“O yes!” said Cecilia, “I believe--I think so!”

“Nay, nay, I did not ask if you thought him tolerable now, so no need to

be frightened.”

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Dr Lyster.

“Well, Sir,” cried Lady Honoria, “and when am I to go into mourning for

my cousin Mortimer?”

“Why very soon,” answered he, “unless you take better care of him. He

has confessed to me that after being out in the storm last Wednesday, he

sat in his wet cloaths all the evening.”

“Dear,” cried Lady Honoria, “and what would that do to him? I have

no notion of a man's always wanting a cambric handkerchief about his

throat.”

“Perhaps your ladyship had rather make him apply it to his eyes?” cried

the doctor; “however, sitting inactive in wet cloaths would destroy a

stouter man than Mr Delvile; but he forgot it, he says! which of you two

young ladies could not have given as good reason?”

“Your most obedient,” said Lady Honoria, “and why should not a lady give

as good a reason as a gentleman?”

“I don't know,” answered he, drily, “but from want of practice, I

believe.”

“O worse and worse!” cried Lady Honoria; “you shall never be my

physician; if I was to be attended by you, you'd make me sick instead of

well.”

“All the better,” answered he, “for then I must have the honour

of attending you till I made you well instead of sick.” And with a

good-humoured smile, he left them; and Lord Derford, at the same time,

coming into the room, Cecilia contrived to stroll out into the park.

The account to which she had been listening redoubled her uneasiness;

she was conscious that whatever was the indisposition of Delvile, and

whether it was mental or bodily, she was herself its occasion; through

her he had been negligent, she had rendered him forgetful, and in

consulting her own fears in preference to his peace, she had avoided an

explanation, though he had vigilantly sought one. She knew not, he told

her, half the wretchedness of his heart.--Alas! thought she, he little

conjectures the state of mine!

Lady Honoria suffered her not to be long alone; in about half an hour

she ran after her, gaily calling out, “O Miss Beverley, you have lost

the delightfullest diversion in the world! I have just had the most

ridiculous scene with my Lord Derford that you ever heard in your life!

I asked him what put it in his head to be in love with you,--and he had

the simplicity to answer, quite seriously, his father!”

“He was very right,” said Cecilia, “if the desire of uniting two estates

is to be denominated being in love; for that, most certainly, was put

into his head by his father.”

“O but you have not heard half. I told him, then, that, as a friend,

in confidence I must acquaint him, I believed you intended to marry

Mortimer--”

“Good heaven, Lady Honoria!”

“O, you shall hear the reason; because, as I assured him, it was proper

he should immediately call him to account.”

“Are you mad, Lady Honoria?”

“For you know, said I, Miss Beverley has had one duel fought for her

already, and a lady who has once had that compliment paid her, always

expects it from every new admirer; and I really believe your not

observing that form is the true cause of her coldness to you.”

“Is it possible you can have talked so wildly?”

“Yes, and what is much better, he believed every word I said!”

“Much better?--No, indeed, it is much worse! and if, in fact, he is so

uncommonly weak, I shall really be but little indebted to your ladyship

for giving him such notions.”

“O I would not but have done it for the world! for I never laughed so

immoderately in my life. He began assuring me he was not afraid, for he

said he had practised fencing more than any thing; so I made him promise

to send a challenge to Mortimer as soon as he is well enough to come

down again; for Dr Lyster has ordered him to keep his room.”

Cecilia, smothering her concern for this last piece of intelligence

by pretending to feel it merely for the former, expostulated with Lady

Honoria upon so mischievous a frolic, and earnestly entreated her to go

back and contradict it all.

“No, no, not for the world!” cried she; “he has not the least spirit,

and I dare say he would not fight to save the whole nation from

destruction; but I'll make him believe that it's necessary, in order to

give him something to think of, for really his poor head is so vacant,

that I am sure if one might but play upon it with sticks, it would sound

just like a drum.”

Cecilia, finding it vain to combat with her fantasies, was at length

obliged to submit.

The rest of the day she passed very unpleasantly; Delvile appeared not;

his father was restless and disturbed, and his mother, though attentive

to her guests, and, for their sakes rallying her spirits, was visibly

ill disposed to think or to talk but of her son.

One diversion, however, Cecilia found for herself; Delvile had a

favourite spaniel, which, when he walked followed him, and when he rode,

ran by his horse; this dog, who was not admitted into the house, she now

took under her own care; and spent almost the whole day out of doors,

chiefly for the satisfaction of making him her companion.

The next morning, when Dr Lyster came again, she kept in the way, in

order to hear his opinion; and was sitting with Lady Honoria in the

parlour, when he entered it to write a prescription.

Mrs Delvile, in a few moments, followed him, and with a face and voice

of the tenderest maternal apprehensions, said “Doctor, one thing entrust

me with immediately; I can neither bear imposition nor suspense;--you

know what I would say!--tell me if I have any thing to fear, that my

preparations may be adequate!”

“Nothing, I believe, in the world.”

“You believe!” repeated Mrs Delvile, starting; “Oh doctor!”

“Why you would not have me say I am certain, would you? these are no

times for Popery and infallibility; however, I assure you I think him

perfectly safe. He has done a foolish and idle trick, but no man is wise

always. We must get rid of his fever, and then if his cold remains, with

any cough, he may make a little excursion to Bristol.”

“To Bristol! nay then,--I understand you too well!”

“No, no, you don't understand me at all; I don't send him to Bristol

because he is in a bad way, but merely because I mean to put him in a

good one.”

“Let him, then, go immediately; why should he increase the danger by

waiting a moment? I will order--”

“Hold, hold! I know what to order myself! 'Tis a strange thing people

will always teach me my own duty! why should I make a man travel such

weather as this in a fever? do you think I want to confine him in a

mad-house, or be confined in one myself?”

“Certainly you know best--but still if there is any danger--”

“No, no, there is not! only we don't chuse there should be any. And how

will he entertain himself better than by going to Bristol? I send him

merely on a jaunt of pleasure; and I am sure he will be safer there than

shut up in a house with two such young ladies as these.”

And then he made off. Mrs Delvile, too anxious for conversation, left

the room, and Cecilia, too conscious for silence, forced herself into

discourse with Lady Honoria.

Three days she passed in this uncertainty what she had to expect;

blaming those fears which had deferred an explanation, and tormented

by Lady Honoria, whose raillery and levity now grew very unseasonable.

Fidel, the favourite spaniel, was almost her only consolation, and she

pleased herself not inconsiderably by making a friend of the faithful

animal.

CHAPTER vii. -- AN ANECDOTE.

On the fourth day the house wore a better aspect; Delvile's fever was

gone, and Dr Lyster permitted him to leave his room; a cough, however,

remained, and his journey to Bristol was settled to take place in three

days. Cecilia, knowing he was now expected down stairs, hastened out of

the parlour the moment she had finished her breakfast; for affected by

his illness, and hurt at the approaching separation, she dreaded the

first meeting, and wished to fortify her mind for bearing it with

propriety.

In a very few minutes, Lady Honoria, running after her, entreated that

she would come down; “for Mortimer,” she cried, “is in the parlour, and

the poor child is made so much of by its papa and mama, that I wish they

don't half kill him by their ridiculous fondness. It is amazing to me he

is so patient with them, for if they teized me half as much, I should be

ready to jump up and shake them. But I wish you would come down, for I

assure you it's a comical scene.”

“Your ladyship is soon diverted! but what is there so comical in the

anxiety of parents for an only son?”

“Lord, they don't care a straw for him all the time! it's merely that

he may live to keep up this old castle, which I hope in my heart he will

pull down the moment they are dead! But do pray come; it will really

give you spirits to see them all. The father keeps ringing the bell to

order half a hundred pair of boots for him, and all the greatcoats in

the county; and the mother sits and looks as if a hearse and mourning

coach were already coming over the drawbridge; but the most diverting

object among them is my Lord Derford! O, it is really too entertaining

to see him! there he sits, thinking the whole time of his challenge!

I intend to employ him all this afternoon in practising to shoot at a

mark.”

And then again she pressed her to join the group, and Cecilia, fearing

her opposition might seem strange, consented.

Delvile arose at her entrance, and, with tolerable steadiness, she

congratulated him on his recovery; and then, taking her usual seat,

employed herself in embroidering a screen. She joined too, occasionally,

in the conversation, and observed, not without surprise, that Delvile

seemed much less dejected than before his confinement.

Soon after, he ordered his horse, and, accompanied by Lord Derford,

rode out. Mr Delvile then took Lord Ernolf to shew him some intended

improvements in another part of the castle, and Lady Honoria walked away

in search of any entertainment she could find.

Mrs Delvile, in better spirits than she had been for many days, sent

for her own work, and sitting by Cecilia, conversed with her again as in

former times; mixing instruction with entertainment, and general

satire with particular kindness, in a manner at once so lively and so

flattering, that Cecilia herself reviving, found but little difficulty

in bearing her part in the conversation.

And thus, with some gaiety, and tolerable ease, was spent the greatest

part of the morning; but just as they were talking of changing their

dress for dinner, Lady Honoria with an air of the utmost exultation,

came flying into the room. “Well, ma'am,” she cried, “I have some news

now that I must tell you, because it will make you believe me another

time though I know it will put you in a passion.”

“That's sweetly designed, at least!” said Mrs Delvile, laughing;

“however, I'll trust you, for my passions will not, just now, be

irritated by straws.”

“Why, ma'am, don't you remember I told you when you were in town that Mr

Mortimer kept a mistress--”

“Yes!” cried Mrs Delvile, disdainfully, “and you may remember, Lady

Honoria, I told you--”

“O, you would not believe a word of it! but it's all true, I assure you!

and now he has brought her down here; he sent for her about three weeks

ago, and he has boarded her at a cottage, about half a mile from the

Park-gate.”

