and ask if your visits to the sister were not sometimes for the brother!
But what does this mean? Could Miss Beverley imagine that after knowing
her, the charms of Miss Belfield could put me in any danger?”
Cecilia, bound in delicacy and friendship not to betray the tender and
trusting Henrietta, and internally satisfied of his innocence by his
frankness, evaded any answer; and would now have done with the subject;
but Delvile, eager wholly to exculpate himself, though by no means
displeased at an enquiry which shewed so much interest in his
affections, continued his explanation.
“Miss Belfield has, I grant, an attraction in the simplicity of her
manners which charms by its singularity; her heart, too, seems all
purity, and her temper all softness. I have not, you find, been blind to
her merit; on the contrary, I have both admired and pitied her. But
far indeed is she removed from all chance of rivalry in my heart! A
character such as hers for a while is irresistibly alluring; but when
its novelty is over, simplicity uninformed becomes wearisome, and
softness without dignity is too indiscriminate to give delight. We sigh
for entertainment, when cloyed by mere sweetness; and heavily drags on
the load of life when the companion of our social hours wants spirit,
intelligence, and cultivation. With Miss Beverley all these--”
“Talk not of all these,” cried Cecilia, “when one single obstacle has
power to render them valueless.”
“But now,” cried he, “that obstacle is surmounted.”
“Surmounted only for a moment! for even in your letter this morning you
confess the regret with which it fills you.”
“And why should I deceive you? Why pretend to think with pleasure, or
even with indifference, of an obstacle which has had thus long the power
to make me miserable? But where is happiness without allay? Is perfect
bliss the condition of humanity? Oh if we refuse to taste it till in
its last state of refinement, how shall the cup of evil be ever from our
lips?”
“How indeed!” said Cecilia, with a sigh; “the regret, I believe, will
remain eternally upon your mind, and she, perhaps, who should cause,
might soon be taught to partake of it.”
“O Miss Beverley! how have I merited this severity? Did I make my
proposals lightly? Did I suffer my eagerness to conquer my reason? Have
I not, on the contrary, been steady and considerate? neither biassed by
passion nor betrayed by tenderness?”
“And yet in what,” said Cecilia, “consists this boasted steadiness? I
perceived it indeed, at Delvile Castle, but here--”
“The pride of heart which supported me there,” cried he, “will support
me no longer; what sustained my firmness, but your apparent severity?
What enabled me to fly you, but your invariable coldness? The rigour
with which I trampled upon my feelings I thought fortitude and
spirit,--but I knew not then the pitying sympathy of Cecilia!”
“O that you knew it not yet!” cried she, blushing; “before that fatal
accident you thought of me, I believe, in a manner far more honourable.”
“Impossible! differently, I thought of you, but never, better, never so
well as now. I then represented you all lovely in beauty, all perfect in
goodness and virtue; but it was virtue in its highest majesty, not, as
now, blended with the softest sensibility.”
“Alas!” said Cecilia, “how the portrait is faded!”
“No, it is but more from the life; it is the sublimity of an angel,
mingled with all that is attractive in woman. But who is the friend we
may venture to trust? To whom may I give my bond? And from whom may I
receive a treasure which for the rest of my life will constitute all its
felicity?”
“Where can I,” cried Cecilia, “find a friend, who, in this critical
moment will instruct me how to act!”
“You will find one,” answered he, “in your own bosom; ask but yourself
this plain question; will any virtue be offended by your honouring me
with your hand?”
“Yes; duty will be offended, since it is contrary to the will of your
parents.”
“But is there no time for emancipation? Am not I of an age to chuse
for myself the partner of my life? Will not you in a few days be the
uncontrolled mistress of your actions? Are we not both independent? Your
ample fortune all your own, and the estates of my father so entailed
they must unavoidably be mine?”
“And are these,” said Cecilia, “considerations to set us free from our
duty?”
“No, but they are circumstances to relieve us from slavery. Let me not
offend you if I am still more explicit. When no law, human or divine,
can be injured by our union, when one motive of pride is all that can be
opposed to a thousand motives of convenience and happiness, why
should we both be made unhappy, merely lest that pride should lose its
gratification?”
This question, which so often and so angrily she had revolved in her own
mind, again silenced her; and Delvile, with the eagerness of approaching
success, redoubled his solicitations.
“Be mine,” he cried, “sweetest Cecilia, and all will go well. To refer
me to my friends is, effectually, to banish me for ever. Spare me, then,
the unavailing task; and save me from the resistless entreaties of a
mother, whose every desire I have held sacred, whose wish has been
my law, and whose commands I have implicitly, invariably obeyed!
Oh generously save me from the dreadful alternative of wounding her
maternal heart by a peremptory refusal, or of torturing my own with
pangs to which it is unequal by an extorted obedience!”
“Alas!” cried Cecilia, “how utterly impossible I can relieve you!”
“And why? once mine, irrevocably mine---.”
“No, that would but irritate,--and irritate past hope of pardon.”
“Indeed you are mistaken; to your merit they are far from insensible,
and your fortune is just what they wish. Trust me, therefore, when I
assure you that their displeasure, which both respect and justice will
guard them from ever shewing you, will soon die wholly away. I speak not
merely from my hopes; in judging my own friends, I consider human nature
in general. Inevitable evils are ever best supported. It is suspence,
it is hope that make the food of misery; certainty is always endured,
because known to be past amendment, and felt to give defiance to
struggling.”
“And can you,” cried Cecilia, “with reasoning so desperate be satisfied?
“In a situation so extraordinary as ours,” answered he, “there is no
other. The voice of the world at large will be all in our favour. Our
union neither injures our fortunes, nor taints our morality; with
the character of each the other is satisfied, and both must be alike
exculpated from mercenary views of interest, or romantic contempt of
poverty; what right have we, then, to repine at an objection which,
however potent, is single? Surely none. Oh if wholly unchecked were the
happiness I now have in view, if no foul storm sometimes lowered over
the prospect, and for the moment obscured its brightness, how could
my heart find room for joy so superlative? The whole world might rise
against me as the first man in it who had nothing left to wish!”
Cecilia, whose own hopes aided this reasoning, found not much to oppose
to it; and with little more of entreaty, and still less of argument,
Delvile at length obtained her consent to his plan. Fearfully,
indeed, and with unfeigned reluctance she gave it, but it was the
only alternative with a separation for-ever, to which she held not the
necessity adequate to the pain.
The thanks of Delvile were as vehement as had been his entreaties,
which yet, however, were not at an end; the concession she had made was
imperfect, unless its performance were immediate, and he now endeavoured
to prevail with her to be his before the expiration of a week.
Here, however, his task ceased to be difficult; Cecilia, as ingenuous
by nature as she was honourable from principle, having once brought her
mind to consent to his proposal, sought not by studied difficulties to
enhance the value of her compliance; the great point resolved upon, she
held all else of too little importance for a contest.
Mrs Charlton was now called in, and acquainted with the result of their
conference. Her approbation by no means followed the scheme of privacy;
yet she was too much rejoiced in seeing her young friend near the period
of her long suspence and uneasiness, to oppose any plan which might
forward their termination.
Delvile then again begged to know what male confidant might be entrusted
with their project.
Mr Monckton immediately occurred to Cecilia, though the certainty of his
ill-will to the cause made all application to him disagreeable; but his
long and steady friendship for her, his readiness to counsel and assist
her, and the promises she had occasionally made, not to act without
his advice, all concurred to persuade her that in a matter of such
importance, she owed to him her confidence, and should be culpable
to proceed without it. Upon him, therefore, she fixed; yet finding in
herself a repugnance insuperable to acquainting him with her situation,
she agreed that Delvile, who instantly proposed to be her messenger,
should open to him the affair, and prepare him for their meeting.
Delvile then, rapid in thought and fertile in expedients, with a
celerity and vigour which bore down all objections, arranged the whole
conduct of the business. To avoid suspicion, he determined instantly
to quit her, and, as soon as he had executed his commission with Mr
Monckton, to hasten to London, that the necessary preparations for their
marriage might be made with dispatch and secrecy. He purposed, also, to
find out Mr Belfield; that he might draw up the bond with which he meant
to entrust Mr Monckton. This measure Cecilia would have opposed, but
he refused to listen to her. Mrs Charlton herself, though her age and
infirmities had long confined her to her own house, gratified Cecilia
upon this critical occasion with consenting to accompany her to the
altar. Mr Monckton was depended upon for giving her away, and a church
in London was the place appointed for the performance of the ceremony.
