He avers that he is solemnly engaged to you, and in pleading to me his

honour, he silences both expostulation and authority. From your own

words alone will he acknowledge his dismission; and notwithstanding my

reluctance to impose upon you this task, I cannot silence or quiet him

without making the request.

For a purpose such as this, can you, then, admit us? Can you bear with

your own lips to confirm the irrevocable decision? You will feel, I am

sure, for the unfortunate Mortimer, and it was earnestly my desire to

spare you the sight of his affliction; yet such is my confidence in your

prudence, that since I find him bent upon seeing you, I am not without

hope, that from witnessing the greatness of your mind, the interview may

rather calm than inflame him.

This proposal you will take into consideration, and if you are able,

upon such terms, to again meet my son, we will wait upon you together,

where and when you will appoint; but if the gentleness of your nature

will make the effort too severe for you, scruple not to decline it, for

Mortimer, when he knows your pleasure, will submit to it as he ought.

Adieu, most amiable and but too lovely Cecilia; whatever you determine,

be sure of my concurrence, for nobly have you earned, and ever must you

retain, the esteem, the affection, and the gratitude of AUGUSTA DELVILE.

“Alas,” cried Cecilia, “when shall I be at rest? when cease to be

persecuted by new conflicts! Oh why must I so often, so cruelly, though

so reluctantly, reject and reprove the man who of all men I wish to

accept and to please!”

But yet, though repining at this hard necessity, she hesitated not a

moment in complying with Mrs Delvile's request, and immediately sent an

answer that she would meet her the next morning at Mrs Charlton's.

She then returned to the parlour, and apologized to Mrs Harrel and

Mr Arnott for the abruptness of her visit, and the suddenness of her

departure. Mr Arnott heard her in silent dejection; and Mrs Harrel

used all the persuasion in her power to prevail with her to stay, her

presence being some relief to her solitude: but finding it ineffectual,

she earnestly pressed her to hasten her entrance into her own house,

that their absence might be shortened, and their meeting more sprightly.

Cecilia passed the night in planning her behaviour for the next day;

she found how much was expected from her by Mrs Delvile, who had even

exhorted her to decline the interview if doubtful of her own strength.

Delvile's firmness in insisting the refusal should come directly

from herself, surprised, gratified and perplexed her in turn; she had

imagined, that from the moment of the discovery, he would implicitly

have submitted to the award of a parent at once so reverenced and so

beloved, and how he had summoned courage to contend with her she could

not conjecture: yet that courage and that contention astonished not

more than they soothed her, since, from her knowledge of his filial

tenderness, she considered them as the most indubitable proofs she had

yet received of the fervour and constancy of his regard for her. But

would he, when she had ratified the decision of his mother, forbear all

further struggle, and for ever yield up all pretensions to her? this was

the point upon which her uncertainty turned, and the ruling subject of

her thoughts and meditation.

To be steady, however, herself, be his conduct what it might, was

invariably her intention, and was all her ambition: yet earnestly she

wished the meeting over, for she dreaded to see the sorrow of Delvile,

and she dreaded still more the susceptibility of her own heart.

The next morning, to her great concern, Mr Arnott was waiting in the

hall when she came down stairs, and so much grieved at her departure,

that he handed her to the chaise without being able to speak to her, and

hardly heard her thanks and compliments but by recollection after she

was gone.

She arrived at Mrs Charlton's very early, and found her old friend in

the same state she had left her. She communicated to her the purpose of

her return, and begged she would keep her granddaughters up stairs, that

the conference in the parlour might be uninterrupted and unheard.

She then made a forced and hasty breakfast, and went down to be ready

to receive them. They came not till eleven o'clock, and the time of her

waiting was passed in agonies of expectation.

At length they were announced, and at length they entered the room.

Cecilia, with her utmost efforts for courage, could hardly stand to

receive them. They came in together, but Mrs Delvile, advancing before

her son, and endeavouring so to stand as to intercept his view of her,

with the hope that in a few instants her emotion would be less visible,

said, in the most soothing accents, “What honour Miss Beverley does us

by permitting this visit! I should have been sorry to have left Suffolk

without the satisfaction of again seeing you; and my son, sensible of

the high respect he owes you, was most unwilling to be gone, before he

had paid you his devoirs.”

Cecilia courtsied; but depressed by the cruel task which awaited her,

had no power to speak; and Mrs Delvile, finding she still trembled, made

her sit down, and drew a chair next to her.

Mean while Delvile, with an emotion far more violent, because wholly

unrestrained, waited impatiently till the ceremonial of the reception

was over, and then, approaching Cecilia, in a voice of perturbation and

resentment, said, “In this presence, at least, I hope I may be heard;

though my letters have been unanswered, my visits refused, though

inexorably you have flown me--”

“Mortimer,” interrupted Mrs Delvile, “forget not that what I have told

you is irrevocable; you now meet Miss Beverley for no other purpose than

to give and to receive a mutual release of all to or engagement with

each other.”

