BOOK VIII. _Continued_.

CHAPTER ii.

AN EVENT.

Scarce less unhappy in her decision than in her uncertainty, and every

way dissatisfied with her situation, her views and herself, Cecilia

was still so distressed and uncomfortable, when Delvile called the next

morning, that he could not discover what her determination had been, and

fearfully enquired his doom with hardly any hope of finding favour.

But Cecilia was above affectation, and a stranger to art. “I would not,

Sir,” she said, “keep you an instant in suspense, when I am no longer in

suspense myself. I may have appeared trifling, but I have been nothing

less, and you would readily exculpate me of caprice, if half the

distress of my irresolution was known to you. Even now, when I hesitate

no more, my mind is so ill at ease, that I could neither wonder nor be

displeased should you hesitate in your turn.”

“You hesitate no more?” cried he, almost breathless at the sound of

those words, “and is it possible--Oh my Cecilia!--is it possible your

resolution is in my favour?”

“Alas!” cried she, “how little is your reason to rejoice! a dejected and

melancholy gift is all you can receive!”

“Ere I take it, then,” cried he, in a voice that spoke joy; pain, and

fear all at once in commotion, “tell me if your reluctance has its

origin in _me_, that I may rather even yet relinquish you, than merely

owe your hand to the selfishness of persecution?”

“Your pride,” said she, half smiling, “has some right to be alarmed,

though I meant not to alarm it. No! it is with myself only I am at

variance, with my own weakness and want of judgment that I quarrel,--in

_you_ I have all the reliance that the highest opinion of your honour

and integrity can give me.”

This was enough for the warm heart of Delvile, not only to restore

peace, but to awaken rapture. He was almost as wild with delight, as he

had before been with apprehension, and poured forth his acknowledgments

with so much fervour of gratitude, that Cecilia imperceptibly grew

reconciled to herself, and before she missed her dejection, participated

in his contentment.

She quitted him as soon as she had power, to acquaint Mrs Charlton with

what had passed, and assist in preparing her to accompany them to the

altar; while Delvile flew to his new acquaintance, Mr Singleton, the

lawyer, to request him to supply the place of Mr Monckton in giving her

away.

All was now hastened with the utmost expedition, and to avoid

observation, they agreed to meet at the church; their desire of secrecy,

however potent, never urging them to wish the ceremony should be

performed in a place less awful.

When the chairs, however, came, which were to carry the two ladies

thither, Cecilia trembled and hung back. The greatness of her

undertaking, the hazard of all her future happiness, the disgraceful

secrecy of her conduct, the expected reproaches of Mrs Delvile, and

the boldness and indelicacy of the step she was about to take, all so

forcibly struck, and so painfully wounded her, that the moment she was

summoned to set out, she again lost her resolution, and regretting the

hour that ever Delvile was known to her, she sunk into a chair, and gave

up her whole soul to anguish and sorrow.

The good Mrs Charlton tried in vain to console her; a sudden horror

against herself had now seized her spirits, which, exhausted by long

struggles, could rally no more.

In this situation she was at length surprised by Delvile, whose uneasy

astonishment that she had failed in her appointment, was only to be

equalled by that with which he was struck at the sight of her tears. He

demanded the cause with the utmost tenderness and apprehension; Cecilia

for some time could not speak, and then, with a deep sigh, “Ah!” she

cried, “Mr Delvile! how weak are we all when unsupported by our own

esteem! how feeble, how inconsistent, how changeable, when our courage

has any foundation but duty!”

Delvile, much relieved by finding her sadness sprung not from any new

affliction, gently reproached her breach of promise, and earnestly

entreated her to repair it. “The clergyman,” cried he, “is waiting; I

have left him with Mr Singleton in the vestry; no new objections have

started, and no new obstacles have intervened; why, then, torment

ourselves with discussing again the old ones, which we have already

considered till every possible argument upon them is exhausted?

Tranquillize, I conjure you, your agitated spirits, and if the truest

tenderness, the most animated esteem, and the gratefullest admiration,

can soften your future cares, and ensure your future peace, every

anniversary of this day will recompense my Cecilia for every pang she

now suffers!”

Cecilia, half soothed and half ashamed, finding she had in fact nothing

new to say or to object, compelled herself to rise, and, penetrated

by his solicitations, endeavoured to compose her mind, and promised to

follow him.

He would not trust her, however, from his sight, but seizing the very

instant of her renewed consent, he dismissed the chairs, and ordering

a hackney-coach, preferred any risk to that of her again wavering, and

insisted upon accompanying her in it himself.

Cecilia had now scarce time to breathe, before she found herself at the

porch of----church. Delvile hurried her out of the carriage, and then

offered his arm to Mrs Charlton. Not a word was spoken by any of the

party till they went into the vestry, where Delvile ordered Cecilia

a glass of water, and having hastily made his compliments to the

clergyman, gave her hand to Mr Singleton, who led her to the altar.

The ceremony was now begun; and Cecilia, finding herself past all power

of retracting, soon called her thoughts from wishing it, and turned her

whole attention to the awful service; to which though she listened with

reverence, her full satisfaction in the object of her vows, made

her listen without terror. But when the priest came to that solemn

adjuration, _If any man can shew any just cause why they may not

lawfully be joined together_, a conscious tear stole into her eye, and

a sigh escaped from Delvile that went to her heart: but, when the priest

concluded the exhortation with _let him now speak, or else hereafter

for-ever hold his peace_, a female voice at some distance, called out in

shrill accents, “I do!”

The ceremony was instantly stopt. The astonished priest immediately shut

up the book to regard the intended bride and bridegroom; Delvile started

with amazement to see whence the sound proceeded; and Cecilia, aghast,

and struck with horror, faintly shriekt, and caught hold of Mrs

Charlton.

The consternation was general, and general was the silence, though all

of one accord turned round towards the place whence the voice issued: a

female form at the same moment was seen rushing from a pew, who glided

out of the church with the quickness of lightning.

Not a word was yet uttered, every one seeming rooted to the spot on

which he stood, and regarding in mute wonder the place this form had

crossed.

Delvile at length exclaimed, “What can this mean?”

“Did you not know the woman, Sir?” said the clergyman.

“No, Sir, I did not even see her.”

“Nor you, madam?” said he, addressing Cecilia.

“No, Sir,” she answered, in a voice that scarce articulated the two

syllables, and changing colour so frequently, that Delvile, apprehensive

she would faint, flew to her, calling out, “Let _me_ support you!”

She turned from him hastily, and still, holding by Mrs Charlton, moved

away from the altar.

“Whither,” cried Delvile, fearfully following her, “whither are you

going?”

She made not any answer; but still, though tottering as much from

emotion as Mrs Charlton from infirmity, she walked on.

“Why did you stop the ceremony, Sir?” cried Delvile, impatiently

speaking to the clergyman.

“No ceremony, Sir,” he returned, “could proceed with such an

interruption.”

“It has been wholly accidental,” cried he, “for we neither of us

know the woman, who could not have any right or authority for the

prohibition.” Then yet more anxiously pursuing Cecilia, “why,”

he continued, “do you thus move off?--Why leave the ceremony

unfinished?--Mrs Charlton, what is it you are about?--Cecilia, I beseech

you return, and let the service go on!”

Cecilia, making a motion with her hand to forbid his following her,

still silently proceeded, though drawing along with equal difficulty Mrs

Charlton and herself.

“This is insupportable!” cried Delvile, with vehemence, “turn, I conjure

you!--my Cecilia!--my wife!--why is it you thus abandon me?--Turn,

I implore you, and receive my eternal vows!--Mrs Charlton, bring her

back,--Cecilia, you _must_ not go!--”

He now attempted to take her hand, but shrinking from his touch, in an

emphatic but low voice, she said, “Yes, Sir, I must!--an interdiction

such as this!--for the world could I not brave it!”

She then made an effort to somewhat quicken her pace.

“Where,” cried Delvile, half frantic, “where is this infamous woman?

This wretch who has thus wantonly destroyed me!”

And he rushed out of the church in pursuit of her.

The clergyman and Mr Singleton, who had hitherto been wondering

spectators, came now to offer their assistance to Cecilia. She declined

any help for herself, but gladly accepted their services for Mrs

Charlton, who, thunderstruck by all that had past, seemed almost robbed

of her faculties. Mr Singleton proposed calling a hackney coach, she

consented, and they stopt for it at the church porch.

The clergyman now began to enquire of the pew-opener, what she knew of

the woman, who she was, and how she had got into the church? She knew of

her, she answered, nothing, but that she had come in to early prayers,

and she supposed she had hid herself in a pew when they were over, as

she had thought the church entirely empty.

An hackney coach now drew up, and while the gentlemen were assisting Mrs

Charlton into it, Delvile returned.

“I have pursued and enquired,” cried he, “in vain, I can neither

discover nor hear of her.--But what is all this? Whither are you

going?--What does this coach do here?--Mrs Charlton, why do you get into

it?--Cecilia, what are you doing?”

Cecilia turned away from him in silence. The shock she had received,

took from her all power of speech, while amazement and terror deprived

her even of relief from tears. She believed Delvile to blame, though she

knew not in what, but the obscurity of her fears served only to render

them more dreadful.

She was now getting into the coach herself, but Delvile, who could

neither brook her displeasure, nor endure her departure, forcibly caught

her hand, and called out, “You are _mine_, you are my _wife_!--I will

part with you no more, and go whithersoever you will, I will follow and

claim you!”

“Stop me not!” cried she, impatiently though faintly, “I am sick, I am

ill already,--if you detain me any longer, I shall be unable to support

myself!”

“Oh then rest on _me_!” cried he, still holding her; “rest but upon me

till the ceremony is over!--you will drive me to despair and to madness

if you leave me in this barbarous manner!”

A crowd now began to gather, and the words bride and bridegroom reached

the ears of Cecilia; who half dead with shame, with fear, and with

distress, hastily said “You are determined to make me miserable!” and

snatching away her hand, which Delvile at those words could no longer

hold, she threw herself into the carriage.