In three days the principal difficulties to the union would be removed
by Cecilia's coming of age, and in five days it was agreed that they
should actually meet in town. The moment they were married Delvile
promised to set off for the castle, while in another chaise, Cecilia
returned to Mrs Charlton's. This settled, he conjured her to be
punctual, and earnestly recommending himself to her fidelity and
affection, he bid her adieu.
CHAPTER vii. -- A RETROSPECTION.
Left now to herself, sensations unfelt before filled the heart of
Cecilia. All that had passed for a while appeared a dream; her ideas
were indistinct, her memory was confused, her faculties seemed all
out of order, and she had but an imperfect consciousness either of the
transaction in which she had just been engaged, or of the promise she
had bound herself to fulfil; even truth from imagination she scarcely
could separate; all was darkness and doubt, inquietude and disorder!
But when at length her recollection more clearly returned, and her
situation appeared to her such as it really was, divested alike of
false terrors or delusive expectations, she found herself still further
removed from tranquility.
Hitherto, though no stranger to sorrow, which the sickness and early
loss of her friends had first taught her to feel, and which the
subsequent anxiety of her own heart had since instructed her to bear,
she had yet invariably possessed the consolation of self-approving
reflections; but the step she was now about to take, all her principles
opposed; it terrified her as undutiful, it shocked her as clandestine,
and scarce was Delvile out of sight, before she regretted her consent
to it as the loss of her self-esteem, and believed, even if a
reconciliation took place, the remembrance of a wilful fault would
still follow her, blemish in her own eyes the character she had hoped
to support, and be a constant allay to her happiness, by telling her how
unworthily she had obtained it.
Where frailty has never been voluntary, nor error stubborn, where the
pride of early integrity is unsubdued, and the first purity of innocence
is inviolate, how fearfully delicate, how “tremblingly alive,” is the
conscience of man! strange, that what in its first state is so tender,
can in its last become so callous!
Compared with the general lot of human misery, Cecilia had suffered
nothing; but compared with the exaltation of ideal happiness, she had
suffered much; willingly, however, would she again have borne all that
had distressed her, experienced the same painful suspence, endured
the same melancholy parting, and gone through the same cruel task of
combating inclination with reason, to have relieved her virtuous mind
from the new-born and intolerable terror of conscientious reproaches.
The equity of her notions permitted her not from the earnestness of
Delvile's entreaties to draw any palliation for her consent to his
proposal; she was conscious that but for her own too great facility
those entreaties would have been ineffectual, since she well knew how
little from any other of her admirers they would have availed.
But chiefly her affliction and repentance hung upon Mrs Delvile, whom
she loved, reverenced and honoured, whom she dreaded to offend, and whom
she well knew expected from her even exemplary virtue. Her praises, her
partiality, her confidence in her character, which hitherto had been her
pride, she now only recollected with shame and with sadness. The terror
of the first interview never ceased to be present to her; she shrunk
even in imagination from her wrath-darting eye, she felt stung by
pointed satire, and subdued by cold contempt.
Yet to disappoint Delvile so late, by forfeiting a promise so positively
accorded; to trifle with a man who to her had been uniformly candid,
to waver when her word was engaged, and retract when he thought himself
secure,--honour, justice and shame told her the time was now past.
“And yet is not this,” cried she, “placing nominal before actual evil?
Is it not studying appearance at the expence of reality? If agreeing
to wrong is criminal, is not performing it worse? If repentance for ill
actions calls for mercy, has not repentance for ill intentions a yet
higher claim?--And what reproaches from Delvile can be so bitter as my
own? What separation, what sorrow, what possible calamity can hang upon
my mind with such heaviness, as the sense of committing voluntary evil?”
This thought so much affected her, that, conquering all regret either
for Delvile or herself, she resolved to write to him instantly, and
acquaint him of the alteration in her sentiments.
This, however, after having so deeply engaged herself, was by no means
easy; and many letters were begun, but not one of them was finished,
when a sudden recollection obliged her to give over the attempt,--for
she knew not whither to direct to him.
In the haste with which their plan had been formed and settled, it had
never once occurred to them that any, occasion for writing was likely to
happen. Delvile, indeed, knew that her address would still be the same;
and with regard to his own, as his journey to London was to be secret,
he purposed not having any fixed habitation. On the day of their
marriage, and not before, they had appointed to meet at the house of Mrs
Roberts, in Fetter-Lane, whence they were instantly to proceed to the
church.
She might still, indeed, enclose a letter for him in one to Mrs Hill, to
be delivered to him on the destined morning when he called to claim her;
but to fail him at the last moment, when Mr Belfield would have drawn up
the bond, when a licence was procured, the clergyman waiting to perform
the ceremony, and Delvile without a suspicion but that the next moment
would unite them for ever, seemed extending prudence into treachery, and
power into tyranny. Delvile had done nothing to merit such treatment, he
had practised no deceit, he had been guilty of no perfidy, he had opened
to her his whole heart, and after shewing it without any disguise, the
option had been all her own to accept or refuse him.
A ray of joy now broke its way through the gloom of her apprehensions.
“Ah!” cried she, “I have not, then, any means to recede! an unprovoked
breach of promise at the very moment destined for its performance, would
but vary the mode of acting wrong, without approaching nearer to acting
right!”
This idea for a while not merely calmed but delighted her; to be the
wife of Delvile seemed now a matter of necessity, and she soothed
herself with believing that to struggle against it were vain.
The next morning during breakfast Mr Monckton arrived.
Not greater, though winged with joy, had been the expedition of Delvile
to open to him his plan, than was his own, though only goaded by
desperation, to make some effort with Cecilia for rendering it abortive.
Nor could all his self-denial, the command which he held over his
passions, nor the rigour with which his feelings were made subservient
to his interest, in this sudden hour of trial, avail to preserve his
equanimity. The refinements of hypocrisy, and the arts of insinuation,
offered advantages too distant, and exacted attentions too subtle, for
a moment so alarming; those arts and those attentions he had already for
many years practised, with an address the most masterly, and a diligence
the most indefatigable; success had of late seemed to follow his
toils; the encreasing infirmities of his wife, the disappointment and
retirement of Cecilia, uniting to promise him a conclusion equally
speedy and happy; when now, by a sudden and unexpected stroke, the sweet
solace of his future cares, the long-projected recompence of his past
sufferings, was to be snatched from him for ever, and by one who,
compared with himself, was but the acquaintance of a day.
Almost wholly off his guard from the surprise and horror of this
apprehension, he entered the room with such an air of haste and
perturbation, that Mrs Charlton and her grand-daughters demanded what
was the matter.
“I am come,” he answered abruptly, yet endeavouring to recollect
himself, “to speak with Miss Beverley upon business of some importance.”
“My dear, then,” said Mrs Charlton, “you had better go with Mr Monckton
into your dressing-room.”
Cecilia, deeply blushing, arose and led the way; slowly, however, she
proceeded, though urged by Mr Monckton to make speed. Certain of his
disapprobation, and but doubtfully relieved from her own, she dreaded a
conference which on his side, she foresaw, would be all exhortation and
reproof, and on hers all timidity and shame.
“Good God,” cried he, “Miss Beverley, what is this you have done? bound
yourself to marry a man who despises, who scorns, who refuses to own
you!”
Shocked by this opening, she started, but could make no answer.
“See you not,” he continued, “the indignity which is offered you? Does
the loose, the flimsy veil with which it is covered, hide it from your
understanding, or disguise it from your delicacy?”
“I thought not,--I meant not,” said she, more and more confounded, “to
submit to any indignity, though my pride, in an exigence so peculiar,
may give way, for a while, to convenience.”
“To convenience?” repeated he, “to contempt, to derision, to
insolence!”--
“O Mr Monckton!” interrupted Cecilia, “make not use of such expressions!
they are too cruel for me to hear, and if I thought they were just,
would make me miserable for life!”
“You are deceived, grossly deceived,” replied he, “if you doubt their
truth for a moment; they are not, indeed, even decently concealed from
you; they are glaring as the day, and wilful blindness can alone obscure
them.”
“I am sorry, Sir,” said Cecilia, whose confusion, at a charge so rough,
began now to give way to anger, “if this is your opinion; and I am
sorry, too, for the liberty I have taken in troubling you upon such a
subject.”
An apology so full of displeasure instantly taught Mr Monckton the
error he was committing, and checking, therefore, the violence of those
emotions to which his sudden and desperate disappointment gave rise,
and which betrayed him into reproaches so unskilful, he endeavoured
to recover his accustomed equanimity, and assuming an air of friendly
openness, said, “Let me not offend you, my dear Miss Beverley, by a
freedom which results merely from a solicitude to serve you, and which
the length and intimacy of our acquaintance had, I hoped, long since
authorised. I know not how to see you on the brink of destruction
without speaking, yet, if you are averse to my sincerity, I will curb
it, and have done.”