Cecilia, to whom Henrietta Belfield was instantly present, changed

colour repeatedly, and turned so extremely sick, she could with

difficulty keep her seat. She forced herself, however, to continue her

work, though she knew so little what she was about, that she put her

needle in and out of the same place without ceasing.

Meanwhile Mrs Delvile, with a countenance of the utmost indignation,

exclaimed, “Lady Honoria, if you think a tale of scandal such as this

reflects no disgrace upon its relater, you must pardon me for entreating

you to find an auditor more of the same opinion than myself.”

“Nay, ma'am, since you are so angry, I'll tell you the whole affair, for

this is but half of it. He has a child here, too,--I vow I long to see

it!--and he is so fond of it that he spends half his time in nursing

it;--and that, I suppose, is the thing that takes him out so much; and I

fancy, too, that's what has made him grow so grave, for may be he thinks

it would not be pretty to be very frisky, now he's a papa.”

Not only Cecilia, but Mrs Delvile herself was now overpowered, and

she sat for some time wholly silent and confounded; Lady Honoria then,

turning to Cecilia exclaimed, “Bless me, Miss Beverley, what are you

about! why that flower is the most ridiculous thing I ever saw! you have

spoilt your whole work.”

Cecilia, in the utmost confusion, though pretending to laugh, then began

to unpick it; and Mrs Delvile, recovering, more calmly, though not less

angrily, said “And has this tale the honour of being invented solely by

your ladyship, or had it any other assistant?”

“O no, I assure you, it's no invention of mine; I had it from very good

authority upon my word. But only look at Miss Beverley! would not one

think I had said that she had a child herself? She looks as pale as

death. My dear, I am sure you can't be well?”

“I beg your pardon,” cried Cecilia, forcing a smile, though extremely

provoked with her; “I never was better.”

And then, with the hope of appearing unconcerned, she raised her head;

but meeting the eyes of Mrs Delvile fixed upon her face with a look of

penetrating observation, abashed and guilty, she again dropt it, and

resumed her work.

“Well, my dear,” said Lady Honoria, “I am sure there is no occasion to

send for Dr Lyster to you, for you recover yourself in a moment; you

have the finest colour now I ever saw; has not she, Mrs Delvile? did you

ever see anybody blush so becomingly?”

“I wish, Lady Honoria,” said Mrs Delvile, with severity, “it were

possible to see you blush!”

“O but I never do! not but what it's pretty enough too; but I don't know

how it is, it never happens. Now Euphrasia can blush from morning to

night. I can't think how she contrives it. Miss Beverley, too, plays

at it vastly well; she's red and white, and white and red half a dozen

times in a minute. Especially,” looking at her archly, and lowering her

voice, “if you talk to her of Mortimer!”

“No, indeed! no such thing!” cried Cecilia with some resentment, and

again looking up; but glancing her eyes towards Mrs Delvile, and

again meeting hers, filled with the strongest expression of enquiring

solicitude, unable to sustain their inquisition, and shocked to find

herself thus watchfully observed, she returned in hasty confusion to her

employment.

“Well, my dear,” cried Lady Honoria, again, “but what are you about now?

do you intend to unpick the whole screen?”

“How can she tell what she is doing,” said Mrs Delvile, with quickness,

“if you torment her thus incessantly? I will take you away from her,

that she may have a little peace. You shall do me the honour to attend

my toilette, and acquaint me with some further particulars of this

extraordinary discovery.”

Mrs Delvile then left the room, but Lady Honoria, before she followed

her, said in a low voice “Pity me, Miss Beverley, if you have the least

good-nature! I am now going to hear a lecture of two hours long!”

Cecilia, left to herself was in a perturbation almost insupportable;

Delvile's mysterious conduct seemed the result of some entanglement of

vice; Henrietta Belfield, the artless Henrietta Belfield, she feared had

been abused, and her own ill-fated partiality, which now more than ever

she wished unknown even to herself, was evidently betrayed where most

the dignity of her mind made her desire it to be concealed!

In this state of shame, regret and resentment, which made her forget to

change her dress, or her place, she was suddenly surprised by Delvile.

Starting and colouring, she busied herself with collecting her work,

that she might hurry out of the room. Delvile, though silent himself,

endeavoured to assist her; but when she would have gone, he attempted to

stop her, saying “Miss Beverley, for three minutes only.”

“No, sir,” cried she, indignantly, “not for an instant!” and leaving him

utterly astonished, she hastened to her own apartment.

She was then sorry she had been so precipitate; nothing had been clearly

proved against him; no authority was so likely to be fallacious as that

of Lady Honoria; neither was he under any engagement to herself

that could give her any right to manifest such displeasure. These

reflections, however, came too late, and the quick feelings of her

agitated mind were too rapid to wait the dictates of cool reason. At

dinner she attended wholly to Lord Ernolf, whose assiduous politeness,

profiting by the humour, saved her the painful effort of forcing

conversation, or the guilty consciousness of giving way to silence,

and enabled her to preserve her general tenor between taciturnity and

loquaciousness. Mrs Delvile she did not once dare look at; but her son,

she saw, seemed greatly hurt; yet it was proudly, not sorrowfully, and

therefore she saw it with less uneasiness.

During the rest of the day, which was passed in general society, Mrs

Delvile, though much occupied, frequently leaving the room, and sending

for Lady Honoria, was more soft, kind and gentle with Cecilia than ever,

looking at her with the utmost tenderness, often taking her hand,

and speaking to her with even unusual sweetness. Cecilia with mingled

sadness and pleasure observed this encreasing regard, which she

could not but attribute to the discovery made through Lady Honoria's

mischievous intelligence, and which, while it rejoiced her with

the belief of her approbation, added fresh force to her regret in

considering it was fruitless. Delvile, mean-time, evidently offended

himself, conversed only with the gentlemen, and went very early into his

own room.

When they were all retiring, Mrs Delvile, following Cecilia, dismissed

her maid to talk with her alone.

“I am not, I hope, often,” she cried, “solicitous or importunate to

speak about my son; his character, I believe, wants no vindication;

clear and unsullied, it has always been its own support; yet the

aspersion cast upon it this morning by Lady Honoria, I think myself

bound to explain, not partially as his mother, but simply as his

friend.”

Cecilia, who knew not whither such an explanation might lead, nor

wherefore it was made, heard this opening with much emotion, but gave

neither to that nor to what followed any interruption.

Mrs Delvile then continued; she had taken the trouble, she said, to sift

the whole affair, in order to shame Lady Honoria by a pointed conviction

of what she had invented, and to trace from the foundation the

circumstances whence her surmises or report had sprung.

Delvile, it seems, about a fortnight before the present time, in one of

his morning walks, had observed a gipsey sitting by the side of the high

road, who seemed extremely ill, and who had a very beautiful child tied

to her back.

Struck with the baby, he stopt to enquire to whom it belonged; to

herself, she said, and begged his charity with the most pitiable cries

of distress; telling him that she was travelling to join some of her

fraternity, who were in a body near Bath, but was so ill with an ague

and fever that she feared she should die on the road.

Delvile desired her to go to the next cottage, and promised to pay for

her board there till she was better. He then spoke to the man and his

wife who owned it to take them in, who, glad to oblige his Honour,

instantly consented, and he had since called twice to see in what manner

they went on.

“How simple,” continued Mrs Delvile, “is a matter of fact in itself, and

how complex when embellished! This tale has been told by the cottagers

to our servants; it has travelled, probably gaining something from every

mouth, to Lady Honoria's maid, and, having reached her ladyship, was

swelled in a moment into all we heard! I think, however, that, for some

time at least, her levity will be rather less daring. I have not, in

this affair, at all spared her; I made her hear from Mortimer himself

the little story as it happened; I then carried her to the cottage,

where we had the whole matter confirmed; and I afterwards insisted upon

being told myself by her maid all she had related to her lady, that she

might thus be unanswerably convicted of inventing whatever she omitted.

I have occasioned her some confusion, and, for the moment, a little

resentment; but she is so volatile that neither will last; and though,

with regard to my own family, I may perhaps have rendered her more

cautious, I fear, with regard to the world in general, she is utterly

incorrigible, because it has neither pleasure nor advantage to offer,

that can compensate for the deprivation of relating one staring story,

or ridiculous anecdote.”

And then, wishing her good night, she added, “I make not any apology for

this detail, which you owe, not, believe me, to a mother's folly, but,

if I [know] myself at all, to a love of truth and justice. Mortimer,

independent of all connection with me, cannot but to every body appear

of a character which may be deemed even exemplary; calumny, therefore,

falling upon such a subject, injures not only himself but society, since

it weakens all confidence in virtue, and strengthens the scepticism of

depravity.”

She then left her.

“Ah!” thought Cecilia, “to me, at least, this solicitude for his fame

needs no apology! humane and generous Delvile! never, again, will I a

moment doubt your worthiness!” And then, cherishing that darling idea,

she forgot all her cares and apprehensions, her quarrel, her suspicions,

and the approaching separation, and, recompensed for every thing by this

refutation of his guilt, she hastened to bed, and composed herself to

rest.

CHAPTER viii. -- A CONFERENCE.