“Pardon me, madam,” cried he, “this is a condition to which I have never

assented. I come not to release, but to claim her! I am hers, and hers

wholly! I protest it in the face of the world! The time, therefore, is

now past for the sacrifice which you demand, since scarce are you more

my mother, than I consider her as my wife.”

Cecilia, amazed at this dauntless declaration, now almost lost her fear

in her surprise; while Mrs Delvile, with an air calm though displeased,

answered, “This is not a point to be at present discussed, and I had

hoped you knew better what was due to your auditors. I only consented to

this interview as a mark of your respect for Miss Beverley, to whom in

propriety it belongs to break off this unfortunate connexion.”

Cecilia, who at this call could no longer be silent, now gathered

fortitude to say, “Whatever tie or obligation may be supposed to depend

upon me, I have already relinquished; and I am now ready to declare--”

“That you wholly give me up?” interrupted Delvile, “is that what you

would say?--Oh how have I offended you? how have I merited a displeasure

that can draw upon me such a sentence?--Answer, speak to me, Cecilia,

what is it I have done?”

“Nothing, Sir,” said Cecilia, confounded at this language in the

presence of his mother, “you have done nothing,--but yet--”

“Yet what?--have you conceived to me an aversion? has any dreadful and

horrible antipathy succeeded to your esteem?--tell, tell me without

disguise, do you hate, do you abhor me?”

Cecilia sighed, and turned away her head; and Mrs Delvile indignantly

exclaimed, “What madness and absurdity! I scarce know you under the

influence of such irrational violence. Why will you interrupt Miss

Beverley in the only speech you ought to hear from her? Why, at once,

oppress her, and irritate me, by words of more passion than reason?

Go on, charming girl, finish what so wisely, so judiciously you

were beginning, and then you shall be released from this turbulent

persecution.”

“No, madam, she must not go on!” cried Delvile, “if she does not utterly

abhor me, I will not suffer her to go on;--Pardon, pardon me, Cecilia,

but your too exquisite delicacy is betraying not only my happiness, but

your own. Once more, therefore, I conjure you to hear me, and then if,

deliberately and unbiassed, you renounce me, I will never more distress

you by resisting your decree.”

Cecilia, abashed and changing colour, was silent, and he proceeded.

“All that has past between us, the vows I have offered you of faith,

constancy and affection, the consent I obtained from you to be legally

mine, the bond of settlement I have had drawn up, and the high honour

you conferred upon me in suffering me to lead you to the altar,--all

these particulars are already known to so many, that the least

reflection must convince you they will soon be concealed from none: tell

me, then, if your own fame pleads not for me, and if the scruples which

lead you to refuse, by taking another direction, will not, with much

more propriety, urge, nay enjoin you to accept me!--You hesitate at

least,--O Miss Beverley!--I see in that hesitation--”

“Nothing, nothing!” cried she, hastily, and checking her rising

irresolution; “there is nothing for you to see, but that every way I now

turn I have rendered myself miserable!”

“Mortimer,” said Mrs Delvile, seized with terror as she penetrated into

the mental yielding of Cecilia, “you have now spoken to Miss Beverley;

and unwilling as I am to obtrude upon her our difference of sentiment,

it is necessary, since she has heard you, that I, also, should claim her

attention.”

“First let her speak!” cried Delvile, who in her apparent wavering built

new hopes, “first let her answer what she has already deigned to listen

to.”

“No, first let her hear!” cried Mrs Delvile, “for so only can she judge

what answer will reflect upon her most honour.”

Then, solemnly turning to Cecilia, she continued: “You see here, Miss

Beverley, a young man who passionately adores you, and who forgets in

his adoration friends, family, and connections, the opinions in which

he has been educated, the honour of his house, his own former views,

and all his primitive sense of duty, both public and private!--A passion

built on such a defalcation of principle renders him unworthy your

acceptance; and not more ignoble for him would be a union which would

blot his name from the injured stock whence he sprung, than indelicate

for you, who upon such terms ought to despise him.”

“Heavens, madam,” exclaimed Delvile, “what a speech!”

“O never,” cried Cecilia, rising, “may I hear such another! Indeed,

madam, there is no occasion to probe me so deeply, for I would not now

enter your family, for all that the whole world could offer me!”

“At length, then, madam,” cried Delvile, turning reproachfully to his

mother, “are you satisfied? is your purpose now answered? and is the

dagger you have transfixed in my heart sunk deep enough to appease you?”

“O could I draw it out,” cried Mrs Delvile, “and leave upon it no stain

of ignominy, with what joy should my own bosom receive it, to heal the

wound I have most compulsatorily inflicted!--Were this excellent young

creature portionless, I would not hesitate in giving my consent; every

claim of interest would be overbalanced by her virtues, and I would not

grieve to see you poor, where so conscious you were happy; but here to

concede, would annihilate every hope with which hitherto I have looked

up to my son.”