“No, do not have done,” cried she, much softened; “your sincerity does
me nothing but honour, and hitherto, I am sure, it has done me nothing
but good. Perhaps I deserve your utmost censure; I feared it, indeed,
before you came, and ought, therefore, to have better prepared myself
for meeting with it.”
This speech completed Mr Monckton's self-victory; it shewed him not
only the impropriety of his turbulence, but gave him room to hope that a
mildness more crafty would have better success.
“You cannot but be certain,” he answered, “that my zeal proceeds wholly
from a desire to be of use to you; my knowledge of the world might
possibly, I thought, assist your inexperience, and the disinterestedness
of my regard, might enable me to see and to point out the dangers to
which you are exposed, from artifice and duplicity in those who have
other purposes to answer than what simply belong to your welfare.”
“Neither artifice nor duplicity,” cried Cecilia, jealous for the
honour of Delvile, “have been practised against me. Argument, and not
persuasion, determined me, and if I have done wrong--those who prompted
me have erred as unwittingly as myself.”
“You are too generous to perceive the difference, or you would find
nothing less alike. If, however, my plainness will not offend you,
before it is quite too late, I will point out to you a few of the
evils,--for there are some I cannot even mention, which at this instant
do not merely threaten, but await you.”
Cecilia started at this terrifying offer, and afraid to accept, yet
ashamed to refuse, hung back irresolute.
“I see,” said Mr Monckton, after a pause of some continuance, “your
determination admits no appeal. The consequence must, indeed, be all
your own, but I am greatly grieved to find how little you are aware of
its seriousness. Hereafter you will wish, perhaps, that the friend of
your earliest youth had been permitted to advise you; at present you
only think him officious and impertinent, and therefore he can do
nothing you will be so likely to approve as quitting you. I wish
you, then, greater happiness than seems prepared to follow you, and a
counsellor more prosperous in offering his assistance.”
He would then have taken his leave; but Cecilia called out, “Oh, Mr
Monckton! do you then give me up?”
“Not unless you wish it.”
“Alas, I know not what to wish! except, indeed, the restoration of that
security from self-blame, which till yesterday, even in the midst of
disappointment, quieted and consoled me.”
“Are you, then, sensible you have gone wrong, yet resolute not to turn
back?”
“Could I tell, could I see,” cried she, with energy, “which way I ought
to turn, not a moment would I hesitate how to act! my heart should have
no power, my happiness no choice,--I would recover my own esteem by any
sacrifice that could be made!”
“What, then, can possibly be your doubt? To be as you were yesterday
what is wanting but your own inclination?”
“Every thing is wanting; right, honour, firmness, all by which the just
are bound, and all which the conscientious hold sacred!”
“These scruples are merely romantic; your own good sense, had it fairer
play, would contemn them; but it is warped at present by prejudice and
prepossession.”
“No, indeed!” cried she, colouring at the charge, “I may have entered
too precipitately into an engagement I ought to have avoided, but it is
weakness of judgment, not of heart, that disables me from retrieving my
error.”
“Yet you will neither hear whither it may lead you, nor which way you
may escape from it?”
“Yes, Sir,” cried she, trembling, “I am now ready to hear both.”
“Briefly, then, I will tell you. It will lead you into a family of which
every individual will disdain you; it will make you inmate of a house of
which no other inmate will associate with you; you will be insulted as
an inferior, and reproached as an intruder; your birth will be a subject
of ridicule, and your whole race only named with derision; and while
the elders of the proud castle treat you with open contempt, the man for
whom you suffer will not dare to support you.”
“Impossible! impossible!” cried Cecilia, with the most angry emotion;
“this whole representation is exaggerated, and the latter part is
utterly without foundation.”
“The latter part,” said Mr Monckton, “is of all other least disputable;
the man who now dares not own, will then never venture to defend you. On
the contrary, to make peace for himself, he will be the first to neglect
you. The ruined estates of his ancestors will be repaired by your
fortune, while the name which you carry into his family will be
constantly resented as an injury; you will thus be plundered though you
are scorned, and told to consider yourself honoured that they condescend
to make use of you! nor here rests the evil of a forced connection with
so much arrogance,--even your children, should you have any, will be
educated to despise you!”
“Dreadful and horrible!” cried Cecilia;--“I can hear no more,--Oh, Mr
Monckton, what a prospect have you opened to my view!”
“Fly from it, then, while it is yet in your power,--when two paths are
before you, chuse not that which leads to destruction; send instantly
after Delvile, and tell him you have recovered your senses.”
“I would long since have sent,--I wanted not a representation such as
this,--but I know not how to direct to him, nor whither he is gone.”
“All art and baseness to prevent your recantation!”
“No, Sir, no,” cried she, with quickness; “whatever may be the truth of
your painting in general, all that concerns--”
Ashamed of the vindication she intended, which yet in her own mind was
firm and animated, she stopt, and left the sentence unfinished.
“In what place were you to meet?” said Mr Monckton; “you can at least
send to him there.”
“We were only to have met,” answered she, in much confusion, “at the
last moment,--and that would be too late--it would be too--I could not,
without some previous notice, break a promise which I gave without any
restriction.”
“Is this your only objection?”
“It is; but it is one which I cannot conquer.”
“Then you would give up this ill-boding connection, but from notions of
delicacy with regard to the time?”
“Indeed I meant it, before you came.”
“I, then, will obviate this objection; give me but the commission,
either verbally or in writing, and I will undertake to find him out, and
deliver it before night.”
Cecilia, little expecting this offer, turned extremely pale, and after
pausing some moments, said in a faultering voice, “What, then, Sir, is
your advice, in what manner--”
“I will say to him all that is necessary; trust the matter with me.”
“No,--he deserves, at least, an apology from myself,--though how to make
it--”
She stopt, she hesitated, she went out of the room for pen and ink,
she returned without them, and the agitation of her mind every instant
encreasing, she begged him, in a faint voice, to excuse her while she
consulted with Mrs Charlton, and promising to wait upon him again, was
hurrying away.
Mr Monckton, however, saw too great danger in so much emotion to trust
her out of his sight; he told her, therefore, that she would only
encrease her perplexity, without reaping any advantage, by an
application to Mrs Charlton, and that if she was really sincere in
wishing to recede, there was not a moment to be lost, and Delvile should
immediately be pursued.
Cecilia, sensible of the truth of this speech, and once more
recollecting the unaffected earnestness with which but an hour or
two before, she had herself desired to renounce this engagement, now
summoned her utmost courage to her aid, and, after a short, but painful
struggle, determined to act consistently with her professions and her
character, and, by one great and final effort, to conclude all her
doubts, and try to silence even her regret, by completing the triumph of
fortitude over inclination.
She called, therefore, for pen and ink, and without venturing herself
from the room, wrote the following letter.
To Mortimer Delvile, Esq.
Accuse me not of caprice, and pardon my irresolution, when you find me
shrinking with terror from the promise I have made, and no longer either
able or willing to perform it. The reproaches of your family I should
very ill endure; but the reproaches of my own heart for an action I can
neither approve nor defend, would be still more oppressive. With such
a weight upon the mind length of life would be burthensome; with a
sensation of guilt early death would be terrific! These being my notions
of the engagement into which we have entered, you cannot wonder, and you
have still less reason to repine, that I dare not fulfil it. Alas!
where would be your chance of happiness with one who in the very act of
becoming yours would forfeit her own!
I blush at this tardy recantation, and I grieve at the disappointment
it may occasion you; but I have yielded to the exhortations of an
inward monitor, who is never to be neglected with impunity. Consult
him yourself, and I shall need no other advocate. Adieu, and may all
felicity attend you! if to hear of the almost total privation of mine,
will mitigate the resentment with which you will probably read this
letter, it may be mitigated but too easily! Yet my consent to a
clandestine action shall never be repeated; and though I confess to
you I am not happy, I solemnly declare my resolution is unalterable.
A little reflection will tell you I am right, though a great deal of
lenity may scarce suffice to make you pardon my being right no sooner.
C. B.
This letter, which with trembling haste, resulting from a fear of
her own steadiness, she folded and sealed, Mr Monckton, from the same
apprehension yet more eagerly received, and scarce waiting to bid her
good morning, mounted his horse, and pursued his way to London.
Cecilia returned to Mrs Charlton to acquaint her with what had passed;
and notwithstanding the sorrow she felt in apparently injuring the man
whom, in the whole world she most wished to oblige, she yet found a
satisfaction in the sacrifice she had made, that recompensed her for
much of her sufferings, and soothed her into something like tranquility;
the true power of virtue she had scarce experienced before, for she
found it a resource against the cruellest dejection, and a supporter in
the bitterest disappointment.
