BOOK VII.

CHAPTER i. -- A RENOVATION.

Cecilia was accompanied by her maid in the chaise, and her own servant

and one of Mrs Delvile's attended her on horseback.

The quietness of her dejection was soon interrupted by a loud cry

among the men of “home! home! home!” She then looked out of one of the

windows, and perceived Fidel, running after the carriage, and barking at

the servants, who were all endeavouring to send him back.

Touched by this proof of the animal's gratitude for her attention to

him, and conscious she had herself occasioned his master's leaving him,

the scheme of Lady Honoria occurred to her, and she almost wished to put

it in execution, but this was the thought of a moment, and motioning him

with her hand to go back, she desired Mrs Delvile's man to return with

him immediately, and commit him to the care of somebody in the castle.

This little incident, however trifling, was the most important of her

journey, for she arrived at the house of Mrs Charlton without meeting

any other.

The sight of that lady gave her a sensation of pleasure to which she

had long been a stranger, pleasure pure, unmixed, unaffected and

unrestrained; it revived all her early affection, and with it, something

resembling at least her early tranquility; again she was in the house

where it had once been undisturbed, again she enjoyed the society which

was once all she had wished, and again saw the same scene, the same

faces, and same prospects she had beheld while her heart was all devoted

to her friends.

Mrs Charlton, though old and infirm, preserved an understanding, which,

whenever unbiassed by her affections, was sure to direct her unerringly;

but the extreme softness of her temper frequently misled her judgment,

by making it, at the pleasure either of misfortune or of artifice,

always yield to compassion, and pliant to entreaty. Where her counsel

and opinion were demanded, they were certain to reflect honour on her

capacity and discernment; but where her assistance or her pity were

supplicated, her purse and her tears were immediately bestowed, and in

her zeal to alleviate distress she forgot if the object were deserving

her solicitude, and stopt not to consider propriety or discretion, if

happiness, however momentary, were in her power to grant.

This generous foible was, however, kept somewhat in subjection by the

watchfulness of two grand-daughters, who, fearing the injury they

might themselves receive from it, failed not to point out both its

inconvenience and its danger.

These ladies were daughters of a deceased and only son of Mrs Charlton;

they were single, and lived with their grand-mother, whose fortune,

which was considerable, they expected to share between them, and they

waited with eagerness for the moment of appropriation; narrow-minded and

rapacious, they wished to monopolize whatever she possessed, and thought

themselves aggrieved by her smallest donations. Their chief employment

was to keep from her all objects of distress, and in this though they

could not succeed, they at least confined her liberality to such as

resembled themselves; since neither the spirited could brook, nor the

delicate support the checks and rebuffs from the granddaughters, which

followed the gifts of Mrs Charlton. Cecilia, of all her acquaintance,

was the only one whose intimacy they encouraged, for they knew her

fortune made her superior to any mercenary views, and they received from

her themselves more civilities than they paid.

Mrs Charlton loved Cecilia with an excess of fondness, that not only

took place of the love she bore her other friends, but to which even her

regard for the Miss Charltons was inferior and feeble. Cecilia when a

child had reverenced her as a mother, and, grateful for her tenderness

and care, had afterwards cherished her as a friend. The revival of this

early connection delighted them both, it was balm to the wounded mind of

Cecilia, it was renovation to the existence of Mrs Charlton.

Early the next morning she wrote a card to Mr Monckton and Lady

Margaret, acquainting them with her return into Suffolk, and desiring to

know when she might pay her respects to her Ladyship. She received from

the old lady a verbal answer, when she pleased, but Mr Monckton came

instantly himself to Mrs Charlton's.

His astonishment, his rapture at this unexpected incident were almost

boundless; he thought it a sudden turn of fortune in his own favour, and

concluded, now she had escaped the danger of Delvile Castle, the road

was short and certain that led to his own security.

Her satisfaction in the meeting was as sincere, though not so animated

as his own; but this similarity in their feelings was of short duration,

for when he enquired into what had passed at the castle, with the

reasons of her quitting it, the pain she felt in giving even a cursory

and evasive account, was opposed on his part by the warmest delight in

hearing it; he could not obtain from her the particulars of what

had happened, but the reluctance with which she spoke, the air of

mortification with which she heard his questions, and the evident

displeasure which was mingled in her chagrin, when he forced her to

mention Delvile, were all proofs the most indisputable and satisfactory,

that they had either parted without any explanation, or with one by

which Cecilia had been hurt and offended.

He now readily concluded that since the fiery trial he had most

apprehended was over; and she had quitted in anger the asylum she had

sought in extacy, Delvile himself did not covet the alliance, which,

since they were separated, was never likely to take place. He had

therefore little difficulty in promising all success to himself.

She was once more upon the spot where she had regarded him as the

first of men, he knew that during her absence no one had settled in

the neighbourhood who had any pretensions to dispute with him that

pre-eminence, he should again have access to her, at pleasure, and so

sanguine grew his hopes, that he almost began to rejoice even in the

partiality to Delvile that had hitherto been his terror, from believing

it would give her for a time, that sullen distaste of all other

connections, to which those who at once are delicate and fervent are

commonly led by early disappointment. His whole solicitude therefore

now was to preserve her esteem, to seek her confidence, and to regain

whatever by absence might be lost of the [ascendancy] over her mind

which her respect for his knowledge and capacity had for many years

given him. Fortune at this time seemed to prosper all his views, and,

by a stroke the most sudden and unexpected, to render more rational

his hopes and his plans than he had himself been able to effect by the

utmost craft of worldly wisdom.

The day following Cecilia, in Mrs Charlton's chaise, waited upon Lady

Margaret. She was received by Miss Bennet, her companion, with the most

fawning courtesy; but when conducted to the lady of the house, she saw

herself so evidently unwelcome, that she even regretted the civility

which had prompted her visit.

She found with her nobody but Mr Morrice, who was the only young man

that could persuade himself to endure her company in the absence of her

husband, but who, in common with most young men who are assiduous in

their attendance upon old ladies, doubted not but he ensured himself a

handsome legacy for his trouble.

Almost the first speech which her ladyship made, was “So you are not

married yet, I find; if Mr Monckton had been a real friend, he would

have taken care to have seen for some establishment for you.”

“I was by no means,” cried Cecilia, with spirit, “either in so much

haste or distress as to require from Mr Monckton any such exertion of

his friendship.”

“Ma'am,” cried Morrice, “what a terrible night we had of it at Vauxhall!

poor Harrel! I was really excessively sorry for him. I had not courage

to see you or Mrs Harrel after it. But as soon as I heard you were in

St James's-square, I tried to wait upon you; for really going to Mr

Harrel's again would have been quite too dismal. I would rather have run

a mile by the side of a race-horse.”

“There is no occasion for any apology,” said Cecilia, “for I was very

little disposed either to see or think of visitors.”

“So I thought, ma'am;” answered he, with quickness, “and really that

made me the less alert in finding you out. However, ma'am, next winter

I shall be excessively happy to make up for the deficiency; besides, I

shall be much obliged to you to introduce me to Mr Delvile, for I have a

great desire to be acquainted with him.”

Mr Delvile, thought Cecilia, would be but too proud to hear it! However,

she merely answered that she had no present prospect of spending any

time at Mr. Delvile's next winter.

“True, ma'am, true,” cried he, “now I recollect, you become your own

mistress between this and then; and so I suppose you will naturally

chuse a house of your own, which will be much more eligible.”

“I don't think that,” said Lady Margaret, “I never saw anything eligible

come of young women's having houses of their own; she will do a much

better thing to marry, and have some proper person to take care of her.”

“Nothing more right, ma'am!” returned he; “a young lady in a house

by herself must be subject to a thousand dangers. What sort of place,

ma'am, has Mr Delvile got in the country? I hear he has a good deal of

ground there, and a large house.”

“It is an old castle, Sir, and situated in a park.”

“That must be terribly forlorn; I dare say, ma'am, you were very happy

to return into Suffolk.”

“I did not find it forlorn; I was very well satisfied with it.”

“Why, indeed, upon second thoughts, I don't much wonder; an old castle

in a large park must make a very romantic appearance; something noble in

it, I dare say.”

“Aye,” cried Lady Margaret, “they said you were to become mistress of

it, and marry Mr Delvile's son and I cannot, for my own part, see any

objection to it.”

“I am told of so many strange reports,” said Cecilia, “and all, to

myself so unaccountable, that I begin now to hear of them without much

wonder.”

“That's a charming young man, I believe,” said Morrice; “I had the

pleasure once or twice of meeting him at poor Harrel's, and he seemed

mighty agreeable. Is not he so, ma'am?”

“Yes,--I believe so.”

“Nay, I don't mean to speak of him as any thing very extraordinary,”

cried Morrice, imagining her hesitation proceeded from dislike, “I

merely meant as the world goes,--in a common sort of a way.”