“Let us now, then, madam,” said Cecilia, “break up this conference. I

have spoken, I have heard, the decree is past, and therefore,”--

“You are indeed an angel!” cried Mrs Delvile, rising and embracing her;

“and never can I reproach my son with what has passed, when I consider

for what an object the sacrifice was planned. _You_ cannot be unhappy,

you have purchased peace by the exercise of virtue, and the close of

every day will bring to you a reward, in the sweets of a self-approving

mind.--But we will part, since you think it right; I do wrong to

occasion any delay.”

“No, we will _not_ part!” cried Delvile, with encreasing vehemence; “if

you force me, madam, from her, you will drive me to distraction! What is

there in this world that can offer me a recompense? And what can pride

even to the proudest afford as an equivalent? Her perfections you

acknowledge, her greatness of mind is like your own; she has generously

given me her heart,--Oh sacred and fascinating charge! Shall I, after

such a deposite, consent to an eternal separation? Repeal, repeal your

sentence, my Cecilia! let us live to ourselves and our consciences, and

leave the vain prejudices of the world to those who can be paid by them

for the loss of all besides!”

“Is this conflict, then,” said Mrs Delvile, “to last for-ever? Oh

end it, Mortimer, finish it, and make me happy! she is just, and will

forgive you, she is noble-minded, and will honour you. Fly, then, at

this critical moment, for in flight alone is your safety; and then will

your father see the son of his hopes, and then shall the fond blessings

of your idolizing mother soothe all your affliction, and soften all your

regret!”

“Oh madam!” cried Delvile, “for mercy, for humanity, forbear this cruel

supplication!”

“Nay, more than supplication, you have my commands; commands you have

never yet disputed, and misery, ten-fold misery, will follow their

disobedience. Hear me, Mortimer, for I speak prophetically; I know your

heart, I know it to be formed for rectitude and duty, or destined by

their neglect to repentance and horror.”

Delvile, struck by these words, turned suddenly from them both, and

in gloomy despondence walked to the other end of the room. Mrs Delvile

perceived the moment of her power, and determined to pursue the blow:

taking, therefore, the hand of Cecilia, while her eyes sparkled with the

animation of reviving hope, “See,” she cried, pointing to her son, “see

if I am deceived! can he bear even the suggestion of future contrition!

Think you when it falls upon him, he will support it better? No; he

will sink under it. And you, pure as you are of mind, and steadfast in

principle, what would your chance be of happiness with a man who never

erring till he knew you, could never look at you without regret, be his

fondness what it might?”

“Oh madam,” cried the greatly shocked Cecilia, “let him, then, see me no

more!--take, take him all to yourself! forgive, console him! I will not

have the misery of involving him in repentance, nor of incurring the

reproaches of the mother he so much reverences!”

“Exalted creature!” cried Mrs Delvile; “tenderness such as this would

confer honour upon a monarch.” Then, calling out exultingly to her

son, “See,” she added, “how great a woman can act, when stimulated by

generosity, and a just sense of duty! Follow then, at least, the example

you ought to have led, and deserve my esteem and love, or be content to

forego them.”

“And can I only deserve them,” said Delvile, in a tone of the deepest

anguish, “by a compliance to which not merely my happiness, but

my reason must be sacrificed? What honour do I injure that is not

factitious? What evil threatens our union, that is not imaginary? In

the general commerce of the world it may be right to yield to its

prejudices, but in matters of serious importance, it is weakness to be

shackled by scruples so frivolous, and it is cowardly to be governed by

the customs we condemn. Religion and the laws of our country should then

alone be consulted, and where those are neither opposed nor infringed,

we should hold ourselves superior to all other considerations.”

“Mistaken notions!” said Mrs Delvile; “and how long do you flatter

yourself this independent happiness would endure? How long could you

live contented by mere self-gratification, in defiance of the censure

of mankind, the renunciation of your family, and the curses of your

father?”

“The curses of my father!” repeated he, starting and shuddering, “O no,

he could never be so barbarous!”

“He could,” said she, steadily, “nor do I doubt but he would. If now,

however, you are affected by the prospect of his disclaiming you, think

but what you will feel when first forbid to appear before either of us!

and think of your remorse for involving Miss Beverley in such disgrace!”

“O speak not such words!” cried he, with agonizing earnestness, “to

disgrace her,--to be banished by you,--present not, I conjure you, such

scenes to my imagination!”

“Yet would they be unavoidable,” continued she; “nor have I said to you

all; blinded as you now are by passion, your nobler feelings are only

obscured, not extirpated; think, then, how they will all rise in revenge

of your insulted dignity, when your name becomes a stranger to your

ears, and you are first saluted by one so meanly adopted!--”

“Hold, hold, madam,” interrupted he, “this is more than I can bear!”