CHAPTER viii. -- AN EMBARRASSMENT.
The day passed on without any intelligence; the next day, also, passed
in the same manner, and on the third, which was her birthday, Cecilia
became of age.
The preparations which had long been making among her tenants to
celebrate this event, Cecilia appeared to take some share, and
endeavoured to find some pleasure in. She gave a public dinner to all
who were willing to partake of it, she promised redress to those who
complained of hard usage, she pardoned many debts, and distributed
money, food, and clothing to the poor. These benevolent occupations made
time seem less heavy, and while they freed her from solitude, diverted
her suspense. She still, however, continued at the house of Mrs
Charlton, the workmen having disappointed her in finishing her own.
But, in defiance of her utmost exertion, towards the evening of this
day the uneasiness of her uncertainty grew almost intolerable. The next
morning she had promised Delvile to set out for London, and he expected
the morning after to claim her for his wife; yet Mr Monckton neither
sent nor came, and she knew not if her letter was delivered, or if still
he was unprepared for the disappointment by which he was awaited. A
secret regret for the unhappiness she must occasion him, which silently
yet powerfully reproached her, stole fast upon her mind, and poisoned
its tranquility; for though her opinion was invariable in holding his
proposal to be wrong, she thought too highly of his character to believe
he would have made it but from a mistaken notion it was right. She
painted him, therefore, to herself, as glowing with indignation,
accusing her of inconsistency, and perhaps suspecting her of coquetry,
and imputing her change of conduct to motives the most trifling and
narrow, till with resentment and disdain, he drove her wholly from his
thoughts.
In a few minutes, however, the picture was reversed; Delvile no more
appeared storming nor unreasonable; his face wore an aspect of sorrow,
and his brow was clouded with disappointment; he forbore to reproach
her, but the look which her imagination delineated was more piercing
than words of severest import.
These images pursued and tormented her, drew tears from her eyes,
and loaded her heart with anguish. Yet, when she recollected that her
conduct had had in view an higher motive than pleasing Delvile, she felt
that it ought to offer her an higher satisfaction; she tried, therefore,
to revive her spirits, by reflecting upon her integrity, and refused all
indulgence to this enervating sadness, beyond what the weakness of human
nature demands, as some relief to its sufferings upon every fresh attack
of misery.
A conduct such as this was the best antidote against affliction, whose
arrows are never with so little difficulty repelled, as when they
light upon a conscience which no self-reproach has laid bare to their
malignancy.
Before six o'clock the next morning, her maid came to her bedside
with the following letter, which she told; her had been brought by an
express.
To Miss Beverley.
May this letter, with one only from Delvile Castle, be the last that
Miss Beverley may ever receive!
Yet sweet to me as is that hope, I write in the utmost uneasiness; I
have just heard that a gentleman, whom, by the description that is given
of him, I imagine is Mr Monckton, has been in search of me with a letter
which he was anxious to deliver immediately.
Perhaps this letter is from Miss Beverley, perhaps it contains
directions which ought instantly to be followed; could I divine
what they are, with what eagerness would I study to anticipate their
execution! It will not, I hope, be too late to receive them on Saturday,
when her power over my actions will be confirmed, and when every wish
she will communicate, shall be gratefully, joyfully, and with delight
fulfilled.
I have sought Belfield in vain; he has left Lord Vannelt, and no one
knows whither he is gone. I have been obliged, therefore, to trust a
stranger to draw up the bond; but he is a man of good character, and the
time of secrecy will be too short to put his discretion in much danger.
To-morrow, Friday, I shall spend solely in endeavouring to discover. Mr
Monckton; I have leisure sufficient for the search, since so prosperous
has been my diligence, that every thing is prepared!
I have seen some lodgings in Pall-Mall, which I think are commodious and
will suit you; send a servant, therefore, before you to secure them. If
upon your arrival I should venture to meet you there, be not, I beseech
you, offended or alarmed; I shall take every possible precaution neither
to be known nor seen, and I will stay with you only three minutes. The
messenger who carries this is ignorant from whom it comes, for I fear
his repeating my name among your servants, and he could scarce return
to me with an answer before you will yourself be in town. Yes, loveliest
Cecilia! at the very moment you receive this letter, the chaise will, I
flatter myself, be at the door, which is to bring to me a treasure that
will enrich every future hour of my life! And oh as to me it will be
exhaustless, may but its sweet dispenser experience some share of the
happiness she bestows, and then what, save her own purity, will be so
perfect, so unsullied, as the felicity of her! M.D.
The perturbation of Cecilia upon reading this letter was unspeakable; Mr
Monckton, she found, had been wholly unsuccessful, all her heroism had
answered no purpose, and the transaction was as backward as before she
had exerted it.
She was, now, therefore, called upon to think and act entirely for
herself. Her opinion was still the same, nor did her resolution waver,
yet how to put it in execution she could not discern. To write to him
was impossible, since she was ignorant where he was to be found; to
disappoint him at the last moment she could not resolve, since such a
conduct appeared to her unfeeling and unjustifiable; for a few instants
she thought of having him waited for at night in London, with a letter;
but the danger of entrusting any one with such a commission, and the
uncertainty of finding him, should he disguise himself, made the success
of this scheme too precarious for trial.
One expedient alone occurred to her, which, though she felt to be
hazardous, she believed was without an alternative; this was no other
than hastening to London herself, consenting to the interview he had
proposed in Pall-Mall, and then, by strongly stating her objections,
and confessing the grief they occasioned her, to pique at once his
generosity and his pride upon releasing her himself from the engagement
into which he had entered.
She had no time to deliberate; her plan, therefore, was decided almost
as soon as formed, and every moment being precious, she was obliged
to awaken Mrs Charlton, and communicate to her at once the letter from
Delvile, and the new resolution she had taken.
Mrs Charlton, having no object in view but the happiness of her young
friend, with a facility that looked not for objections, and scarce saw
them when presented, agreed to the expedition, and kindly consented to
accompany her to London; for Cecilia, however concerned to hurry
and fatigue her, was too anxious for the sanction of her presence to
hesitate in soliciting it.
A chaise, therefore, was ordered; and with posthorses for speed, and two
servants on horseback, the moment Mrs Charlton was ready, they set out
on their journey.
Scarce had they proceeded two miles on their way, when they were met by
Mr Monckton, who was hastening to their house.
Amazed and alarmed at a sight so unexpected, he stopt the chaise to
enquire whither they were going.
Cecilia, without answering, asked if her letter had yet been received?
“I could not,” said Mr Monckton, “deliver it to a man who was not to be
found; I was at this moment coming to acquaint how vainly I had sought
him; but still that your journey is unnecessary unless voluntary, since
I have left it at the house where you told me you should meet to-morrow
morning, and where he must then unavoidably receive it.”
“Indeed, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “to-morrow morning will be too late,--in
conscience, in justice, and even in decency too late! I must, therefore,
go to town; yet I go not, believe me, in opposition to your injunctions,
but to enable myself, without treachery or dishonour, to fulfil them.”
Mr Monckton, aghast and confounded, made not any answer, till Cecilia
gave orders to the postilion to drive on; he then hastily called to stop
him, and began the warmest expostulations; but Cecilia, firm when she
believed herself right, though wavering when fearful she was wrong, told
him it was now too late to change her plan, and repeating her orders
to the postilion, left him to his own reflections; grieved herself to
reject his counsel, yet too intently occupied by her own affairs and
designs, to think long of any other.
CHAPTER ix. -- A TORMENT.
At----they stopt for dinner; Mrs Charlton being too much fatigued to go
on without some rest, though the haste of Cecilia to meet Delvile time
enough for new arranging their affairs, made her regret every moment
that was spent upon the road.
Their meal was not long, and they were returning to their chaise, when
they were suddenly encountered by Mr Morrice, who was just alighted from
his horse.
He congratulated himself upon the happiness of meeting them with the air
of a man who nothing doubted that happiness being mutual; then hastening
to speak of the Grove, “I could hardly,” he cried, “get away; my friend
Monckton won't know what to do without me, for Lady Margaret, poor old
soul, is in a shocking bad way indeed; there's hardly any staying in
the room with her; her breathing is just like the grunting of a hog.
She can't possibly last long, for she's quite upon her last legs, and
tumbles about so when she walks alone, one would swear she was drunk.”
“If you take infirmity,” said Mrs Charlton, who was now helped into the
chaise, “for intoxication, you must suppose no old person sober.”
