeed, to have quitted the

disorderly house of Mr Harrel, where terror, so continually awakened,

was only to be lulled by the grossest imposition; and though her mind,

depressed by what was passed, and in suspence with what was to come, was

by no means in a state for uninterrupted enjoyment, yet to find herself

placed, at last, without effort or impropriety, in the very mansion

she had so long considered as her road to happiness, rendered her,

notwithstanding her remaining sources of inquietude, more contented than

she had yet felt herself since her departure from Suffolk.

Even the imperious Mr Delvile was more supportable here than in London;

secure in his own castle, he looked around him with a pride of power and

of possession which softened while it swelled him. His superiority was

undisputed, his will was without controul. He was not, as in the great

capital of the kingdom, surrounded by competitors; no rivalry disturbed

his peace, no equality mortified his greatness; all he saw were either

vassals of his power, or guests bending to his pleasure; he abated

therefore, considerably, the stern gloom of his haughtiness, and soothed

his proud mind by the courtesy of condescension.

Little, however, was the opportunity Cecilia found, for evincing that

spirit and forbearance she had planned in relation to Delvile; he

breakfasted by himself every morning, rode or walked out alone till

driven home by the heat of the day, and spent the rest of his time till

dinner in his own study. When he then appeared, his conversation was

always general, and his attention not more engaged by Cecilia than by

his mother. Left by them with his father, sometimes he appeared again at

tea-time, but more commonly he rode or strolled out to some neighbouring

family, and it was always uncertain whether he was again seen before

dinner the next day.

By this conduct, reserve on her part was rendered totally unnecessary;

she could give no discouragement where she met with no assiduity; she

had no occasion to fly where she was never pursued.

Strange, however, she thought such behaviour, and utterly impossible to

be the effect of accident; his desire to avoid her seemed scrupulous

and pointed, and however to the world it might wear the appearance of

chance, to her watchful anxiety a thousand circumstances marked it for

design. She found that his friends at home had never seen so little of

him, complaints were continually made of his frequent absences, and much

surprise was expressed at his new manner of life, and what might be the

occupations which so strangely engrossed his time.

Had her heart not interfered in this matter, she might now have been

perfectly at rest, since she was spared the renunciation she had

projected, and since, without either mental exertion or personal

trouble, the affair seemed totally dropt, and Delvile, far from

manifesting any design of conquest, shunned all occasions of gallantry,

and sedulously avoided even common conversation with her. If he saw her

preparing to walk out in an evening, he was certain to stay at home; if

his mother was with her, and invited him to join them, he was sure to be

ready with some other engagement; and if by accident he met her in the

park, he merely stopt to speak of the weather, bowed, and hurried on.

How to reconcile a coldness so extraordinary with a fervour so animated

as that which he had lately shewn, was indeed not easy; sometimes she

fancied he had entangled not only the poor Henrietta but himself, at

other times she believed him merely capricious; but that he studied to

avoid her she was convinced invariably, and such a conviction was alone

sufficient to determine her upon forwarding his purpose. And, when her

first surprise was over, and first chagrin abated, her own pride came to

her aid, and she resolved to use every method in her power to conquer a

partiality so un gratefully bestowed. She rejoiced that in no instance

she had ever betrayed it, and she saw that his own behaviour

prevented all suspicion of it in the family. Yet, in the midst of her

mortification and displeasure, she found some consolation in seeing that

those mercenary views of which she had once been led to accuse him, were

farthest from his thoughts, and that whatever was the state of his

mind, she had no artifice to apprehend, nor design to guard against. All

therefore that remained was to imitate his example, be civil and formal,

shun all interviews that were not public, and decline all discourse but

what good breeding occasionally made necessary.

By these means their meetings became more rare than ever, and of shorter

duration, for if one by any accident was detained, the other retired;

till, by their mutual diligence, they soon only saw each other at

dinner; and though neither of them knew the motives or the intentions of

the other, the best concerted agreement could not more effectually have

separated them.

This task to Cecilia was at first extremely painful; but time and

constancy of mind soon lessened its difficulty. She amused herself with

walking and reading, she commissioned Mr Monckton to send her a Piano

Forte of Merlin's, she was fond of fine work, and she found in the

conversation of Mrs Delvile a never-failing resource against languor

and sadness. Leaving therefore to himself her mysterious son, she wisely

resolved to find other employment for her thoughts, than conjectures

with which she could not be satisfied, and doubts that might never be

explained.

Very few families visited at the castle, and fewer still had their

visits returned. The arrogance of Mr Delvile had offended all the

neighbouring gentry, who could easily be better entertained than by

receiving instructions of their own inferiority, which however readily

they might allow, was by no means so pleasant a subject as to recompense

them for hearing no other. And if Mr Delvile was shunned through hatred,

his lady no less was avoided through fear; high-spirited and fastidious,

she was easily wearied and disgusted, she bore neither with frailty nor

folly--those two principal ingredients in human nature! She required,

to obtain her favour, the union of virtue and abilities with elegance,

which meeting but rarely, she was rarely disposed to be pleased; and

disdaining to conceal either contempt or aversion, she inspired in

return nothing but dread or resentment; making thus, by a want of that

lenity which is the milk of human kindness, and the bond of society,

enemies the most numerous and illiberal by those very talents which,

more meekly borne, would have rendered her not merely admired, but

adored!

In proportion, however, as she was thus at war with the world in

general, the chosen few who were honoured with her favour, she loved

with a zeal all her own; her heart, liberal, open, and but too daringly

sincere, was fervent in affection, and enthusiastic in admiration; the

friends who were dear to her, she was devoted to serve, she magnified

their virtues till she thought them of an higher race of beings, she

inflamed her generosity with ideas of what she owed to them, till her

life seemed too small a sacrifice to be refused for their service.