“Heavens!” still continued she, disregarding his entreaty, “what in the

universe can pay you for that first moment of indignity! Think of it

well ere you proceed, and anticipate your sensations, lest the shock

should wholly overcome you. How will the blood of your wronged ancestors

rise into your guilty cheeks, and how will your heart throb with secret

shame and reproach, when wished joy upon your marriage by the name of

_Mr Beverley_!”

Delvile, stung to the soul, attempted not any answer, but walked about

the room in the utmost disorder of mind. Cecilia would have retired,

but feared irritating him to some extravagance; and Mrs Delvile, looking

after him, added “For myself, I would still see, for I should pity

your wife,--but NEVER would I behold my son when sunk into an object of

compassion!”

“It shall not be!” cried he, in a transport of rage; “cease, cease to

distract me!--be content, madam,--you have conquered!”

“Then you are my son!” cried she, rapturously embracing him; “now I know

again my Mortimer! now I see the fair promise of his upright youth, and

the flattering completion of my maternal expectations!”

Cecilia, finding all thus concluded, desired nothing so much as to

congratulate them on their reconciliation; but having only said “Let

_me_, too,--” her voice failed her, she stopt short, and hoping she had

been unheard, would have glided out of the room.

But Delvile, penetrated and tortured, yet delighted at this sensibility,

broke from his mother, and seizing her hand, exclaimed, “Oh Miss

Beverley, if _you_ are not happy---”

“I am! I am!” cried she, with quickness; “let me pass,--and think no

more of me.”

“That voice,--those looks,--” cried he, still holding her, “they speak

not serenity!--Oh if I have injured your peace,--if that heart, which,

pure as angels, deserves to be as sacred from sorrow, through my means,

or for my sake, suffers any diminution of tranquility--”

“None, none!” interrupted she, with precipitation.

“I know well,” cried he, “your greatness of soul; and if this dreadful

sacrifice gives lasting torture only to myself,--if of _your_ returning

happiness I could be assured,--I would struggle to bear it.”

“You _may_, be assured of it,” cried she, with reviving dignity, “I have

no right to expect escaping all calamity, but while I share the common

lot, I will submit to it without repining.”

“Heaven then bless, and hovering angels watch you!” cried he, and

letting go her hand, he ran hastily out of the room.

“Oh Virtue, how bright is thy triumph!” exclaimed Mrs Delvile, flying

up to Cecilia, and folding her in her arms; “Noble, incomparable young

creature! I knew not that so much worth was compatible with human

frailty!”

But the heroism of Cecilia, in losing its object, lost its force; she

sighed, she could not speak, tears gushed into her eyes, and kissing Mrs

Delvile's hand with a look that shewed her inability to converse with

her, she hastened, though scarce able to support herself, away, with

intention to shut herself up in her own apartment: and Mrs Delvile,

who perceived that her utmost fortitude was exhausted, opposed not her

going, and wisely forbore to encrease her emotion, by following her even

with her blessings.

But when she came into the hall, she started, and could proceed no

further; for there she beheld Delvile, who in too great agony to be

seen, had stopt to recover some composure before he quitted the house.

At the first sound of an opening door, he was hastily escaping; but

perceiving Cecilia, and discerning her situation, he more hastily turned

back, saying, “Is it possible?--To _me_ were you coming?”

She shook her head, and made a motion with her hand to say no, and would

then have gone on.

“You are weeping!” cried he, “you are pale!--Oh Miss Beverley! is this

your happiness!”

“I am very well,--” cried she, not knowing what she answered, “I am

quite well,--pray go,--I am very--” her words died away inarticulated.

“O what a voice is that!” exclaimed he, “it pierces my very soul!”

Mrs Delvile now came to the parlour door, and looked aghast at the

situation in which she saw them: Cecilia again moved on, and reached the

stairs, but tottered, and was obliged to cling to the banisters.

“O suffer me to support you,” cried he; “you are not able to

stand,--whither is it you would go?”

“Any where,--I don't know,--” answered she, in faltering accents, “but

if you would leave me, I should be well.”

And, turning from him, she walked again towards the parlour, finding by

her shaking frame, the impossibility of getting unaided up the stairs.

“Give me your hand, my love,” said Mrs Delvile, cruelly alarmed by this

return; and the moment they re-entered the parlour, she said impatiently

to her son, “Mortimer, why are you not gone?”

He heard her not, however; his whole attention was upon Cecilia, who,

sinking into a chair, hid her face against Mrs Delvile: but, reviving in

a few moments, and blushing at the weakness she had betrayed, she raised

her head, and, with an assumed serenity, said, “I am better,--much

better,--I was rather sick,--but it is over; and now, if you will excuse

me, I will go to my own room.”

She then arose, but her knees trembled, and her head was giddy, and

again seating herself, she forced a faint smile, and said, “Perhaps I

had better keep quiet.”