Delvile, however, jumped in after her, and with an air of authority

ordered the coachman to Pall-Mall, and then drew up the glasses, with a

look of fierceness at the mob.

Cecilia had neither spirits nor power to resist him; yet, offended by

his violence, and shocked to be thus publickly pursued by him, her looks

spoke a resentment far more mortifying than any verbal reproach.

“Inhuman Cecilia!” cried he, passionately, “to desert me at the very

altar!--to cast me off at the instant the most sacred rites were uniting

us!--and then thus to look at me!--to treat me with this disdain at a

time of such distraction!--to scorn me thus injuriously at the moment

you unjustly abandon me!”

“To how dreadful a scene,” said Cecilia, recovering from her

consternation, “have you exposed me! to what shame, what indignity, what

irreparable disgrace!”

“Oh heaven!” cried he with horror, “if any crime, any offence of mine

has occasioned this fatal blow, the whole world holds not a wretch so

culpable as myself, nor one who will sooner allow the justice of your

rigour! my veneration for you has ever equalled my affection, and could

I think it was through _me_ you have suffered any indignity, I should

soon abhor myself, as you seem to abhor me. But what is it I have done?

How have I thus incensed you? By what action, by what guilt, have I

incurred this displeasure?

“Whence,” cried she, “came that voice which still vibrates in my ear?

The prohibition could not be on _my_ account, since none to whom I am

known have either right or interest in even wishing it.”

“What an inference is this! over _me_, then, do you conclude this woman

had any power?”

Here they stopt at the lodgings. Delvile handed both the ladies out.

Cecilia, eager to avoid his importunities, and dreadfully disturbed,

hastily past him, and ran up stairs; but Mrs Charlton refused not his

arm, on which she lent till they reached the drawing-room.

Cecilia then rang the bell for her servant, and gave orders that a

post-chaise might be sent for immediately.

Delvile now felt offended in his turn; but suppressing his vehemence, he

gravely and quietly said “Determined as you are to leave me, indifferent

to my peace, and incredulous of my word, deign, at least, before we

part, to be more explicit in your accusation, and tell me if indeed it

is possible you can suspect that the wretch who broke off the ceremony,

had ever from me received provocation for such an action?”

“I know not what to suspect,” said Cecilia, “where every thing is thus

involved in obscurity; but I must own I should have some difficulty to

think those words the effect of chance, or to credit that their speaker

was concealed without design.”

“You are right, then, madam,” cried he, resentfully, “to discard me! to

treat me with contempt, to banish me without repugnance, since I see

you believe me capable of duplicity, and imagine I am better informed

in this affair than I appear to be. You have said I shall make you

miserable,--no, madam, no! your happiness and misery depend not upon one

you hold so worthless!”

“On whatever they depend,” said Cecilia, “I am too little at ease for

discussion. I would no more be daring than superstitious, but none of

our proceedings have prospered, and since their privacy has always been

contrary both to my judgment and my principles, I know not how to repine

at a failure I cannot think unmerited. Mrs Charlton, our chaise is

coming; you will be ready, I hope, to set off in it directly?”

Delvile, too angry to trust himself to speak, now walked about the room,

and endeavoured to calm himself; but so little was his success, that

though silent till the chaise was announced, when he heard that dreaded

sound, and saw Cecilia steady in her purpose of departing, he was so

much shocked and afflicted, that, clasping his hands in a transport of

passion and grief, he exclaimed. “This, then, Cecilia, is your faith!

this is the felicity you bid me hope! this is the recompense of my

sufferings, and the performing of your engagement!”

Cecilia, struck by these reproaches, turned back; but while she

hesitated how to answer them, he went on, “You are insensible to my

misery, and impenetrable to my entreaties; a secret enemy has had power

to make me odious in your sight, though for her enmity I can assign no

cause, though even her existence was this morning unknown to me!

Ever ready to abandon, and most willing to condemn me, you have more

confidence in a vague conjecture, than in all you have observed of the

whole tenour of my character. Without knowing why, you are disposed to

believe me criminal, without deigning to say wherefore, you are eager

to banish me your presence. Yet scarce could a consciousness of guilt

itself, wound me so forcibly, so keenly, as your suspecting I am

guilty!”

“Again, then,” cried Cecilia, “shall I subject myself to a scene of such

disgrace and horror? No, never!--The punishment of my error shall at

least secure its reformation. Yet if I merit your reproaches, I deserve

not your regard; cease, therefore, to profess any for me, or make them

no more.”

“Shew but to them,” cried he, “the smallest sensibility, shew but for

me the most distant concern, and I will try to bear my disappointment

without murmuring, and submit to your decrees as to those from which

there is no appeal: but to wound without deigning even to look at what

you destroy,--to shoot at random those arrows that are pointed with

poison,--to see them fasten on the heart, and corrode its vital

functions, yet look on without compunction, or turn away with cold

disdain,--Oh where is the candour I thought lodged in Cecilia! where the

justice, the equity, I believed a part of herself!”

“After all that has past,” said Cecilia, sensibly touched by his

distress, “I expected not these complaints, nor that, from me, any

assurances would be wanted; yet, if it will quiet your mind, if it will

better reconcile you to our separation---”

“Oh fatal prelude!” interrupted he, “what on earth can quiet my mind

that leads to our separation?--Give to me no condescension with any such

view,--preserve your indifference, persevere in your coldness,

triumph still in your power of inspiring those feelings you can never

return,--all, every thing is more supportable than to talk of our

separation!”

“Yet how,” cried she, “parted, torn asunder as we have been, how is it

now to be avoided?”

“Trust in my honour! Shew me but the confidence which I will venture to

say I deserve, and then will that union no longer be impeded, which in

future, I am certain, will never be repented!”

“Good heaven, what a request! faith so implicit would be frenzy.”

“You doubt, then, my integrity? You suspect---”

“Indeed I do not; yet in a case of such importance, what ought to guide

me but my own reason, my own conscience, my own sense of right? Pain me

not, therefore, with reproaches, distress me no more with entreaties,

when I solemnly declare that no earthly consideration shall ever

again make me promise you my hand, while the terror of Mrs Delvile's

displeasure has possession of my heart. And now adieu.”

“You give me, then, up?”

“Be patient, I beseech you; and attempt not to follow me; 'tis a step I

cannot permit.”

“Not follow you? And who has power to prevent me?”

“_I_ have, Sir, if to incur my endless resentment is of any consequence

to you.”

She then, with an air of determined steadiness, moved on; Mrs Charlton,

assisted by the servants, being already upon the stairs.

“O tyranny!” cried he, “what submission is it you exact!--May I not even

enquire into the dreadful mystery of this morning?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And may I not acquaint you with it, should it be discovered?”

“I shall not be sorry to hear it. Adieu.”

She was now half way down the stairs; when, losing all forbearance, he

hastily flew after her, and endeavouring to stop her, called out, “If

you do not hate and detest me,--if I am not loathsome and abhorrent to

you, O quit me not thus insensibly!--Cecilia! my beloved Cecilia!--speak

to me, at least, one word of less severity! Look at me once more, and

tell me we part not for-ever!”

Cecilia then turned round, and while a starting tear shewed her

sympathetic distress, said, “Why will you thus oppress me with

entreaties I ought not to gratify?--Have I not accompanied you to the

altar,--and can you doubt what I have thought of you?”

“_Have_ thought?--Oh Cecilia!--is it then all over?”

“Pray suffer me to go quietly, and fear not I shall go too happily!

Suppress your own feelings, rather than seek to awaken mine. Alas! there

is little occasion!--Oh Mr Delvile! were our connection opposed by no

duty, and repugnant to no friends, were it attended by no impropriety,

and carried on with no necessity of disguise,--you would not thus charge

me with indifference, you would not suspect me of insensibility,--Oh no!

the choice of my heart would then be its glory, and all I now blush to

feel, I should openly and with pride acknowledge!”

She then hurried to the chaise, Delvile pursuing her with thanks and

blessings, and gratefully assuring her, as he handed her into it, that

he would obey all her injunctions, and not even attempt to see her,

till he could bring her some intelligence concerning the morning's

transaction.

The chaise then drove off.

CHAPTER iii.

A CONSTERNATION.

The journey was melancholy and tedious: Mrs Charlton, extremely fatigued

by the unusual hurry and exercise both of mind and body which she had

lately gone through, was obliged to travel very slowly, and to lie upon

the road. Cecilia, however, was in no haste to proceed: she was going to

no one she wished to see, she was wholly without expectation of meeting

with any thing that could give her pleasure. The unfortunate expedition

in which she had been engaged, left her now nothing but regret, and only

promised her in future sorrow and mortification.

Mrs Charlton, after her return home, still continued ill, and Cecilia,

who constantly attended her, had the additional affliction of imputing

her indisposition to herself. Every thing she thought conspired to

punish the error she had committed; her proceedings were discovered,

though her motives were unknown; the Delvile family could not fail to

hear of her enterprize, and while they attributed it to her temerity,

they would exult in its failure: but chiefly hung upon her mind the

unaccountable prohibition of her marriage. Whence that could proceed

she was wholly without ability to divine, yet her surmizes were not more

fruitless than various. At one moment she imagined it some frolic of

Morrice, at another some perfidy of Monckton, and at another an idle

and unmeaning trick of some stranger to them all. But none of these

suppositions carried with them any air of probability; Morrice, even if

he had watched their motions and pursued them to the church, which his

inquisitive impertinence made by no means impossible, could yet hardly

have either time or opportunity to engage any woman in so extraordinary

an undertaking; Mr Monckton, however averse to the connection, she

considered as a man of too much honour to break it off in a manner so

alarming and disgraceful; and mischief so wanton in any stranger, seemed

to require a share of unfeeling effrontery, which could fall to the lot

of so few as to make this suggestion unnatural and incredible.