Here they were joined by Mr Monckton and some gentlemen who were on a

visit at his house; for his anxiety was not of a sort to lead him to

solitude, nor his disposition to make him deny himself any kind of

enjoyment which he had power to attain. A general conversation ensued,

which lasted till Cecilia ended her visit; Mr Monckton then took her

hand to lead her to the chaise, but told her, in their way out, of some

alterations in his grounds, which he desired to shew her; his view

of detaining her was to gather what she thought of her reception, and

whether she had yet any suspicions of the jealousy of Lady Margaret;

well knowing, from the delicacy of her character, that if once she

became acquainted with it, she would scrupulously avoid all intercourse

with him, from the fear of encreasing her uneasiness.

He began, therefore, with talking of the pleasure which Lady Margaret

took in the plantations, and of his hope that Cecilia would often favour

her by visiting them, without waiting to have her visits returned, as

she was entitled by her infirmities to particular indulgencies. He was

continuing in this strain, receiving from Cecilia hardly any answer,

when suddenly from behind a thick laurel bush, jumpt up Mr Morrice; who

had run out of the house by a shorter cut, and planted himself there to

surprise them.

“So ho!” cried he with a loud laugh, “I have caught you! This will be a

fine anecdote for Lady Margaret; I vow I'll tell her.”

Mr Monckton, never off his guard, readily answered “Aye, prithee do,

Morrice; but don't omit to relate also what we said of yourself.”

“Of me?” cried he, with some eagerness; “why you never mentioned me.”

“O that won't pass, I assure you; we shall tell another tale at table by

and by; and bring the old proverb of the ill luck of listeners upon you

in its full force.”

“Well, I'll be hanged if I know what you mean!”

“Why you won't pretend you did not hear Miss Beverley say you were the

truest Ouran Outang, or man-monkey, she ever knew?”

“No, indeed, that I did not!

“No?--Nor how much she admired your dexterity in escaping being

horse-whipt three times a day for your incurable impudence?”

“Not a word on't! Horse-whipt!--Miss Beverley, pray did you say any such

thing?”

“Ay,” cried Monckton, again, “and not only horse-whipt, but

horse-ponded, for she thought when, one had heated, the other might cool

you; and then you might be fitted again for your native woods, for

she insists upon it you was brought from Africa, and are not yet half

tamed.”

“O Lord!” cried Morrice, amazed, “I should not have suspected Miss

Beverley would have talked so!”

“And do you suspect she did now?” cried Cecilia.

“Pho, pho,” cried Monckton, coolly, “why he heard it himself the whole

time! and so shall all our party by and bye, if I can but remember to

mention it.”

Cecilia then returned to the chaise, leaving Mr Monckton to settle the

matter with his credulous guest as he pleased; for supposing he was

merely gratifying a love of sport, or taking this method of checking the

general forwardness of the young man, she forbore any interference

that might mar his intention. But Mr Monckton loved not to be rallied

concerning Cecilia, though he was indifferent to all that could be said

to him of any other woman; he meant, therefore, to intimidate Morrice

from renewing the subject; and he succeeded to his wish; poor Morrice,

whose watching and whose speech were the mere blunders of chance,

made without the slightest suspicion of Mr Monckton's designs, now

apprehended some scheme to render himself ridiculous, and though he

did not believe Cecilia had made use of such expressions, he fancied Mr

Monckton meant to turn the laugh against him, and determined, therefore,

to say nothing that might remind him of what had passed.

Mr Monckton had at this time admitted him to his house merely from an

expectation of finding more amusement in his blundering and giddiness,

than he was capable, during his anxiety concerning Cecilia, of receiving

from conversation of an higher sort. The character of Morrice was,

indeed, particularly adapted for the entertainment of a large house in

the country; eager for sport, and always ready for enterprize; willing

to oblige, yet tormented with no delicacy about offending; the first to

promote mischief for any other, and the last to be offended when exposed

to it himself; gay, thoughtless, and volatile,-a happy composition of

levity and good-humour.

Cecilia, however, to quitting the house, determined not to visit it

again very speedily; for she was extremely disgusted with Lady Margaret,

though she suspected no particular motives of enmity, against which

she was guarded alike by her own unsuspicious innocence, and by an high

esteem of Mr Monckton, which she firmly believed he returned with equal

honesty of undesigning friendship.

Her next excursion was to visit Mrs Harrel; she found that unhappy lady

a prey to all the misery of unoccupied solitude; torn from whatever had,

to her, made existence seem valuable, her mind was as listless as her

person was inactive, and she was at a loss how to employ even a moment

of the day; she had now neither a party to form, nor an entertainment to

plan, company to arrange, nor dress to consider; and these, with visits

and public places, had filled all her time since her marriage, which,

as it had happened very early in her life, had merely taken place of

girlish amusements, masters and governesses.

This helplessness of insipidity, however, though naturally the effect

of a mind devoid of all genuine resources, was dignified by herself with

the appellation of sorrow; nor was this merely a screen to the world;

unused to investigate her feelings or examine her heart, the general

compassion she met for the loss of her husband, persuaded her that

indeed she lamented his destiny; though had no change in her life been

caused by his suicide, she would scarcely, when the first shock was

over, have thought of it again.

She received Cecilia with great pleasure; and with still greater, heard

the renewal of her promises to fit up a room for her in her house, as

soon as she came of age; a period which now was hardly a month distant.

Far greater, however, as well as infinitely purer, was the joy which her

presence bestowed upon Mr Arnott; she saw it herself with a sensation of

regret, not only at the constant passion which occasioned it, but even

at her own inability to participate in or reward it for with him an

alliance would meet with no opposition; his character was amiable,

his situation in life unexceptionable; he loved her with the tenderest

affection, and no pride, she well knew, would interfere to overpower it;

yet, in return, to grant him her love, she felt as utterly impossible

as to refuse him her esteem; and the superior attractions of Delvile, of

which neither displeasure nor mortification could rob him, shut up her

heart, for the present, more firmly than ever, as Mr Monckton had well

imagined, to all other assailants. Yet she by no means weakly gave way

to repining or regret; her suspence was at an end, her hopes and her

fears were subsided into certainty; Delvile, in quitting her, had

acquainted her that he had left her for ever, and even, though not,

indeed, with much steadiness, had prayed for her happiness in union with

some other; she held it therefore as essential to her character as to

her peace, to manifest equal fortitude in subduing her partiality; she

forbore to hint to Mrs Charlton what had passed, that the subject might

never be started; allowed herself no time for dangerous recollection;

strolled in her old walks, and renewed her old acquaintance, and by

a vigorous exertion of active wisdom, doubted not compleating, before

long, the subjection of her unfortunate tenderness. Nor was her task

so difficult as she had feared; resolution, in such cases, may act the

office of time, and anticipate by reason and self-denial, what that,

much less nobly, effects through forgetfulness and inconstancy.

CHAPTER ii. -- A VISIT.

One week only, however, had yet tried the perseverance of Cecilia, when,

while she was working with Mrs Charlton in her dressing-room, her maid

hastily entered it, and with a smile that seemed announcing welcome

news, said, “Lord, ma'am, here's Fidel!” and, at the same moment,

she was followed by the dog, who jumpt upon Cecilia in a transport of

delight.

“Good heaven,” cried she, all amazement, “who has brought him? whence

does he come?”

“A country man brought him, ma'am; but he only put him in, and would not

stay a minute.”

“But whom did he enquire for?--who saw him?--what did he say?”

“He saw Ralph, ma'am.”

Ralph, then, was instantly called; and these questions being repeated,

he said, “Ma'am, it was a man I never saw before; but he only bid me

take care to deliver the dog into your own hands, and said you would

have a letter about him soon, and then went away; I wanted him to stay

till I came up stairs, but he was off at once.”

Cecilia, quite confounded by this account, could make neither comment

nor answer; but, as soon as the servants had left the room, Mrs Charlton

entreated to know to whom the dog had belonged, convinced by her extreme

agitation, that something interesting and uncommon must relate to him.

This was no time for disguise; astonishment and confusion bereft Cecilia

of all power to attempt it; and, after a very few evasions, she briefly

communicated her situation with respect to Delvile, his leaving her,

his motives, and his mother's evident concurrence; for these were all so

connected with her knowledge of Fidel, that she led to them unavoidably

in telling what she knew of him.

Very little penetration was requisite, to gather from her manner all

that was united in her narrative of her own feelings and disappointment

in the course of this affair; and Mrs Charlton, who had hitherto

believed the whole world at her disposal, and that she continued single

from no reason but her own difficulty of choice, was utterly amazed to

find that any man existed who could withstand the united allurements

of so much beauty, sweetness, and fortune. She felt herself sometimes

inclined to hate, and at other times to pity him; yet concluded that her

own extreme coldness was the real cause of his flight, and warmly blamed

a reserve which had thus ruined her happiness.

Cecilia was in the extremest perplexity and distress to conjecture

the meaning of so unaccountable a present, and so strange a message.