“Can I bear this!” cried Delvile, “no, it shakes all my

resolution!--loveliest and most beloved Cecilia! forgive my rash

declaration, which I hear retract and forswear, and which no false

pride, no worthless vanity shall again surprise from me!--raise, then,

your eyes--”

“Hot-headed young man!” interrupted Mrs Delvile, with an air of haughty

displeasure, “if you cannot be rational, at least be silent. Miss

Beverley, we will both leave him.”

Shame, and her own earnestness, how restored some strength to Cecilia,

who read with terror in the looks of Mrs Delvile the passions with which

she was agitated, and instantly obeyed her by rising; but her son, who

inherited a portion of her own spirit, rushed between them both and the

door, and exclaimed, “Stay, madam, stay! I cannot let you go: I see your

intention, I see your dreadful purpose; you will work upon the feelings

of Miss Beverley, you will extort from her a promise to see me no more!”

“Oppose not my passing!” cried Mrs Delvile, whose voice, face and manner

spoke the encreasing disturbance of her soul; “I have but too long

talked to you in vain; I must now take some better method for the

security of the honour of my family.”

This moment appeared to Delvile decisive; and casting off in desperation

all timidity and restraint, he suddenly sprang forward, and snatching

the hand of Cecilia from his mother, he exclaimed, “I cannot, I will not

give her up!--nor now, madam, nor ever!--I protest it most solemnly! I

affirm it by my best hopes! I swear it by all that I hold sacred!”

Grief and horror next to frenzy at a disappointment thus unexpected, and

thus peremptory, rose in the face of Mrs Delvile, who, striking her hand

upon her forehead, cried, “My brain is on fire!” and rushed out of the

room.

Cecilia had now no difficulty to disengage herself from Delvile, who,

shocked at the exclamation, and confounded by the sudden departure of

his mother, hastened eagerly to pursue her: she had only flown into the

next parlour; but, upon following her thither, what was his dread and

his alarm, when he saw her extended, upon the floor, her face, hands and

neck all covered with blood! “Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, prostrating

himself by her side, “what is it you have done!--where are you

wounded?--what direful curse have you denounced against your son?”

Not able to speak, she angrily shook her head, and indignantly made a

motion with her hand, that commanded him from her sight.

Cecilia, who had followed, though half dead with terror, had yet the

presence of mind to ring the bell. A servant came immediately; and

Delvile, starting up from his mother, ordered him to fetch the first

surgeon or physician he could find.

The alarm now brought the rest of the servants into the room, and Mrs

Delvile suffered herself to be raised from the ground, and seated in a

chair; she was still silent, but shewed a disgust to any assistance

from her son, that made him deliver her into the hands of the servants,

while, in speechless agony, he only looked on and watched her.

Neither did Cecilia, though forgetting her own sorrow, and no longer

sensible of personal weakness, venture to approach her: uncertain what

had happened, she yet considered herself as the ultimate cause of this

dreadful scene, and feared to risk the effect of the smallest additional

emotion.

The servant returned with a surgeon in a few minutes: Cecilia, unable

to wait and hear what he would say, glided hastily out of the room; and

Delvile, in still greater agitation, followed her quick into the

next parlour; but having eagerly advanced to speak to her, he turned

precipitately about, and hurrying into the hall, walked in hasty steps

up and down it, without courage to enquire what was passing.

At length the surgeon came out: Delvile flew to him, and stopt him,

but could ask no question. His countenance, however, rendered words

unnecessary; the surgeon understood him, and said, “The lady will do

very well; she has burst a blood vessel, but I think it will be of

no consequence. She must be kept quiet and easy, and upon no account

suffered to talk, or to use any exertion.”

Delvile now let him go, and flew himself into a corner to return thanks

to heaven that the evil, however great, was less than he had at first

apprehended. He then went into the parlour to Cecilia, eagerly calling

out, “Heaven be praised, my mother has not voluntarily cursed me!”

“O now then,” cried Cecilia, “once more make her bless you! the violence

of her agitation has already almost destroyed her, and her frame is too

weak for this struggle of contending passions;--go to her, then, and

calm the tumult of her spirits, by acquiescing wholly in her will, and

being to her again the son she thinks she has lost!”

“Alas!” said he, in a tone of the deepest dejection; “I have been

preparing myself for that purpose, and waited but your commands to

finally determine me.”

“Let us both go to her instantly,” said Cecilia; “the least delay may be

fatal.”

She now led the way, and approaching Mrs Delvile, who, faint and weak,

was seated upon an arm chair, and resting her head upon the shoulder of

a maid servant, said, “Lean, dearest madam, upon _me_, and speak not,

but hear us!”

She then took the place of the maid, and desired her and the other

servants to go out of the room. Delvile advanced, but his mother's eye,

recovering, at his sight, its wonted fire, darted upon him a glance of

such displeasure, that, shuddering with the apprehension of inflaming

again those passions which threatened her destruction, he hastily sank

on one knee, and abruptly exclaimed, “Look at me with less abhorrence,

for I come but to resign myself to your will.”