Sometimes she imagined that Delvile might formerly have been affianced

to some woman, who having accidentally discovered his intentions,

took this desperate method of rendering them abortive: but this was a

short-lived thought, and speedily gave way to her esteem for his general

character, and her confidence in the firmness of his probity.

All, therefore, was dark and mysterious; conjecture was baffled, and

meditation was useless. Her opinions were unfixed, and her heart was

miserable; she could only be steady in believing Delvile as unhappy as

herself, and only find consolation in believing him, also, as blameless.

Three days passed thus, without incident or intelligence; her time

wholly occupied in attending Mrs Charlton; her thoughts all engrossed

upon her own situation: but upon the fourth day she was informed that a

lady was in the parlour, who desired to speak with her.

She presently went down stairs,--and, upon entering the room, perceived

Mrs Delvile!

Seized with astonishment and fear, she stopt short, and, looking aghast,

held by the door, robbed of all power to receive so unexpected and

unwelcome a visitor, by an internal sensation of guilt, mingled with a

dread of discovery and reproach.

Mrs Delvile, addressing her with the coldest politeness, said, “I fear

I have surprised you; I am sorry I had not time to acquaint you of my

intention to wait upon you.”

Cecilia then, moving from the door, faintly answered, “I cannot, madam,

but be honoured by your notice, whenever you are pleased to confer it.”

They then sat down; Mrs Delvile preserving an air the most formal and

distant, and Cecilia half sinking with apprehensive dismay.

After a short and ill-boding silence, “I mean not,” said Mrs Delvile,

“to embarrass or distress you; I will not, therefore, keep you in

suspense of the purport of my visit. I come not to make enquiries,

I come not to put your sincerity to any trial, nor to torture your

delicacy; I dispense with all explanation, for I have not one doubt to

solve: I _know_ what has passed, I _know_ that my son loves you.”

Not all her secret alarm, nor all the perturbation of her fears, had

taught Cecilia to expect so direct an attack, nor enabled her to bear

the shock of it with any composure: she could not speak, she could

not look at Mrs Delvile; she arose, and walked to the window, without

knowing what she was doing.

Here, however, her distress was not likely to diminish; for the first

sight she saw was Fidel, who barked, and jumped up at the window to lick

her hands.

“Good God! Fidel here!” exclaimed Mrs Delvile, amazed.

Cecilia, totally overpowered, covered her glowing face with both her

hands, and sunk into a chair.

Mrs Delvile for a few minutes was silent; and then, following her, said,

“Imagine not I am making any discovery, nor suspect me of any design

to develop your sentiments. That Mortimer could love in vain I never,

believed; that Miss Beverley, possessing so much merit, could be blind

to it in another, I never thought possible. I mean not, therefore, to

solicit any account or explanation, but merely to beg your patience

while I talk to you myself, and your permission to speak to you with

openness and truth.”

Cecilia, though relieved by this calmness from all apprehension of

reproach, found in her manner a coldness that convinced her of the loss

of her affection, and in the introduction to her business a solemnity

that assured her what she should decree would be unalterable. She

uncovered her face to shew her respectful attention, but she could not

raise it up, and could not utter a word.

Mrs Delvile then seated herself next her, and gravely continued her

discourse.

“Miss Beverley, however little acquainted with the state of our family

affairs, can scarcely have been uninformed that a fortune such as hers

seems almost all that family can desire; nor can she have failed to

observe, that her merit and accomplishments have no where been more felt

and admired: the choice therefore of Mortimer she could not doubt would

have our sanction, and when she honoured his proposals with her favour,

she might naturally conclude she gave happiness and pleasure to all his

friends.”

Cecilia, superior to accepting a palliation of which she felt herself

undeserving, now lifted up her head, and forcing herself to speak,

said “No, madam, I will not deceive you, for I have never been deceived

myself: I presumed not to expect your approbation,--though in missing it

I have for ever lost my own!”

“Has Mortimer, then,” cried she with eagerness, “been strictly

honourable? has he neither beguiled nor betrayed you?”

“No, madam,” said she, blushing, “I have nothing to reproach him with.”

“Then he is indeed my son!” cried Mrs Delvile, with emotion; “had he

been treacherous to you, while disobedient to us, I had indisputably

renounced him.”

Cecilia, who now seemed the only culprit, felt herself in a state of

humiliation not to be borne; she collected, therefore, all her courage,

and said, “I have cleared Mr Delvile; permit me, madam, now, to say

something for myself.”

“Certainly; you cannot oblige me more than by speaking without

disguise.”

“It is not in the hope of regaining your good opinion,--that, I see, is

lost!--but merely--”

“No, not lost,” said Mrs Delvile, “but if once it was yet higher, the

fault was my own, in indulging an expectation of perfection to which

human nature is perhaps unequal.”

Ah, then, thought Cecilia, all is over! the contempt I so much feared is

incurred, and though it may be softened, it can never be removed!

“Speak, then, and with sincerity,” she continued, “all you wish me to

hear, and then grant me your attention in return to the purpose of my

present journey.”

“I have little, madam,” answered the depressed Cecilia, “to say; you

tell me you already know all that has past; I will not, therefore,

pretend to take any merit from revealing it: I will only add, that my

consent to this transaction has made me miserable almost from the moment

I gave it; that I meant and wished to retract as soon as reflection

pointed out to me my error, and that circumstances the most perverse,

not blindness to propriety, nor stubbornness in wrong, led me to make,

at last, that fatal attempt, of which the recollection, to my last hour,

must fill me with regret and shame.”

“I wonder not,” said Mrs Delvile, “that in a situation where delicacy

was so much less requisite than courage, Miss Beverley should feel

herself distressed and unhappy. A mind such as hers could never err

with impunity; and it is solely from a certainty of her innate sense of

right, that I venture to wait upon her now, and that I have any hope

to influence _her_ upon whose influence alone our whole family must in

future depend. Shall I now proceed, or is there any thing you wish to

say first?”

“No, madam, nothing.”

“Hear me, then, I beg of you, with no predetermination to disregard me,

but with an equitable resolution to attend to reason, and a candour that

leaves an opening to conviction. Not easy, indeed, is such a task, to

a mind pre-occupied with an intention to be guided by the dictates of

inclination,---”

“You wrong me, indeed, madam!” interrupted Cecilia, greatly hurt, “my

mind harbours no such intention, it has no desire but to be guided by

duty, it is wretched with a consciousness of having failed in it! I

pine, I sicken to recover my own good opinion; I should then no longer

feel unworthy of yours; and whether or not I might be able to regain it,

I should at least lose this cruel depression that now sinks me in your

presence!”

“To regain it,” said Mrs Delvile, “were to exercise but half your power,

which at this moment enables you, if such is your wish, to make me think

of you more highly than one human being ever thought of another. Do you

condescend to hold this worth your while?”

Cecilia started at the question; her heart beat quick with struggling

passions; she saw the sacrifice which was to be required, and her pride,

her affronted pride, arose high to anticipate the rejection; but the

design was combated by her affections, which opposed the indignant

rashness, and told her that one hasty speech might separate her from

Delvile for ever. When this painful conflict was over, of which Mrs

Delvile patiently waited the issue, she answered, with much hesitation,

“To regain your good opinion, madam, greatly, truly as I value it,--is

what I now scarcely dare hope.”

“Say not so,” cried she, “since, if you hope, you cannot miss it. I

purpose to point out to you the means to recover it, and to tell you

how greatly I shall think myself your debtor if you refuse not to employ

them.”

She stopt; but Cecilia hung back; fearful of her own strength, she dared

venture at no professions; yet, how either to support, or dispute her

compliance, she dreaded to think.

“I come to you, then,” Mrs Delvile solemnly resumed, “in the name of Mr

Delvile, and in the name of our whole family; a family as ancient as

it is honourable, as honourable as it is ancient. Consider me as its

representative, and hear in me its common voice, common opinion, and

common address.

“My son, the supporter of our house, the sole guardian of its name, and

the heir of our united fortunes, has selected you, we know, for the lady

of his choice, and so fondly has, fixed upon you his affections, that

he is ready to relinquish us all in preference to subduing them. To

yourself alone, then, can we apply, and I come to you--”

“O hold, madam, hold!” interrupted Cecilia, whose courage now revived

from resentment, “I know, what you would say; you come to tell me of

your disdain; you come to reproach my presumption, and to kill me with

your contempt! There is little occasion for such a step; I am depressed,

I am self-condemned already; spare me, therefore, this insupportable

humiliation, wound me not with your scorn, oppress me not with your

superiority! I aim at no competition, I attempt no vindication, I

acknowledge my own littleness as readily as you can despise it, and

nothing but indignity could urge me to defend it!”

“Believe me,” said Mrs Delvile, “I meant not to hurt or offend you, and

I am sorry if I have appeared to you either arrogant or assuming. The

peculiar and perilous situation of my family has perhaps betrayed me

into offensive expressions, and made me guilty myself of an ostentation

which in others has often disgusted me. Ill, indeed, can we any of us

bear the test of experiment, when tried upon those subjects which call

forth our particular propensities. We may strive to be disinterested,

we may struggle to be impartial, but self will still predominate, still

shew us the imperfection of our natures, and the narrowness of our

souls. Yet acquit me, I beg, of any intentional insolence, and imagine

not that in speaking highly of my own family, I, mean to depreciate

yours: on the contrary, I know it to be respectable, I know, too, that

were it the lowest in the kingdom, the first might envy it that it gave

birth to such a daughter.”

Cecilia, somewhat soothed by this speech, begged her pardon for having

interrupted her, and she proceeded.

“To your family, then, I assure you, whatever may be the pride of our

own, _you_ being its offspring, we would not object. With your merit we

are all well acquainted, your character has our highest esteem, and

your fortune exceeds even our most sanguine desires. Strange at once

and afflicting! that not all these requisites for the satisfaction of

prudence, nor all these allurements for the gratification of happiness,

can suffice to fulfil or to silence the claims of either! There are yet

other demands to which we must attend, demands which ancestry and blood

call upon us aloud to ratify! Such claimants are not to be neglected

with impunity; they assert their rights with the authority of

prescription, they forbid us alike either to bend to inclination, or

stoop to interest, and from generation to generation their injuries

will call out for redress, should their noble and long unsullied name be

voluntarily consigned to oblivion!”