Delvile, she knew, had desired the dog might follow him to Bristol; his

mother, always pleased to oblige him, would now less than ever neglect

any opportunity; she could not, therefore, doubt that she had sent or

taken him thither, and thence, according to all appearances, he must

now come. But was it likely Delvile would take such a liberty? Was it

probable, when so lately he had almost exhorted her to forget him, he

would even wish to present her with such a remembrance of himself? And

what was the letter she was bid to expect? Whence and from what was it

to come?

All was inexplicable! the only thing she could surmise, with any

semblance of probability, was that the whole was some frolic of Lady

Honoria Pemberton, who had persuaded Delvile to send her the dog, and

perhaps assured him she had herself requested to have him.

Provoked by this suggestion, her first thought was instantly having him

conveyed to the castle; but uncertain what the whole affair meant, and

hoping some explanation in the letter she was promised, she determined

to wait till it came, or at least till she heard from Mrs Delvile,

before she took any measures herself in the business. Mutual accounts

of their safe arrivals at Bristol and in Suffolk, had already passed

between them, and she expected very soon to have further intelligence;

though she was now, by the whole behaviour of Mrs Delvile, convinced she

wished not again to have her an inmate of her house, and that the rest

of her minority might pass, without opposition; in the house of Mrs

Charlton.

Day after day, however, passed, and yet she heard nothing more; a week,

a fortnight elapsed, and still no letter came. She now concluded the

promise was a deception, and repented that she had waited a moment

with any such expectation. Her peace, during this time, was greatly

disturbed; this present made her fear she was thought meanly of by

Mr Delvile; the silence of his mother gave her apprehensions for his

health, and her own irresolution how to act, kept her in perpetual

inquietude. She tried in vain to behave as if this incident had not

happened; her mind was uneasy, and the same actions produced not the

same effects; when she now worked or read, the sight of Fidel by her

side distracted her attention; when she walked, it was the same, for

Fidel always followed her; and though, in visiting her old acquaintance,

she forbore to let him accompany her, she was secretly planning the

whole time the contents of some letter, which she expected to meet with,

on returning to Mrs Charlton's.

Those gentlemen in the country who, during the life-time of the Dean,

had paid their addresses to Cecilia, again waited upon her at Mrs

Charlton's, and renewed their proposals. They had now, however, still

less chance of success, and their dismission was brief and decisive.

Among these came Mr Biddulph; and to him Cecilia was involuntarily

most civil, because she knew him to be the friend of Delvile. Yet

his conversation encreased the uneasiness of her suspence; for after

speaking of the family in general which she had left, he enquired more

particularly concerning Delvile, and then added, “I am, indeed, greatly

grieved to find, by all the accounts I receive of him, that he is now in

a very bad state of health.”

This speech gave her fresh subject for apprehension; and in proportion

as the silence of Mrs Delvile grew more alarming, her regard for her

favourite Fidel became more partial. The affectionate animal seemed to

mourn the loss of his master, and while sometimes she indulged herself

in fancifully telling him her fears, she imagined she read in his

countenance the faithfullest sympathy.

One week of her minority was now all that remained, and she was soon

wholly occupied in preparations for coming of age. She purposed taking

possession of a large house that had belonged to her uncle, which was

situated only three miles from that of Mrs Charlton; and she employed

herself in giving orders for fitting it up, and in hearing complaints,

and promising indulgencies, to various of her tenants.

At this time, while she was at breakfast one morning, a letter arrived

from Mrs Delvile. She apologised for not writing sooner, but added that

various family occurrences, which had robbed her of all leisure, might

easily be imagined, when she acquainted her that Mortimer had determined

upon again going abroad.... They were all, she said, returned to Delvile

Castle, but mentioned nothing either of the health of her son, or of her

own regret, and filled up the rest of her letter, with general news and

expressions of kindness; though, in a postscript, was inserted, “We have

lost our poor Fidel.”

Cecilia was still meditating upon this letter, by which her perplexity

how to act was rather encreased than diminished, when, to her great

surprise, Lady Honoria Pemberton was announced. She hastily begged one

of the Miss Charltons to convey Fidel out of sight, from a dread of her

raillery, should she, at last, be unconcerned in the transaction, and

then went to receive her.

Lady Honoria, who was with her governess, gave a brief history of her

quitting Delvile Castle, and said she was now going with her father to

visit a noble family in Norfolk; but she had obtained his permission

to leave him at the inn where they had slept, in order to make a short

excursion to Bury, for the pleasure of seeing Miss Beverley.

“And therefore,” she continued, “I can stay but half an hour; so you

must give me some account of yourself as fast as possible.”

“What account does your ladyship require?”

“Why, who you live with here, and who are your companions, and what you

do with yourself.”

“Why, I live with Mrs Charlton; and for companions, I have at least a

score; here are her two grand-daughters, and Mrs and Miss--.”

“Pho, pho,” interrupted Lady Honoria, “but I don't mean such hum-drum

companions as those; you'll tell me next, I suppose, of the parson and

his wife and three daughters, with all their cousins and aunts; I

hate those sort of people. What I desire to hear of is, who are your

particular favourites; and whether you take long walks here, as you

used to do at the Castle, and who you have to accompany you?” And then,

looking at her very archly, she added, “A pretty little dog, now, I

should think, would be vastly agreeable in such a place as this.--Ah,

Miss Beverley! you have not left off that trick of colouring, I see!”

“If I colour now,” said Cecilia, fully convinced of the justness of her

suspicions, “I think it must be for your ladyship, not myself; for, if

I am not much mistaken, either in person, or by proxy, a blush from Lady

Honoria Pemberton would not, just now, be wholly out of season.”

“Lord,” cried she, “how like that is to a speech of Mrs Delvile's!

She has taught you exactly her manner of talking. But do you know I am

informed you have got Fidel with you here? O fie, Miss Beverley! What

will papa and mamma say, when they find you have taken away poor little

master's plaything?”

“And O fie, Lady Honoria! what shall I say, when I find you guilty of

this mischievous frolic! I must beg, however, since you have gone thus

far, that you will proceed a little farther, and send back the dog to

the person from whom you received him.”

“No, not I! manage him all your own way; if you chuse to accept dogs

from gentlemen, you know, it is your affair, and not mine.”

“If you really will not return him yourself, you must at least pardon me

should you hear that I do in your ladyship's name.”

Lady Honoria for some time only laughed and rallied, without coming

to any explanation; but when she had exhausted all the sport she could

make, she frankly owned that she had herself ordered the dog to be

privately stolen, and then sent a man with him to Mrs Charlton's.

“But you know,” she continued, “I really owed you a spite for being so

ill-natured as to run away after sending me to call Mortimer to comfort

and take leave of you.”

“Do you dream, Lady Honoria? when did I send you?”

“Why you know you looked as if you wished it, and that was the same

thing. But really it made me appear excessively silly, when I had forced

him to come back with me, and told him you were waiting for him,--to see

nothing of you at all, and not be able to find or trace you. He took it

all for my own invention.”

“And was it not your own invention?”

“Why that's nothing to the purpose; I wanted him to believe you sent me,

for I knew else he would not come.”

“Your ladyship was a great deal too good!”

“Why now suppose I had brought you together, what possible harm could

have happened from it? It would merely have given each of you some

notion of a fever and ague; for first you would both have been hot, and

then you would both have been cold, and then you would both have turned

red, and then you would both have turned white, and then you would both

have pretended to simper at the trick; and then there would have been an

end of it.”

“This is a very easy way of settling it all,” cried Cecilia laughing;

“however, you must be content to abide by your own theft, for you cannot

in conscience expect I should take it upon myself.”

“You are terribly ungrateful, I see,” said her ladyship, “for all the

trouble and contrivance and expence I have been at merely to oblige you,

while the whole time, poor Mortimer, I dare say, has had his sweet Pet

advertised in all the newspapers, and cried in every market-town in the

kingdom. By the way, if you do send him back, I would advise you to

let your man demand the reward that has been offered for him, which may

serve in part of payment for his travelling expenses.”

Cecilia could only shake her head, and recollect Mrs Delvile's

expression, that her levity was incorrigible.

“O if you had seen,” she continued, “how sheepish Mortimer looked when

I told him you were dying to see him before he set off! he coloured

so!--just as you do now!--but I think you're vastly alike.”

“I fear, then,” cried Cecilia, not very angry at this speech, “there is

but little chance your ladyship should like either of us.”

“O yes, I do! I like odd people of all things.”

“Odd people? and in what are we so very odd?”

“O, in a thousand things. You're so good, you know, and so grave, and so

squeamish.”

“Squeamish? how?”

“Why, you know, you never laugh at the old folks, and never fly at your

servants, nor smoke people before their faces, and are so civil to the

old fograms, you would make one imagine you liked nobody so well. By

the way, I could do no good with my little Lord Derford; he pretended

to find out I was only laughing at him, and so he minded nothing I told

him. I dare say, however, his father made the detection, for I am sure

he had not wit enough to discover it himself.”