“Mine, also,” cried Cecilia, “that will shall be; you need not speak

it, we know it, and here solemnly we promise that we will separate for

ever.”

“Revive, then, my mother,” said Delvile, “rely upon our plighted

honours, and think only of your health, for your son will never more

offend you.”

Mrs Delvile, much surprised, and strongly affected, held out her hand to

him, with a look of mingled compassion and obligation, and dropping

her head upon the bosom of Cecilia, who with her other arm she pressed

towards her, she burst into an agony of tears.

“Go, go, Sir!” said Cecilia, cruelly alarmed, “you have said all that is

necessary; leave Mrs Delvile now, and she will be more composed.”

Delvile instantly obeyed, and then his mother, whose mouth still

continued to fill with blood, though it gushed not from her with the

violence it had begun, was prevailed upon by the prayers of Cecilia to

consent to be conveyed into her room; and, as her immediate removal

to another house might be dangerous, she complied also, though very

reluctantly, with her urgent entreaties, that she would take entire

possession of it till the next day.

This point gained, Cecilia left her, to communicate what had passed to

Mrs Charlton; but was told by one of the servants that Mr Delvile begged

first to speak with her in the next room.

She hesitated for a moment whether to grant this request; but

recollecting it was right to acquaint him with his mother's intention of

staying all night, she went to him.

“How indulgent you are,” cried he, in a melancholy voice, as she opened

the door; “I am now going post to Dr Lyster, whom I shall entreat to

come hither instantly; but I am fearful of again disturbing my mother,

and must therefore rely upon you to acquaint her what is become of me.”

“Most certainly; I have begged her to remain here to-night, and I hope

I shall prevail with her to continue with me till Dr Lyster's arrival;

after which she will, doubtless, be guided either in staying longer, or

removing elsewhere, by his advice.”

“You are all goodness,” said he, with a deep sigh; “and how I shall

support--but I mean not to return hither, at least not to this

house,--unless, indeed, Dr Lyster's account should be alarming. I leave

my mother, therefore, to your kindness, and only hope, only entreat,

that your own health,--your own peace of mind--neither by attendance

upon her--by anxiety--by pity for her son--”

He stopt, and seemed gasping for breath; Cecilia turned from him to hide

her emotion, and he proceeded with a rapidity of speech that shewed his

terror of continuing with her any longer, and his struggle with himself

to be gone: “The promise you have made in both our names to my mother,

I shall hold myself bound to observe. I see, indeed, that her reason

or her life would fall the sacrifice of further opposition: of myself,

therefore, it is no longer time to think.--I take of you no leave--I

cannot! yet I would fain tell you the high reverence--but it is better

to say nothing--”

“Much better,” cried Cecilia, with a forced and faint smile; “lose not,

therefore, an instant, but hasten to this good Dr Lyster.”

“I will,” answered he, going to the door; but there, stopping and

turning round, “one thing I should yet,” he added, “wish to say,--I have

been impetuous, violent, unreasonable,--with shame and with regret I

recollect how impetuous, and how unreasonable: I have persecuted, where

I ought in silence to have submitted; I have reproached, where I ought

in candour to have approved; and in the vehemence with which I have

pursued you, I have censured that very dignity of conduct which has

been the basis of my admiration, my esteem, my devotion! but never can

I forget, and never without fresh wonder remember, the sweetness with

which you have borne with me, even when most I offended you. For this

impatience, this violence, this inconsistency, I now most sincerely

beg your pardon; and if, before I go, you could so far condescend as to

pronounce my forgiveness, with a lighter heart, I think, I should quit

you.”

“Do not talk of forgiveness,” said Cecilia, “you have never offended me;

I always knew--always was sure--always imputed--” she stopt, unable to

proceed.

Deeply penetrated by her apparent distress, he with difficulty

restrained himself from falling at her feet; but after a moment's pause

and recollection, he said, “I understand the generous indulgence you

have shewn me, an indulgence I shall ever revere, and ever grieve to

have abused. I ask you not to remember me,--far, far happier do I wish

you than such a remembrance could make you; but I will pain the

humanity of your disposition no longer. You will tell my mother--but

no matter!--Heaven preserve you, my angelic Cecilia!--Miss Beverley,

I mean, Heaven guide, protect, and bless you! And should I see you no

more, should this be the last sad moment---”

He paused, but presently recovering himself, added, “May I hear, at

least, of your tranquillity, for that alone can have any chance to quiet

or repress the anguish I feel here!”

He then abruptly retreated, and ran out of the house.

Cecilia for a while remained almost stupified with sorrow; she forgot

Mrs Delvile, she forgot Mrs Charlton, she forgot her own design of

apologizing to one, or assisting the other: she continued in the posture

in which he had left her, quite without motion, and almost without

sensibility.

CHAPTER vii.

A MESSAGE.