Cecilia, extremely struck by these words, scarce wondered, since so

strong and so established were her opinions, that the obstacle to her

marriage, though but one, should be considered as insuperable.

“Not, therefore, to _your_ name are we averse,” she continued, “but

simply to our own more partial. To sink that, indeed, in _any_

other, were base and unworthy:--what, then, must be the shock of my

disappointment, should Mortimer Delvile, the darling of my hopes, the

last survivor of his house, in whose birth I rejoiced as the promise of

its support, in whose accomplishments I gloried, as the revival of its

lustre,--should _he_, should, _my_ son be the first to abandon it! to

give up the name he seemed born to make live, and to cause in effect its

utter annihilation!--Oh how should I know my son when an alien to his

family! how bear to think I had cherished in my bosom the betrayer of

its dearest interests, the destroyer of its very existence!”

Cecilia, scarce more afflicted than offended, now hastily answered, “Not

for me, madam, shall he commit this crime, not on _my_ account shall he

be reprobated by his family! Think of him, therefore, no more, with any

reference to me, for I would not be the cause of unworthiness or guilt

in him to be mistress of the universe!”

“Nobly said!” cried Mrs Delvile, her eyes sparkling with joy, and her

cheeks glowing with pleasure, “now again do I know Miss Beverley! now

again see the refined, the excellent young woman, whose virtues taught

me to expect the renunciation even of her own happiness, when found to

be incompatible with her duty!”

Cecilia now trembled and turned pale; she scarce knew herself what she

had said, but, she found by Mrs Delvile's construction of her words,

they had been regarded as her final relinquishing of her son. She

ardently wished to quit the room before she was called upon to confirm

the sentence, but, she had not courage to make the effort, nor to rise,

speak, or move.

“I grieve, indeed,” continued Mrs Delvile, whose coldness and austerity

were changed into mildness and compassion, “at the necessity I have been

under to draw from you a concurrence so painful: but no other resource

was in my power. My influence with Mortimer, whatever it may be, I have

not any right to try, without obtaining your previous consent, since I

regard him myself as bound to you in honour, and only to be released by

your own virtuous desire. I will leave you, however, for my presence,

I see, is oppressive to you. Farewell; and when you _can_ forgive me, I

think you _will_.”

“I have nothing, madam,” said Cecilia, coldly, “to forgive; you have

only asserted your own dignity, and I have nobody to blame but myself,

for having given you occasion.”

“Alas,” cried Mrs Delvile, “if worth and nobleness of soul on your part,

if esteem and tenderest affection on mine, were all which that dignity

which offends you requires, how should I crave the blessing of such a

daughter! how rejoice in joining my son to excellence so like his own,

and ensuring his happiness while I stimulated his virtue!”

“Do not talk to me of affection, madam,” said Cecilia, turning away from

her; “whatever you had for me is past,--even your esteem is gone,--you

may pity me, indeed, but your pity is mixed with contempt, and I am not

so abject as to find comfort from exciting it.”

“O little,” cried Mrs Delvile, looking at her with the utmost

tenderness, “little do you see the state of my heart, for never have you

appeared to me so worthy as at this moment! In tearing you from my son,

I partake all the wretchedness I give, but your own sense of duty must

something plead for the strictness with which I act up to mine.”

She then moved towards the door.

“Is your carriage, madam,” said Cecilia, struggling to disguise her

inward anguish under an appearance of sullenness, “in waiting?”

Mrs Delvile then came back, and holding out her hand, while her eyes

glistened with tears, said, “To part from you thus frigidly, while

my heart so warmly admires you, is almost more than I can endure. Oh

gentlest Cecilia! condemn not a mother who is impelled to this severity,

who performing what she holds to be her duty, thinks the office her

bitterest misfortune, who forsees in the rage of her husband, and the

resistance of her son, all the misery of domestic contention, and who

can only secure the honour of her family by destroying its peace!--You

will not, then, give me your hand?--”

Cecilia, who had affected not to see that she waited for it, now

coldly put it out, distantly [courtseying], and seeking to preserve

her steadiness by avoiding to speak. Mrs Delvile took it, and as she

repeated her adieu, affectionately pressed it to her lips; Cecilia,

starting, and breathing short, from encreasing yet smothered agitation,

called out “Why, why this condescension?--pray,--I entreat you,

madam!--”

“Heaven bless you, my love!” said Mrs Delvile, dropping a tear upon the

hand she still held, “heaven bless you, and restore the tranquillity you

so nobly deserve!”

“Ah madam!” cried Cecilia, vainly striving to repress any longer the

tears which now forced their way down her cheeks, “why will you break

my heart with this kindness! why will you still compel me to love!--when

now I almost wish to hate you!”--

“No, hate me not,” said Mrs Delvile, kissing from her cheeks the tears

that watered them, “hate me not, sweetest Cecilia, though in wounding

your gentle bosom, I am almost detestable to myself. Even the cruel

scene which awaits me with my son will not more deeply afflict me. But

adieu,--I must now prepare for him!”

She then left the room: but Cecilia, whose pride had no power to resist

this tenderness, ran hastily after her, saying “Shall I not see you

again, madam?”

“You shall yourself decide,” answered she; “if my coming will not give

you more pain than pleasure, I will wait upon you whenever you please.”

Cecilia sighed and paused; she knew not what to desire, yet rather

wished any thing to be done, than quietly to sit down to uninterrupted

reflection.

“Shall I postpone quitting this place,” continued Mrs Delvile, “till

to-morrow morning, and will you admit me this afternoon, should I call

upon you again?”

“I should be sorry,” said she, still hesitating, “to detain you,”--

“You will rejoice me,” cried Mrs Delvile, “by bearing me in your sight.”

And she then went into her carriage.

Cecilia, unfitted to attend her old friend, and unequal to the task of

explaining to her the cruel scene in which she had just been engaged,

then hastened to her own apartment. Her hitherto stifled emotions broke

forth in tears and repinings: her fate was finally determined, and its

determination was not more unhappy than humiliating; she was openly

rejected by the family whose alliance she was known to wish; she

was compelled to refuse the man of her choice, though satisfied his

affections were her own. A misery so peculiar she found hard to support,

and almost bursting with conflicting passions, her heart alternately

swelled from offended pride, and sunk from disappointed tenderness.

CHAPTER iv.

A PERTURBATION.

Cecelia was still in this tempestuous state, when a message was brought

her that a gentleman was below stairs, who begged to have the honour of

seeing her. She concluded he was Delvile, and the thought of meeting him

merely to communicate what must so bitterly afflict him, redoubled her

distress, and she went down in an agony of perturbation and sorrow.

He met her at the door, where, before he could speak, “Mr Delvile,”

she cried, in a hurrying manner, “why will you come? Why will you thus

insist upon seeing me, in defiance of every obstacle, and in contempt of

my prohibition?”

“Good heavens,” cried he, amazed, “whence this reproach? Did you not

permit me to wait upon you with the result of my enquiries? Had I

not your consent--but why do you look thus disturbed?--Your eyes are

red,--you have been weeping.--Oh my Cecilia! have I any share in your

sorrow?--Those tears, which never flow weakly, tell me, have they--has

_one_ of them been shed upon my account?”

“And what,” cried she, “has been the result of your enquiries?--Speak

quick, for I wish to know,--and in another instant I must be gone.”

“How strange,” cried the astonished Delvile, “is this language! how

strange are these looks! What new has come to pass? Has any fresh

calamity happened? Is there yet some evil which I do not expect?”

“Why will you not answer first?” cried she; “when _I_ have spoken, you

will perhaps be less willing.”

“You terrify, you shock, you amaze me! What dreadful blow awaits me? For

what horror are you preparing me?--That which I have just experienced,

and which tore you from me even at the foot of the altar, still remains

inexplicable, still continues to be involved in darkness and mystery;

for the wretch who separated us I have never been able to discover.”

“Have you procured, then, no intelligence?”

“No, none; though since we parted I have never rested a moment.”

“Make, then, no further enquiry, for now all explanation would be

useless. That we _were_ parted, we know, though _why_ we cannot tell:

but that again we shall ever meet---”

She, stopt; her streaming eyes cast upwards, and a deep sigh bursting

from her heart.

“Oh what,” cried Delvile, endeavouring to take her hand, which she

hastily withdrew from him, “what does this mean? loveliest, dearest

Cecilia, my betrothed, my affianced wife! why flow those tears which

agony only can wring from you? Why refuse me that hand which so lately

was the pledge of your faith? Am I not the same Delvile to whom so few

days since you gave it? Why will you not open to him your heart? Why

thus distrust his honour, and repulse his tenderness? Oh why, giving him

such exquisite misery, refuse him the smallest consolation?”

“What consolation,” cried the weeping Cecilia, “can I give? Alas! it is

not, perhaps, _you_ who most want it!--”

Here the door was opened by one of the Miss Charltons, who came into

the room with a message from her grandmother, requesting to see Cecilia.

Cecilia, ashamed of being thus surprised with Delvile, and in tears,

waited not either to make any excuse to him, or any answer to Miss

Charlton, but instantly hurried out of the room;--not, however, to

her old friend, whom now less than ever she could meet, but to her own

apartment, where a very short indulgence of grief was succeeded by the

severest examination of her own conduct.

A retrospection of this sort rarely brings much subject of exultation,

when made with the rigid sincerity of secret impartiality: so much

stronger is our reason than our virtue, so much higher our sense of duty

than our performance!

All she had done she now repented, all she had said she disapproved; her

conduct, seldom equal to her notions of right, was now infinitely below

them, and the reproaches of her judgment made her forget for a while the

afflictions which had misled it.