Cecilia then, very seriously began to entreat that she would return the

dog herself, and confess her frolic, remonstrating in strong terms upon

the mischievous tendency and consequences of such inconsiderate flights.

“Well,” cried she, rising, “this is all vastly true; but I have no time

to hear any more of it just now; besides, it's only forestalling my next

lecture from Mrs Delvile, for you talk so much alike, that it is really

very perplexing to me to remember which is which.”

She then hurried away, protesting she had already outstayed her father's

patience, and declaring the delay of another minute would occasion

half a dozen expresses to know whether she was gone towards Scotland or

Flanders.

This visit, however, was both pleasant and consolatory to Cecilia; who

was now relieved from her suspence, and revived in her spirits by the

intelligence that Delvile had no share in sending her a present, which,

from him, would have been humiliating and impertinent. She regretted,

indeed, that she had not instantly returned it to the castle, which she

was now convinced was the measure she ought to have pursued; but to make

all possible reparation, she determined that her own servant should

set out with him the next morning to Bristol, and take a letter to

Mrs Delvile to explain what had happened, since to conceal it from any

delicacy to Lady Honoria, would be to expose herself to suspicions the

most mortifying, for which that gay and careless young lady would never

thank her.

She gave orders, therefore, to her servant to get ready for the journey.

When she communicated these little transactions to Mrs Charlton, that

kind-hearted old lady, who knew her fondness for Fidel, advised her not

yet to part with him, but merely to acquaint Mrs Delvile where he was,

and what Lady Honoria had done, and, by leaving to herself the care

of settling his restoration, to give her, at least, an opportunity of

offering him to her acceptance.

Cecilia, however, would listen to no such proposal; she saw the firmness

of Delvile in his resolution to avoid her, and knew that policy, as well

as propriety, made it necessary she should part with what she could only

retain to remind her of one whom she now most wished to forget.

CHAPTER iii. -- AN INCIDENT.

The spirits of Cecilia, however, internally failed her; she considered

her separation from Delvile to be now, in all probability, for life,

since she saw that no struggle either of interest, inclination, or

health, could bend him from his purpose; his mother, too, seemed to

regard his name and his existence as equally valuable, and the scruples

of his father she was certain would be still more insurmountable. Her

own pride, excited by theirs, made her, indeed, with more anger than

sorrow, see this general consent to abandon her; but pride and anger

both failed when she considered the situation of his health; sorrow,

there, took the lead, and admitted no partner; it represented him to

her not only as lost to herself, but to the world; and so sad grew her

reflections, and so heavy her heart, that, to avoid from Mrs Charlton

observations which pained her, she stole into a summer-house in the

garden the moment she had done tea, declining any companion but her

affectionate Fidel.

Her tenderness and her sorrow found here a romantic consolation, in

complaining to him of the absence of his master, his voluntary exile,

and her fears for his health; calling upon him to participate in her

sorrow, and lamenting that even this little relief would soon be denied

her; and that in losing Fidel no vestige of Mortimer, but in her own

breast, would remain; “Go, then, dear Fidel,” she cried, “carry back to

your master all that nourishes his remembrance! Bid him not love you the

less for having some time belonged to Cecilia; but never may his proud

heart be fed with the vain glory of knowing how fondly for his sake she

has cherished you! Go, dear Fidel, guard him by night, and follow him

by day; serve him with zeal, and love him with fidelity;--oh that his

health were invincible as his pride!--there, alone, is he vulnerable--”

Here Fidel, with a loud barking, suddenly sprang away from her, and, as

she turned her eyes towards the door to see what had thus startled him,

she beheld standing there, as if immoveable, young Delvile himself!

Her astonishment at this sight almost bereft her of her understanding;

it appeared to her supernatural, and she rather believed it was his

ghost than himself. Fixed in mute wonder, she stood still though

terrified, her eyes almost bursting from their sockets to be satisfied

if what they saw was real.

Delvile, too, was some time speechless; he looked not at her, indeed,

with any doubt of her existence, but as if what he had heard was to him

as amazing as to her what she saw. At length, however, tormented by the

dog, who jumpt up to him, licked his hands, and by his rapturous joy

forced himself into notice, he was moved to return his caresses, saying,

“Yes, dear Fidel! you have a claim indeed to my attention, and with the

fondest gratitude will I cherish you ever!”

At the sound of his voice, Cecilia again began to breathe; and Delvile

having quieted the dog, now entered the summer-house, saying, as he

advanced, “Is this possible!--am I not in a dream?--Good God! is it

indeed possible!”

The consternation of doubt and astonishment which had seized every

faculty of Cecilia, now changed into certainty that Delvile indeed

was present, all her recollection returned as she listened, to this

question, and the wild rambling of fancy with which she had incautiously

indulged her sorrow, rushing suddenly upon her mind, she felt herself

wholly overpowered by consciousness and shame, and sunk, almost

fainting, upon a window-seat.

Delvile instantly flew to her, penetrated with gratitude, and filled

with wonder and delight, which, however internally combated by

sensations less pleasant, were too potent for controul, and he poured

forth at her feet the most passionate acknowledgments.

Cecilia, surprised, affected, and trembling with a thousand emotions,

endeavoured to break from him and rise; but, eagerly detaining her, “No,

loveliest Miss Beverley,” he cried, “not thus must we now part! this

moment only have I discovered what a treasure I was leaving; and, but

for Fidel, I had quitted it in ignorance for ever.”

“Indeed,” cried Cecilia, in the extremest agitation, “indeed you may

believe me Fidel is here quite by accident.--Lady Honoria took him

away,--I knew nothing of the matter,--she stole him, she sent him, she

did every thing herself.”

“O kind Lady Honoria!” cried Delvile, more and more delighted, “how

shall I ever thank her!--And did she also tell you to caress and to

cherish him?--to talk to him of his master--”

“O heaven!” interrupted Cecilia, in an agony of mortification and shame,

“to what has my unguarded folly reduced me!” Then again endeavouring to

break from him, “Leave me, Mr Delvile,” she cried, “leave me, or let me

pass!--never can I see you more!--never bear you again in my sight!”

“Come, dear Fidel!” cried he, still detaining her, “come and plead for

your master! come and ask in his name who now has a proud heart, whose

pride now is invincible!”

“Oh go!” cried Cecilia, looking away from him while she spoke, “repeat

not those hateful words, if you wish me not to detest myself eternally!”

“Ever-lovely Miss Beverley,” cried he, more seriously, “why this

resentment? why all this causeless distress? Has not my heart long

since been known to you? have you not witnessed its sufferings, and

been assured of its tenderness? why, then, this untimely reserve?

this unabating coldness? Oh why try to rob me of the felicity you have

inadvertently given me! and to sour the happiness of a moment that

recompenses such exquisite misery!”

“Oh Mr Delvile!” cried she, impatiently, though half softened, “was this

honourable or right? to steal upon me thus privately--to listen to me

thus secretly--”

“You blame me,” cried he, “too soon; your own friend, Mrs Charlton,

permitted me to come hither in search of you;--then, indeed, when I

heard the sound of your voice--when I heard that voice talk of Fidel--of

his master--”

“Oh stop, stop!” cried she; “I cannot support the recollection! there is

no punishment, indeed, which my own indiscretion does not merit,--but I

shall have sufficient in the bitterness of self-reproach!”

“Why will you talk thus, my beloved Miss Beverley? what have you

done,--what, let me ask, have I done, that such infinite disgrace

and depression should follow this little sensibility to a passion so

fervent? Does it not render you more dear to me than ever? does it not

add new life, new vigour, to the devotion by which I am bound to you?”

“No, no,” cried the mortified Cecilia, who from the moment she found

herself betrayed, believed herself to be lost, “far other is the effect

it will have! and the same mad folly by which I am ruined in my own

esteem, will ruin me in yours!--I cannot endure to think of it!--why

will you persist in detaining me?--You have filled me with anguish and

mortification,--you have taught me the bitterest of lessons, that of

hating and contemning myself!”

“Good heaven,” cried he, much hurt, “what strange apprehensions thus

terrify you? are you with me less safe than with yourself? is it my

honour you doubt? is it my integrity you fear? Surely I cannot be so

little known to you; and to make protestations now, would but give a new

alarm to a delicacy already too agitated.--Else would I tell you that

more sacred than my life will I hold what I have heard, that the words

just now graven on my heart, shall remain there to eternity unseen;

and that higher than ever, not only in my love, but my esteem, is the

beautiful speaker.”--

“Ah no!” cried Cecilia, with a sigh, “that, at least, is impossible, for

lower than ever is she sunk from deserving it!”

“No,” cried he, with fervour, “she is raised, she is exalted! I find her

more excellent and perfect than I had even dared believe her; I discover

new virtues in the spring of every action; I see what I took for

indifference, was dignity; I perceive what I imagined the most rigid

insensibility, was nobleness, was propriety, was true greatness of

mind!”