Such was the love which already she felt for Cecilia; her countenance

had struck, her manners had charmed her, her understanding was displayed

by the quick intelligence of her eyes, and every action and every notion

spoke her mind the seat of elegance. In secret she sometimes regretted

that she was not higher born, but that regret always vanished when she

saw and conversed with her.

Her own youth had been passed in all the severity of affliction; she had

been married to Mr Delvile by her relations, without any consultation of

her heart or her will. Her strong mind disdained useless complaints, yet

her discontent, however private, was deep. Ardent in her disposition,

and naturally violent in her passions, her feelings were extremely

acute, and to curb them by reason and principle had been the chief and

hard study of her life. The effort had calmed, though it had not made

her happy. To love Mr Delvile she felt was impossible; proud without

merit, and imperious without capacity, she saw with bitterness the

inferiority of his faculties, and she found in his temper no qualities

to endear or attract; yet she respected his birth and his family,

of which her own was a branch, and whatever was her misery from the

connection, she steadily behaved to him with the strictest propriety.

Her son, however, when she was blessed with his presence, had a power

over her mind that mitigated all her sorrows, and almost lulled even her

wishes to sleep; she rather idolised than loved him, yet her fondness

flowed not from relationship, but from his worth and his character, his

talents and his disposition. She saw in him, indeed, all her own virtues

and excellencies, with a toleration for the imperfections of others to

which she was wholly a stranger. Whatever was great or good she expected

him to perform; occasion alone she thought wanting to manifest him the

first of human beings.

Nor here was Mr Delvile himself less sanguine in his hopes; his son was

not only the first object of his affection, but the chief idol of his

pride, and he did not merely cherish but reverence him as his successor,

the only support of his ancient name and family, without whose life

and health the whole race would be extinct. He consulted him in all

his affairs, never mentioned him but with distinction, and expected the

whole world to bow down before him.

Delvile in his behaviour to his father imitated the conduct of his

mother, who opposed him in nothing when his pleasure was made known, but

who forbore to enquire into his opinion except in cases of necessity.

Their minds, indeed, were totally dissimilar; and Delvile well knew that

if he submitted to his directions, he must demand such respect as the

world would refuse with indignation, and scarcely speak to a man whose

genealogy was not known to him.

But though duty and gratitude were the only ties that bound him to his

father, he loved his mother not merely with filial affection, but

with the purest esteem and highest reverence; he knew, too, that while

without him her existence would be a burthen, her tenderness was no

effusion of weak partiality, but founded on the strongest assurances of

his worth; and however to maternal indulgence its origin might be owing,

the rectitude of his own conduct could alone save it from diminution.

Such was the house in which Cecilia was now settled, and with which she

lived almost to the exclusion of the sight of any other; for though she

had now been three weeks at the castle, she had only at church seen any

family but the Delviles.

Nor did any thing in the course of that time occur to her, but the

reception of a melancholy letter from Mrs Harrel, filled with complaints

of her retirement and misery; and another, from Mr Arnott, with an

account of the funeral, the difficulties he had had to encounter with

the creditors, who had even seized the dead body, and the numerous

expences in which he had been involved, by petitions he could not

withstand, from the meaner and more clamorous of those whom his late

brother-in-law had left unpaid. He concluded with a pathetic prayer for

her happiness, and a declaration that his own was lost for ever, since

now he was even deprived of her sight. Cecilia wrote an affectionate

answer to Mrs Harrel, promising, when fully at liberty, that she would

herself fetch her to her own house in Suffolk; but she could only send

her compliments to Mr Arnott, though her compassion urged a kinder

message; as she feared even a shadow of encouragement to so serious, yet

hopeless a passion.

CHAPTER iv. -- A RATTLE.

At this time, the house was much enlivened by a visit from Lady Honoria

Pemberton, who came to spend a month with Mrs Delvile.

Cecilia had now but little leisure, for Lady Honoria would hardly rest

a moment away from her; she insisted upon walking with her, sitting with

her, working with her, and singing with her; whatever she did, she chose

to do also; wherever she went, she was bent upon accompanying her; and

Mrs Delvile, who wished her well, though she had no patience with her

foibles, encouraged this intimacy from the hope it might do her service.

It was not, however, that Lady Honoria had conceived any regard for

Cecilia; on the contrary, had she been told she should see her no more,

she would have heard it with the same composure as if she had been told

she should meet with her daily; she had no motive for pursuing her but

that she had nothing else to do, and no fondness for her society but,

what resulted from aversion to solitude.

Lady Honoria had received a fashionable education, in which her

proficiency had been equal to what fashion made requisite; she sung

a little; played the harpsichord a little, painted a little, worked a

little, and danced a great deal. She had quick parts and high spirits,

though her mind was uncultivated, and she was totally void of judgment

or discretion; she was careless of giving offence, and indifferent

to all that was thought of her; the delight of her life was to create

wonder by her rattle, and whether that wonder was to her advantage or

discredit, she did not for a moment trouble herself to consider.

A character of so much levity with so little heart had no great chance

of raising esteem or regard in Cecilia, who at almost any other period

of her life would have been wearied of her importunate attendance; but

at present, the unsettled state of her own mind made her glad to give it

any employment, and the sprightliness of Lady Honoria served therefore

to amuse her. Yet she could not forbear being hurt by finding that the

behaviour of Delvile was so exactly the same to them both, that

any common observer would with difficulty have pronounced which he

preferred.

One morning about a week after her ladyship's arrival at the castle, she

came running into Cecilia's room, saying she had very good news for her.

“A charming opening!” cried Cecilia, “pray tell it me.”

“Why my Lord Derford is coming!”

“O what a melancholy dearth of incident,” cried Cecilia, “if this is

your best intelligence!”