Early the next morning Cecilia had a visit from Lady Honoria, who came

to tell her story her own way, and laugh at the anxiety of Mrs Delvile,

and the trouble she had taken; “for, after all,” continued she, “what

did the whole matter signify? and how could I possibly help the mistake?

when I heard of his paying for a woman's board, what was so natural as

to suppose she must be his mistress? especially as there was a child

in the case. O how I wish you had been with us! you never saw such a

ridiculous sight in your life; away we went in the chaise full drive to

the cottage, frightening all the people almost into fits; out came the

poor woman, away ran the poor man,--both of them thought the end of

the world at hand! The gipsey was best off, for she went to her old

business, and began begging. I assure you, I believe she would be very

pretty if she was not so ill, and so I dare say Mortimer thought too, or

I fancy he would not have taken such care of her.”

“Fie, fie, Lady Honoria! will nothing bring conviction to you?”

“Nay, you know, there's no harm in that, for why should not pretty

people live as well as ugly ones? There's no occasion to leave nothing

in the world but frights. I looked hard at the baby, to see if it was

like Mortimer, but I could not make it out; those young things are like

nothing. I tried if it would talk, for I wanted sadly to make it call

Mrs Delvile grandmama; however, the little urchin could say nothing to

be understood. O what a rage would Mrs Delvile have been in! I suppose

this whole castle would hardly have been thought heavy enough to crush

such an insolent brat, though it were to have fallen upon it all at a

blow!”

Thus rattled this light-hearted lady till the family was assembled to

breakfast; and then Cecilia, softened towards Delvile by newly-excited

admiration, as well as by the absence which would separate them the

following day, intended, by every little courteous office in her power,

to make her peace with him before his departure; but she observed, with

much chagrin, that Mrs Delvile never ceased to watch her, which, added

to an air of pride in the coldness of Delvile, that he had never before

assumed, discouraged her from making the attempt, and compelled her to

seem quiet and unconcerned.

As soon as breakfast was over, the gentlemen all rode or walked out;

and when the ladies were by themselves, Lady Honoria suddenly exclaimed,

“Mrs Delvile, I can't imagine for what reason you send Mr Mortimer to

Bristol.”

“For a reason, Lady Honoria, that with all your wildness, I should be

very sorry you should know better by experience.”

“Why then, ma'am; had we not better make a party, and all go? Miss

Beverley, should you like to join it? I am afraid it would be vastly

disagreeable to you.”

Cecilia, now again was red and white, and white and red a dozen times

in a minute; and Mrs Delvile, rising and taking her hand, expressively

said, “Miss Beverley, you have a thousand times too much sensibility for

this mad-cap of a companion. I believe I shall punish her by taking you

away from her all this morning; will you come and sit with me in the

dressing-room?”

Cecilia assented without daring to look at her, and followed in

trembling, up stairs. Something of importance, she fancied, would

ensue, her secret she saw was revealed, and therefore she could form no

conjecture but that Delvile would be the subject of their discourse yet

whether to explain his behaviour, or plead his cause, whether to express

her separate approbation, or communicate some intelligence from himself,

she had neither time, opportunity nor clue to unravel. All that was

undoubted seemed the affection of Mrs Delvile, all that, on her own

part, could be resolved, was to suppress her partiality till she knew if

it might properly be avowed.

Mrs Delvile, who saw her perturbation, led immediately to subjects of

indifference, and talked upon them so long, and with so much ease, that

Cecilia, recovering her composure, began to think she had been mistaken,

and that nothing was intended but a tranquil conversation.

As soon, however, as she had quieted her apprehensions, she sat silent

herself, with a look that Cecilia easily construed into thoughtful

perplexity in what manner she should introduce what she meant to

communicate.

This pause was succeeded by her speaking of Lady Honoria; “how wild, how

careless, how incorrigible she is! she lost her mother early; and the

Duke, who idolizes her, and who, marrying very late, is already an

old man, she rules entirely; with him, and a supple governess, who has

neither courage to oppose her, nor heart to wish well but to her own

interest, she has lived almost wholly. Lately, indeed, she has come more

into the world, but without even a desire of improvement, and with

no view and no thought but to gratify her idle humour by laughing at

whatever goes forward.”

“She certainly neither wants parts nor discernment,” said Cecilia; “and,

when my mind is not occupied by other matters, I find her conversation

entertaining and agreeable.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Delvile, “but that light sort of wit which attacks,

with equal alacrity, what is serious or what is gay, is twenty times

offensive, to once that it is exhilarating; since it shews that while

its only aim is self-diversion, it has the most insolent negligence with

respect to any pain it gives to others. The rank of Lady Honoria, though

it has not rendered her proud, nor even made her conscious she has any

dignity to support, has yet given her a saucy indifference whom she

pleases or hurts, that borders upon what in a woman is of all things the

most odious, a daring defiance of the world and its opinions.”

Cecilia, never less disposed to enter upon her defence, made but little

answer; and, soon after, Mrs Delvile added, “I heartily wish she were

properly established; and yet, according to the pernicious manners and

maxims of the present age, she is perhaps more secure from misconduct

while single, than she will be when married. Her father, I fear, will

leave her too much to herself, and in that case I scarce know what may

become of her; she has neither judgment nor principle to direct her

choice, and therefore, in all probability, the same whim which one day

will guide it, will the next lead her to repent it.”

Again they were both silent; and then Mrs Delvile, gravely, yet with

energy exclaimed, “How few are there, how very few, who marry at

once upon principles rational, and feelings pleasant! interest and

inclination are eternally at strife, and where either is wholly

sacrificed, the other is inadequate to happiness. Yet how rarely do they

divide the attention! the young are rash, and the aged are mercenary;

their deliberations are never in concert, their views are scarce

ever blended; one vanquishes, and the other submits; neither party

temporizes, and commonly each is unhappy.”

“The time,” she continued, “is now arrived when reflections of this sort

cannot too seriously occupy me; the errors I have observed in others,

I would fain avoid committing; yet such is the blindness of self-love,

that perhaps, even at the moment I censure them, I am falling, without

consciousness, into the same! nothing, however, shall through negligence

be wrong; for where is the son who merits care and attention, if

Mortimer from his parents deserves not to meet them?”

The expectations of Cecilia were now again awakened, and awakened with

fresh terrors lest Mrs Delvile, from compassion, meant to offer her

services; vigorously, therefore, she determined to exert herself, and

rather give up Mortimer and all thoughts of him for ever, than submit to

receive assistance in persuading him to the union.

“Mr Delvile,” she continued, “is most earnest and impatient that some

alliance should take place without further delay; and for myself, could

I see him with propriety and with happiness disposed of, what a weight

of anxiety would be removed from my heart!”

Cecilia now made an effort to speak, attempting to say “Certainly, it

is a matter of great consequence;” but so low was her voice, and so

confused her manner, that Mrs Delvile, though attentively listening,

heard not a word. She forbore, however, to make her repeat what she

said, and went on herself as if speaking in answer.

“Not only his own, but the peace of his whole family will depend upon

his election, since he is the last of his race. This castle and estate,

and another in the north, were entailed upon him by the late Lord

Delvile, his grandfather, who, disobliged by his eldest son, the present

lord, left every thing he had power to dispose of to his second son,

Mr Delvile, and at his death, to his grandson, Mortimer. And even the

present lord, though always at variance with his brother, is fond of his

nephew, and has declared him his heir. I, also, have one sister, who is

rich, who has no children, and who has made the same declaration.

Yet though with such high expectations, he must not connect himself

imprudently; for his paternal estate wants repair, and he is well

entitled with a wife to expect what it requires.”

Most true! thought Cecilia, yet ashamed of her recent failure, she

applied herself to her work, and would not again try to speak.

“He is amiable, accomplished, well educated, and well born; far may we

look, and not meet with his equal; no woman need disdain, and few women

would refuse him.”

Cecilia blushed her concurrence; yet could well at that moment have

spared hearing the eulogy.

“Yet how difficult,” she continued, “to find a proper alliance!

there are many who have some recommendations, but who is there wholly

unexceptionable?”

This question seemed unanswerable; nor could Cecilia devise what it

meant.

“Girls of high family have but seldom large fortunes, since the heads of

their house commonly require their whole wealth for the support of

their own dignity; while on the other hand, girls of large fortune are

frequently ignorant, insolent, or low born; kept up by their friends

lest they should fall a prey to adventurers, they have no acquaintance

with the world, and little enlargement from education; their

instructions are limited to a few merely youthful accomplishments; the

first notion they imbibe is of their own importance, the first lesson

they are taught is the value of riches, and even from their cradles,

their little minds are narrowed, and their self-sufficiency is excited,

by cautions to beware of fortune-hunters, and assurances that the whole

world will be at their feet. Among such should we seek a companion for

Mortimer? surely not. Formed for domestic happiness, and delighting

in elegant society, his mind would disdain an alliance in which its

affections had no share.”

Cecilia colouring and trembling, thought now the moment of her trial was

approaching, and half mortified and half frightened prepared herself to

sustain it with firmness.

“I venture, therefore, my dear Miss Beverley, to speak to you upon this

subject as a friend who will have patience to hear my perplexities; you

see upon what they hang,--where the birth is such as Mortimer Delvile

may claim, the fortune generally fails; and where the fortune is

adequate to his expectations, the birth yet more frequently would

disgrace us.”

Cecilia, astonished by this speech, and quite off her guard from

momentary surprize, involuntarily raised her head to look at Mrs

Delvile, in whose countenance she observed the most anxious concern,

though her manner of speaking had seemed placid and composed.

“Once,” she continued, without appearing to remark the emotion of

her auditor, “Mr Delvile thought of uniting him with his cousin Lady

Honoria; but he never could endure the proposal; and who shall blame his

repugnance? her sister, indeed, Lady Euphrasia, is much preferable, her

education has been better, and her fortune is much more considerable.