Cecilia was somewhat appeased by this speech; and, after a little

hesitation, she said, with a half smile, “Must I thank you for this

good-nature in seeking to reconcile me with myself?--or shall I quarrel

with you for flattery, in giving me praise you can so little think I

merit?”

“Ah!” cried he, “were I to praise as I think of you! were my language

permitted to accord with my opinion of your worth, you would not then

simply call me a flatterer, you would tell me I was an idolater, and

fear at least for my principles, if not for my understanding.”

“I shall have but little right, however,” said Cecilia, again rising,

“to arraign your understanding while I act as if bereft of my own.

Now, at least, let me pass; indeed you will greatly displease me by any

further opposition.”

“Will you suffer me, then, to see you early to-morrow morning?”

“No, Sir; nor the next morning, nor the morning after that! This meeting

has been wrong, another would be worse; in this I have accusation enough

for folly,--in another the charge would be far more heavy.”

“Does Miss Beverley, then,” cried he gravely, “think me capable of

desiring to see her for mere selfish gratification? of intending to

trifle either with her time or her feelings? no; the conference I desire

will be important and decisive. This night I shall devote solely to

deliberation; to-morrow shall be given to action. Without some thinking

I dare venture at no plan;--I presume not to communicate to you the

various interests that divide me, but the result of them all I can take

no denial to your hearing.”

Cecilia, who felt when thus stated the justice of his request, now

opposed it no longer, but insisted upon his instantly departing.

“True,” cried he, “I must go!--the longer I stay, the more I am

fascinated, and the weaker are those reasoning powers of which I now

want the strongest exertion.” He then repeated his professions of

eternal regard, besought her not to regret the happiness she had

given him, and after disobeying her injunctions of going till she

was seriously displeased, he only stayed to obtain her pardon, and

permission to be early the next morning, and then, though still slowly

and reluctantly, he left her.

Scarce was Cecilia again alone, but the whole of what had passed seemed

a vision of her imagination. That Delvile should be at Bury, that

he should visit her at Mrs Charlton's, surprise her by herself,

and discover her most secret thoughts, appeared so strange and so

incredible, that, occupied rather by wonder than, thinking, she

continued almost motionless in the place where he had left her, till Mrs

Charlton sent to request that she would return to the house. She then

enquired if any body was with her, and being answered in the negative,

obeyed the summons.

Mrs Charlton, with a smile of much meaning, hoped she had had a pleasant

walk; but Cecilia seriously remonstrated on the dangerous imprudence

she had committed in suffering her to be so unguardedly surprised. Mrs

Charlton, however, more anxious for her future and solid happiness, than

for her present apprehensions and delicacy, repented not the step she

had taken; and when she gathered from Cecilia the substance of what had

past, unmindful of the expostulations which accompanied it, she thought

with exultation that the sudden meeting she had permitted, would now, by

making known to each their mutual affection, determine them to defer no

longer a union upon which their mutual peace of mind so much depended.

And Cecilia, finding she had been thus betrayed designedly, not

inadvertently, could hardly reproach her zeal, though she lamented its

indiscretion.

She then asked by what means he had obtained admission, and made himself

known; and heard that he had enquired at the door for Miss Beverley,

and, having sent in his name, was shewn into the parlour, where Mrs

Charlton, much pleased with his appearance, had suddenly conceived

the little plan which she had executed, of contriving a surprise for

Cecilia, from which she rationally expected the very consequences that

ensued, though the immediate means she had not conjectured.

The account was still unsatisfactory to Cecilia, who could frame to

herself no possible reason for a visit so extraordinary, and so totally

inconsistent with his declarations and resolutions.

This, however, was a matter of but little moment, compared with the

other subjects to which the interview had given rise; Delvile, upon whom

so long, though secretly, her dearest hopes of happiness had rested, was

now become acquainted with his power, and knew himself the master of her

destiny; he had quitted her avowedly to decide what it should be, since

his present subject of deliberation included her fate in his own; the

next morning he was to call, and acquaint her with his decree, not

doubting her concurrence which ever way be resolved.

A subjection so undue, and which she could not but consider as

disgraceful, both shocked and afflicted her; and the reflection that the

man who of all men she preferred, was acquainted with her preference,

yet hesitated whether to accept or abandon her, mortified and provoked

her, alternately, occupied her thoughts the whole night, and kept her

from peace and from rest.

CHAPTER iv. -- A PROPOSITION.

Early the next morning, Delvile again made his appearance. Cecilia, who

was at breakfast with Mrs and Miss Charltons, received him with the most

painful confusion, and he was evidently himself in a state of the

utmost perturbation. Mrs Charlton made a pretence almost immediately

for sending away both her grand-daughters, and then, without taking the

trouble of devising one for herself, arose and followed them, though

Cecilia made sundry signs of solicitation that she would stay.

Finding herself now alone with him, she hastily, and without knowing

what she said, cried, “How is Mrs Delvile, Sir? Is she still at

Bristol?”

“At Bristol? no; have you never heard she is returned to Delvile

Castle?”

“O, true!--I meant Delvile Castle,--but I hope she found some benefit

from the waters?”

“She had not, I believe, any occasion to try them.”

Cecilia, ashamed of these two following mistakes, coloured high; but

ventured not again to speak; and Delvile, who seemed big with something

he feared to utter, arose, and walked for a few instants about the room;

after which, exclaiming aloud “How vain is every plan which passes the

present hour!” He advanced to Cecilia, who pretended to be looking at

some work, and seating himself next her, “when we parted yesterday,”

he cried, “I presumed to say one night alone should be given to

deliberation,--and to-day, this very day to action!--but I forgot that

though in deliberating I had only myself to consult, in acting I was not

so independent; and that when my own doubts were satisfied, and my

own resolutions taken, other doubts and other resolutions must be

considered, by which my purposed proceedings might be retarded, might

perhaps be wholly prevented!”

He paused, but Cecilia, unable to conjecture to what he was leading,

made not any answer.

“Upon you, madam,” he continued, “all that is good or evil of my future

life, as far as relates to its happiness or misery, will, from this very

hour, almost solely depend; yet much as I rely upon your goodness, and

superior as I know you to trifling or affectation, what I now come to

propose--to petition--to entreat--I cannot summon courage to mention,

from a dread of alarming you!”

What next, thought Cecilia, trembling at this introduction, is preparing

for me! does he mean to ask me to solicit Mrs Delvile's consent! or from

myself must he receive commands that we should never meet more!

“Is Miss Beverley,” cried he, “determined not to, speak to me? Is she

bent upon silence only to intimidate me? Indeed if she knew how greatly

I respect her, she would honour me with more confidence.”

“When, Sir,” cried she, “do you mean to make your tour?”

“Never!” cried he, with fervour, “unless banished by you, never!--no,

loveliest Miss Beverley, I can now quit you no more! Fortune, beauty,

worth and sweetness I had power to relinquish, and severe as was the

task, I compelled myself to perform it,--but when to these I find joined

so attractive a softness,--a pity for my sufferings so unexpectedly

gentle no! sweetest Miss Beverley, I can quit you no more!” And then,

seizing her hand, with yet greater energy, he went on, “I here,” he

cried, “offer you my vows, I here own you sole arbitress of my fate! I

give you not merely the possession of my heart,--that, indeed, I had no

power to withhold from you,--but I give you the direction of my conduct,

I entreat you to become my counsellor and guide. Will Miss Beverley

accept such an office? Will she deign to listen to such a prayer?”

“Yes,” cried Cecilia, involuntarily delighted to find that such was

the result of his night's deliberation, “I am most ready to give you my

counsel; which I now do,--that you set off for the Continent to-morrow

morning.”

“O how malicious!” cried he, half laughing, “yet not so immediately do

I even request your counsel; something must first be done to qualify you

for giving it; penetration, skill and understanding, however amply you

possess them, are not sufficient to fit you for the charge; something

still more is requisite, you must be invested with fuller powers,

you must have a right less disputable, and a title, that not alone,

inclination, not even judgment alone must sanctify, but which law must

enforce, and rites the most solemn support!”

“I think, then,” said Cecilia, deeply blushing, “I must be content to

forbear giving any counsel at all, if the qualifications for it are so

difficult of acquirement.”

“Resent not my presumption,” cried he, “my beloved Miss Beverley, but

let the severity of my recent sufferings palliate my present temerity;

for where affliction has been deep and serious, causeless and

unnecessary misery will find little encouragement; and mine has

been serious indeed! Sweetly, then, permit me, in proportion to its

bitterness, to rejoice in the soft reverse which now flatters me with

its approach.”

Cecilia, abashed and uneasy, uncertain of what was to follow, and

unwilling to speak till more assured, paused, and then abruptly

exclaimed “I am afraid Mrs Charlton is waiting for me,” and would have

hurried away; but Delvile, almost forcibly preventing her, compelled

her to stay; and, after a short conversation, on his side the most

impassioned, and on hers the most confused, obtained from her, what,

indeed, after the surprise of the preceding evening she could but

ill deny, a frank confirmation of his power over her heart, and an

ingenuous, though reluctant acknowledgment, how long he had possessed

it.