“Why it's better than nothing; better than going to sleep over a family

party; and I vow I have sometimes such difficulty to keep awake, that

I am frightened to death lest I should be taken with a sudden nap, and

affront them all. Now pray speak the truth without squeamishness, don't

you find it very terrible?”

“No, I find nothing very terrible with Mrs Delvile.”

“O, I like Mrs Delvile, too, of all things, for I believe she's the

cleverest woman in the world; but then I know she does not like me, so

there's no being very fond of her. Besides, really, if I admired her as

much again, I should be, dreadfully tired of seeing nothing else. She

never stirs out, you know, and has no company at home, which is an

extremely tiresome plan, for it only serves to make us all doubly sick

of one another; though you must know it's one great reason why my father

likes I should come; for he has some very old-fashioned notions, though

I take a great deal of pains to make him get the better of them. But I

am always excessively rejoiced when the visit has been paid, for I am

obliged to come every year. I don't mean now, indeed, because your being

here makes it vastly more tolerable.”

“You do me much honour,” cried Cecilia, laughing.

“But really, when my Lord Derford comes, it can't possibly be quite so

bad, for at least there will be something else to look at; and you must

know my eyes tire extremely of always seeing the same objects. And we

can ask him, too, for a little news, and that will put Mrs Delvile in

a passion, which will help to give us a little spirit; though I know we

shall not get the smallest intelligence from him, for he knows nothing

in the world that's going forward. And, indeed, that's no great matter,

for if he did, he would not know how to tell it, he's so excessively

silly. However, I shall ask him all sort of things, for the less he

can answer, the more it will plague him; and I like to plague a fool

amazingly, because he can never plague one again.--Though really I ought

to beg your pardon, for he is one of your admirers.”

“Oh pray make no stranger of me! you have my free consent to say

whatever you please of him.”

“I assure you, then, I like my old Lord Ernolf the best of the two,

for he has a thousand times more sense than his son, and upon my word I

don't think he is much uglier. But I wonder vastly you would not marry

him, for all that, for you might have done exactly what you pleased with

him, which, altogether, would have been no inconvenient circumstance.”

“When I want a pupil,” answered Cecilia, “I shall think that an

admirable recommendation; but were I to marry, I would rather find a

tutor, of the two.”

“I am sure I should not,” cried Lady Honoria, carelessly, “for one

has enough to do with tutors before hand, and the best thing I know of

marrying is to get rid of them. I fancy you think so too, only it's a

pretty speech to make. Oh how my sister Euphrasia would adore you!--Pray

are you always as grave as you are now?”

“No,--yes,--indeed I hardly know.”

“I fancy it's this dismal place that hurts your spirits. I remember when

I saw you in St James's-square I thought you very lively. But really

these thick walls are enough to inspire the vapours if one never had

them before.”

“I don't think they have had a very bad effect upon your ladyship!”

“O yes they have; if Euphrasia was here she would hardly know me. And

the extreme want of taste and entertainment in all the family is quite

melancholy; for even if by chance one has the good fortune to hear any

intelligence, Mrs Delvile will hardly let it be repeated, for fear it

should happen to be untrue, as if that could possibly signify! I am sure

I had as lieve the things were false as not, for they tell as well one

way as the other, if she would but have patience to hear them. But she's

extremely severe, you know, as almost all those very clever women are;

so that she keeps a kind of restraint upon me whether I will or no.

However, that's nothing compared to her caro sposo, for he is utterly

insufferable; so solemn, and so dull! so stately and so tiresome!

Mortimer, too, gets worse and worse; O 'tis a sad tribe! I dare say he

will soon grow quite as horrible as his father. Don't you think so?”

“Why indeed,--no,--I don't think there's much resemblance,” said

Cecilia, with some hesitation.

“He is the most altered creature,” continued her ladyship, “I ever

saw in my life. Once I thought him the most agreeable young man in the

world; but if you observe, that's all over now, and he is getting just

as stupid and dismal as the rest of them. I wish you had been here last

summer; I assure you, you would quite have fallen in love with him.”

“Should I?” said Cecilia, with a conscious smile.

“Yes, for he was quite delightful; all spirit and gaiety, but now, if

it was not for you, I really think I should pretend to lose my way, and

instead of going over that old draw-bridge, throw myself into the moat.

I wish Euphrasia was here. It's just the right place for her. She'll

fancy herself in a monastery as soon as she comes, and nothing will make

her half so happy, for she is always wishing to be a Nun, poor little

simpleton.

“Is there any chance that Lady Euphrasia may come?”

“O no, she can't at present, because it would not be proper; but I mean

if ever she is married to Mortimer.”

“Married to him!” repeated Cecilia, in the utmost consternation.

“I believe, my dear,” cried Lady Honoria, looking at her very archly,

“you intend to be married to him yourself?”

“Me? no, indeed!”

“You look very guilty, though,” cried she laughing, “and indeed when you

came hither, every body said that the whole affair was arranged.”

“For shame, Lady Honoria!” said Cecilia, again changing colour, “I am

sure this must be your own fancy,--invention,--”

“No, I assure you; I heard it at several places; and every body said how

charmingly your fortune would build up all these old fortifications;

but some people said they knew Mr Harrel had sold you to Mr Marriot, and

that if you married Mortimer, there would be a lawsuit that would take

away half your estate; and others said you had promised your hand to Sir

Robert Floyer, and repented when you heard of his mortgages, and he gave

it out every where that he would fight any man that pretended to you;

and then again some said that you were all the time privately married to

Mr Arnott, but did not dare own it, because he was so afraid of fighting

with Sir Robert.”

“O Lady Honoria!” cried Cecilia, half laughing, “what wild inventions

are these! and all I hope, your own?”

“No, indeed, they were current over the whole town. But don't take any

notice of what I told you about Euphrasia, for perhaps, it may never

happen.”