The sorrow to which she had openly given way in the presence of Delvile,

though their total separation but the moment before had been finally

decreed, she considered as a weak effusion of tenderness, injurious to

delicacy, and censurable by propriety. “His power over my heart,” cried

she, “it were now, indeed, too late to conceal, but his power over my

understanding it is time to cancel. I am not to be his,--my own voice

has ratified the renunciation, and since I made it to his mother, it

must never, without her consent, be invalidated. Honour, therefore, to

her, and regard for myself, equally command me to fly him, till I cease

to be thus affected by his sight.”

When Delvile, therefore, sent up an entreaty that he might be again

admitted into her presence, she returned for answer that she was not

well, and could not see any body.

He then left the house, and, in a few minutes, she received the

following note from him.

_To Miss Beverley_. You drive me from you, Cecilia, tortured with

suspense, and distracted with apprehension, you drive me from you,

certain of my misery, yet leaving me to bear it as I may! I would call

you unfeeling, but that I saw you were unhappy; I would reproach you

with tyranny, but that your eyes when you quitted me were swollen with

weeping! I go, therefore, I obey the harsh mandate, since my absence is

your desire, and I will shut myself up at Biddulph's till I receive

your commands. Yet disdain not to reflect that every instant will seem

endless, while Cecilia must appear to me unjust, or wound my very soul

by the recollection of her in sorrow. MORTIMER DELVILE.

The mixture of fondness and resentment with which this letter was

dictated, marked so strongly the sufferings and disordered state of the

writer, that all the softness of Cecilia returned when she perused it,

and left her not a wish but to lessen his inquietude, by assurances

of unalterable regard: yet she determined not to trust herself in his

sight, certain they could only meet to grieve over each other, and

conscious that a participation of sorrow would but prove a reciprocation

of tenderness. Calling, therefore, upon her duty to resist her

inclination, she resolved to commit the whole affair to the will of Mrs

Delvile, to whom, though under no promise, she now considered herself

responsible. Desirous, however, to shorten the period of Delvile's

uncertainty, she would not wait till the time she had appointed to see

his mother, but wrote the following note to hasten their meeting.

_To the Hon. Mrs Delvile_. MADAM,--Your son is now at Bury; shall I

acquaint him of your arrival? or will you announce it yourself? Inform

me of your desire, and I will endeavour to fulfil it. As my own Agent

I regard myself no longer; if, as yours, I can give pleasure, or be of

service, I shall gladly receive your commands. I have the honour to be,

Madam, your most obedient servant, CECILIA BEVERLEY.

When she had sent off this letter, her heart was more at ease, because

reconciled with her conscience: she had sacrificed the son, she had

resigned herself to the mother; it now only remained to heal her wounded

pride, by suffering the sacrifice with dignity, and to recover her

tranquility in virtue, by making the resignation without repining.

Her reflections, too, growing clearer as the mist of passion was

dispersed, she recollected with confusion her cold and sullen behaviour

to Mrs Delvile. That lady had but done what she had believed was her

duty, and that duty was no more than she had been taught to expect from

her. In the beginning of her visit, and while doubtful of its success,

she had indeed, been austere, but the moment victory appeared in view,

she became tender, affectionate and gentle. Her justice, therefore,

condemned the resentment to which she had given way, and she fortified

her mind for the interview which was to follow, by an earnest desire to

make all reparation both to Mrs Delvile and herself for that which was

past.

In this resolution she was not a little strengthened, by seriously

considering with herself the great abatement to all her possible

happiness, which must have been made by the humiliating circumstance

of forcing herself into a family which held all connection with her as

disgraceful. She desired not to be the wife even of Delvile upon such

terms, for the more she esteemed and admired him, the more anxious she

became for his honour, and the less could she endure being regarded

herself as the occasion of its diminution.

Now, therefore, her plan of conduct settled, with calmer spirits, though

a heavy heart, she attended upon Mrs Charlton; but fearing to lose the

steadiness she had just acquired before it should be called upon, if she

trusted herself to relate the decision which had been made, she besought

her for the present to dispense with the account, and then forced

herself into conversation upon less interesting subjects.

This prudence had its proper effect, and with tolerable tranquility she

heard Mrs Delvile again announced, and waited upon her in the parlour

with an air of composure.

Not so did Mrs Delvile receive her; she was all eagerness and emotion;

she flew to her the moment she appeared, and throwing her arms around

her, warmly exclaimed “Oh charming girl! Saver of our family! preserver

of our honour! How poor are words to express my admiration! how

inadequate are thanks in return for such obligations as I owe you!”

“You owe me none, madam,” said Cecilia, suppressing a sigh; “on my side

will be all the obligation, if you can pardon the petulance of my

behaviour this morning.”

“Call not by so harsh a name,” answered Mrs Delvile, “the keenness of a

sensibility by which you have yourself alone been the sufferer. You

have had a trial the most severe, and however able to sustain, it was

impossible you should not feel it. That you should give up any man whose

friends solicit not your alliance, your mind is too delicate to make

wonderful; but your generosity in submitting, unasked, the arrangement

of that resignation to those for whose interest it is made, and your

high sense of honour in holding yourself accountable to me, though under

no tie, and bound by no promise, mark a greatness of mind which calls

for reverence rather than thanks, and which I never can praise half so

much as I admire.”

Cecilia, who received this applause but as a confirmation of her

rejection, thanked her only by courtsying; and Mrs Delvile, having

seated herself next her, continued her speech.

“My son, you have the goodness to tell me, is here,--have you seen him?”

“Yes, madam,” answered she, blushing, “but hardly for a moment.”

“And he knows not of my arrival?” No,--I believe he certainly does not.”

“Sad then, is the trial which awaits him, and heavy for me the office I

must perform! Do you expect to see him again?”

“No,--yes,--perhaps--indeed I hardly--” She stammered, and Mrs Delvile,

taking her hand, said “Tell me, Miss Beverley, _why_ should you see him

again?”

Cecilia was thunderstruck by this question, and, colouring yet more

deeply, looked down, but could not answer.

“Consider,” continued Mrs Delvile, “the _purpose_ of any further

meeting; your union is impossible, you have nobly consented to

relinquish all thoughts of it why then tear your own heart, and torture

his, by an intercourse which seems nothing but an ill-judged invitation

to fruitless and unavailing sorrow?”

Cecilia was still silent; the truth of the expostulation her reason

acknowledged, but to assent to its consequence her whole heart refused.

“The ungenerous triumph of little female vanity,” said Mrs Delvile, “is

far, I am sure, from your mind, of which the enlargement and liberality

will rather find consolation from lessening than from embittering

his sufferings. Speak to me, then, and tell me honestly, judiciously,

candidly tell me, will it not be wiser and more right, to avoid rather

than seek an object which can only give birth to regret? an interview

which can excite no sensations but of misery and sadness?” Cecilia then

turned pale, she endeavoured to speak, but could not; she wished to

comply,--yet to think she had seen him for the last time, to remember

how abruptly she had parted from him, and to fear she had treated him

unkindly;--these were obstacles which opposed her concurrence, though

both judgment and propriety demanded it.

“Can you, then,” said Mrs Delvile, after a pause, “can you wish to see

Mortimer merely to behold his grief? Can you desire he should see you,

only to sharpen his affliction at your loss?”

“O no!” cried Cecilia, to whom this reproof restored speech and

resolution, “I am not so despicable, I am not, I hope, so unworthy!--I

will--be ruled by you wholly; I will commit to you every thing;--yet

_once_, perhaps,--no more!”--

“Ah, my dear Miss Beverley! to meet confessedly for _once_,--what were

that but planting a dagger in the heart of Mortimer? What were it but

infusing poison into your own?

“If you think so, madam,” said she, “I had better--I will certainly--”

she sighed, stammered, and stopt.

“Hear me,” cried Mrs Delvile, “and rather let me try to convince than

persuade you. Were there any possibility, by argument, by reflection, or

even by accident, to remove the obstacles to our connection, then would

it be well to meet, for then might discussion turn to account, and an

interchange of sentiments be productive of some happy expedients: but

here--”

She hesitated, and Cecilia, shocked and ashamed, turned away her face,

and cried “I know, madam, what you would say,--here all is over! and

therefore--”

“Yet suffer me,” interrupted she, “to be explicit, since we speak upon,

this matter now for the last time. Here, then, I say, where not ONE

doubt remains, where ALL is finally, though not happily decided, what

can an interview produce? Mischief of every sort, pain, horror, and

repining! To Mortimer you may think it would be kind, and grant it to

his prayers, as an alleviation of his misery; mistaken notion! nothing

could so greatly augment it. All his passions would be raised, all his

prudence would be extinguished, his soul would be torn with resentment

and regret, and force, only, would part him from you, when previously he

knew that parting was to be eternal. To yourself--”

“Talk not, madam, of me,” cried the unhappy Cecilia, “what you say of

your son is sufficient, and I will yield---”

“Yet hear me,” proceeded she, “and believe me not so unjust as to

consider him alone; you, also, would be an equal, though a less stormy

sufferer. You fancy, at this moment, that once more to meet him would

soothe your uneasiness, and that to take of him a farewell, would soften

the pain of the separation: how false such reasoning! how dangerous such

consolation! acquainted ere you meet that you were to meet him no more,

your heart would be all softness and grief, and at the very moment when

tenderness should be banished from your intercourse, it would bear down

all opposition of judgment, spirit, and dignity: you would hang upon

every word, because every word would seem the last, every look, every

expression would be rivetted in your memory, and his image in this

parting distress would-be painted upon your mind, in colours that would

eat into its peace, and perhaps never be erased.”

“Enough, enough,” said Cecilia, “I will not see him,--I will not even

desire it!”

“Is this compliance or conviction? Is what I have said true, or only

terrifying?”

“Both, both! I believe, indeed, the conflict would have overpowered

me,--I see you are right,--and I thank you, madam, for saving me from a

scene I might so cruelly have rued.”