“Vastly well said, ma'am,” cried he; “I really forgot your being an old
lady yourself, or I should not have made the observation. However, as to
poor Lady Margaret, she may do as well as ever by and bye, for she has
an excellent constitution, and I suppose she has been hardly any better
than she is now these forty years, for I remember when I was quite a boy
hearing her called a limping old puddle.”
“Well, we'll discuss this matter, if you please,” said Cecilia, “some
other time.” And ordered the postilion to drive on. But before they came
to their next stage, Morrice having changed his horse, joined them, and
rode on by their side, begging them to observe what haste he had made on
purpose to have the pleasure of escorting them.
This forwardness was very offensive to Mrs Charlton, whose years and
character had long procured her more deference and respect; but Cecilia,
anxious only to hasten her journey, was indifferent to every thing, save
what retarded it.
At the same Inn they both again changed horses, and he still continued
riding with them, and occasionally talking, till they were within
twenty miles of London, when a disturbance upon the road exciting his
curiosity, he hastily rode away from them to enquire into its cause.
Upon coming up to the place whence it proceeded, they saw a party
of gentlemen on horseback surrounding a chaise which had been just
overturned; and while the confusion in the road obliged the postilion to
stop Cecilia heard a lady's voice exclaiming, “I declare I dare say I am
killed!” and instantly recollecting Miss Larolles, the fear of discovery
and delay made her desire the man to drive on with all speed. He was
preparing to obey her, but Morrice, gallopping after them, called
out, “Miss Beverley, one of the ladies that has been overturned, is an
acquaintance of yours. I used to see her with you at Mrs Harrel's.”
“Did you?” said Cecilia, much disconcerted, “I hope she is not hurt?'
“No, not at all; but the lady with her is bruised to death; won't you
come and see her?”
“I am too much in haste at present,--and I can do them no good; but Mrs
Charlton I am sure will spare her servant, if he can be of any use.”
“O but the young lady wants to speak to you; she is coming up to the
chaise as fast as ever she can.”
“And how should she know me?” cried Cecilia, with much surprise; “I am
sure she could not see me.”
“O, I told her,”, answered Morrice, with a nod of self-approbation
for what he had done, “I told her it was you, for I knew I could soon
overtake you.”
Displeasure at this officiousness was unavailing, for looking out of
the window, she perceived Miss Larolles, followed by half her party, not
three paces from the chaise.
“O my dear creature,” she called out, “what a terrible accident! I
assure you I am so monstrously frightened you've no idea. It's the
luckiest thing in the world that you were going this way. Never any
thing happened so excessively provoking; you've no notion what a fall
we've had. It's horrid shocking, I assure you. How have you been all
this time? You can't conceive how glad I am to see you.”
“And to which will Miss Beverley answer first,” cried a voice which
announced Mr Gosport, “the joy or the sorrow? For so adroitly are they
blended, that a common auditor could with difficulty decide, whether
condolence, or congratulation should have the precedency.”
“How can you be so excessive horrid,” cried Miss Larolles, “to talk of
congratulation, when one's in such a shocking panic that one does not
know if one's dead or alive!”
“Dead, then, for any wager,” returned he, “if we may judge by your
stillness.”
“I desire, now, you won't begin joking,” cried she, “for I assure you
it's an excessive serious affair. I was never so rejoiced in my life as
when I found I was not killed. I've been so squeezed you've no notion. I
thought for a full hour I had broke both my arms.”
“And my heart at the same time,” said Mr Gosport; “I hope you did not
imagine that the least fragile of the three?”
“All our hearts, give me leave to add,” said Captain Aresby--just then
advancing, “all our hearts must have been abimés, by the indisposition
of Miss Larolles, had not their doom been fortunately revoked by the
sight of Miss Beverley.”
“Well, this is excessive odd,”, cried Miss Larolles, “that every body
should run away so from poor Mrs Mears; she'll be so affronted you've no
idea. I thought, Captain Aresby, you would have stayed to take care of
her.”
“I'll run and see how she is myself,” cried Morrice, and away he
gallopped.
“Really, ma'am,” said the Captain, “I am quite au desespoir to have
failed in any of my devoirs; but I make it a principle to be a mere
looker on upon these occasions, lest I should be so unhappy as to commit
any faux pas by too much empressement.”
“An admirable caution!” said Mr Gosport, “and, to so ardent a temper, a
necessary check!”
Cecilia, whom the surprise and vexation of so unseasonable a meeting,
when she particularly wished to have escaped all notice, had hitherto
kept in painful silence, began now to recover some presence of mind; and
making her compliments to Miss Larolles and Mr Gosport, with a slight
bow to the Captain, she apologized for hurrying away, but told them she
had an engagement in London which could not be deferred, and was then
giving orders to the postilion to drive on, when Morrice returning full
speed, called out “The poor lady's so bad she is not able to stir a
step; she can't put a foot to the ground, and she says she's quite black
and blue; so I told her I was sure Miss Beverley would not refuse to
make room for her in her chaise, till the other can be put to rights;
and she says she shall take it as a great favour. Here, postilion, a
little more to the right! come, ladies and gentlemen, get out of the
way.” This impertinence, however extraordinary, Cecilia could not
oppose; for Mrs Charlton, ever compassionate and complying where there
was any appearance of distress, instantly seconded the proposal; the
chaise, therefore, was turned back, and she was obliged to offer a
place in it to Mrs Mears, who, though more frightened than hurt, readily
accepted it, notwithstanding, to make way for her without incommoding
Mrs Charlton, she was forced to get out herself.
She failed not, however, to desire that all possible expedition might
be used in refitting the other chaise for their reception; and all the
gentlemen but one, dismounted their horses, in order to assist, or seem
to assist in getting it ready.
This only unconcerned spectator in the midst of the apparent general
bustle, was Mr Meadows; who viewed all that passed without troubling
himself to interfere, and with an air of the most evident carelessness
whether matters went well or went ill.
Miss Larolles, now returning to the scene of action, suddenly screamed
out, “O dear, where's my little dog! I never thought of him, I declare!
I love him better than any thing in the world. I would not have him hurt
for a hundred thousand pounds. Lord, where is he?”
“Crushed or suffocated in the overturn, no doubt,” said Mr Gosport; “but
as you must have been his executioner, what softer death could he die?
If you will yourself inflict the punishment, I will submit to the same
fate.”
“Lord, how you love to plague one!” cried she and then enquired among
the servants what was become of her dog. The poor little animal,
forgotten by its mistress, and disregarded by all others, was now
discovered by its yelping; and soon found to have been the most material
sufferer by the overturn, one of its fore legs being broken.
Could screams or lamentations, reproaches to the servants, or complaints
against the Destinies, have abated his pain, or made a callus of the
fracture, but short would have been the duration of his misery; for
neither words were saved, nor lungs were spared, the very air was rent
with cries, and all present were upbraided as if accomplices in the
disaster.
The postilion, at length, interrupted this vociferation with news that
the chaise was again fit for use; and Cecilia, eager to be gone, finding
him little regarded, repeated what he said to Miss Larolles.
“The chaise?” cried she, “why you don't suppose I'll ever get into that
horrid chaise any more? I do assure you I would not upon any account.”
“Not get into it?” said Cecilia, “for what purpose, then, have we all
waited till it was ready?”
“O, I declare I would not go in it for forty thousand worlds. I would
rather walk to an inn, if it's a hundred and fifty miles off.”
“But as it happens,” said Mr Gosport, “to be only seven miles, I fancy
you will condescend to ride.”
“Seven miles! Lord, how shocking! you frighten me so you have no idea.
Poor Mrs Mears! She'll have to go quite alone. I dare say the chaise
will be down fifty times by the way. Ten to one but she breaks her neck!
only conceive how horrid! I assure you I am excessive glad I am out of
it.”
“Very friendly, indeed!” said Mr Gosport. “Mrs Mears, then, may break
her bones at her leisure!”
Mrs Mears, however, when applied to, professed an equal aversion to the
carriage in which she had been so unfortunate, and declared she would
rather walk than return to it, though one of her ancles was already so
swelled that she could hardly stand.
“Why then the best way, ladies,” cried Morrice, with the look of a man
happy in vanquishing all difficulties, “will be for Mrs Charlton, and
that poor lady with the bruises, to go together in that sound chaise,
and then for us gentlemen to escort this young lady and Miss Beverley
on foot, till we all come to the next inn. Miss Beverley, I know, is an
excellent walker, for I have heard Mr Monckton say so.”