“Perhaps,” said Cecilia, reviving by believing it all fiction, “it has

never been in agitation?”

“O yes; it is negociating at this very moment, I believe, among the

higher powers; only Mr Delvile does not yet know whether Euphrasia has

fortune enough for what he wants.”

Ah, thought Cecilia, how do I rejoice that my independent situation

exempts me from being disposed of for life, by thus being set up to

sale!

“They thought of me, once, for Mortimer,” continued Lady Honoria, “but

I'm vastly glad that's over, for I never should have survived being shut

up in this place; it's much fitter for Euphrasia. To tell you the truth,

I believe they could not make out money enough; but Euphrasia has a

fortune of her own, besides what we shall have together, for Grandmama

left her every thing that was in her own power.”

“Is Lady Euphrasia your elder sister?”

“O no, poor little thing, she's two years younger. Grandmama brought

her up, and` she has seen nothing at all of the world, for she has never

been presented yet, so she is not come out, you know; but she's to come

out next year. However, she once saw Mortimer, but she did not like him

at all.”

“Not like him!” cried Cecilia, greatly surprised.

“No, she thought him too gay,--Oh dear, I wish she could see him now!

I am sure I hope she would find him sad enough! she is the most formal

little grave thing you ever beheld; she'll preach to you sometimes for

half an hour together. Grandmama taught her nothing in the world but to

say her prayers, so that almost every other word you say, she thinks is

quite wicked.”

The conversation was now interrupted by their separating to dress for

dinner. It left Cecilia in much perplexity; she knew not what wholly to

credit, or wholly to disbelieve; but her chief concern arose from the

unfortunate change of countenance which Lady Honoria had been so quick

in observing.

The next time she was alone with Mrs Delvile, “Miss Beverley,” she said,

“has your little rattling tormentor acquainted you who is coming?”

“Lord Derford, do you mean, ma'am?”

“Yes, with his father; shall you dislike to see them?”

“Not if, as I hope, they come merely to wait upon you and Mr Delvile.”

“Mr Delvile and myself,” answered she smiling, “will certainly have the

honour of receiving them.”

“Lord Ernolf,” said Cecilia, “can never suppose his visit will make any

change in me; I have been very explicit with him, and he seemed equally

rational and well bred in forbearing any importunity upon the subject.”

“It has however been much believed in town,” said Mrs Delvile, “that

you were strangely shackled by Mr Harrel, and therefore his lordship

may probably hope that a change in your situation may be followed by a

change in his favour.”

“I shall be sorry if he does,” said Cecilia, “for he will then find

himself much deceived.”

“You are right, very right,” cried Mrs Delvile, “to be difficult in your

choice, and to take time for looking around you before you make any. I

have forborn all questions upon this subject, lest you should find any

reluctance in answering them; but I am now too deeply interested in your

welfare to be contented in total ignorance of your designs; will you,

then, suffer me to make a few enquiries?”

Cecilia gave a ready, but blushing assent.

“Tell me, then, of the many admirers who have graced your train,

which there is you have distinguished with any intention of future

preference?”

“Not one, madam!”

“And, out of so many, is there not one that, hereafter, you mean to

distinguish?”

“Ah madam!” cried Cecilia, shaking her head, “many as they may seem, I

have little reason to be proud of them; there is one only who, had my

fortune been smaller, would, I believe, ever have thought of me, and

there is one only, who, were it now diminished, would ever think of me

more.”

“This sincerity,” cried Mrs Delvile, “is just what I expected from you.

There is, then, one?”

“I believe there is,--and the worthy Mr Arnott is the man; I am much

indeed deceived, if his partiality for me is not truly disinterested,

and I almost wish”--

“What, my love?”

“That I could return it more gratefully!”

“And do you not?”

“No!--I cannot! I esteem him, I have the truest regard for his

character, and were I now by any fatal necessity, compelled to belong

to any one of those who have been pleased to address me, I should not

hesitate a moment in shewing him my gratitude; but yet, for some time at

least, such a proof of it would render me very miserable.”

“You may perhaps think so now,” returned Mrs Delvile; “but with

sentiments so strongly in his favour, you will probably be led hereafter

to pity--and accept him.”

“No, indeed, madam; I pretend not, I own, to open my whole heart to

you;--I know not that you would have patience, for so uninteresting a

detail; but though there are some things I venture not to mention, there

is nothing, believe me, in which I will deceive you.”

“I do believe you,” cried Mrs Delvile, embracing her; “and the more

readily because, not merely among your avowed admirers, but among the

whole race of men, I scarce know one to whom I should think you worthily

consigned!”

Ah! thought Cecilia, that scarce! who may it mean to except?

“To shew you,” she continued, “that I will deserve your confidence in

future, I will refrain from distressing you by any further questions at

present; you will not, I think, act materially without consulting me,

and for your thoughts--it were tyranny, not friendship, to investigate

them more narrowly.”

Cecilia's gratitude for this delicacy, would instantly have induced

her to tell every secret of her soul, had she not apprehended such a

confession would have seemed soliciting her interest and assistance, in

the only affair in which she would have disdained even to receive them.

She thanked her, therefore, for her kindness, and the conversation was

dropt; she much wished to have known whether these enquiries sprung

simply from friendly curiosity, or whether she was desirous from

any nearer motive to be satisfied with respect to her freedom or

engagements. This, however, she had no method of discovering, and was

therefore compelled to wait quietly till time should make it clear.

CHAPTER v. -- A STORM.

One evening about this time, which was the latter end of July, Lady

Honoria and Cecilia deferred walking out till very late, and then found

it so pleasant, that they had strolled into the Park two miles from the

house, when they were met by young Delvile; who, however, only reminded

them how far they had to return, and walked on.