From this lethargy of sadness Cecilia was soon, however, awakened by the

return of the surgeon, who had brought with him a physician to consult

upon Mrs Delvile's situation. Terror for the mother once more drove

the son from her thoughts, and she waited with the most apprehensive

impatience to hear the result of the consultation. The physician

declined giving any positive opinion, but, having written a

prescription, only repeated the injunction of the surgeon, that she

should be kept extremely quiet, and on no account be suffered to talk.

Cecilia, though shocked and frightened at the occasion, was yet by no

means sorry at an order which thus precluded all conversation; unfitted

for it by her own misery, she was glad to be relieved from all necessity

of imposing upon herself the irksome task of finding subjects for

discourse to which she was wholly indifferent, while obliged with

sedulity to avoid those by which alone her mind was occupied.

The worthy Mrs Charlton heard the events of the morning with the utmost

concern, but charged her grand-daughters to assist her young friend in

doing the honours of her house to Mrs Delvile, while she ordered another

apartment to be prepared for Cecilia, to whom she administered all the

consolation her friendly zeal could suggest.

Cecilia, however unhappy, had too just a way of thinking to indulge in

selfish grief, where occasion called her to action for the benefit

of others: scarce a moment, therefore now did she allow to sorrow and

herself, but assiduously bestowed the whole of her time upon her two

sick friends, dividing her attention according to their own desire or

convenience, without consulting or regarding any choice of her own.

Choice, indeed, she had none; she loved Mrs Charlton, she revered Mrs

Delvile; the warmest wish with which her heart glowed, was the recovery

of both, but too deep was her affliction to receive pleasure from

either.

Two days passed thus, during which the constancy of her attendance,

which at another time would have fatigued her, proved the only relief

she was capable of receiving. Mrs Delvile was evidently affected by her

vigilant tenderness, but seemed equally desirous with herself to make

use of the prohibition to speech as an excuse for uninterrupted silence.

She enquired not even after her son, though the eagerness of her look

towards the door whenever it was opened, shewed either a hope, or an

apprehension that he might enter. Cecilia wished to tell her whither

he was gone, but dreaded trusting her voice with his name; and their

silence, after a while, seemed so much by mutual consent, that she had

soon as little courage as she had inclination to break it.

The arrival of Dr Lyster gave her much satisfaction, for upon him

rested her hopes of Mrs Delvile's re-establishment. He sent for her down

stairs, to enquire whether he was expected; and hearing that he was not,

desired her to announce him, as the smallest emotion might do mischief.

She returned up stairs, and after a short preparation, said, “Your

favourite Dr Lyster, madam, is come, and I shall be much the happier for

having you under his care.”

“Dr Lyster?” cried she, “who sent for him?”

“I believe--I fancy--Mr Delvile fetched him.”

“My son?--is he here, then?”

“No,--he went, the moment he left you, for Dr Lyster,--and Dr Lyster is

come by himself.”

“Does he write to you?”

“No, indeed!--he writes not--he comes not--dearest madam be satisfied,

he will do neither to me ever more!”

“Exemplary young man!” cried she, in a voice hardly audible, “how great

is his loss!--unhappy Mortimer!--ill-fated, and ill-rewarded!”

She sighed, and said no more; but this short conversation, the only one

which had passed between them since her illness, agitated her so

much, that Dr Lyster, who now came up stairs, found her in a state of

trembling and weakness that both alarmed and surprised him. Cecilia,

glad of an opportunity to be gone, left the room, and sent, by Dr

Lyster's desire, for the physician and surgeon who had already attended.

After they had been some time with their patient, they retired to a

consultation, and when it was over, Dr Lyster waited upon Cecilia in

the parlour, and assured her he had no apprehension of danger for

Mrs Delvile, “Though, for another week,” he added, “I would have her

continue your _patient_, as she is not yet fit to be removed. But pray

mind that she is kept quiet; let nobody go near her, not even her own

son. By the way he is waiting for me at the inn, so I'll just speak

again to his mother, and be gone.”

Cecilia was well pleased by this accidental information, to learn

both the anxiety of Delvile for his mother, and the steadiness of his

forbearance for himself. When Dr Lyster came down stairs again, “I shall

stay,” he said, “till to-morrow, but I hope she will be able in another

week to get to Bristol. In the mean time I shall leave her, I see, with

an excellent nurse. But, my good young lady, in your care of her, don't

neglect yourself; I am not quite pleased with your looks, though it is

but an old fashioned speech to tell you so.--What have you been doing to

yourself?”

“Nothing;” said she, a little embarrassed; “but had you not better have

some tea?”

“Why yes, I think I had;--but what shall I do with my young man?”

Cecilia understood the hint, but coloured, and made no answer.

“He is waiting for me,” he continued, “at the inn; however, I never yet

knew the young man I would prefer to a young woman, so if you will give

me some tea here, I shall certainly jilt him.”

Cecilia instantly rang the bell, and ordered tea.

“Well now,” said he, “remember the sin of this breach of appointment

lies wholly at your door. I shall tell him you laid violent hands on

me; and if that is not, enough to excuse me, I shall desire he will try

whether he could be more of a stoic with you himself.”