Cecilia, though in the utmost consternation at a proposal, which must so
long retard a journey she had so many reasons to wish hastened, knew not
how either in decency or humanity to oppose it; and the fear of raising
suspicion, from a consciousness how much there was to suspect, forced
her to curb her impatience, and reduced her even to repeat the offer
which Morrice had made, though she could scarce look at him for anger at
his unseasonable forwardness.
No voice dissenting, the troop began to be formed. The foot consisted of
the two young ladies, and Mr Gosport, who alighted to walk with Cecilia;
the cavalry, of Mr Meadows, the Captain, and Morrice, who walked their
horses a foot pace, while the rest of the party rode on with the chaise,
as attendants upon Mrs Mears.
Just before they set off, Mr Meadows, riding negligently up to the
carriage, exerted himself so far as to say to Mrs Mears, “Are you hurt,
ma'am?” and, at the same instant, seeming to recollect Cecilia, he
turned about, and yawning while he touched his hat, said, “O, how
d'ye do, ma'am?” and then, without waiting an answer to either of his
questions, flapped it over his eyes, and joined the cavalcade, though
without appearing to have any consciousness that he belonged to it.
Cecilia would most gladly have used the rejected chaise herself, but
could not make such a proposal to Mrs Charlton, who was past the age
and the courage for even any appearance of enterprize. Upon enquiry,
however, she had the satisfaction to hear that the distance to the next
stage was but two miles, though multiplied to seven by the malice of Mr
Gosport.
Miss Larolles carried her little dog in her arms, declaring she would
never more trust him a moment away from her. She acquainted Cecilia that
she had been for some time upon a visit to Mrs Mears, who, with the rest
of the party, had taken her to see--house and gardens, where they had
made an early dinner, from which they were just returning home when the
chaise broke down.
She then proceeded, with her usual volubility, to relate the little
nothings that had passed since the winter, flying from subject to
subject, with no meaning but to be heard, and no wish but to talk, ever
rapid in speech, though minute in detail. This loquacity met not with
any interruption, save now and then a sarcastic remark, from Mr Gosport;
for Cecilia was too much occupied by her own affairs, to answer or
listen to such uninteresting discourse.
Her silence, however, was at length forcibly broken; Mr Gosport, taking
advantage of the first moment Miss Larolles stopt for breath, said,
“Pray what carries you to town, Miss Beverley, at this time of the
year?”
Cecilia, whose thoughts had been wholly employed upon what would pass
at her approaching meeting with Delvile, was so entirely unprepared for
this question, that she could make to it no manner of answer, till Mr
Gosport, in a tone of some surprise, repeated it, and then, not without
hesitation, she said, “I have some business, Sir, in London,--pray how
long have you been in the country?”
“Business, have you?” cried he, struck by her evasion; “and pray what
can you and business have in common?”
“More than you may imagine,” answered she, with greater steadiness; “and
perhaps before long I may even have enough to teach me the enjoyment of
leisure.”
“Why you don't pretend to play my Lady Notable, and become your own
steward?”
“And what can I do better?”
“What? Why seek one ready made to take the trouble off your hands. There
are such creatures to be found, I promise you; beasts of burthen, who
will freely undertake the management of your estate, for no other reward
than the trifling one of possessing it. Can you no where meet with such
an animal?”
“I don't know,” answered she, laughing, “I have not been looking out.”
“And have none such made application to you?”
“Why no,--I believe not.”
“Fie, fie! no register-office keeper has been pestered with more
claimants. You know they assault you by dozens.”
“You must pardon me, indeed, I know not any such thing.”
“You know, then, why they do not, and that is much the same.”
“I may conjecture why, at least; the place, I suppose, is not worth the
service.”
“No, no; the place, they conclude, is already seized, and the
fee--simple of the estate is the heart of the owner. Is it not so?”
“The heart of the owner,” answered she, a little confused, “may, indeed,
be simple, but not, perhaps, so easily seized as you imagine.”
“Have you, then, wisely saved it from a storm, by a generous surrender?
you have been, indeed, in an excellent school for the study both of
attack and defence; Delvile-Castle is a fortress which, even in ruins,
proves its strength by its antiquity; and it teaches, also, an admirable
lesson, by displaying the dangerous, the infallible power of time, which
defies all might, and undermines all strength; which breaks down every
barrier, and shews nothing endurable but itself.” Then looking at her
with an arch earnestness, “I think,” he added, “you made a long visit
there; did this observation never occur to you? did you never perceive,
never feel, rather, the insidious properties of time?”
“Yes, certainly,” answered she, alarmed at the very mention of
Delvile Castle, yet affecting to understand literally what was said
metaphorically, “the havoc of time upon the place could not fail
striking me.”
“And was its havoc,” said he, yet more archly, “merely external? is all
within safe? sound and firm? and did the length of your residence shew
its power by no new mischief?”
“Doubtless, not,” answered she, with the same pretended ignorance, “the
place is not in so desperate a condition as to exhibit any visible marks
of decay in the course of three or four months.”
“And, do you not know,” cried he, “that the place to which I allude may
receive a mischief in as many minutes which double the number of years
cannot rectify? The internal parts of a building are not less vulnerable
to accident than its outside; and though the evil may more easily be
concealed, it will with greater difficulty be remedied. Many a fair
structure have I seen, which, like that now before me” (looking with
much significance at Cecilia), “has to the eye seemed perfect in all its
parts, and unhurt either by time or casualty, while within, some lurking
evil, some latent injury, has secretly worked its way into the very
heart of the edifice, where it has consumed its strength, and laid waste
its powers, till, sinking deeper and deeper, it has sapped its very
foundation, before the superstructure has exhibited any token of danger.
Is such an accident among the things you hold to be possible?”
“Your language,” said she, colouring very high, “is so florid, that I
must own it renders your meaning rather obscure.”
“Shall I illustrate it by an example? Suppose, during your abode in
Delvile Castle?”
“No, no,” interrupted she, with involuntary quickness, “why should I
trouble you to make illustrations?”
“O pray, my dear creature,” cried Miss Larolles, “how is Mrs Harrel? I
was never so sorry for any body in my life. I quite forgot to ask after
her.”
“Ay, poor Harrel!” cried Morrice, “he was a great loss to his friends.
I had just begun to have a regard for him; we were growing extremely
intimate. Poor fellow! he really gave most excellent dinners.”
“Harrel?” suddenly exclaimed Mr Meadows, who seemed just then to first
hear what was going forward, “who was he?”
“O, as good-natured a fellow as ever I knew in my life,” answered
Morrice; “he was never out of humour; he was drinking and singing and
dancing to the very last moment. Don't you remember him, Sir, that night
at Vauxhall?”
Mr Meadows made not any answer, but rode languidly on.
Morrice, ever more flippant than sagacious, called out, “I really
believe the gentleman's deaf! he won't so much as say umph, and hay,
now; but I'll give him such a hallow in his ears, as shall make him hear
me, whether he will or no. Sir! I say!” bawling aloud, “have you forgot
that night at Vauxhall?”
Mr Meadows, starting at being thus shouted at, looked towards Morrice
with some surprise, and said, “Were you so obliging, Sir, as to speak to
me?”
“Lord, yes, Sir,” said Morrice, amazed; “I thought you had asked
something about Mr Harrel, so I just made an answer to it;--that's all.”
“Sir, you are very good,” returned he, slightly bowing, and then looking
another way, as if thoroughly satisfied with what had passed.
“But I say, Sir,” resumed Morrice, “don't you remember how Mr Harrel”--
“Mr who, Sir?”
“Mr Harrel, Sir; was not you just now asking me who he was?”
“O, ay, true,” cried Meadows, in a tone of extreme weariness, “I am much
obliged to you. Pray give my respects to him.” And, touching his hat, he
was riding away; but the astonished Morrice called out, “Your respects
to him? why lord! Sir, don't you know he's dead?”
“Dead?--who, Sir?”
“Why Mr Harrel, Sir.”
“Harrel?--O, very true,” cried Meadows, with a face of sudden
recollection; “he shot himself, I think, or was knocked down, or
something of that sort. I remember it perfectly.”
“O pray,” cried Miss Larolles, “don't let's talk about it, it's the
cruellest thing I ever knew in my life. I assure you I was so shocked,
I thought I should never have got the better of it. I remember the next
night at Ranelagh I could talk of nothing else. I dare say I told it
to 500 people. I assure you I was tired to death; only conceive how
distressing!”
“An excellent method,” cried Mr Gosport, “to drive it out of your own
head, by driving it into the heads of your neighbours! But were you not
afraid, by such an ebullition of pathos, to burst as many hearts as you
had auditors?”