This confession, made, as affairs now stood, wholly in opposition to her

judgment, was torn from her by an impetuous urgency which she had not

presence of mind to resist, and with which Delvile, when particularly

animated, had long been accustomed to overpower all opposition. The

joy with which he heard it, though but little mixed with wonder, was as

violent as the eagerness with which he had sought it; yet it was not of

long duration, a sudden, and most painful recollection presently quelled

it, and even in the midst of his rapturous acknowledgment, seemed to

strike him to the heart.

Cecilia, soon perceiving both in his countenance and manner an

alteration that shocked her, bitterly repented an avowal she could never

recall, and looked aghast with expectation and dread.

Delvile, who with quickness saw a change of expression in her of which

in himself he was unconscious, exclaimed, with much emotion, “O how

transient is human felicity! How rapidly fly those rare and exquisite

moments in which it is perfect! Ah! sweetest Miss Beverley, what words

shall I find to soften what I have now to reveal! to tell you that,

after goodness, candour, generosity such as yours, a request, a

supplication remains yet to be uttered that banishes me, if refused,

from your presence for ever!”

Cecilia, extremely dismayed, desired to know what it was; an evident

dread of offending her kept him some time from proceeding, but at

length, after repeatedly expressing his fears of her disapprobation, and

a repugnance even on his own part to the very measure he was obliged to

urge, he acknowledged that all his hopes of being ever united to her,

rested upon obtaining her consent to an immediate and secret marriage.

Cecilia, thunderstruck by this declaration, remained for a few instants

too much confounded to speak; but when he was beginning an explanatory

apology, she started up, and glowing with indignation, said, “I

had flattered myself, Sir, that both my character and my conduct,

independent of my situation in life, would have exempted me at all

times from a proposal which I shall ever think myself degraded by having

heard.”

And then she was again going, but Delvile still preventing her, said “I

knew too well how much you would be alarmed, and such was my dread of

your displeasure that it had power even to embitter the happiness

I sought with so much earnestness, and to render your condescension

insufficient to ensure it. Yet wonder not at my scheme; wild as it may

appear, it is the result of deliberation, and censurable as it may seem,

it springs not from unworthy motives.”

“Whatever may be your motives with respect to yourself, Sir,” said

Cecilia, “with respect to me they must certainly be disgraceful; I will

not, therefore, listen to them.”

“You wrong me cruelly,” cried he, with warmth, “and a moment's

reflection must tell you that however distinct may be our honour or our

disgrace in every other instance, in that by which we should be united,

they must inevitably be the same; and far sooner would I voluntarily

relinquish you, than be myself accessory to tainting that delicacy of

which the unsullied purity has been the chief source of my admiration.”

“Why, then,” cried Cecilia, reproachfully, “have you mentioned to me

such a project?”

“Circumstances the most singular, and necessity the most unavoidable,”

he answered, “should alone have ever tempted me to form it. No longer

ago than yesterday morning, I believed myself incapable of even wishing

it; but extraordinary situations call for extraordinary resolutions,

and in private as well as public life, palliate, at least, extraordinary

actions. Alas! the proposal which so much offends you is my final

resource! it is the sole barrier between myself and perpetual

misery!--the only expedient in my power to save me from eternally

parting from you!--for I am compelled now cruelly to confess, that my

family, I am certain, will never consent to our union!”

“Neither, then, Sir,” cried Cecilia, with great spirit, “will I!

The disdain I may meet with I pretend not to retort, but wilfully to

encounter, were meanly to deserve it. I will enter into no family in

opposition to its wishes, I will consent to no alliance that may expose

me to indignity. Nothing is so contagious as contempt!--The example of

your friends might work powerfully upon yourself, and who shall dare

assure me you would not catch the infection?”

“I dare assure you!” cried he; “hasty you may perhaps think me, and

somewhat impetuous I cannot deny myself; but believe me not of so

wretched a character as to be capable, in any affair of moment, of

fickleness or caprice.”

“But what, Sir, is my security to the contrary? Have you not this moment

avowed that but yesterday you held in abhorrence the very plan that

to-day you propose? And may you not to-morrow resume again the same

opinion?”

“Cruel Miss Beverley! how unjust is this inference! If yesterday I

disapproved what to-day I recommend, a little recollection must surely

tell you why; and that not my opinion, but my situation is changed.”

The conscious Cecilia here turned away her head; too certain he alluded

to the discovery of her partiality.

“Have you not yourself,” he continued, “witnessed the steadiness of my

mind? Have you not beheld me fly, when I had power to pursue, and avoid,

when I had opportunity to seek you? After witnessing my constancy upon

such trying occasions, is it equitable, is it right to suspect me of

wavering?”

“But what,” cried she, “was the constancy which brought you into

Suffolk?--When all occasion was over for our meeting any more, when you

told me you were going abroad, and took leave of me for ever,--where,

then, was your steadiness in this unnecessary journey?”

“Have a care,” cried he, half smiling, and taking a letter from his

pocket, “have a care, upon this point, how you provoke me to spew my

justification!”

“Ah!” cried Cecilia, blushing, “'tis some trick of Lady Honoria!”

“No, upon my honour. The authority is less doubtful; I believe I should

hardly else have regarded it.”

Cecilia, much alarmed, held out her hand for the letter; and looking

first at the end was much astonished to see the name of Biddulph. She

then cast her eye over the beginning, and when she saw her own name,

read the following paragraph.

“Miss Beverley, as you doubtless know, is returned into Suffolk; every

body here saw her with the utmost surprize; from the moment I had heard

of her residence in Delvile Castle, I had given her up for lost; but,

upon her unexpected appearance among us again, I was weak enough once

more to make trial of her heart. I soon found, however, that the pain

of a second rejection you might have spared me, and that though she had

quitted Delvile Castle, she had not for nothing entered it; at the sound

of your name, she blushes; at the mention of your illness, she turns

pale; and the dog you have given her, which I recollected immediately,

is her darling companion. Oh happy Delvile! yet so lovely a conquest you

abandon.--”

Cecilia could read no more; the letter dropt from her hand; to find

herself thus by her own emotions betrayed, made her instantly conclude

she was universally discovered; and turning sick at the supposition, all

her spirit forsook her, and she burst into tears.

“Good heaven,” cried Delvile, extremely shocked, “what has thus affected

you? Can the jealous surmises of an apprehensive rival--”

“Do not talk to me,” interrupted she, impatiently, “and do not detain

me,--I am extremely disturbed,--I wish to be alone,--I beg, I even

entreat you would leave me.”

“I will go, I will obey you in every thing!” cried he, eagerly, “tell me

but when I may return, and when you will suffer me to explain to you all

the motives of my proposal?”

“Never, never!” cried she, with earnestness, “I am sufficiently lowered

already, but never will I intrude myself into a family that disdains

me!”

“Disdains? No, you are revered in it! who could disdain you! That fatal

clause alone--”

“Well, well, pray leave me; indeed I cannot hear you; I am unfit for

argument, and all reasoning now is nothing less than cruelty.”

“I am gone,” cried he, “this moment! I would not even wish to take

advantage of your agitation in order to work upon your sensibility. My

desire is not to surprize, but to reconcile you to my plan. What is it

I seek in Miss Beverley? An Heiress? No, as such she has seen I could

resist her; nor yet the light trifler of a spring or two, neglected when

no longer a novelty; no, no!--it is a companion for ever, it is a solace

for every care, it is a bosom friend through every period of life that

I seek in Miss Beverley! Her esteem, therefore, to me is as precious

as her affection, for how can I hope her friendship in the winter of

my days, if their brighter and gayer season is darkened by doubts of

my integrity? All shall be clear and explicit; no latent cause of

uneasiness shall disturb our future quiet; we will now be sincere, that

hereafter we may be easy; and sweetly in unclouded felicity, time shall

glide away imperceptibly, and we will make an interest with each

other in the gaiety of youth, to bear with the infirmities of age, and

alleviate them by kindness and sympathy. And then shall my soothing

Cecilia--”

“O say no more!” interrupted she, softened in her own despite by a plan

so consonant to her wishes, “what language is this! how improper for you

to use, or me to hear!”

She then very earnestly insisted upon his going; and after a thousand

times taking leave and returning, promising obedience, yet pursuing his

own way, he at length said if she would consent to receive a letter from

him, he would endeavour to commit what he had to communicate to paper,

since their mutual agitation made him unable to explain himself with

clearness, and rather hurt his cause than assisted it, by leaving all

his arguments unfinished and obscure.

Another dispute now arose; Cecilia protesting she would receive no

letter, and hear nothing upon the subject; and Delvile impetuously

declaring he would submit to no award without being first heard. At

length he conquered, and at length he departed.