At present, however, Mortimer seems greatly averse to her, and who has a

right to be difficult, if we deny it to him?”

Wonder, uncertainty, expectation and suspence now all attacked Cecilia,

and all harassed her with redoubled violence; why she was called to this

conference she knew not; the approbation she had thought so certain, she

doubted, and the proposal of assistance she had apprehended, she ceased

to think would be offered some fearful mystery, some cruel obscurity,

still clouded all her prospects, and not merely obstructed her view

of the future, but made what was immediately before her gloomy and

indistinct.

The state of her mind seemed read by Mrs Delvile, who examined her with

eyes of such penetrating keenness, that they rather made discoveries

than enquiries. She was silent some time, and looked irresolute how to

proceed; but at length, she arose, and taking Cecilia by the hand, who

almost drew it back from her dread of what would follow, she said “I

will torment you no more, my sweet young friend, with perplexities which

you cannot relieve; this only I will say, and then drop the subject for

ever; when my solicitude for Mortimer is removed, and he is established

to the satisfaction of us all, no care will remain in the heart of his

mother, half so fervent, so anxious and so sincere as the disposal of

my amiable Cecilia, for whose welfare and happiness my wishes are even

maternal.”

She then kissed her glowing cheek, and perceiving her almost stupified

with astonishment, spared her any effort to speak, by hastily leaving

her in possession of her room.

Undeceived in her expectations and chilled in her hopes, the heart

of Cecilia no longer struggled to sustain its dignity, or conceal its

tenderness; the conflict was at an end, Mrs Delvile had been open,

though her son was mysterious; but, in removing her doubts, she had

bereft her of her peace. She now found her own mistake in building upon

her approbation; she saw nothing was less in her intentions, and that

even when most ardent in affectionate regard, she separated her

interest from that of her son as if their union was a matter of utter

impossibility. “Yet why,” cried Cecilia, “oh why is it deemed so! that

she loves me, she is ever eager to proclaim, that my fortune would be,

peculiarly useful, she makes not a secret, and that I, at least, should

start no insuperable objections, she has, alas! but too obviously

discovered! Has she doubts of her son?--no, she has too much

discernment; the father, then, the haughty, impracticable father,

has destined him for some woman of rank, and will listen to no other

alliance.”

This notion somewhat soothed her in the disappointment she suffered; yet

to know herself betrayed to Mrs Delvile, and to see no other consequence

ensue but that of exciting a tender compassion, which led her to

discourage, from benevolence, hopes too high to be indulged, was a

mortification so severe, that it caused her a deeper depression of

spirits than any occurrence of her life had yet occasioned.

“What Henrietta Belfield is to me,” she cried, “I am to Mrs Delvile! but

what in her is amiable and artless, in me is disgraceful and unworthy.

And this is the situation which so long I have desired! This is the

change of habitation which I thought would make me so happy! oh who can

chuse, who can judge for himself? who can point out the road to his own

felicity, or decide upon the spot where his peace will be ensured!”

Still, however, she had something to do, some spirit to exert, and some

fortitude to manifest; Mortimer, she was certain, suspected not his own

power; his mother, she knew, was both too good and too wise to reveal

it to him, and she determined, by caution and firmness upon his

leave-taking and departure, to retrieve, if possible, that credit with

Mrs Delvile, which she feared her betrayed susceptibility had weakened.

As soon, therefore, as she recovered from her consternation, she quitted

Mrs Delvile's apartment, and seeking Lady Honoria herself, determined

not to spend even a moment alone, till Mortimer was gone; lest the

sadness of her reflections should overpower her resolution, and give a

melancholy to her air and manner which he might attribute, with but too

much justice, to concern upon his own account.

CHAPTER ix. -- AN ATTACK.

At dinner, with the assistance of Lord Ernolf, who was most happy to

give it, Cecilia seemed tolerably easy. Lord Derford, too, encouraged

by his father, endeavoured to engage some share of her attention; but

he totally failed; her mind was superior to little arts of coquetry, and

her pride had too much dignity to evaporate in pique; she determined,

therefore, at this time, as at all others, to be consistent in shewing

him he had no chance of her favour.

At tea, when they were again assembled, Mortimer's journey was the only

subject of discourse, and it was agreed that he should set out very

early in the morning, and, as the weather was extremely hot, not travel

at all in the middle of the day.

Lady Honoria then, in a whisper to Cecilia, said, “I suppose, Miss

Beverley, you will rise with the lark to-morrow morning? for your

health, I mean. Early rising, you know, is vastly good for you.”

Cecilia, affecting not to understand her, said she should rise, she

supposed, at her usual time.

“I'll tell Mortimer, however,” returned her ladyship, “to look up at

your window before he goes off; for if he will play Romeo, you, I dare

say, will play Juliet, and this old castle is quite the thing for the

musty family of the Capulets; I dare say Shakespeare thought of it when

he wrote of them.”

“Say to him what you please for yourself,” cried Cecilia, “but let me

entreat you to say nothing for me.”

“And my Lord Derford,” continued she, “will make an excessive pretty

Paris, for he is vastly in love, though he has got nothing to say; but

what shall we do for a Mercutio? we may find five hundred whining

Romeos to one gay and charming Mercutio. Besides, Mrs Delvile, to do her

justice, is really too good for the old Nurse, though Mr Delvile himself

may serve for all the Capulets and all the Montagues at once, for he has

pride enough for both their houses, and twenty more besides. By the way,

if I don't take care, I shall have this Romeo run away before I have

made my little dainty country Paris pick a quarrel with him.”

She then walked up to one of the windows, and motioning Lord Derford to

follow her, Cecilia heard her say to him, “Well, my lord, have you writ

your letter? and have you sent it? Miss Beverley, I assure you, will be

charmed beyond measure by such a piece of gallantry.”

“No, ma'am,” answered the simple young lord, “I have not sent it yet,

for I have only writ a foul copy.”

“O my lord,” cried she, “that is the very thing you ought to send! a

foul copy of a challenge is always better than a fair one, for it looks

written with more agitation. I am vastly glad you mentioned that.”

Cecilia then, rising and joining them, said, “What mischief is Lady

Honoria about now? we must all be upon our guards, my lord, for she has

a spirit of diversion that will not spare us.”

“Pray why do you interfere?” cried Lady Honoria, and then, in a lower

voice, she added, “what do you apprehend? do you suppose Mortimer cannot

manage such a poor little ideot as this?”

“I don't suppose any thing about the matter!”

“Well, then, don't interrupt my operations. Lord Derford, Miss Beverley

has been whispering me, that if you put this scheme in execution, she

shall find you, ever after, irresistible.”

“Lord Derford, I hope,” said Cecilia, laughing, “is too well acquainted

with your ladyship to be in any danger of credulity.”

“Vastly well!” cried she, “I see you are determined to provoke me, so if

you spoil my schemes, I will spoil yours, and tell a certain gentleman

your tender terrors for his safety.”

Cecilia now, extremely alarmed, most earnestly entreated her to be

quiet; but the discovery of her fright only excited her ladyship's

laughter, and, with a look the most mischievously wicked, she called out

“Pray Mr Mortimer, come hither!”

Mortimer instantly obeyed; and Cecilia at the same moment would with

pleasure have endured almost any punishment to have been twenty miles

off.

“I have something,” continued her ladyship, “of the utmost consequence

to communicate to you. We have been settling an admirable plan for you;

will you promise to be guided by us if I tell it you?”

“O certainly!” cried he; “to doubt that would disgrace us all round.”

“Well, then,--Miss Beverley, have you any objection to my proceeding?”

“None at all!” answered Cecilia, who had the understanding to know that

the greatest excitement to ridicule is opposition.

“Well, then, I must tell you,” she continued, “it is the advice of us

all, that as soon as you come to the possession of your estate, you make

some capital alterations in this antient castle.”

Cecilia, greatly relieved, could with gratitude have embraced her; and

Mortimer, very certain that such rattle was all her own, promised the

utmost submission to her orders, and begged her further directions,

declaring that he could not, at least, desire a fairer architect.

“What we mean,” said she, “may be effected with the utmost ease; it is

only to take out these old windows, and fix some thick iron grates in

their place, and so turn the castle into a gaol for the county.”

Mortimer laughed heartily at this proposition; but his father,

unfortunately hearing it, sternly advanced, and with great austerity

said, “If I thought my son capable of putting such an insult upon his

ancestors, whatever may be the value I feel for him, I would banish him

my presence for ever.”

“Dear Sir,” cried Lady Honoria, “how would his ancestors ever know it?”

“How?--why--that is a very extraordinary question, Lady Honoria!”

“Besides, Sir, I dare say the sheriff, or the mayor and corporation, or

some of those sort of people, would give him money enough, for the use

of it, to run him up a mighty pretty neat little box somewhere near

Richmond.”

“A box!” exclaimed he indignantly; “a neat little box for the heir of an

estate such as this!”

“I only mean,” cried she, giddily, “that he might have some place

a little more pleasant to live in, for really that old moat and

draw-bridge are enough to vapour him to death; I cannot for my life

imagine any use they are of; unless, indeed, to frighten away the deer,

for nothing else offer to come over. But, if you were to turn the house

into a gaol--”

“A gaol?” cried Mr Delvile, still more angrily, “your ladyship must

pardon me if I entreat you not to mention that word again when you are

pleased to speak of Delvile Castle.”

“Dear Sir, why not?”

“Because it is a term that, in itself, from a young lady, has a sound

peculiarly improper; and which, applied to any gentleman's antient

family seat,--a thing, Lady Honoria, always respectable, however lightly

spoken of!--has an effect the least agreeable that can be devised; for

it implies an idea either that the family, or the mansion, is going into

decay.”