“O I assure you,” cried she, “every body was so excessive shocked you've
no notion; one heard of nothing else; all the world was raving mad about
it.”
“Really yes,” cried the Captain; “the subject was obsedé upon one
partout. There was scarce any breathing for it; it poured from all
directions; I must confess I was aneanti with it to a degree.”
“But the most shocking thing in nature,” cried Miss Larolles, “was going
to the sale. I never missed a single day. One used to meet the whole
world there, and every body was so sorry you can't conceive. It was
quite horrid. I assure you I never suffered so much before; it made me
so unhappy you can't imagine.”
“That I am most ready to grant,” said Mr Gosport, “be the powers of
imagination ever so eccentric.”
“Sir Robert Floyer and Mr Marriot,” continued Miss Larolles, “have
behaved so ill you've no idea, for they have done nothing ever since but
say how monstrously Mr Harrel had cheated them, and how they lost such
immense sums by him;--only conceive how ill-natured!”
“And they complain,” cried Morrice, “that old Mr Delvile used them
worse; for that when they had been defrauded of all that money on
purpose to pay their addresses to Miss Beverley, he would never let them
see her, but all of a sudden took her off into the country, on purpose
to marry her to his own son.”
The cheeks of Cecilia now glowed with the deepest blushes; but finding
by a general silence that she was expected to make some answer, she
said, with what unconcern she could assume, “They were very much
mistaken; Mr Delvile had no such view.”
“Indeed?” cried Mr Gosport, again perceiving her change of countenance;
“and is it possible you have actually escaped a siege, while every body
concluded you taken by assault? Pray where is young Delvile at present?”
“I don't--I can't tell, Sir.”
“Is it long since you have seen him?”
“It is two months,” answered she, with yet more hesitation, “since I was
at Delvile Castle.”
“O, but,” cried Morrice, “did not you see him while he was in Suffolk?
I believe, indeed, he is there now, for it was only yesterday I heard of
his coming down, by a gentleman who called upon Lady Margaret, and told
us he had seen a stranger, a day or two ago, at Mrs Charlton's door, and
when he asked who he was, they told him his name was Delvile, and said
he was on a visit at Mr Biddulph's.”
Cecilia was quite confounded by this speech; to have it known that
Delvile had visited her, was in itself alarming, but to have her own
equivocation thus glaringly exposed, was infinitely more dangerous. The
just suspicions to which it must give rise filled her with dread, and
the palpable evasion in which she had been discovered, overwhelmed, her
with confusion.
“So you had forgotten,” said Mr Gosport, looking at her with much
archness, “that you had seen him within the two months? but no wonder;
for where is the lady who having so many admirers, can be at the trouble
to remember which of them she saw last? or who, being so accustomed
to adulation, can hold it worth while to enquire whence it comes? A
thousand Mr Delviles are to Miss Beverley but as one; used from them
all to the same tale, she regards them not individually as lovers, but
collectively as men; and to gather, even from herself, which she is
most inclined to favour, she must probably desire, like Portia in the
Merchant of Venice, that their names may be run over one by one, before
she can distinctly tell which is which.”
The gallant gaiety of this speech was some relief to Cecilia, who was
beginning a laughing reply, when Morrice called out, “That man looks as
if he was upon the scout.” And, raising her eyes, she perceived a man
on horseback, who, though much muffled up, his hat flapped, and a
handkerchief held to his mouth and chin, she instantly, by his air and
figure, recognized to be Delvile.
In much consternation at this sight, she forgot what she meant to say,
and dropping her eyes, walked silently on. Mr Gosport, attentive to her
motions, looked from her to the horseman, and after a short examination,
said, “I think I have seen that man before; have you, Miss Beverley?”
“Me?--no,”--answered she, “I believe not,--I hardly indeed, see him
now.”
“I have, I am pretty sure,” said Morrice; “and if I could see his face,
I dare say I should recollect him.”
“He seems very willing to know if he can recollect any of us,” said
Mr Gosport, “and, if I am not mistaken, he sees much better than he is
seen.”
He was now come up to them, and though a glance sufficed to discover
the object of his search, the sight of the party with which she was
surrounded made him not dare stop or speak to her, and therefore,
clapping spurs to his horse, he galloped past them.
“See,” cried Morrice, looking after him, “how he turns round to examine
us! I wonder who he is.”
“Perhaps some highwayman!” cried Miss Larolles; “I assure you I am in a
prodigious fright; I should hate to be robbed so you can't think.”
“I was going to make much the same conjecture,” said Mr Gosport, “and,
if I am not greatly deceived, that man is a robber of no common sort.
What think you, Miss Beverley, can you discern a thief in disguise?”
“No, indeed; I pretend to no such extraordinary knowledge.”
“That's true; for all that you pretend to is extraordinary ignorance.”
“I have a good mind,” said Morrice, “to ride after him, and see what he
is about.”
“What for?” exclaimed Cecilia, greatly alarmed “there can certainly be
no occasion!”
“No, pray don't,” cried Miss Larolles, “for I assure you if he should
come back to rob us, I should die upon the spot. Nothing could be so
disagreeable I should scream so, you've no idea.”
Morrice then gave up the proposal, and they walked quietly on;
but Cecilia was extremely disturbed by this accident; she readily
conjectured that, impatient for her arrival, Delvile had ridden that
way, to see what had retarded her, and she was sensible that nothing
could be so desirable as an immediate explanation of the motive of her
journey. Such a meeting, therefore, had she been alone, was just what
she could have wished, though, thus unluckily encompassed, it only added
to her anxiety.
Involuntarily, however, she quickened her pace, through her eagerness to
be relieved from so troublesome a party; but Miss Larolles, who was in
no such haste, protested she could not keep up with her; saying, “You
don't consider that I have got this sweet little dog to carry, and he
is such a shocking plague to me you've no notion. Only conceive what a
weight he is!”
“Pray, ma'am,” cried Morrice, “let me take him for you; I'll be very
careful of him, I promise you; and you need not be afraid to trust me,
for I understand more about dogs than about any thing.”
Miss Larolles, after many fond caresses, being really weary, consented,
and Morrice placed the little animal before him on horseback; but while
this matter was adjusting, and Miss Larolles was giving directions how
she would have it held, Morrice exclaimed, “Look, look! that man is
coming back! He is certainly watching us. There! now he's going off
again!--I suppose he saw me remarking him.”
“I dare say he's laying in wait to rob us,” said Miss Larolles; “so
when we turn off the high road, to go to Mrs Mears, I suppose he'll come
galloping after us. It's excessive horrid, I assure you.”
“'Tis a petrifying thing,” said the captain, “that one must always be
degouté by some wretched being or other of this sort; but pray be not
deranged, I will ride after him, if you please, and do mon possible to
get rid of him.”
“Indeed I wish you would,” answered Miss Larolles, “for I assure you he
has put such shocking notions into my head, it's quite disagreeable.”
“I shall make it a principle,” said the captain, “to have the honour
of obeying you.” And was riding off, when Cecilia, in great agitation,
called out “Why should you go, Sir?--he is not in our way,--pray let him
alone,--for what purpose should you pursue him?”
“I hope,” said Mr Gosport, “for the purpose of making him join our
company, to some part of which I fancy he would be no very intolerable
addition.”
This speech again silenced Cecilia, who perceived, with the utmost
confusion, that both Delvile and herself were undoubtedly suspected by
Mr Gosport, if not already actually betrayed to him. She was obliged,
therefore, to let the matter take its course, though quite sick with
apprehension lest a full discovery should follow the projected pursuit.
The Captain, who wanted not courage, however deeply in vanity and
affectation he had buried common sense, stood suspended, upon the
request of Cecilia, that he would not go, and, with a shrug of distress,
said, “Give me leave to own I am parfaitment in a state the most
accablant in the world; nothing could give me greater pleasure than to
profit of the occasion to accommodate either of these ladies; but as
they proceed upon different principles, I am indecidé to a degree which
way to turn myself!”
“Put it to the vote, then,” said Morrice; “the two ladies have both
spoke; now, then, for the gentlemen. Come, Sir,” to Mr Gosport, “what
say you?”
“O, fetch the culprit back, by all means,” answered he; “and then let
us all insist upon his opening his cause, by telling us in what he has
offended us; for there is no part of his business, I believe, with which
we are less acquainted.”
“Well,” said Morrice, “I'm for asking him a few questions too; so is the
Captain; so every body has spoke but you, Sir,” addressing himself to Mr
Meadows, “So now, Sir, let's hear your opinion.”
Mr Meadows, appearing wholly inattentive, rode on.
“Why, Sir, I say!” cried Morrice, louder, “we are all waiting for your
vote. Pray what is the gentleman's name? it's deuced hard to make him
hear one.”