Cecilia then felt her whole heart sink within her at the unhappiness of

her situation. She considered herself now condemned to refuse Delvile

herself, as the only condition upon which he even solicited her favour,

neither the strictness of her principles, nor the delicacy of her mind,

would suffer her to accept. Her displeasure at the proposal had been

wholly unaffected, and she regarded it as an injury to her character

ever to have received it; yet that Delvile's pride of heart should give

way to his passion, that he should love her with so much fondness as to

relinquish for her the ambitious schemes of his family, and even that

darling name which so lately seemed annexed to his existence, were

circumstances to which she was not insensible, and proofs of tenderness

and regard which she had thought incompatible with the general spirit

of his disposition. Yet however by these she was gratified, she resolved

never to comply with so humiliating a measure, but to wait the consent

of his friends, or renounce him for ever.

CHAPTER v. -- A LETTER.

As soon as Mrs Charlton was acquainted with the departure of young

Delvile, she returned to Cecilia, impatient to be informed what had

passed. The narration she heard both hurt and astonished her; that

Cecilia, the Heiress of such a fortune, the possessor of so much beauty,

descended of a worthy family, and formed and educated to grace a noble

one, should be rejected by people to whom her wealth would be most

useful, and only in secret have their alliance proposed to her, she

deemed an indignity that called for nothing but resentment, and

approved and enforced the resolution of her young friend to resist all

solicitations which Mr and Mrs Delvile did not second themselves.

About, two hours after Delvile was gone, his letter arrived. Cecilia

opened it with trepidation, and read as follows.

To Miss Beverley.

September 20, 1779.

What could be the apprehensions, the suspicions of Miss Beverley when so

earnestly she prohibited my writing? From a temper so unguarded as mine

could she fear any subtlety of doctrine? Is my character so little known

to her that she can think me capable of craft or duplicity? Had I even

the desire, I have neither the address nor the patience to practice

them; no, loveliest Miss Beverley, though sometimes by vehemence I may

incautiously offend, by sophistry, believe me, I never shall injure;

my ambition, as I have told you, is to convince, not beguile, and my

arguments shall be simple as my professions shall be sincere.

Yet how again may I venture to mention a proposal which so lately almost

before you had heard you rejected? Suffer me, however, to assure you

it resulted neither from insensibility to your delicacy, nor to my own

duty; I made it, on the contrary, with that reluctance and timidity

which were given me by an apprehension that both seemed to be offended

by it;--but alas! already I have said what with grief I must repeat, I

have no resource, no alternative, between receiving the honour of your

hand in secret or foregoing you for ever.

You will wonder, you may well wonder at such a declaration; and again

that severe renunciation with which you wounded me, will tremble on

your lips,--Oh there let it stop! nor let the air again be agitated with

sounds so discordant!

In that cruel and heart-breaking moment when I tore myself from you

at Delvile Castle, I confessed to you the reason of my flight, and I

determined to see you no more. I named not to you, then, my family,

the potency of my own objections against daring to solicit your favour

rendering theirs immaterial; my own are now wholly removed, but theirs

remain in full force.

My father, descended of a race which though decaying in wealth, is

unsubdued in pride, considers himself as the guardian of the honour

of his house, to which he holds the name of his ancestors inseparably

annexed; my mother, born of the same family, and bred to the same ideas,

has strengthened this opinion by giving it the sanction of her own.

Such being their sentiments; you will not, madam, be surprised that

their only son, the sole inheritor of their fortune, and sole object of

their expectations, should early have admitted the same. Indeed almost

the first lesson I was taught was that of reverencing the family

from which I am descended, and the name to which I am born. I was bid

consider myself as its only remaining support, and sedulously instructed

neither to act nor think but with a view to its aggrandizement and

dignity.

Thus, unchecked by ourselves, and uncontrouled by the world, this

haughty self-importance acquired by time a strength, and by mutual

encouragement a firmness, which Miss Beverley alone could possibly, I

believe, have shaken! What, therefore, was my secret alarm, when first I

was conscious of the force of her attractions, and found my mind wholly

occupied with admiration of her excellencies! All that pride could

demand, and all to which ambition could aspire, all that happiness could

covet, or the most scrupulous delicacy exact, in her I found united; and

while my heart was enslaved by her charms, my understanding exulted in

its fetters. Yet to forfeit my name, to give up for-ever a family which

upon me rested its latest expectations,--Honour, I thought forbad it,

propriety and manly spirit revolted at the sacrifice. The renunciation

of my birth-right seemed a desertion of the post in which I was

stationed; I forbore, therefore, even in my wishes, to solicit your

favour, and vigorously determined to fly you as dangerous to my peace,

because unattainable without dishonour.

Such was the intended regulation of my conduct at the time I received

Biddulph's letter; in three days I was to leave England; my father,

with much persuasion, had consented to my departure; my mother, who

penetrated into my motives, had never opposed it; but how great was

the change wrought upon my mind by reading that letter! my steadiness

forsook me, my resolution wavered; yet I thought him deceived, and

attributed his suspicions to jealousy; but still, Fidel I knew was

missing--and to hear he was your darling companion--was it possible to

quit England in a state of such uncertainty? to be harassed in distant

climates with conjectures I might then never satisfy? No; I told my

friends I must visit Biddulph before I left the kingdom, and promising

to return to them in three or four days, I hastily set out for Suffolk,

and rested not till I arrived at Mrs Charlton's.

What a scene there awaited me! to behold the loved mistress of my heart,

the opposed, yet resistless object of my fondest admiration, caressing

an animal she knew to be mine, mourning over him his master's ill

health, and sweetly recommending to him fidelity,--Ah! forgive the

retrospection, I will dwell on it no longer. Little, indeed, had I

imagined with what softness the dignity of Miss Beverley was blended,

though always conscious that her virtues, her attractions, and her

excellencies, would reflect lustre upon the highest station to which

human grandeur could raise her, and would still be more exalted than her

rank, though that were the most eminent upon earth.--And had there been

a thousand, and ten thousand obstacles to oppose my addressing her,

vigorously and undauntedly would I have combated with them all, in

preference to yielding to this single objection!

Let not the frankness of this declaration irritate you, but rather let

it serve to convince you of the sincerity of what follows; various as

are the calamities of life which may render me miserable, YOU only,

among even its chosen felicities, have power to make me happy. Fame,

honours, wealth, ambition, were insufficient without you; all chance of

internal peace, and every softer hope is now centered in your

favour, and to lose you, from whatever cause, ensures me wretchedness

unmitigated. With respect therefore to myself, the die is finally cast,

and the conflict between bosom felicity and family pride is deliberately

over. This name which so vainly I have cherished and so painfully

supported, I now find inadequate to recompense me for the sacrifice

which its preservation requires. I part with it, I own, with regret that

the surrender is necessary; yet is it rather an imaginary than an actual

evil, and though a deep wound to pride, no offence to morality.

Thus have I laid open to you my whole heart, confessed my perplexities,

acknowledged my vain-glory, and exposed with equal sincerity the sources

of my doubts, and the motives of my decision; but now, indeed, how to

proceed I know not; the difficulties which are yet to encounter I fear

to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge I have scarce courage to

mention.

My family, mistaking ambition for honour, and rank for dignity, have

long planned a splendid connection for me, to which though my invariable

repugnance has stopt any advances, their wishes and their views

immovably adhere. I am but too certain they will now listen to no other.

I dread, therefore, to make a trial where I despair of success, I know

not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me by a command.

In a situation so desperate, what then remains? Must I make an

application with a certainty of rejection, and then mock all authority

by acting in defiance of it? Or, harder task yet! relinquish my dearest

hopes when no longer persuaded of their impropriety? Ah! sweetest Miss

Beverley, end the struggle at once! My happiness, my peace, are wholly

in your power, for the moment of our union secures them for life.

It may seem to you strange that I should thus purpose to brave the

friends whom I venture not to entreat; but from my knowledge of their

characters and sentiments I am certain I have no other resource. Their

favourite principles were too early imbibed to be now at this late

season eradicated. Slaves that we all are to habits, and dupes to

appearances, jealous guardians of our pride, to which our comfort is

sacrificed, and even our virtue made subservient, what conviction can

be offered by reason, to notions that exist but by prejudice? They have

been cherished too long for rhetorick to remove them, they can only

be expelled by all-powerful Necessity. Life is, indeed, too brief,

and success too precarious, to trust, in any case where happiness is

concerned, the extirpation of deep-rooted and darling opinions, to the

slow-working influence of argument and disquisition.

Yet bigotted as they are to rank and family, they adore Miss Beverley,

and though their consent to the forfeiture of their name might forever

be denied, when once they beheld her the head and ornament of their

house, her elegance and accomplishments joined to the splendour of her

fortune, would speedily make them forget the plans which now wholly

absorb them. Their sense of honour is in nothing inferior to their sense

of high birth; your condescension, therefore, would be felt by them in

its fullest force, and though, during their first surprize, they might

be irritated against their son, they would make it the study of their

lives that the lady who for him had done so much, should never, through

their means, repine for herself.