“Well, Sir, you know, with regard to the mansion, it is certainly very

true, for all that other side, by the old tower, looks as if it would

fall upon one's head every time one is forced to pass it.”

“I protest, Lady Honoria,” said Mr Delvile, “that old tower, of

which you are pleased to speak so slightingly, is the most honourable

testimony to the antiquity of the castle of any now remaining, and I

would not part with it for all the new boxes, as you style them, in the

kingdom.”

“I am sure I am very glad of it, Sir, for I dare say nobody would give

even one of them for it.”

“Pardon me, Lady Honoria, you are greatly mistaken; they would give a

thousand; such a thing, belonging to a man from his own ancestors, is

invaluable.”

“Why, dear Sir, what in the world could they do with it? unless, indeed,

they were to let some man paint it for an opera scene.”

“A worthy use indeed!” cried Mr Delvile, more and more affronted; “and

pray does your ladyship talk thus to my Lord Duke?”

“O yes; and he never minds it at all.”

“It were strange if he did!” cried Mrs Delvile; “my only astonishment is

that anybody can be found who does mind it.”

“Why now, Mrs Delvile,” she answered, “pray be sincere; can you possibly

think this Gothic ugly old place at all comparable to any of the new

villas about town?”

“Gothic ugly old place!” repeated Mr Delvile, in utter amazement at her

dauntless flightiness; “your ladyship really does my humble dwelling too

much honour!”

“Lord, I beg a thousand pardons!” cried she, “I really did not think of

what I was saying. Come, dear Miss Beverley, and walk out with me, for I

am too much shocked to stay a moment longer.”

And then, taking Cecilia by the arm, she hurried her into the park,

through a door which led thither from the parlour.

“For heaven's sake, Lady Honoria,” said Cecilia, “could you find no

better entertainment for Mr Delvile than ridiculing his own house?”

“O,” cried she, laughing, “did you never hear us quarrel before? why

when I was here last summer, I used to affront him ten times a day.”

“And was that a regular ceremony?”

“No, really, I did not do it purposely; but it so happened; either

by talking of the castle, or the tower, or the draw-bridge, or the

fortifications; or wishing they were all employed to fill up that odious

moat; or something of that sort; for you know a small matter will put

him out of humour.”

“And do you call it so small a matter to wish a man's whole habitation

annihilated?”

“Lord, I don't wish anything about it! I only say so to provoke him.”

“And what strange pleasure can that give you?”

“O the greatest in the world! I take much delight in seeing anybody in a

passion. It makes them look so excessively ugly!”

“And is that the way you like every body should look, Lady Honoria?”

“O my dear, if you mean me, I never was in a passion twice in my life;

for as soon as ever I have provoked the people, I always run away. But

sometimes I am in a dreadful fright lest they should see me laugh, for

they make such horrid grimaces it is hardly possible to look at them.

When my father has been angry with me, I have sometimes been obliged to

pretend I was crying, by way of excuse for putting my handkerchief to my

face; for really he looks so excessively hideous, you would suppose he

was making mouths, like the children, merely to frighten one.”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Cecilia, “your ladyship can, indeed, never want

diversion, to find it in the anger of your father. But does it give you

no other sensation? are you not afraid?”

“O never! O what can he do to me, you know? he can only storm a little,

and swear a little, for he always swears when he is angry; and perhaps

order me to my own room; and ten to one but that happens to be the very

thing I want; for we never quarrel but when we are alone, and then it's

so dull, I am always wishing to run away.”

“And can you take no other method of leaving him?”

“Why I think none so easily; and it can do him no harm, you know;

I often tell him, when we make friends, that if it were not for a

postilion and his daughter, he would be quite out of practice in

scolding and swearing; for whenever he is upon the road he does nothing

else; though why he is in such a hurry, nobody can divine, for go

whither he will he has nothing to do.”

Thus ran on this flighty lady, happy in high animal spirits, and

careless who was otherwise, till, at some distance, they perceived Lord

Derford, who was approaching to join them.

“Miss Beverley,” cried she, “here comes your adorer; I shall therefore

only walk on till we arrive at that large oak, and then make him

prostrate himself at your feet, and leave you together.”

“Your ladyship is extremely good! but I am glad to be apprized of your

intention, as it will enable me to save you that trouble.”

She then turned quick back, and passing Lord Derford, who still walked

on towards Lady Honoria, she returned to the house; but, upon entering

the parlour, found all the company dispersed, Delvile alone excepted,

who was walking about the room, with his tablets in his hand, in which

he had been writing.

From a mixture of shame and surprize, Cecilia, at the sight of him, was

involuntarily retreating; but, hastening to the door, he called out in a

reproachful tone, “Will you not even enter the same room with me?”

“O yes,” cried she, returning; “I was only afraid I disturbed you.”

“No, madam,” answered he, gravely; “you are the only person who could

not disturb me, since my employment was making memorandums for a letter

to yourself; with which, however, I did not desire to importune you, but

that you have denied me the honour of even a five minutes' audience.”

Cecilia, in the utmost confusion at this attack, knew not whether to

stand still or proceed; but, as he presently continued his speech, she

found she had no choice but to stay.

“I should be sorry to quit this place, especially as the length of my

absence is extremely uncertain, while I have the unhappiness to be under

your displeasure, without making some little attempt to apologize for

the behaviour which incurred it. Must I, then, finish my letter, or will

you at last deign to hear me?”

“My displeasure, Sir,” said Cecilia, “died with its occasion; I beg,

therefore, that it may rest no longer in your remembrance.”

“I meant not, madam, to infer, that the subject or indeed that the

object merited your deliberate attention; I simply wish to explain what

may have appeared mysterious in my conduct, and for what may have seemed

still more censurable, to beg your pardon.”

Cecilia now, recovered from her first apprehensions, and calmed, because

piqued, by the calmness with which he spoke himself, made no opposition

to his request, but suffering him to shut both the door leading into the

garden, and that which led into the hall, she seated herself at one of

the windows, determined to listen with intrepidity to this long expected

explanation.

The preparations, however, which he made to obviate being overheard,

added to the steadiness with which Cecilia waited his further

proceedings, soon robbed him of the courage with which he began the

assault, and evidently gave him a wish of retreating himself.

At length, after much hesitation, he said “This indulgence, madam,

deserves my most grateful acknowledgments; it is, indeed, what I had

little right, and still less reason, after the severity I have met with

from you, to expect.”

And here, at the very mention of severity, his courage, called upon by

his pride, instantly returned, and he went on with the same spirit he

had begun.

“That severity, however, I mean not to lament; on the contrary, in

a situation such as mine, it was perhaps the first blessing I could

receive; I have found from it, indeed, more advantage and relief than

from all that philosophy, reflection or fortitude could offer. It has

shewn me the vanity of bewailing the barrier, placed by fate to my

wishes, since it has shewn me that another, less inevitable, but equally

insuperable, would have opposed them. I have determined, therefore,

after a struggle I must confess the most painful, to deny myself the

dangerous solace of your society, and endeavour, by joining dissipation

to reason, to forget the too great pleasure which hitherto it has

afforded me.”

“Easy, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “will be your task; I can only wish the

re-establishment of your health may be found no more difficult.”

“Ah, madam,” cried he, with a reproachful smile, “he jests at scars who

never felt a wound!--but this is a strain in which I have no right to

talk, and I will neither offend your delicacy, nor my own integrity, by

endeavouring to work upon the generosity of your disposition in order to

excite your compassion. Not such was the motive with which I begged this

audience; but merely a desire, before I tear myself away, to open to you

my heart, without palliation or reserve.”

He paused a few moments; and Cecilia finding her suspicions just that

this interview was meant to be final, considered that her trial, however

severe, would be short, and called forth all her resolution to sustain

it with spirit.

“Long before I had the honour of your acquaintance,” he continued, “your

character and your accomplishments were known to me; Mr Biddulph of

Suffolk, who was my first friend at Oxford, and with whom my intimacy

is still undiminished, was early sensible of your excellencies;

we corresponded, and his letters were filled with your praises. He

confessed to me, that his admiration had been unfortunate;--alas! I

might now make the same confession to him!”

Mr Biddulph, among many of the neighbouring gentlemen, had made

proposals to the Dean for Cecilia, which, at her desire, were rejected.

“When Mr Harrel saw masks in Portman-square, my curiosity to behold a

lady so adored, and so cruel, led me thither; your dress made you easily

distinguished.--Ah Miss Beverley! I venture not to mention what I then

felt for my friend! I will only say that something which I felt for

myself, warned me instantly to avoid you, since the clause in your

uncle's will was already well known to me.”

Now, then, at last, thought Cecilia, all perplexity is over!--the change

of name is the obstacle; he inherits all the pride of his family,--and

therefore to that family will I unrepining leave him!

“This warning,” he continued, “I should not have disregarded, had I

not, at the Opera, been deceived into a belief you were engaged; I then

wished no longer to shun you; bound in honour to forbear all efforts at

supplanting a man, to whom I thought you almost united, I considered you

already as married, and eagerly as I sought your society, I sought it

not with more pleasure than innocence. Yet even then, to be candid,

I found in myself a restlessness about your affairs that kept me in

eternal perturbation; but I flattered myself it was mere curiosity, and

only excited by the perpetual change of opinion to which occasion gave

rise, concerning which was the happy man.”

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, coolly, “there was any such mistake.”

“I will not, madam, fatigue you,” he returned, “by tracing the progress

of my unfortunate admiration; will endeavour to be more brief, for I

see you are already wearied.” He stopt a moment, hoping for some little

encouragement; but Cecilia, in no humour to give it, assumed an air of

unconcern, and sat wholly quiet.