“Oh Daughter of my mind!” cried Mrs Delvile, rising and embracing her,

“noble, generous, yet gentle Cecilia! what tie, what connection, could

make you more dear to me? Who is there like you? Who half so excellent?

So open to reason, so ingenuous in error! so rational! so just! so

feeling, yet so wise!”

“You are very good,” said Cecilia, with a forced serenity, “and I am

thankful that your resentment for the past obstructs not your lenity for

the present.”

“Alas, my love, how shall I resent the past, when I ought myself to have

foreseen this calamity! and I _should_ have foreseen it, had I not been

informed you were engaged, and upon your engagement built our security.

Else had I been more alarmed, for my own admiration would have bid me

look forward to my son's. You were just, indeed, the woman he had least

chance to resist, you were precisely the character to seize his very

soul. To a softness the most fatally alluring, you join a dignity which

rescues from their own contempt even the most humble of your admirers.

You seem born to have all the world wish your exaltation, and no part

of it murmur at your superiority. Were any obstacle but this insuperable

one in the way, should nobles, nay, should princes offer their daughters

to my election, I would reject without murmuring the most magnificent

proposals, and take in triumph to my heart my son's nobler choice!”

“Oh madam,” cried Cecilia, “talk not to me thus!--speak not such

flattering words!--ah, rather scorn and upbraid me, tell me you

despise my character, my family and my connections,--load, load me with

contempt, but do not thus torture me with approbation!”

“Pardon me, sweetest girl, if I have awakened those emotions you so

wisely seek to subdue. May my son but emulate your example, and my pride

in his virtue shall be the solace of my affliction for his misfortunes.”

She then tenderly embraced her, and abruptly took her leave.

Cecilia had now acted her part, and acted it to her own satisfaction;

but the curtain dropt when Mrs Delvile left the house, nature resumed

her rights, and the sorrow of her heart was no longer disguised or

repressed. Some faint ray of hope had till now broke through the

gloomiest cloud of her misery, and secretly flattered her that its

dispersion was possible, though distant: but that ray was extinct, that

hope was no more; she had solemnly promised to banish Delvile her sight,

and his mother had absolutely declared that even the subject had been

discussed for the last time.

Mrs Charlton, impatient of some explanation of the morning's

transactions, soon sent again to beg Cecilia would come to her. Cecilia

reluctantly obeyed, for she feared encreasing her indisposition by the

intelligence she had to communicate; she struggled, therefore, to appear

to her with tolerable calmness, and in briefly relating what had passed,

forbore to mingle with the narrative her own feelings and unhappiness.

Mrs Charlton heard the account with the utmost concern; she accused

Mrs Delvile of severity, and even of cruelty; she lamented the strange

accident by which the marriage ceremony had been stopt, and regretted

that it had not again been begun, as the only means to have rendered

ineffectual the present fatal interposition. But the grief of Cecilia,

however violent, induced her not to join in this regret; she mourned

only the obstacle which had occasioned the separation, and not the

incident which had merely interrupted the ceremony: convinced, by the

conversations in which she had just been engaged, of Mrs Delvile's

inflexibility, she rather rejoiced than repined that she had put it to

no nearer trial: sorrow was all she felt; for her mind was too liberal

to harbour resentment against a conduct which she saw was dictated by a

sense of right; and too ductile and too affectionate to remain unmoved

by the personal kindness which had softened the rejection, and the many

marks of esteem and regard which had shewn her it was lamented, though

considered as indispensable.

How and by whom this affair had been betrayed to Mrs Delvile she knew

not; but the discovery was nothing less than surprising, since, by

various unfortunate accidents, it was known to so many, and since, in

the horror and confusion of the mysterious prohibition to the marriage,

neither Delvile nor herself had thought of even attempting to give

any caution to the witnesses of that scene, not to make it known: an

attempt, however, which must almost necessarily have been unavailing, as

the incident was too extraordinary and too singular to have any chance

of suppression.

During this conversation, one of the servants came to inform Cecilia,

that a man was below to enquire if there was no answer to the note he

had brought in the forenoon.

Cecilia, greatly distressed, knew not upon what to resolve; that the

patience of Delvile should be exhausted, she did not, indeed, wonder,

and to relieve his anxiety was now almost her only wish; she would

therefore instantly have written to him, confessed her sympathy in his

sufferings, and besought him to endure with fortitude an evil which

was no longer to be withstood: but she was uncertain whether he was yet

acquainted with the journey of his mother to Bury, and having agreed to

commit to her the whole management of the affair, she feared it would

be dishonourable to take any step in it without her concurrence. She

returned, therefore, a message that she had yet no answer ready.

In a very few minutes Delvile called himself, and sent up an earnest

request for permission to see her.

Here, at least, she had no perplexity; an interview she had given her

positive word to refuse, and therefore, without a moment's hesitation,

she bid the servant inform him she was particularly engaged, and sorry

it was not in her power to see any company.

In the greatest perturbation he left the house, and immediately wrote to

her the following lines.

_To Miss Beverley_. I entreat you to see me! if only for an instant, I

entreat, I implore you to see me! Mrs Charlton may be present, all the

world, if you wish it, may be present,--but deny me not admission, I

supplicate, I conjure you!

I will call in an hour; in that time you may have finished your present

engagement. I will otherwise wait longer, and call again. You will not,

I think, turn me from' your door, and, till I have seen you, I can only

live in its vicinity. M. D.

The man who brought this note, waited not for any answer.

Cecilia read it in an agony of mind inexpressible: she saw, by its

style, how much Delvile was irritated, and her knowledge of his temper

made her certain his irritation proceeded from believing himself

ill-used. She ardently wished to appease and to quiet him, and regretted

the necessity of appearing obdurate and unfeeling, even more, at that

moment, than the separation itself. To a mind priding in its purity,

and animated in its affections, few sensations can excite keener misery,

than those by which an apprehension is raised of being thought worthless

or ungrateful by the objects of our chosen regard. To be deprived of

their society is less bitter, to be robbed of our own tranquillity by

any other means, is less afflicting.

Yet to this it was necessary to submit, or incur the only penalty which,

to such a mind, would be more severe, self-reproach: she had promised to

be governed by Mrs Delvile, she had nothing, therefore, to do but obey

her.

Yet _to turn_, as he expressed himself, _from the door_, a man who,

but for an incident the most incomprehensible, would now have been sole

master of herself and her actions, seemed so unkind and so tyrannical,

that she could not endure to be within hearing of his repulse: she

begged, therefore, the use of Mrs Charlton's carriage, and determined

to make a visit to Mrs Harrel till Delvile and his mother had wholly

quitted Bury. She was not, indeed, quite satisfied in going to the house

of Mr Arnott, but she had no time to weigh objections, and knew not any

other place to which still greater might not be started.

She wrote a short letter to Mrs Delvile, acquainting her with her

purpose, and its reason, and repeating her assurances that she would

be guided by her implicitly; and then, embracing Mrs Charlton, whom

she left to the care of her grand-daughters, she got into a chaise,

accompanied only by her maid, and one man and horse, and ordered the

postilion to drive to Mr Arnott's.

CHAPTER v.

A COTTAGE.

The evening was already far advanced, and before she arrived at the end

of her little journey it was quite dark. When they came within a mile

of Mr Arnott's house, the postilion, in turning too suddenly from the

turnpike to the cross-road, overset the carriage. The accident, however,

occasioned no other mischief than delaying their proceeding, and

Cecilia and her maid were helped out of the chaise unhurt. The servants,

assisted by a man who was walking upon the road, began lifting it up;

and Cecilia, too busy within to be attentive to what passed without,

disregarded what went forward, till she heard her footman call for help.

She then hastily advanced to enquire what was the matter, and found

that the passenger who had lent his aid, had, by working in the dark,

unfortunately slipped his foot under one of the wheels, and so much hurt

it, that without great pain he could not put it to the ground.

Cecilia immediately desired that the sufferer might be carried to his

own home in the chaise, while she and the maid walked on to Mr Arnott's,

attended by her servant on horseback.

This little incident proved of singular service to her upon first

entering the house; Mrs Harrel was at supper with her brother, and

hearing the voice of Cecilia in the hall, hastened with the extremest

surprise to enquire what had occasioned so late a visit; followed by Mr

Arnott, whose amazement was accompanied with a thousand other sensations

too powerful for speech. Cecilia, unprepared with any excuse, instantly

related the adventure she had met with on the road, which quieted their

curiosity, by turning their attention to her personal safety. They

ordered a room to be prepared for her, entreated her to go to rest with

all speed, and postpone any further account till the next day. With this

request she most gladly complied, happy to be spared the embarrassment

of enquiry, and rejoiced to be relieved from the fatigue of

conversation. Her night was restless and miserable: to know how Delvile

would bear her flight was never a moment from her thoughts, and to hear

whether he would obey or oppose his mother was her incessant wish. She

was fixt, however, to be faithful in refusing to see him, and at least

to suffer nothing new from her own enterprize or fault.

Early in the morning Mrs Harrel came to see her. She was eager to learn

why, after invitations repeatedly refused, she was thus suddenly arrived

without any; and she was still more eager to talk of herself, and relate

the weary life she led thus shut up in the country, and confined to the

society of her brother.

Cecilia evaded giving any immediate answer to her questions, and Mrs

Harrel, happy in an opportunity to rehearse her own complaints, soon

forgot that she had asked any, and, in a very short time, was perfectly,

though imperceptibly, contented to be herself the only subject upon

which they conversed.

But not such was the selfishness of Mr Arnott; and Cecilia, when she

went down to breakfast, perceived with the utmost concern that he

had passed a night as sleepless as her own. A visit so sudden, so

unexpected, and so unaccountable, from an object that no discouragement

could make him think of with indifference, had been a subject to him of

conjecture and wonder that had revived all the hopes and the fears which

had lately, though still unextinguished, lain dormant. The enquiries,

however, which his sister had given up, he ventured not to renew, and

thought himself but too happy in her presence, whatever might be the

cause of her visit.