With regard to settlements, the privacy of our union would not affect

them; one Confident we must unavoidably trust, and I would deposit in

the hands of whatever person you would name, a bond by which I would

engage myself to settle both your fortune and my own, according to the

arbitration of our mutual friends. The time for secrecy though painful

would be short, and even from the altar, if you desired it, I would

hasten to Delvile Castle. Not one of my friends should you see till they

waited upon you themselves to solicit your presence at their house, till

our residence elsewhere was fixed.

Oh loveliest Cecilia, from a dream Of happiness so sweet awaken me not!

from a plan Of felicity so attractive turn not away! If one part of it

is unpleasant, reject not therefore all; and since without some drawback

no earthly bliss is attainable, do not, by a refinement too scrupulous

for the short period of our existence, deny yourself that delight

which your benevolence will afford you, in snatching from the pangs of

unavailing regret and misery, the gratefullest of men in the humblest

and most devoted of your servants, MORTIMER DELVILE.

Cecilia read and re-read this letter, but with a perturbation of mind

that made her little able to weigh its contents. Paragraph by

paragraph her sentiments varied, and her determination was changed; the

earnestness of his supplication now softened her into compliance, the

acknowledged pride of his family now irritated her into resentment, and

the confession of his own regret now sickened her into despondence. She

meant in an immediate answer, to have written a final dismission;

but though proof against his entreaties, because not convinced by his

arguments, there was something in the conclusion of his letter that

staggered her resolution.

Those scruples and that refinement against which he warned her, she

herself thought might be overstrained, and to gratify unnecessary

punctilio, the short period of existence be rendered causelessly

unhappy. He had truly said that their union would be no offence to

morality, and with respect merely to pride, why should that be spared?

He knew he possessed her heart, she had long been certain of his,

her character had early gained the affection of his mother, and the

essential service which an income such as hers must do the family, would

soon be felt too powerfully to make her connection with it regretted.

These reflections were so pleasant she knew not how to discard them; and

the consciousness that her secret was betrayed not only to himself, but

to Mr Biddulph, Lord Ernolf, Lady Honoria Pemberton, and Mrs Delvile,

gave them additional force, by making it probable she was yet more

widely suspected. But still her delicacy and her principles revolted

against a conduct of which the secrecy seemed to imply the impropriety.

“How shall I meet Mrs Delvile,” cried she, “after an action so

clandestine? How, after praise such as she has bestowed upon me, bear

the severity of her eye, when she thinks I have seduced from her the

obedience of her son! A son who is the sole solace and first hope of her

existence, whose virtues make all her happiness, and whose filial piety

is her only glory!--And well may she glory in a son such as Delvile!

Nobly has he exerted himself in situations the most difficult, his

family and his ideas of honour he has preferred to his peace and health,

he has fulfilled with spirit and integrity the various, the conflicting

duties of life. Even now, perhaps, in his present application, he

may merely think himself bound by knowing me no longer free, and his

generous sensibility to the weakness he has discovered, without any of

the conviction to which he pretends, may have occasioned this proposal!”

A suggestion so mortifying again changed her determination; and the

tears of Henrietta Belfield, with the letter which she had surprized in

her hand recurring to her memory, all her thoughts turned once more upon

rejecting him for-ever.

In this fluctuating state of mind she found writing impracticable;

while uncertain what to wish, to decide was impossible. She disdained

coquetry, she was superior to trifling, the candour and openness of

Delvile had merited all her sincerity, and therefore while any doubt

remained, with herself, she held it unworthy her character to tell him

she had none.

Mrs Charlton, upon reading the letter, became again the advocate of

Delvile; the frankness with which he had stated his difficulties assured

her of his probity, and by explaining his former conduct, satisfied her

with the rectitude of his future intentions. “Do not, therefore, my dear

child,” cried she, “become the parent of your own misery by refusing

him; he deserves you alike from his principles and his affection, and

the task would both be long and melancholy to disengage him from your

heart. I see not, however, the least occasion for the disgrace of a

private marriage; I know not any family to which you would not be an

honour, and those who feel not your merit, are little worth pleasing.

Let Mr Delvile, therefore, apply openly to his friends, and if they

refuse their consent, be their prejudices their reward. You are freed

from all obligations where caprice only can raise objections, and you

may then, in the face of the world, vindicate your choice.”

The wishes of Cecilia accorded with this advice, though the general

tenour of Delvile's letter gave her little reason to expect he would

follow it.

CHAPTER vi. -- A DISCUSSION.

The day past away, and Cecilia had yet written no answer; the evening

came, and her resolution was still unfixed. Delvile, at length,

was again announced; and though she dreaded trusting herself to his

entreaties, the necessity of hastening some decision deterred her from

refusing to see him.

Mrs Charlton was with her when he entered the room; he attempted at

first some general conversation, though the anxiety of his mind was

strongly pictured upon his face. Cecilia endeavoured also to talk upon

common topics, though her evident embarrassment spoke the absence of her

thoughts.

Delvile at length, unable any longer to bear suspence, turned to Mrs

Charlton, and said, “You are probably acquainted, madam, with the

purport of the letter I had the honour of sending to Miss Beverley this

morning?”

“Yes, Sir,” answered the old lady, “and you need desire little more than

that her opinion of it may be as favourable as mine.”

Delvile bowed and thanked her; and looking at Cecilia, to whom he

ventured not to speak, he perceived in her countenance a mixture of

dejection and confusion, that told him whatever might be her opinion, it

had by no means encreased her happiness.

“But why, Sir,” said Mrs Charlton, “should you be thus sure of the

disapprobation of your friends? had you not better hear what they have

to say?”

“I know, madam, what they have to say,” returned he; “for their language

and their principles have been invariable from my birth; to apply to

them, therefore, for a concession which I am certain they will not

grant, were only a cruel device to lay all my misery to their account.”

“And if they are so perverse, they deserve from you nothing better,”

said Mrs Charlton; “speak to them, however; you will then have done your

duty; and if they are obstinately unjust, you will have acquired a right

to act for yourself.”

“To mock their authority,” answered Delvile, “would be more offensive

than to oppose it; to solicit their approbation, and then act in

defiance of it, might justly provoke their indignation.--No; if at last

I am reduced to appeal to them, by their decision I must abide.”

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

the room.

“And is such, also,” said Delvile, “the opinion of Miss Beverley? has

she doomed me to be wretched, and does she wish that doom to be signed

by my nearest friends!”

“If your friends, Sir,” said Cecilia, “are so undoubtedly inflexible, it

were madness, upon any plan, to risk their displeasure.”

“To entreaty,” he answered, “they will be inflexible, but not to

forgiveness. My father, though haughty, dearly, even passionately loves

me; my mother, though high-spirited, is just, noble, and generous. She

is, indeed, the most exalted of women, and her power over my mind I

am unaccustomed to resist. Miss Beverley alone seems born to be her

daughter--”

“No, no,” interrupted Cecilia, “as her daughter she rejects me!”

“She loves, she adores you!” cried he warmly; “and were I not certain

she feels your excellencies as they ought to be felt, my veneration

for you both should even yet spare you my present supplication. But you

would become, I am certain, the first blessing of her life; in you she

would behold all the felicity of her son,--his restoration to health, to

his country, to his friends!”

“O Sir,” cried Cecilia, with emotion, “how deep a trench of real misery

do you sink, in order to raise this pile of fancied happiness! But I

will not be responsible for your offending such a mother; scarcely

can you honour her yourself more than I do; and I here declare most

solemnly--”

“O stop!” interrupted Delvile, “and resolve not till you have heard me.

Would you, were she no more, were my father also no more, would you yet

persist in refusing me?”

“Why should you ask me?” said Cecilia, blushing; “you would then be your

own agent, and perhaps--”

She hesitated, and Delvile vehemently exclaimed, “Oh make me not a

monster! force me not to desire the death of the very beings by whom I

live! weaken not the bonds of affection by which they are endeared to

me, and compel me not to wish them no more as the sole barriers to my

happiness!”

“Heaven forbid!” cried Cecilia, “could I believe you so impious, I

should suffer little indeed in desiring your eternal absence.”

“Why then only upon their extinction must I rest my hope of your

favour?”

Cecilia, staggered and distressed by this question, could make no

answer. Delvile, perceiving her embarrassment, redoubled his urgency;

and before she had power to recollect herself, she had almost consented

to his plan, when Henrietta Belfield rushing into her memory, she

hastily exclaimed, “One doubt there is, which I know not how to mention,

but ought to have cleared up;--you are acquainted with--you remember

Miss Belfield?”

“Certainly; but what of Miss Belfield that can raise a doubt in the mind

of Miss Beverley?”

Cecilia coloured, and was silent.

“Is it possible,” continued he, “you could ever for an instant

suppose--but I cannot even name a supposition so foreign to all

possibility.”

“She is surely very amiable?”

“Yes,” answered he, “she is innocent, gentle, and engaging; and I

heartily wish she were in a better situation.”

“Did you ever occasionally, or by any accident, correspond with her?”

“Never in my life.”

“And were not your visits to the brother sometimes--”