“I knew not,” he then went on, with a look of extreme mortification,

“the warmth with which I honoured your virtues, till you deigned to

plead to me for Mr Belfield,--but let me not recollect the feelings of

that moment!--yet were they nothing,--cold, languid, lifeless to what I

afterwards experienced, when you undeceived me finally with respect to

your situation, and informed me the report concerning Sir Robert Floyer

was equally erroneous with that which concerned Belfield! O what was the

agitation of my whole soul at that instant!--to know you disengaged,--to

see you before me,--by the disorder of my whole frame to discover the

mistake I had cherished--”

Cecilia then, half rising, yet again seating herself, looked extremely

impatient to be gone.

“Pardon me, madam,” he cried; “I will have done, and trace my feelings

and my sufferings no longer, but hasten, for my own sake as well as

yours, to the reason why I have spoken at all. From the hour that

my ill-destined passion was fully known to myself, I weighed all the

consequences of indulging it, and found, added to the extreme hazard of

success, an impropriety even in the attempt. My honour in the honour

of my family is bound; what to that would seem wrong, in me would be

unjustifiable; yet where inducements so numerous were opposed by one

single objection!--where virtue, beauty, education and family were all

unexceptionable,--Oh cruel clause! barbarous and repulsive clause! that

forbids my aspiring to the first of women, but by an action that with my

own family would degrade me for ever!”

He stopt, overpowered by his own emotion, and Cecilia arose. “I see,

madam,” he cried, “your eagerness to be gone, and however at this moment

I may lament it, I shall recollect it hereafter with advantage. But to

conclude; I determined to avoid you, and, by avoiding, to endeavour to

forget you; I determined, also, that no human being, and yourself least

of all, should know, should even suspect the situation of my mind; and

though upon various occasions, my prudence and forbearance have suddenly

yielded to surprise and to passion, the surrender has been short, and

almost, I believe, unnoticed.

“This silence and this avoidance I sustained with decent constancy, till

during the storm, in an ill-fated moment, I saw, or thought I saw you in

some danger, and then, all caution off guard, all resolution surprised,

every passion awake, and tenderness triumphant--”

“Why, Sir,” cried Cecilia, angrily, “and for what purpose all this?”

“Alas, I know not!” said he, with a deep sigh, “I thought myself better

qualified for this conference, and meant to be firm and concise. I have

told my story ill, but as your own understanding will point out the

cause, your own benevolence will perhaps urge some excuse.

“Too certain, since that unfortunate accident, that all disguise was

vain, and convinced by your displeasure of the impropriety of which I

had been guilty, I determined, as the only apology I could offer, to

open to you my whole heart, and then fly you perhaps for ever.

“This, madam, incoherently indeed, yet with sincerity, I have now done;

my sufferings and my conflicts I do not mention, for I dare not! O

were I to paint to you the bitter struggles of a mind all at war with

itself,--Duty, spirit, and fortitude, combating love, happiness

and inclination,--each conquering alternately, and alternately each

vanquished,--I could endure it no longer, I resolved by one effort to

finish the strife, and to undergo an instant of even exquisite torture,

in preference to a continuance of such lingering misery!”

“The restoration of your health, Sir, and since you fancy it has been

injured, of your happiness,” said Cecilia, “will, I hope, be as speedy,

as I doubt not they are certain.”

“Since I fancy it has been injured!” repeated he; “what a phrase, after

an avowal such as mine! But why should I wish to convince you of my

sincerity, when to you it cannot be more indifferent, than to myself it

is unfortunate! I have now only to entreat your pardon for the robbery I

have committed upon your time, and to repeat my acknowledgments that you

have endeavoured to hear me with patience.”

“If you honour me, Sir, with some portion of your esteem,” said the

offended Cecilia, “these acknowledgments, perhaps, should be mine;

suppose them, however made, for I have a letter to write, and can

therefore stay no longer.”

“Nor do I presume, madam,” cried he proudly, “to detain you; hitherto

you may frequently have thought me mysterious, sometimes strange and

capricious, and perhaps almost always, unmeaning; to clear myself from

these imputations, by a candid confession of the motives which have

governed me, is all that I wished. Once, also--I hope but once,--you

thought me impertinent,--there, indeed, I less dare vindicate myself--”

“There is no occasion, Sir,” interrupted she, walking towards the door,

“for further vindication in any thing; I am perfectly satisfied, and if

my good wishes are worth your acceptance, assure yourself you possess

them.”

“Barbarous, and insulting!” cried he, half to himself; and then, with a

quick motion hastening to open the door for her, “Go, madam,” he added,

almost breathless with conflicting emotions, “go, and be your happiness

unalterable as your inflexibility!”

Cecilia was turning back to answer this reproach, but the sight of Lady

Honoria, who was entering at the other door, deterred her, and she went

on.

When she came to her own room, she walked about it some time in a state

so unsettled, between anger and disappointment, sorrow and pride, that

she scarce knew to which emotion to give way, and felt almost bursting

with each.

“The die,” she cried, “is at last thrown; and this affair is concluded

for ever! Delvile himself is content to relinquish me; no father has

commanded, no mother has interfered, he has required no admonition,

full well enabled to act for himself by the powerful instigation of

hereditary arrogance! Yet my family, he says,--unexpected condescension!

my family and every other circumstance is unexceptionable; how feeble,

then, is that regard which yields to one only objection! how potent that

haughtiness which to nothing will give way! Well, let him keep his name!

since so wondrous its properties, so all-sufficient its preservation,

what vanity, what presumption in me, to suppose myself an equivalent for

its loss!”

Thus, deeply offended, her spirits were supported by resentment, and not

only while in company, but when alone, she found herself scarce

averse to the approaching separation, and enabled to endure it without

repining.

CHAPTER x. -- A RETREAT.

The next morning Cecilia arose late, not only to avoid the raillery of

Lady Honoria, but to escape seeing the departure of Delvile; she knew

that the spirit with which she had left him, made him, at present,

think her wholly insensible, and she was at least happy to be spared the

mortification of a discovery, since she found him thus content, without

even solicitation, to resign her.

Before she was dressed, Lady Honoria ran into her room, “A new scheme of

politics!” she cried; “our great statesman intends to leave us; he can't

trust his baby out of his sight, so he is going to nurse him while upon

the road himself. Poor pretty dear Mortimer! what a puppet do they make

of him! I have a vast inclination to get a pap-boat myself, and make him

a present of it.”

Cecilia then enquired further particulars, and heard that Mr Delvile

purposed accompanying his son to Bristol, whose journey, therefore, was

postponed for a few hours to give time for new preparations.

Mr Delvile, who, upon this occasion, thought himself overwhelmed with

business, because, before his departure, he had some directions to give

to his domestics, chose to breakfast in his own apartment; Mrs Delvile,

also, wishing for some private conversation with her son, invited him to

partake of hers in her dressing-room, sending an apology to her guests,

and begging they would order their breakfasts when they pleased.

Mr Delvile, scrupulous in ceremony, had made sundry apologies to Lord

Ernolf for leaving him; but his real anxiety for his son overpowering

his artificial character, the excuses he gave to that nobleman were such

as could not possibly offend; and the views of his lordship himself in

his visit, being nothing interrupted, so long as Cecilia continued at

the castle, he readily engaged, as a proof that he was not affronted, to

remain with Mrs Delvile till his return.

Cecilia, therefore, had her breakfast with the two lords and Lady

Honoria; and when it was over, Lord Ernolf proposed to his son riding

the first stage with the two Mr Delviles on horseback. This was agreed

upon, and they left the room; and then Lady Honoria, full of frolic and

gaiety, seized one of the napkins, and protested she would send it to

Mortimer for a slabbering-bib; she therefore made it up in a parcel, and

wrote upon the inside of the paper with which she enveloped it, “A pin-a

fore for Master Mortimer Delvile, lest he should daub his pappy when he

is feeding him.” Eager to have this properly conveyed, she then ran out,

to give it in charge to her own man, who was to present him with it as

he got into the chaise.

She had but just quitted the room, when the door of it was again opened,

and by Mortimer himself, booted, and equipped for his journey.

“Miss Beverley here! and alone!” cried he, with a look, and in a voice,

which shewed that all the pride of the preceding evening was sunk into

the deepest dejection; “and does she not fly as I approach her? can she

patiently bear in her sight one so strange, so fiery, so inconsistent?

But she is too wise to resent the ravings of a madman;--and who, under

the influence of a passion at once hopeless and violent, can boast, but

at intervals, full possession of his reason?”

Cecilia, utterly astonished by a gentleness so humble, looked at him

in silent surprise; he advanced to her mournfully, and added, “I am

ashamed, indeed, of the bitterness of spirit with which I last night

provoked your displeasure, when I should have supplicated your lenity;

but though I was prepared for your coldness, I could not endure it, and

though your indifference was almost friendly, it made me little less

than frantic; so strangely may justice be blinded by passion, and every

faculty of reason be warped by selfishness!”

“You have no apology to make, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “since, believe me, I

require none.”

“You may well,” returned he, half-smiling, “dispense with my apologies,

since under the sanction of that word, I obtained your hearing

yesterday. But, believe me, you will now find me far more reasonable;

a whole night's reflections--reflections which no repose

interrupted!--have brought me to my senses. Even lunatics, you know,

have lucid moments!”

“Do you intend, Sir, to set off soon?”