He perceived, however, immediately, the sadness that hung upon her mind,

and his own was redoubled by the sight: Mrs Harrel, also, saw that she

looked ill, but attributed it to the fatigue and fright of the preceding

evening, well knowing that a similar accident would have made her ill

herself, or fancy that she was so.

During breakfast, Cecilia sent for the postilion, to enquire of him how

the man had fared, whose good-natured assistance in their distress had

been so unfortunate to himself. He answered that he had turned out to

be a day labourer, who lived about half a mile off. And then, partly to

gratify her own humanity, and partly to find any other employment for

herself and friends than uninteresting conversation, she proposed that

they should all walk to the poor man's habitation, and offer him some

amends for the injury he had received. This was readily assented to,

and the postilion directed them whither to go. The place was a cottage,

situated upon a common; they entered it without ceremony, and found a

clean looking woman at work.

Cecilia enquired for her husband, and was told that he was gone out to

day-labour.

“I am very glad to hear it,” returned she; “I hope then he has got the

better of the accident he met with last night?”

“It was not him, madam,” said the woman, “met with the accident, it was

John;--there he is, working in the garden.”

To the garden then they all went, and saw him upon the ground, weeding.

The moment they approached he arose, and, without speaking, began to

limp, for he could hardly walk; away.

“I am sorry, master,” said Cecilia, “that you are so much hurt. Have you

had anything put to your foot?”

The man made no answer, but still turned away from her; a glance,

however, of his eye, which the next instant he fixed upon the ground,

startled her; she moved round to look at him again,--and perceived Mr

Belfield!

“Good God!” she exclaimed; but seeing him still retreat, she recollected

in a moment how little he would be obliged to her for betraying him, and

suffering him to go on, turned back to her party, and led the way again

into the house.

As soon as the first emotion of her surprise was over, she enquired how

long John had belonged to this cottage, and what was his way of life.

The woman answered he had only been with them a week, and that he went

out to day-labour with her husband.

Cecilia then, finding their stay kept him from his employment, and

willing to save him the distress of being seen by Mr Arnott or Mrs

Harrel, proposed their returning home. She grieved most sincerely at

beholding in so melancholy an occupation a young man of such talents and

abilities; she wished much to assist him, and began considering by what

means it might be done, when, as they were walking from the cottage, a

voice at some distance called out “Madam! Miss Beverley!” and, looking

round, to her utter amazement she saw Belfield endeavouring to follow

her.

She instantly stopt, and he advanced, his hat in his hand, and his whole

air indicating he sought not to be disguised.

Surprised at this sudden change of behaviour, she then stept forward

to meet him, accompanied by her friends: but when they came up to each

other, she checked her desire of speaking, to leave him fully at liberty

to make himself known, or keep concealed.

He bowed with a look of assumed gaiety and ease, but the deep scarlet

that tinged his whole face manifested his internal confusion; and in

a voice that attempted to sound lively, though its tremulous accents

betrayed uneasiness and distress, he exclaimed, with a forced smile,

“Is it possible Miss Beverley can deign to notice a poor miserable

day-labourer such as I am? how will she be justified in the beau monde,

when even the sight of such a wretch ought to fill her with horror?

Henceforth let hysterics be blown to the winds, and let nerves be

discarded from the female vocabulary, since a lady so young and fair can

stand this shock without hartshorn or fainting!”

“I am happy,” answered Cecilia, “to find your spirits so good; yet

my own, I must confess, are not raised by seeing you in this strange

situation.”

“My spirits!” cried he, with an air of defiance, “never were they

better, never so good as at this moment. Strange as seems my situation,

it is all that I wish; I have found out, at last, the true secret of

happiness! that secret which so long I pursued in vain, but which always

eluded my grasp, till the instant of despair arrived, when, slackening

my pace, I gave it up as a phantom. Go from me, I cried, I will be

cheated no more! thou airy bubble! thou fleeting shadow! I will live no

longer in thy sight, since thy beams dazzle without warming me! Mankind

seems only composed as matter for thy experiments, and I will quit the

whole race, that thy delusions may be presented to me no more!”

This romantic flight, which startled even Cecilia, though acquainted

with his character, gave to Mrs Harrel and Mr Arnott the utmost

surprize; his appearance, and the account they had just heard of him,

having by no means prepared them for such sentiments or such language.

“Is then this great secret of happiness,” said Cecilia, “nothing, at

last, but total seclusion from the world?”

“No, madam,” answered he, “it is Labour with Independence.”

Cecilia now wished much to ask some explanation of his affairs, but was

doubtful whether he would gratify her before Mrs Harrel and Mr Arnott,

and hurt to keep him standing, though he leant upon a stick; she told

him, therefore, she would at present detain him no longer, but endeavour

again to see him before she quitted her friends.

Mr Arnott then interfered, and desired his sister would entreat Miss

Beverley to invite whom she pleased to his house.

Cecilia thanked him, and instantly asked Belfield to call upon her in

the afternoon.

“No, madam, no,” cried he, “I have done with visits and society! I will

not so soon break through a system with much difficulty formed, when all

my future tranquility depends upon adhering to it. The worthlessness of

mankind has disgusted me with the world, and my resolution in quitting

it shall be immoveable as its baseness.”

“I must not venture then,” said Cecilia, “to enquire--”

“Enquire, madam,” interrupted he, with quickness, “what you please:

there is nothing I will not answer to you,--to this lady, to this

gentleman, to any and to every body. What can I wish to conceal, where

I have nothing to gain or to lose? When first, indeed, I saw you, I

involuntarily shrunk; a weak shame for a moment seized me, I felt

fallen and debased, and I wished to avoid you: but a little recollection

brought me back to my senses, And where, cried I, is the disgrace of

exercising for my subsistence the strength with which I am endued?

and why should I blush to lead the life which uncorrupted Nature first

prescribed to man?”

“Well, then,” said Cecilia, more and more interested to hear him, “if

you will not visit us, will you at least permit us to return with you to

some place where you can be seated?”

“I will with pleasure,” cried he, “go to any place where you may be

seated yourselves; but for me, I have ceased to regard accommodation or

inconvenience.”

They then all went back to the cottage, which was now empty, the woman

being out at work.

“Will you then, Sir,” said Cecilia, “give me leave to enquire whether

Lord Vannelt is acquainted with your retirement, and if it will not much

surprize and disappoint him?”

“Lord Vannelt,” cried he, haughtily, “has no right to be surprised. I

would have quitted _his_ house, if no other, not even this cottage, had

a roof to afford me shelter!”

“I am sorry, indeed, to hear it,” said Cecilia; “I had hoped he would

have known your value, and merited your regard.”

“Ill-usage,” answered he, “is as hard to relate as to be endured. There

is commonly something pitiful in a complaint; and though oppression in

a general sense provokes the wrath of mankind, the investigation of its

minuter circumstances excites nothing but derision. Those who give the

offence, by the worthy few may be hated; but those who receive it, by

the world at large will be despised. Conscious of this, I disdained

making any appeal; myself the only sufferer, I had a right to be

the only judge, and, shaking off the base trammels of interest and

subjection, I quitted the house in silent indignation, not chusing to

remonstrate, where I desired not to be reconciled.”

“And was there no mode of life,” said Cecilia, “to adopt, but living

with Lord Vannelt, or giving up the whole world?”

“I weighed every thing maturely,” answered he, “before I made my

determination, and I found it so much, the most eligible, that I am

certain I can never repent it. I had friends who would with pleasure

have presented me to some other nobleman; but my whole heart revolted

against leading that kind of life, and I would not, therefore, idly rove

from one great man to another, adding ill-will to disgrace, and pursuing

hope in defiance of common sense; no; when I quitted Lord Vannelt, I

resolved to give up patronage for ever.

“I retired to private lodgings to deliberate what next could be done. I

had lived in many ways, I had been unfortunate or imprudent in all.

The law I had tried, but its rudiments were tedious and disgusting; the

army, too, but there found my mind more fatigued with indolence, than my

body with action; general dissipation had then its turn, but the expence

to which it led was ruinous, and self-reproach baffled pleasure while

I pursued it; I have even--yes, there are few things I have left

untried,--I have even,--for why now disguise it?--”

He stopt and coloured, but in a quicker voice presently proceeded.

“Trade, also, has had its share in my experiments; for that, in truth,

I was originally destined,--but my education had ill suited me to such a

destination, and the trader's first maxim I reversed, in lavishing when

I ought to have accumulated.

“What, then, remained for me? to run over again the same irksome round I

had not patience, and to attempt any thing new I was unqualified: money

I had none; my friends I could bear to burthen no longer; a fortnight I

lingered in wretched irresolution,--a simple accident at the end of it

happily settled me; I was walking, one morning, in Hyde Park, forming a

thousand plans for my future life, but quarrelling with them all; when

a gentleman met me on horseback, from whom, at my Lord Vannelt's, I had

received particular civilities; I looked another way not to be seen

by him, and the change in my dress since I left his Lordship's made me

easily pass unnoticed. He had rode on, however, but a few yards,

before, by some accident or mismanagement, he had a fall from his horse.

Forgetting all my caution, I flew instantly to his assistance; he was

bruised, but not otherwise hurt; I helpt him up, and he leant 'pon my

arm; in my haste of enquiring how he had fared, I called him by his

name. He knew me, but looked surprised at my appearance; he was speaking

to me, however, with kindness, when seeing some gentlemen of his

acquaintance gallopping up to him, he hastily disengaged himself from

me, and instantly beginning to recount to them what had happened, he

sedulously looked another way, and joining his new companions, walked

off without taking further notice of me. For a moment I was almost

tempted to trouble him to come back; but a little recollection told me

how ill he deserved my resentment, and bid me transfer it for the future

from the pitiful individual to the worthless community.