“He grows quite intolerable!” cried Lady Honoria, when he was gone;

“it's really a melancholy thing to see a young man behave so like an old

Monk. I dare say in another week he won't take off his hat to us; and,

in about a fortnight, I suppose he'll shut himself up in one of those

little round towers, and shave his head, and live upon roots, and howl

if any body comes near him. I really half wonder he does not think it

too dissipated to let Fidel run after him so. A thousand to one but he

shoots him some day for giving a sudden bark when he's in one of these

gloomy fits. Something, however, must certainly be the matter with him.

Perhaps he is in love.”

“Can nothing be the matter with him but that?” cried Cecilia.

“Nay, I don't know; but I am sure if he is, his Mistress has not much

occasion to be jealous of you or me, for never, I think, were two poor

Damsels so neglected!”

The utmost art of malice could not have furnished speech more truly

mortifying to Cecilia than this thoughtless and accidental sally of Lady

Honoria's; particularly, however, upon her guard, from the raillery she

had already endured, she answered, with apparent indifference, “he is

meditating, perhaps, upon Lady Euphrasia.”

“O no,” cried Lady Honoria, “for he did not take any notice of her when

he saw her; I am sure if he marries her, it will only be because he

cannot help it.”

“Poor Lady Euphrasia!”

“O no, not at all; he'll make her two or three fine speeches, and then

she'll be perfectly contented especially if he looks as dismally at her

as he does at us! and that probably he will do the more readily for not

liking to look at her at all. But she's such a romantic little thing,

she'll never suspect him.”

Here they were somewhat alarmed by a sudden darkness in the air, which

was presently succeeded by a thunder storm; they instantly turned back,

and began running home, when a violent shower of rain obliged them to

take shelter under a large tree; where in two minutes they were joined

by Delvile, who came to offer his assistance in hurrying them home; and

finding the thunder and lightning continue, begged them to move on, in

defiance of the rain, as their present situation exposed them to more

danger than a wet hat and cloak, which might be changed in a moment.

Cecilia readily assented; but Lady Honoria, extremely frightened,

protested she would not stir till the storm was over. It was in vain he

represented her mistake in supposing herself in a place of security; she

clung to the tree, screamed at every flash of lightning, and all her gay

spirits were lost in her apprehensions.

Delvile then earnestly proposed to Cecilia conducting her home by

herself, and returning again to Lady Honoria; but she thought it

wrong to quit her companion, and hardly right to accept his assistance

separately. They waited, therefore, some time all together; but the

storm increasing with great violence, the thunder growing louder, and

the lightning becoming stronger, Delvile grew impatient even to anger

at Lady Honoria's resistance, and warmly expostulated upon its folly

and danger. But the present was no season for lessons in philosophy;

prejudices she had never been taught to surmount made her think herself

in a place of safety, and she was now too much terrified to give

argument fair play.

Finding her thus impracticable, Delvile eagerly said to Cecilia, “Come

then, Miss Beverley, let us wait no longer; I will see you home, and

then return to Lady Honoria.”

“By no means,” cried she, “my life is not more precious than either of

yours, and therefore it may run the same risk.”

“It is more precious,” cried he with vehemence, “than the air I

breathe!” and seizing her hand, he drew it under his arm, and, without

waiting her consent, almost forced her away with him, saying as they

ran, “How could a thousand Lady Honoria's recompense the world for the

loss of one Miss Beverley? we may, indeed, find many thousand such

as Lady Honoria, but such as Miss Beverley--where shall we ever find

another?”

Cecilia, surprised, yet gratified, could not speak, for the speed with

which they ran almost took away her breath; and before they were near

home, slackening her pace, and panting, she confessed her strength was

exhausted, and that she could go so fast no further.

“Let us then stop and rest,” cried he; “but why will you not lean upon

me? surely this is no time for scruples, and for idle and unnecessary

scruples, Miss Beverley can never find a time.”

Cecilia then, urged equally by shame at his speech and by weakness from

fatigue, leant upon his arm but she soon repented her condescension;

for Delvile, with an emotion he seemed to find wholly irrepressible,

passionately exclaimed “sweet lovely burthen! O why not thus for ever!”

The strength of Cecilia was now instantly restored, and she hastily

withdrew from his hold; he suffered her to disengage herself, but said

in a faultering voice, “pardon me, Cecilia!--Madam!--Miss Beverley, I

mean!--”

Cecilia, without making any answer, walked on by herself, as quick a

pace as she was able; and Delvile, not venturing to oppose her, silently

followed.

They had gone but a few steps, before there came a violent shower of

hail; and the wind, which was very high, being immediately in their

faces, Cecilia was so pelted and incommoded, that she was frequently

obliged to stop, in defiance of her utmost efforts to force herself

forward. Delvile then approaching her, proposed that she should again

stand under a tree, as the thunder and lightning for the present seemed

over, and wait there till the fury of the hail was past; and Cecilia,

though never before so little disposed to oblige him, was so much

distressed by the violence of the wind and hail, that she was forced to

comply.

Every instant now seemed an age; yet neither hail nor wind abated; mean

time they were both silent, and both, though with different feelings,

equally comfortless.

Delvile, however, who took care to place himself on the side whence the

wind blew hardest, perceived, in spite of his endeavours to save her,

some hail-stones lodged upon her thin summer cloak; he then took off

his own hat, and, though he ventured not to let it touch her, held it in

such a manner as to shelter her better.

Cecilia now could no longer be either silent or unmoved, but turning to

him with much emotion, said, “Why will you do this, Mr Delvile?”

“What would I not do,” answered he, “to obtain forgiveness from Miss

Beverley?”

“Well, well,--pray put on your hat.”

“Do you command it?”

“No, certainly!--but I wish it.”