“I believe so; I wait only for my father. But why is Miss Beverley so

impatient? I shall not soon return; that, at least, is certain, and, for

a few instants delay, may surely offer some palliation;--See! if I am

not ready to again accuse you of severity!--I must run, I find, or all

my boasted reformation will end but in fresh offence, fresh disgrace,

and fresh contrition! Adieu, madam!--and may all prosperity attend you!

That will be ever my darling wish, however long my absence, however

distant the climates which may part us!” He was then hurrying away,

but Cecilia, from an impulse of surprise too sudden to be restrained,

exclaimed “The climates?--do you, then, mean to leave England?”

“Yes,” cried he, with quickness, “for why should I remain in it? a few

weeks only could I fill up in any tour so near home, and hither in a few

weeks to return would be folly and madness; in an absence so brief, what

thought but that of the approaching meeting would occupy me? and what,

at that meeting, should I feel, but joy the most dangerous, and delight

which I dare not think of!--every conflict renewed, every struggle

re-felt, again all this scene would require to be acted, again I must

tear myself away, and every tumultuous passion now beating in my

heart would be revived, and, if possible, be revived with added

misery!--No!--neither my temper nor my constitution will endure such

another shock, one parting shall suffice, and the fortitude with which

I will lengthen my self-exile, shall atone to myself for the weakness

which makes it requisite!”

And then, with a vehemence that seemed fearful of the smallest delay, he

was again, and yet more hastily going, when Cecilia, with much emotion,

called out, “Two moments, Sir!”

“Two thousand! two million!” cried he, impetuously, and returning, with

a look of the most earnest surprise, he added, “What is it Miss Beverley

will condescend to command?”

“Nothing,” cried she, recovering her presence of mind, “but to beg you

will by no means, upon my account, quit your country and your friends,

since another asylum can be found for myself, and since I would much

sooner part from Mrs Delvile, greatly and sincerely as I reverence her,

than be instrumental to robbing her, even for a month, of her son.”

“Generous and humane is the consideration,” cried he; “but who half so

generous, so humane as Miss Beverley? so soft to all others, so noble in

herself? Can my mother have a wish, when I leave her with you? No; she

is sensible of your worth, she adores you, almost as I adore you myself!

you are now under her protection, you seem, indeed, born for each other;

let me not, then, deprive her of so honourable a charge--Oh, why must

he, who sees in such colours the excellencies of both, who admires with

such fervour the perfections you unite, be torn with this violence from

the objects he reveres, even though half his life he would sacrifice, to

spend in their society what remained!”--

“Well, then, Sir,” said Cecilia, who now felt her courage decline, and

the softness of sorrow steal fast upon her spirits, “if you will not

give up your scheme, let me no longer detain you.”

“Will you not wish me a good journey?”

“Yes,--very sincerely.”

“And will you pardon the unguarded errors which have offended you?”

“I will think of them, Sir, no more.”

“Farewell, then, most amiable of women, and may every blessing you

deserve light on your head! I leave to you my mother, certain of your

sympathetic affection for a character so resembling your own. When you,

madam, leave her, may the happy successor in your favour--” He paused,

his voice faultered, Cecilia, too, turned away from him, and, uttering

a deep sigh, he caught her hand, and pressing it to his lips, exclaimed,

“O great be your felicity, in whatever way you receive it!--pure as

your virtues, and warm as your benevolence!--Oh too lovely Miss

Beverley!--why, why must I quit you!”

Cecilia, though she trusted not her voice to reprove him, forced away

her hand, and then, in the utmost perturbation, he rushed out of the

room.

This scene for Cecilia, was the most unfortunate that could have

happened; the gentleness of Delvile was alone sufficient to melt her,

since her pride had no subsistence when not fed by his own; and while

his mildness had blunted her displeasure, his anguish had penetrated her

heart. Lost in thought and in sadness, she continued fixed to her

seat; and looking at the door through which he had passed, as if, with

himself, he had shut out all for which she existed.

This pensive dejection was not long uninterrupted; Lady Honoria came

running back, with intelligence, in what manner she had disposed of her

napkin, and Cecilia in listening, endeavoured to find some diversion;

but her ladyship, though volatile not undiscerning, soon perceived that

her attention was constrained, and looking at her with much archness,

said, “I believe, my dear, I must find another napkin for you! not, how

ever, for your mouth, but for your eyes! Has Mortimer been in to take

leave of you?”

“Take leave of me?--No,--is he gone?”

“O no, Pappy has a world of business to settle first; he won't be ready

these two hours. But don't look so sorrowful, for I'll run and bring

Mortimer to console you.”

Away she flew, and Cecilia, who had no power to prevent her, finding her

spirits unequal either to another parting, or to the raillery of Lady

Honoria, should Mortimer, for his own sake, avoid it, took refuge

in flight, and seizing an umbrella, escaped into the park; where, to

perplex any pursuers, instead of chusing her usual walk, she directed

her steps to a thick and unfrequented wood, and never rested till she

was more than two miles from the house. Fidel, however, who now

always accompanied her, ran by her side, and, when she thought herself

sufficiently distant and private to be safe, she sat down under a tree,

and caressing her faithful favourite, soothed her own tenderness by

lamenting that he had lost his master; and, having now no part to act,

and no dignity to support, no observation to fear, and no inference to

guard against, she gave vent to her long smothered emotions, by weeping

without caution or restraint.

She had met with an object whose character answered all her wishes for

him with whom she should entrust her fortune, and whose turn of mind, so

similar to her own, promised her the highest domestic felicity; to this

object her affections had involuntarily bent, they were seconded by

esteem, and unchecked by any suspicion of impropriety in her choice;

she had found too, in return, that his heart was all her own; her birth,

indeed, was inferior, but it was not disgraceful; her disposition,

education and temper seemed equal to his fondest wishes; yet, at the

very time when their union appeared most likely, when they mixed with

the same society, and dwelt under the same roof, when the father to

one, was the guardian to the other, and interest seemed to invite

their alliance even more than affection, the young man himself, without

counsel or command, could tear himself from her presence by an effort

all his own, forbear to seek her heart, and almost charge her not to

grant it, and determining upon voluntary exile, quit his country and his

connections with no view, and for no reason, but merely that he might

avoid the sight of her he loved!

Though the motive for this conduct was now no longer unknown to her, she

neither thought it satisfactory nor necessary; yet, while she censured

his flight, she bewailed his loss, and though his inducement was

repugnant to her opinion, his command over his passions she admired and

applauded.

CHAPTER xi. -- A WORRY.

Cecilia continued in this private spot, happy at least to be alone, till

she was summoned by the dinner bell to return home.

As soon as she entered the parlour, where every body was assembled

before her, she observed, by the countenance of Mrs Delvile, that she

had passed the morning as sadly as herself.

“Miss Beverley,” cried Lady Honoria, before she was seated, “I insist

upon your taking my place to-day.”

“Why so, madam?”

“Because I cannot suffer you to sit by a window with such a terrible

cold.”

“Your ladyship is very good, but indeed I have not any cold at all.”

“O my dear, I must beg your pardon there; your eyes are quite bloodshot;

Mrs Delvile, Lord Ernolf, are not her eyes quite red?--Lord, and so I

protest are her cheeks! now do pray look in the glass, I assure you you

will hardly know yourself.”

Mrs Delvile, who regarded her with the utmost kindness, affected to

understand Lady Honoria's speech literally, both to lessen her apparent

confusion, and the suspicious surmises of Lord Ernolf; she therefore

said, “you have indeed a bad cold, my love; but shade your eyes with

your hat, and after dinner you shall bathe them in rose water, which

will soon take off the inflammation.”

Cecilia, perceiving her intention, for which she felt the utmost

gratitude, no longer denied her cold, nor refused the offer of Lady

Honoria; who, delighting in mischief, whencesoever it proceeded,

presently added, “This cold is a judgment upon you for leaving me

alone all this morning; but I suppose you chose a tête-à-tête with your

favourite, without the intrusion of any third person.”

Here every body stared, and Cecilia very seriously declared she had been

quite alone.

“Is it possible you can so forget yourself?” cried Lady Honoria; “had

you not your dearly beloved with you?”

Cecilia, who now comprehended that she meant Fidel, coloured more deeply

than ever, but attempted to laugh, and began eating her dinner.

“Here seems some matter of much intricacy,” cried Lord Ernolf, “but, to

me, wholly unintelligible.”

“And to me also,” cried Mrs Delvile, “but I am content to let it remain

so; for the mysteries of Lady Honoria are so frequent, that they deaden

curiosity.”

“Dear madam, that is very unnatural,” cried Lady Honoria, “for I am sure

you must long to know who I mean.”

“I do, at least,” said Lord Ernolf.

“Why then, my lord, you must know, Miss Beverley has two companions,

and I am one, and Fidel is the other; but Fidel was with her all this

morning, and she would not admit me to the conference. I suppose she had

something private to say to him of his master's journey.”

“What rattle is this?” cried Mrs Delvile; “Fidel is gone with my son, is

he not?” turning to the servants.

“No, madam, Mr Mortimer did not enquire for him.”

“That's very strange,” said she, “I never knew him quit home without him

before.”

“Dear ma'am, if he had taken him,” cried Lady Honoria, “what could poor

Miss Beverley have done? for she has no friend here but him and me, and

really he's so much the greater favourite, that it is well if I do not

poison him some day for very spite.”

Cecilia had no resource but in forcing a laugh, and Mrs Delvile, who

evidently felt for her, contrived soon to change the subject; yet not

before Lord Ernolf, with infinite chagrin, was certain by all that

passed of the hopeless state of affairs for his son.