“Here finished my deliberation; the disgust to the world which I had

already conceived, this little incident confirmed; I saw it was only

made for the great and the rich;--poor, therefore, and low, what had

I to do in it? I determined to quit it for ever, and to end every

disappointment, by crushing every hope.

“I wrote to Lord Vannelt to send my trunks to my mother; I wrote to my

mother that I was well, and would soon let her hear more: I then paid

off my lodgings, and 'shaking the dust from my feet,' bid a long adieu

to London; and, committing my route to chance, strole on into the

country, without knowing or caring which way.

“My first thought was simply to seek retirement, and to depend for my

future repose upon nothing but a total seclusion from society: but my

slow method of travelling gave me time for reflection, and reflection

soon showed me the error of this notion.

“Guilt, cried I, may, indeed, be avoided by solitude; but will misery?

will regret? will deep dejection of mind? no, they will follow more

assiduously than ever; for what is there to oppose them, where neither

business occupies the time, nor hope the imagination? where the past

has left nothing but resentment, and the future opens only to a dismal,

uninteresting void? No stranger to life, I knew human nature could not

exist on such terms; still less a stranger to books, I respected the

voice of wisdom and experience in the first of moralists, and most

enlightened of men, [Footnote: Dr Johnson.] and reading the letter of

Cowley, I saw the vanity and absurdity of _panting after solitude_.

[Footnote: Life of Cowley, p.34.]

“I sought not, therefore, a cell; but, since I purposed to live for

myself, I determined for myself also to think. Servility of imitation

has ever been as much my scorn as servility of dependence; I resolved,

therefore, to strike out something new, and no more to retire as every

other man had retired, than to linger in the world as every other man

had lingered.

“The result of all you now see. I found out this cottage, and took up

my abode in it. I am here out of the way of all society, yet avoid the

great evil of retreat, _having nothing to do_. I am constantly, not

capriciously employed, and the exercise which benefits my health,

imperceptibly raises my spirits in despight of adversity. I am removed

from all temptation, I have scarce even the power to do wrong; I have no

object for ambition, for repining I have no time:--I have, found out, I

repeat, the true secret of happiness, Labour with Independence.”

He stopt; and Cecilia, who had listened to this narrative with a mixture

of compassion, admiration and censure, was too much struck with its

singularity to be readily able to answer it. Her curiosity to hear him

had sprung wholly from her desire to assist him, and she had expected

from his story to gather some hint upon which her services might be

offered. But none had occurred; he professed himself fully satisfied

with his situation; and though reason and probability contradicted the

profession, she could not venture to dispute it with any delicacy or

prudence.

She thanked him, therefore, for his relation, with many apologies for

the trouble she had given him, and added, “I must not express my

concern for misfortunes which you seem to regard as conducive to your

contentment, nor remonstrate at the step you have taken, since you have

been led to it by choice, not necessity: but yet, you must pardon me if

I cannot help hoping I shall some time see you happier, according to the

common, however vulgar ideas of the rest of the world.”

“No, never, never! I am sick of mankind, not from theory, but

experience; and the precautions I have taken against mental fatigue,

will secure me from repentance, or any desire of change; for it is not

the active, but the indolent who weary; it is not the temperate, but the

pampered who are capricious.”

“Is your sister, Sir, acquainted with this change in your fortune and

opinions?”

“Poor girl, no! She and her unhappy mother have borne but too long with

my enterprizes and misfortunes. Even yet they would sacrifice whatever

they possess to enable me to play once more the game so often lost; but

I will not abuse their affection, nor suffer them again to be slaves to

my caprices, nor dupes to their own delusive expectations. I have sent

them word I am happy; I have not yet told them how or where. I fear much

the affliction of their disappointment, and, for a while, shall conceal

from them my situation, which they would fancy was disgraceful, and

grieve at as cruel.”

“And is it not cruel?” said Cecilia, “is labour indeed so sweet? and can

you seriously derive happiness from what all others consider as misery?”

“Not sweet,” answered he, “in itself; but sweet, most sweet and salutary

in its effects. When I work, I forget all the world; my projects for the

future, my disappointments from the past. Mental fatigue is overpowered

by personal; I toil till I require rest, and that rest which nature,

not luxury demands, leads not to idle meditation, but to sound, heavy,

necessary sleep. I awake the next morning to the same thought-exiling

business, work again till my powers are exhausted, and am relieved again

at night by the same health-recruiting insensibility.”

“And if this,” cried Cecilia, “is the life of happiness, why have we so

many complaints of the sufferings of the poor, and why so eternally do

we hear of their hardships and distress?”

“They have known no other life. They are strangers, therefore, to the

felicity of their lot. Had they mingled in the world, fed high their

fancy with hope, and looked forward with expectation of enjoyment; had

they been courted by the great, and offered with profusion adulation

for their abilities, yet, even when starving, been offered nothing

else!--had they seen an attentive circle wait all its entertainment from

their powers, yet found themselves forgotten as soon as out of sight,

and perceived themselves avoided when no longer buffoons!--Oh had

they known and felt provocations such as these, how gladly would their

resentful spirits turn from the whole unfeeling race, and how would they

respect that noble and manly labour, which at once disentangles them

from such subjugating snares, and enables them to fly the ingratitude

they abhor! Without the contrast of vice, virtue unloved may be lovely;

without the experience of misery, happiness is simply a dull privation

of evil.”

“And are you so content,” cried Cecilia, “with your present situation,

as even to think it offers you reparation for your past sufferings?”

“Content!” repeated he with energy, “O more than content, I am proud of

my present situation! I glory in chewing to the world, glory still more

in shewing to myself, that those whom I cannot but despise I will not

scruple to defy, and that where I have been treated unworthily, I will

scorn to be obliged.”

“But will you pardon me,” said Cecilia, “should I ask again, why in

quitting Lord Vannelt, you concluded no one else worthy a trial?”

“Because it was less my Lord Vannelt, madam, than my own situation, that

disgusted me: for though I liked not his behaviour, I found him a man

too generally esteemed to flatter myself better usage would await me

in merely changing my abode, while my station was the same. I believe,

indeed, he never meant to offend me; but I was offended the more that

he should think me an object to receive indignity without knowing it. To

have had this pointed out to him, would have been at once mortifying and

vain; for delicacy, like taste, can only partially be taught, and will

always be superficial and erring where it is not innate. Those wrongs,

which though too trifling to resent, are too humiliating to be borne,

speech can convey no idea of; the soul must feel, or the understanding

can never comprehend them.”

“But surely,” said Cecilia, “though people of refinement are rare, they

yet exist; why, then, remove yourself from the possibility of meeting

with them?”

“Must I run about the nation,” cried he, “proclaiming my distress, and

describing my temper? telling the world that though dependent I demand

respect as well as assistance; and publishing to mankind, that though

poor I will accept no gifts if offered with contumely? Who will listen

to such an account? who will care for my misfortunes, but as they may

humble me to his service? Who will hear my mortifications, but to say

I deserve them? what has the world to do with my feelings and

peculiarities? I know it too well to think calamity will soften it; I

need no new lessons to instruct me that to conquer affliction is more

wise than to relate it.”

“Unfortunate as you have been,” said Cecilia, “I cannot wonder at your

asperity; but yet, it is surely no more than justice to acknowledge,

that hard-heartedness to distress is by no means the fault of the

present times: on the contrary, it is scarce sooner made known, than

every one is ready to contribute to its relief.”

“And how contribute?” cried he, “by a paltry donation of money? Yes, the

man whose only want is a few guineas, may, indeed, obtain them; but

he who asks kindness and protection, whose oppressed spirit calls for

consolation even more than his ruined fortune for repair, how is his

struggling soul, if superior to his fate, to brook the ostentation of

patronage, and the insolence of condescension? Yes, yes, the world will

save the poor beggar who is starving; but the fallen wretch, who will

not cringe for his support, may consume in his own wretchedness without

pity and without help!”

Cecilia now saw that the wound his sensibility had received was too

painful for argument, and too recent immediately to be healed. She

forbore, therefore, to detain him any longer, but expressing her best

wishes, without venturing to hint at her services, she arose, and they

all took their leave;--Belfield hastening, as they went, to return to

the garden, where, looking over the hedge as they passed, they saw him

employed again in weeding, with the eagerness of a man who pursues his

favourite occupation.

Cecilia half forgot her own anxieties and sadness, in the concern which

she felt for this unfortunate and extraordinary young man. She wished

much to devise some means for drawing him from a life of such hardship

and obscurity; but what to a man thus “jealous in honour,” thus

scrupulous in delicacy, could she propose, without more risk of offence,

than probability of obliging? His account had, indeed, convinced her how

much he stood in need of assistance, but it had shewn her no less how

fastidious he would be in receiving it.

Nor was she wholly without fear that an earnest solicitude to serve him,

his youth, talents, and striking manners considered, might occasion even

in himself a misconstruction of her motives, such as she already had

given birth to in his forward and partial mother.

The present, therefore, all circumstances weighed, seemed no season for

her liberality, which she yet resolved to exert the first moment it was

unopposed by propriety.

CHAPTER vi.

A CONTEST.

The rest of the day was passed in discussing this adventure; but in the

evening, Cecilia's interest in it was all sunk, by the reception of the

following letter from Mrs Delvile.

_To Miss Beverley_.

I grieve to interrupt the tranquillity of a retirement so judiciously

chosen, and I lament the necessity of again calling to trial the virtue

of which the exertion, though so captivating, is so painful; but alas,

my excellent young friend, we came not hither to enjoy, but to suffer;

and happy only are those whose sufferings have neither by folly

been sought, nor by guilt been merited, but arising merely from the

imperfection of humanity, have been resisted with fortitude, or endured

with patience.

I am informed of your virtuous steadiness, which corresponds with my

expectations, while it excites my respect. All further conflict I had

hoped to have saved you; and to the triumph of your goodness I had

trusted for the recovery of your peace: but Mortimer has disappointed

me, and our work is still unfinished.