“Ah!” cried he, instantly putting it on, “whose are the commands that

would have half the weight with your wishes?”

And then, after another pause, he added, “do you forgive me?”

Cecilia, ashamed of the cause of their dissension, and softened by the

seriousness of his manner, answered very readily, “yes, yes,--why will

you make me remember such nonsense?”

“All sweetness,” cried he warmly, and snatching her hand, “is Miss

Beverley!--O that I had power--that it were not utterly impossible--that

the cruelty of my situation--”

“I find,” cried she, greatly agitated, and forcibly drawing away her

hand, “you will teach me, for another time, the folly of fearing bad

weather!”

And she hurried from beneath the tree; and Delvile perceiving one of the

servants approach with an umbrella, went forward to take it from him,

and directed him to hasten instantly to Lady Honoria.

Then returning to Cecilia, he would have held it over her head, but with

an air of displeasure, she took it into her own hand.

“Will you not let me carry it for you?” he cried.

“No, Sir, there is not any occasion.”

They then proceeded silently on.

The storm was now soon over; but it grew very dark, and as they had

quitted the path while they ran, in order to get home by a shorter cut,

the walk was so bad from the height of the grass, and the unevenness of

the ground, that Cecilia had the utmost difficulty to make her way; yet

she resolutely refused any assistance from Delvile, who walked anxiously

by her side, and seemed equally fearful upon his own account and upon

hers, to trust himself with being importunate.

At length they came to a place which Cecilia in vain tried to pass;

Delvile then grew more urgent to help her; firm, however, in declining

all aid, she preferred going a considerable way round to another part

of the park which led to the house. Delvile, angry as well as mortified,

proposed to assist her no more, but followed without saying a word.

Cecilia, though she felt not all the resentment she displayed, still

thought it necessary to support it, as she was much provoked with the

perpetual inconsistency of his behaviour, and deemed it wholly improper

to suffer, without discouragement, occasional sallies of tenderness

from one who, in his general conduct, behaved with the most scrupulous

reserve.

They now arrived at the castle; but entering by a back way, came to a

small and narrow passage which obstructed the entrance of the umbrella;

Delvile once more, and almost involuntarily, offered to help her; but,

letting down the spring, she coldly said she had no further use for it.

He then went forward to open a small gate which led by another long

passage into the hall; but hearing the servants advance, he held it for

an instant in his hand, while, in a tone of voice the most dejected, he

said “I am grieved to find you thus offended; but were it possible you

could know half the wretchedness of my heart, the generosity of your

own would make you regret this severity!” and then, opening the gate, he

bowed, and went another way.

Cecilia was now in the midst of servants; but so much shocked and

astonished by the unexpected speech of Delvile, which instantly changed

all her anger into sorrow, that she scarce knew what they said to her,

nor what she replied; though they all with one voice enquired what was

become of Lady Honoria, and which way they should run to seek her.

Mrs Delvile then came also, and she was obliged to recollect herself.

She immediately proposed her going to bed, and drinking white wine whey

to prevent taking cold; cold, indeed, she feared not; yet she agreed to

the proposal, for she was confounded and dismayed by what had passed,

and utterly unable to hold any conversation.

Her perplexity and distress were, however, all attributed to fatigue and

fright; and Mrs Delvile, having assisted in hurrying her to bed, went to

perform the same office for Lady Honoria, who arrived at that time.

Left at length by herself, she revolved in her mind the adventure of

the evening, and the whole behaviour of Delvile since first she was

acquainted with him. That he loved her with tenderness, with fondness

loved her, seemed no longer to admit of any doubt, for however distant

and cold he appeared, when acting with circumspection and design, the

moment he was off his guard from surprise, terror, accident of any sort,

the moment that he was betrayed into acting from nature and inclination,

he was constantly certain to discover a regard the most animated and

flattering.

This regard, however, was not more evident than his desire to conceal

and to conquer it; he seemed to dread even her sight, and to have

imposed upon himself the most rigid forbearance of all conversation or

intercourse with her.

Whence could this arise? what strange and unfathomable cause could

render necessary a conduct so mysterious? he knew not, indeed, that she

herself wished it changed, but he could not be ignorant that his chance

with almost any woman would at least be worth trying.

Was the obstacle which thus discouraged him the condition imposed by

her uncle's will of giving her own name to the man she married? this she

herself thought was an unpleasant circumstance, but yet so common for

an heiress, that it could hardly out-weigh the many advantages of such a

connection.

Henrietta again occurred to her; the letter she had seen in her hands

was still unexplained; yet her entire conviction that Henrietta was not

loved by him, joined to a certainty that affection alone could ever

make him think of her, lessened upon this subject her suspicions every

moment.

Lady Euphrasia Pemberton, at last, rested most upon her mind, and she

thought it probable some actual treaty was negociating with the Duke of

Derwent.

Mrs Delvile she had every reason to believe was her friend, though she

was scrupulously delicate in avoiding either raillery or observation

upon the subject of her son, whom she rarely mentioned, and never but

upon occasions in which Cecilia could have no possible interest.

The Father, therefore, notwithstanding all Mr Monckton had represented

to the contrary, appeared to be the real obstacle; his pride might

readily object to her birth, which though not contemptible, was merely

decent, and which, if traced beyond her grandfather, lost all title even

to that epithet.

“If this, however,” she cried, “is at last his situation, how much

have I been to blame in censuring his conduct! for while to me he has

appeared capricious, he has, in fact, acted wholly from necessity; if

his father insists upon his forming another connection, has he not been

honourable, prudent and just, in flying an object that made him think of

disobedience, and endeavouring to keep her ignorant of a partiality it

is his duty to curb?”

All, therefore, that remained for her to do or to resolve, was to guard

her own secret with more assiduous care than ever, and since she found

that their union was by himself thought impossible, to keep from his

knowledge that the regret was not all his own.