The rest of the day, and every hour of the two days following, Cecilia

passed in the most comfortless constraint, fearful of being a moment

alone, lest the heaviness of her heart should seek relief in tears,

which consolation, melancholy as it was, she found too dangerous

for indulgence; yet the gaiety of Lady Honoria lost all power of

entertainment, and even the kindness of Mrs Delvile, now she imputed it

to compassion, gave her more mortification than pleasure.

On the third day, letters arrived from Bristol; but they brought with

them nothing of comfort, for though Mortimer wrote gaily, his father

sent word that his fever seemed threatening to return.

Mrs Delvile was now in the extremest anxiety; and the task of Cecilia

in appearing chearful and unconcerned, became more and more difficult

to perform. Lord Ernolf's efforts to oblige her grew as hopeless to

himself, as they were irksome to her; and Lady Honoria alone, of the

whole house, could either find or make the smallest diversion. But while

Lord Derford remained, she had still an object for ridicule, and while

Cecilia could colour and be confused, she had still a subject for

mischief.

Thus passed a week, during which the news from Bristol being every day

less and less pleasant, Mrs Delvile shewed an earnest desire to make a

journey thither herself, and proposed, half laughing and half seriously,

that the whole party should accompany her.

Lady Honoria's time, however, was already expired, and her father

intended to send for her in a few days.

Mrs Delvile, who knew that such a charge would occupy all her time,

willingly deferred setting out till her ladyship should be gone, but

wrote word to Bristol that she should shortly be there, attended by the

two lords, who insisted upon escorting her.

Cecilia now was in a state of the utmost distress; her stay at the

castle she knew kept Delvile at a distance; to accompany his mother to

Bristol, was forcing herself into his sight, which equally from prudence

and pride she wished to avoid; and even Mrs Delvile evidently desired

her absence, since whenever the journey was talked of, she preferably

addressed herself to any one else who was present.

All she could devise to relieve herself from a situation so painful, was

begging permission to make a visit without delay to her old friend Mrs

Charlton in Suffolk.

This resolution taken, she put it into immediate execution, and seeking

Mrs Delvile, enquired if she might venture to make a petition to her?

“Undoubtedly,” answered she; “but let it not be very disagreeable, since

I feel already that I can refuse you nothing.”

“I have an old friend, ma'am,” she then cried, speaking fast, and in

much haste to have done, “who I have not for many months seen, and, as

my health does not require a Bristol journey,--if you would honour

me with mentioning my request to Mr Delvile, I think I might take the

present opportunity of making Mrs Charlton a visit.”

Mrs Delvile looked at her some time without speaking, and then,

fervently embracing her, “sweet Cecilia!” she cried, “yes, you are

all that I thought you! good, wise, discreet, tender, and noble at

once!--how to part with you, indeed, I know not,--but you shall do as

you please, for that I am sure will be right, and therefore I will make

no opposition.”

Cecilia blushed and thanked her, yet saw but too plainly that all

the motives of her scheme were clearly comprehended. She hastened,

therefore, to write to Mrs Charlton, and prepare for her reception.

Mr Delvile, though with his usual formality, sent his permission; and

Mortimer at the same time, begged his mother would bring with her Fidel,

whom he had unluckily forgotten.

Lady Honoria, who was present when Mrs Delvile mentioned this

commission, said in a whisper to Cecilia, “Miss Beverley, don't let him

go.”

“Why not?”

“O, you had a great deal better take him slyly into Suffolk.”

“I would as soon,” answered Cecilia, “take with me the side-board of

plate, for I should scarcely think it more a robbery.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I am sure they might all take such a theft for

an honour; and if I was going to Bristol, I would bid Mortimer send him

to you immediately. However, if you wish it, I will write to him. He's

my cousin, you know, so there will be no great impropriety in it.”

Cecilia thanked her for so courteous an offer, but entreated that she

might by no means draw her into such a condescension.

She then made immediate preparations for her journey into Suffolk,

which she saw gave equal surprize and chagrin to Lord Ernolf, upon whose

affairs Mrs Delvile herself now desired to speak with her.

“Tell me, Miss Beverley,” she cried, “briefly and positively your

opinion of Lord Derford?”

“I think of him so little, madam,” she answered, “that I cannot say of

him much; he appears, however, to be inoffensive; but, indeed, were I

never to see him again, he is one of those I should forget I had ever

seen at all.”

“That is so exactly the case with myself also,” cried Mrs Delvile, “that

to plead for him, I find utterly impossible, though my Lord Ernolf has

strongly requested me; but to press such an alliance, I should think an

indignity to your understanding.”

Cecilia was much gratified by this speech; but she soon after added,

“There is one reason, indeed, which would render such a connection

desirable, though that is only one.”

“What is it, madam?”

“His title.”

“And why so? I am sure I have no ambition of that sort.”

“No, my love,” said Mrs Delvile, smiling, “I mean not by way of

gratification to your pride, but to his; since a title, by taking place

of a family name, would obviate the only objection that any man could

form to an alliance with Miss Beverley.”

Cecilia, who too well understood her, suppressed a sigh, and changed the

subject of conversation.

One day was sufficient for all the preparations she required, and, as

she meant to set out very early the next morning, she took leave of Lady

Honoria, and the Lords Ernolf and Derford, when they separated for the

night; but Mrs Delvile followed her to her room.

She expressed her concern at losing her in the warmest and most

flattering terms, yet said nothing of her coming back, nor of the length

of her stay; she desired, however, to hear from her frequently, and

assured her that out of her own immediate family, there was nobody in

the world she so tenderly valued.

She continued with her till it grew so late that they were almost

necessarily parted; and then rising to be gone, “See,” she cried, “with

what reluctance I quit you! no interest but so dear a one as that which

calls me away, should induce me, with my own consent, to bear your

absence scarcely an hour; but the world is full of mortifications, and

to endure, or to sink under them, makes all the distinction between the

noble or the weak-minded. To you this may be said with safety; to most

young women it would pass for a reflection.”

“You are very good,” said Cecilia, smothering the emotions to which

this speech gave rise, “and if indeed you honour me with an opinion

so flattering, I will endeavour, if it is possibly in my power, not to

forfeit it.”

“Ah, my love!” cried Mrs Delvile warmly, “if upon my opinion of you

alone depended our residence with each other, when should we ever part,

and how live a moment asunder? But what title have I to monopolize two

such blessings? the mother of Mortimer Delvile should at nothing repine;

the mother of Cecilia Beverley had alone equal reason to be proud.”

“You are determined, madam,” said Cecilia, forcing a smile, “that I

shall be worthy, by giving me the sweetest of motives, that of deserving

such praise.” And then, in a faint voice, she desired her respects to Mr

Delvile, and added, “you will find, I hope, every body at Bristol better

than you expect.”

“I hope so,” returned she; “and that you too, will find your Mrs

Charlton well, happy, and good as you left her; but suffer her not to

drive me from your remembrance, and never fancy that because she has

known you longer, she loves you more; my acquaintance with you,

though short, has been critical, and she must hear from you a world of

anecdotes, before she can have reason to love you as much.”

“Ah, madam,” cried Cecilia, tears starting into her eyes, “let us part

now!--where will be that strength of mind you expect from me, if I

listen to you any longer!”

“You are right, my love,” answered Mrs Delvile, “since all tenderness

enfeebles fortitude.” Then affectionately embracing her, “Adieu,”

she cried, “sweetest Cecilia, amiable and most excellent creature,

adieu!--you, carry with you my highest approbation, my love, my esteem,

my fondest wishes!--and shall I--yes, generous girl! I will add my

warmest gratitude!”

This last word she spoke almost in a whisper, again kissed her, and

hastened out of the room.

Cecilia, surprised and affected, gratified and depressed, remained

almost motionless, and could not, for a great length of time, either

ring for her maid, or persuade herself to go to rest. She saw throughout

the whole behaviour of Mrs Delvile, a warmth of regard which, though

strongly opposed by family pride, made her almost miserable to promote

the very union she thought necessary to discountenance; she saw, too,

that it was with the utmost difficulty she preserved the steadiness of

her opposition, and that she had a conflict perpetual with herself,

to forbear openly acknowledging the contrariety of her wishes, and

the perplexity of her distress; but chiefly she was struck with

her expressive use of the word gratitude. “Wherefore should she be

grateful,” thought Cecilia, “what have I done, or had power to do?

infinitely, indeed, is she deceived, if she supposes that her son has

acted by my directions; my influence with him is nothing, and he could

not be more his own master, were he utterly indifferent to me. To

conceal my own disappointment has, been all I have attempted; and

perhaps she may think of me thus highly, from supposing that the

firmness of her son is owing to my caution and reserve; ah, she knows

him not!--were my heart at this moment laid open to him,--were all its

weakness, its partiality, its ill-fated admiration displayed, he would

but double his vigilance to avoid and forget me, and find the task

all the easier by his abatement of esteem. Oh strange infatuation of

unconquerable prejudice! his very life will he sacrifice in preference

to his name, and while the conflict of his mind threatens to level

him with the dust, he disdains to unite himself where one wish is

unsatisfied!”

These reflections, and the uncertainty if she should ever in Delvile

Castle sleep again, disturbed her the whole night, and made all calling

in the morning unnecessary; she arose at five o'clock, dressed herself

with the utmost heaviness of heart, and in going through a long gallery

which led to the staircase, as she passed the door of Mortimer's

chamber, the thought of his ill health, his intended long journey, and

the probability that she might never see him more, so deeply impressed

and saddened her, that scarcely could she force herself to proceed,

without stopping to weep and to pray for him; she was surrounded,

however, by servants, and compelled therefore to hasten to the chaise;

she flung herself in, and, leaning back, drew her hat over her eyes, and

thought, as the carriage drove off, her last hope of earthly happiness

extinguished.