“His name is Meadows,” said Miss Larolles, in a low voice, “and I
assure you sometimes he won't hear people by the hour together. He's
so excessive absent you've no notion. One day he made me so mad, that I
could not help crying; and Mr Sawyer was standing by the whole time! and
I assure you I believe he laughed at me. Only conceive how distressing!”
“May be,” said Morrice, “it's out of bashfulness perhaps he thinks we
shall cut him up.”
“Bashfulness,” repeated Miss Larolles; “Lord, you don't conceive the
thing at all. Why he's at the very head of the ton. There's nothing in
the world so fashionable as taking no notice of things, and never seeing
people, and saying nothing at all, and never hearing a word, and not
knowing one's own acquaintance. All the ton people do so, and I assure
you as to Mr Meadows, he's so excessively courted by every body, that if
he does but say a syllable, he thinks it such an immense favour, you've
no idea.”
This account, however little alluring in itself, of his celebrity,
was yet sufficient to make Morrice covet his further acquaintance; for
Morrice was ever attentive to turn his pleasure to his profit, and
never negligent of his interest, but when ignorant how to pursue it.
He returned, therefore, to the charge, though by no means with the same
freedom he had begun it, and lowering his voice to a tone of respect
and submission, he said, “Pray, Sir, may we take the liberty to ask your
advice, whether we shall go on, or take a turn back?”
Mr Meadows made not any answer; but when Morrice was going to repeat
his question, without appearing even to know that he was near him, he
abruptly said to Miss Larolles, “Pray what is become of Mrs Mears? I
don't see her amongst us.”
“Lord, Mr Meadows,” exclaimed she, “how can you be so odd? Don't you
remember she went on in a chaise to the inn?”
“O, ay, true,” cried he; “I protest I had quite forgot it; I beg your
pardon, indeed. Yes, I recollect now,--she fell off her horse.”
“Her horse? Why you know she was in her chaise.”
“Her chaise, was it?--ay, true, so it was. Poor thing!--I am glad she
was not hurt.”
“Not hurt? Why she's so excessively bruised, she can't stir a step! Only
conceive what a memory you've got!”
“I am most extremely sorry for her indeed,” cried he, again stretching
himself and yawning; “poor soul!--I hope she won't die. Do you think she
will!”
“Die!” repeated Miss Larolles, with a scream, “Lord, how shocking! You
are really enough to frighten one to hear you.”
“But, Sir,” said Morrice, “I wish you would be so kind as to give us
your vote; the man will else be gone so far, we sha'n't be able to
overtake him.--Though I do really believe that is the very fellow coming
back to peep at us again!”
“I am ennuyé to a degree,” cried the Captain; “he is certainly set upon
us as a spy, and I must really beg leave to enquire of him upon what
principle he incommodes us.”--And instantly he rode after him.
“And so will I too,” cried Morrice, following.
Miss Larolles screamed after him to give her first her little dog; but
with a schoolboy's eagerness to be foremost, he galloped on without
heeding her.
The uneasiness of Cecilia now encreased every moment; the discovery
of Delvile seemed unavoidable, and his impatient and indiscreet
watchfulness must have rendered the motives of his disguise but too
glaring. All she had left to hope was arriving at the inn before
the detection was announced, and at least saving herself the cruel
mortification of hearing the raillery which would follow it.
Even this, however, was not allowed her; Miss Larolles, whom she had
no means to quit, hardly stirred another step, from her anxiety for
her dog, and the earnestness of her curiosity about the stranger. She
loitered, stopt now to talk, and now to listen, and was scarce moved a
yard from the spot where she had been left, when the Captain and Morrice
returned.
“We could not for our lives overtake the fellow,” said Morrice; “he was
well mounted, I promise you, and I'll warrant he knows what he's about,
for he turned off so short at a place where there were two narrow lanes,
that we could not make out which way he went.”
Cecilia, relieved and delighted by this unexpected escape, now recovered
her composure, and was content to saunter on without repining.
“But though we could not seize his person,” said the Captain, “we have
debarrassed ourselves tout à fait from his pursuit; I hope, therefore,
Miss Larolles will make a revoke of her apprehensions.”
The answer to this was nothing but a loud scream, with an exclamation,
“Lord, where's my dog?”
“Your dog!” cried Morrice, looking aghast, “good stars! I never thought
of him!”
“How excessive barbarous!” cried Miss Larolles, “you've killed him,
I dare say. Only think how shocking! I had rather have seen any body
served so in the world. I shall never forgive it, I assure you.”
“Lord, ma'am,” said Morrice, “how can you suppose I've killed him? Poor,
pretty creature, I'm sure I liked him prodigiously. I can't think for my
life where he can be; but I have a notion he must have dropt down some
where while I happened to be on the full gallop. I'll go look [for] him,
however, for we went at such a rate that I never missed him.”
Away again rode Morrice.
“I am abimé to the greatest degree,” said the Captain, “that the poor
little sweet fellow should be lost if I had thought him in any danger,
I would have made it a principle to have had a regard to his person
myself. Will you give me leave, ma'am, to have the honour of seeking him
partout?”
“O, I wish you would with all my heart; for I assure you if I don't find
him, I shall think it so excessive distressing you can't conceive.”
The Captain touched his hat, and was gone.
These repeated impediments almost robbed Cecilia of all patience; yet
her total inability of resistance obliged her to submit, and compelled
her to go, stop, or turn, according to their own motions.
“Now if Mr Meadows had the least good-nature in the world,” said Miss
Larolles, “he would offer to help us; but he's so excessive odd, that I
believe if we were all of us to fall down and break our necks, he would
be so absent he would hardly take the trouble to ask us how we did.”
“Why in so desperate a case,” said Mr Gosport, “the trouble would be
rather superfluous. However, don't repine that one of the cavaliers
stays with us by way of guard, lest your friend the spy should take us
by surprize while our troop is dispersed.”
“O Lord,” cried Miss Larolles, “now you put it in my head, I dare say
that wretch has got my dog! only think how horrid!”
“I saw plainly,” said Mr Gosport, looking significantly at Cecilia,
“that he was feloniously inclined, though I must confess I took him not
for a dog-stealer.”
Miss Larolles then, running up to Mr Meadows, called out, “I have a
prodigious immense favour to ask of you, Mr Meadows.”
“Ma'am!” cried Mr Meadows, with his usual start.
“It's only to know, whether if that horrid creature should come back,
you could not just ride up to him and shoot him, before he gets to us?
Now will you promise me to do it?”
“You are vastly good,” said he, with a vacant smile; “what a charming
evening! Do you love the country?”
“Yes, vastly; only I'm so monstrously tired, I can hardly stir a step.
Do you like it?”
“The country? O no! I detest it! Dusty hedges, and chirping sparrows!
'Tis amazing to me any body can exist upon such terms.”
“I assure you,” cried Miss Larolles, “I'm quite of your opinion. I hate
the country so you've no notion. I wish with all my heart it was all
under ground. I declare, when I first go into it for the summer, I cry
so you can't think. I like nothing but London.--Don't you?”
“London!” repeated Mr Meadows, “O melancholy! the sink of all vice and
depravity. Streets without light! Houses without air! Neighbourhood
without society! Talkers without listeners!--'Tis astonishing any
rational being can endure to be so miserably immured.”
“Lord, Mr Meadows,” cried she, angrily, “I believe you would have one
live no where!”
“True, very true, ma'am,” said he, yawning, “one really lives no where;
one does but vegetate, and wish it all at an end. Don't you find it so,
ma'am?”
“Me? no indeed; I assure you I like living of all things. Whenever I'm
ill, I'm in such a fright you've no idea. I always think I'm going to
die, and it puts me so out of spirits you can't think. Does not it you,
too?”
Here Mr Meadows, looking another way, began to whistle.
“Lord,” cried Miss Larolles, “how excessive distressing! to ask one
questions, and then never hear what one answers!”
Here the Captain returned alone; and Miss Larolles, flying to meet him,
demanded where was her dog?
“I have the malbeur to assure you,” answered he, “that I never was more
aneanti in my life! the pretty little fellow has broke another leg!”
Miss Larolles, in a passion of grief, then declared she was certain that
Morrice had maimed him thus on purpose, and desired to know where the
vile wretch was?
“He was so much discomposed at the incident,” replied the Captain, “that
he rode instantly another way. I took up the pretty fellow therefore
myself, and have done mon possible not to derange him.”
The unfortunate little animal was then delivered to Miss Larolles;
and after much lamentation, they at length continued their walk; and,
without further adventure, arrived at the inn.