CHAPTER vi. -- A MYSTERY.

For two days, in consequence of violent colds caught during the storm,

Lady Honoria Pemberton and Cecilia were confined to their rooms.

Cecilia, glad by solitude and reflection to compose her spirits and

settle her plan of conduct, would willingly have still prolonged her

retirement, but the abatement of her cold affording her no pretence, she

was obliged on the third day to make her appearance.

Lady Honoria, though less recovered, as she had been more a sufferer,

was impatient of any restraint, and would take no denial to quitting

her room at the same time; at dinner, therefore, all the family met at

usual.

Mr Delvile, with his accustomed solemnity of civility, made various

enquiries and congratulations upon their danger and their security,

carefully in both, addressing himself first to Lady Honoria, and then

with more stateliness in his kindness, to Cecilia. His lady, who had

frequently visited them both, had nothing new to hear.

Delvile did not come in till they were all seated, when, hastily saying

he was glad to see both the ladies so well again, he instantly employed

himself in carving, with the agitation of a man who feared trusting

himself to sit idle.

Little, however, as he said, Cecilia was much struck by the melancholy

tone of his voice, and the moment she raised her eyes, she observed that

his countenance was equally sad.

“Mortimer,” cried Mr Delvile, “I am sure you are not well; I cannot

imagine why you will not have some advice.”

“Were I to send for a physician, Sir,” cried Delvile, with affected

chearfulness, “he would find it much more difficult to imagine what

advice to give me.”

“Permit me however, Mr Mortimer,” cried Lady Honoria, “to return you my

humble thanks for the honour of your assistance in the thunder storm! I

am afraid you made yourself ill by attending me!”

“Your ladyship,” returned Delvile, colouring very high, yet pretending

to laugh; “made so great a coward of me, that I ran away from shame at

my own inferiority of courage.”

“Were you, then, with Lady Honoria during the storm?” cried Mrs Delvile.

“No, Madam!” cried Lady Honoria very quick; “but he was so good as to

leave me during the storm.”

“Mortimer,” said Mr Delvile, “is this possible?”

“O Lady Honoria was such a Heroine,” answered Delvile, “that she

wholly disdained receiving any assistance; her valour was so much more

undaunted than mine, that she ventured to brave the lightning under an

oak tree!”

“Now, dear Mrs Delvile,” exclaimed Lady Honoria, “think what a simpleton

he would have made of me! he wanted to persuade me that in the open air

I should be less exposed to danger than under the shelter of a thick

tree!”

“Lady Honoria,” replied Mrs Delvile, with a sarcastic smile, “the next

tale of scandal you oblige me to hear, I will insist for your punishment

that you shall read one of Mr Newbury's little books! there are twenty

of them that will explain this matter to you, and such reading will at

least employ your time as usefully as such tales!”

“Well, ma'am,” said Lady Honoria, “I don't know whether you are laughing

at me or not, but really I concluded Mr Mortimer only chose to amuse

himself in a tête-à-tête with Miss Beverley.”

“He was not with Miss Beverley,” cried Mrs Delvile with quickness; “she

was alone,--I saw her myself the moment she came in.”

“Yes, ma'am,--but not then,-he was gone;”--said Cecilia, endeavouring,

but not very successfully, to speak with composure.

“I had the honour,” cried Delvile, making, with equal success, the same

attempt, “to wait upon Miss Beverley to the little gate; and I was then

returning to Lady Honoria when I met her ladyship just coming in.”

“Very extraordinary, Mortimer,” said Mr Delvile, staring, “to attend

Lady Honoria the last!”

“Don't be angry in earnest, Sir,” cried Lady Honoria, gaily, “for I did

not mean to turn tell-tale.”

Here the subject was dropt; greatly to the joy both of Delvile and

Cecilia, who mutually exerted themselves in talking upon what next was

started, in order to prevent its being recurred to again.

That fear, however, over, Delvile said little more; sadness hung heavily

on his mind; he was absent, disturbed, uneasy; yet he endeavoured no

longer to avoid Cecilia; on the contrary, when she arose to quit the

room, he looked evidently disappointed.

The ladies' colds kept them at home all the evening, and Delvile, for

the first time since their arrival at the castle, joined them at tea;

nor when it was over, did he as usual retire; he loitered, pretended to

be caught by a new pamphlet, and looked as anxiously eager to speak with

Cecilia, as he had hitherto appeared to shun her.

With new emotion and fresh distress Cecilia perceived this change; what

he might have to say she could not conjecture, but all that foreran his

communication convinced her it was nothing she could wish; and much as

she had desired some explanation of his designs, when the long-expected

moment seemed arriving, prognostications the most cruel of the event,

repressed her impatience, and deadened her curiosity. She earnestly

lamented her unfortunate residence in his house, where the adoration of

every inhabitant, from his father to the lowest servant, had impressed

her with the strongest belief of his general worthiness, and greatly,

though imperceptibly, encreased her regard for him, since she had

now not a doubt remaining but that some cruel, some fatal obstacle,

prohibited their union.

To collect fortitude to hear it with composure, was now her whole

study; but though, when alone, she thought any discovery preferable to

suspence, all her courage failed her when Delvile appeared, and if she

could not detain Lady Honoria, she involuntarily followed her.

Thus passed four or five days; during which the health of Delvile seemed

to suffer with his mind, and though he refused to acknowledge he was

ill, it was evident to every body that he was far from well.

Mr Delvile frequently urged him to consent to have some advice; but

he always revived, though with forced and transitory spirits, at the

mention of a physician, and the proposal ended in nothing.

Mrs Delvile, too, at length grew alarmed; her enquiries were more

penetrating and pointed, but they were not more successful; every

attack of this sort was followed by immediate gaiety, which, however

constrained, served, for the time, to change the subject. Mrs Delvile,

however, was not soon to be deceived; she watched her son incessantly,

and seemed to feel an inquietude scarce less than his own.

Cecilia's distress was now augmented every moment, and the difficulty to

conceal it grew every hour more painful; she felt herself the cause of

the dejection of the son, and that thought made her feel guilty in the

presence of the mother; the explanation she expected threatened her with

new misery, and the courage to endure it she tried in vain to acquire;

her heart was most cruelly oppressed, apprehension and suspence never

left it for an instant; rest abandoned her at night, and chearfulness by

day.

At this time the two lords, Ernolf and Derford, arrived; and Cecilia,

who at first had lamented their design, now rejoiced in their presence,

since they divided the attention of Mrs Delvile, which she began to fear

was not wholly directed to her son, and since they saved her from

having the whole force of Lady Honoria's high spirits and gay rattle to

herself.

Their immediate observations upon the ill looks of Delvile, startled

both Cecilia and the mother even more than their own fears, which they

had hoped were rather the result of apprehension than of reason. Cecilia

now severely reproached herself with having deferred the conference

he was evidently seeking, not doubting but she had contributed to his

indisposition by denying him the relief he might expect from concluding

the affair.

Melancholy as was this idea, it was yet a motive to overpower her

reluctance, and determine her no longer to shun what it seemed necessary

to endure.

Deep reasoners, however, when they are also nice casuists, frequently

resolve with a tardiness which renders their resolutions of no effect;

this was the case with Cecilia; the same morning that she came down

stairs prepared to meet with firmness the blow which she believed

awaited her, Delvile, who, since the arrival of the two lords, had

always appeared at the general breakfast, acknowledged in answer to his

mother's earnest enquiries, that he had a cold and head-ache; and had

he, at the same time, acknowledged a pleurisy and fever, the alarm

instantly spread in the family could not have been greater; Mr Delvile,

furiously ringing the bell, ordered a man and horse to go that moment to

Dr Lyster, the physician to the family, and not to return without him if

he was himself alive; and Mrs Delvile, not less distressed, though more

quiet, fixed her eyes upon her son, with an expression of anxiety that

shewed her whole happiness was bound in his recovery.

Delvile endeavoured to laugh away their fears, assuring them he

should be well the next day, and representing in ridiculous terms the

perplexity of Dr Lyster to contrive some prescription for him.

Cecilia's behaviour, guided by prudence and modesty, was steady and

composed; she believed his illness and his uneasiness were the same, and

she hoped the resolution she had taken would bring relief to them both

while the terrors of Mr and Mrs Delvile seemed so greatly beyond the

occasion, that her own were rather lessened than increased by them.

Dr Lyster soon arrived; he was a humane and excellent physician, and a

man of sound judgment.

Delvile, gaily, shaking hands with him, said “I believe, Dr Lyster, you

little expected to meet a patient, who, were he as skilful, would be as

able to do business as yourself.”

“What, with such a hand as this?” cried the Doctor; “come, come, you

must not teach me my own profession. When I attend a patient, I come to

tell how he is myself, not to be told.”

“He is, then ill!” cried Mrs Delvile; “oh Mortimer, why have you thus

deceived us!”

“What is his disorder?” cried Mr Delvile; “let us call in more help; who

shall we send for, doctor?”

And again he rang the bell.

“What now?” said Dr Lyster, coolly; “must a man be dying if he is not in

perfect health? we want nobody else; I hope I can prescribe for a cold

without demanding a consultation?”

“But are you sure it is merely a cold?” cried Mr Delvile; “may not some

dreadful malady”--

“Pray, Sir, have patience,” interrupted the doctor; “Mr Mortimer and I

will have some discourse together presently; mean time, let us all sit

down, and behave like Christians; I never talk of my art before company.

'Tis hard you won't let me be a gentleman at large for two minutes!”

Lady Honoria and Cecilia would then have risen, but neither Dr Lyster

nor Delvile would permit them to go; and a conversation tolerably lively

took place, after which, the party in general separating, the doctor

accompanied Delvile to his own apartment.

Cecilia then went up stairs, where she most impatiently waited some

intelligence; none, however, arriving, in about half an hour she

returned to the parlour; she found it empty, but was soon joined by Lady

Honoria and Lord Ernolf.

Lady Honoria, happy in having something going forward, and not much

concerning herself whether it were good or evil, was as eager to

communicate what she had gathered, as Cecilia was to hear it.

“Well, my dear,” she cried, “so I don't find at last but that all this

prodigious illness will be laid to your account.”

“To my account?” cried Cecilia, “how is that possible?”

“Why this tender chicken caught cold in the storm last week, and not

being put to bed by its mama, and nursed with white-wine whey, the poor

thing has got a fever.”

“He is a fine young man,” said Lord Ernolf; “I should be sorry any harm

happened to him.”

“He was a fine young man, my lord,” cried Lady Honoria, “but he is grown

intolerably stupid lately; however, it's all the fault of his father and

mother. Was ever any thing half so ridiculous as their behaviour this

morning? it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore laughing in their

faces; and really, I believe if I was to meet with such an unfortunate

accident with Mr Delvile, it would turn him to marble at once! indeed

he is little better now, but such an affront as that would never let him

move from the spot where he received it.”

“I forgive him, however,” returned Lord Ernolf, “for his anxiety about

his son, since he is the last of so ancient a family.”

“That is his great misfortune, my lord,” answered Lady Honoria, “because

it is the very reason they make such a puppet of him. If there were but

a few more little masters to dandle and fondle, I'll answer for it this

precious Mortimer would soon be left to himself; and then, really, I

believe he would be a good tolerable sort of young man. Don't you think

he would, Miss Beverley?”