“I think I must unorder the tea,” said she, with what gaiety she could

assume, “if I am to be responsible for any mischief from your drinking

it.”

“No, no, you shan't be off now; but pray would it be quite out of rule

for you to send and ask him to come to us?”

“Why I believe--I think--” said she, stammering, “it's very likely he

may be engaged.”

“Well, well, I don't mean to propose any violent incongruity. You must

excuse my blundering; I understand but little of the etiquette of young

ladies. 'Tis a science too intricate to be learned without more study

than we plodding men of business can well spare time for. However, when

I have done _writing_ prescriptions, I will set about _reading_ them,

provided you will be my instructress.”

Cecilia, though ashamed of a charge in which prudery and affectation

were implied, was compelled to submit to it, as either to send for

Delvile, or explain her objections, was equally impossible. The Miss

Charltons, therefore, joined them, and they went to tea.

Just as they had done, a note was delivered to Dr Lyster; “see here,”

cried he, when he had read it, “what a fine thing it is to be a _young_

man! Why now, Mr Mortimer understands as much of all this _etiquette_ as

you ladies do yourselves; for he only writes a note even to ask how his

mother does.”

He then put it into Cecilia's hand.

_To Dr Lyster_.

Tell me, my dear Sir, how you have found my mother? I am uneasy at

your long stay, and engaged with my friend Biddulph, or I should have

followed you in person.

M.D.

“So you see,” continued the doctor, “I need not do penance for

engaging myself to you, when this young gentleman can find such good

entertainment for himself.”

Cecilia who well knew the honourable motive of Delvile's engagement,

with difficulty forbore speaking in his vindication. Dr Lyster

immediately began an answer, but before he had finished it, called out,

“Now as I am told you are a very good young woman, I think you can do no

less than assist me to punish this gay spark, for playing the macaroni,

when he ought to visit his sick mother.”

Cecilia, much hurt for Delvile, and much confused for herself, looked

abashed, but knew not what to answer.

“My scheme,” continued the doctor, “is to tell him, that as he has found

one engagement for tea, he may find another for supper; but that as to

me, I am better disposed of, for you insist upon keeping me to yourself.

Come, what says _etiquette_? may I treat myself with this puff?”

“Certainly,” said Cecilia, endeavouring to look pleased, “if you will

favour us with your company, Miss Charltons and myself will think the

_puffing_ should rather be ours than yours.”

“That, then,” said the doctor, “will not answer my purpose, for I mean

the puff to be my own, or how do I punish him? So, suppose I tell him

I shall not only sup with three young ladies, but be invited to a

_tete-a-tete_ with one of them into the bargain?”

The young ladies only laughed, and the doctor finished his note, and

sent it away; and then, turning gaily to Cecilia, “Come,” he said, “why

don't you give me this invitation? surely you don't mean to make me

guilty of perjury?”

Cecilia, but little disposed for pleasantry, would gladly now have dropt

the subject; but Dr Lyster, turning to the Miss Charltons, said, “Young

ladies, I call you both to witness if this is not very bad usage: this

young woman has connived at my writing a downright falsehood, and all

the time took me in to believe it was a truth. The only way I can think

of to cure her of such frolics, is for both of you to leave us together,

and so make her keep her word whether she will or no.”

The Miss Charltons took the hint, and went away; while Cecilia, who

had not at all suspected he meant seriously to speak with her, remained

extremely perplexed to think what he had to say.

“Mrs Delvile,” cried he, continuing the same air of easy good humour,

“though I allowed her not to speak to me above twenty words, took up

near ten of them to tell me that you had behaved to her like an angel.

Why so she ought, cried I; what else was she sent for here to look

so like one? I charged her, therefore, to take all that as a thing of

course; and to prove that I really think what I say, I am now going to

make a trial of you, that, if you are any thing less, will induce you to

order some of your men to drive me into the street. The truth is, I have

had a little commission given me, which in the first place I know not

how to introduce, and which, in the second, as far as I can judge,

appears to be absolutely superfluous.”

Cecilia now felt uneasy and alarmed, and begged him to explain himself.

He then dropt the levity with which he had begun the discourse, and

after a grave, yet gentle preparation, expressive of his unwillingness

to distress her, and his firm persuasion of her uncommon worthiness, he

acquainted her that he was no stranger to her situation with respect to

the Delvile family.

“Good God!” cried she, blushing and much amazed; “and who”---

“I knew it,” said he, “from the moment I attended Mr Mortimer in his

illness at Delvile Castle. He could not conceal from me that the seat

of his disorder was his mind; and I could not know that, without readily

conjecturing the cause, when I saw who was his father's guest, and when

I knew what was his father's character. He found he was betrayed to me,

and upon my advising a journey, he understood me properly. His openness

to counsel, and the manly firmness with which he behaved in quitting

you, made me hope the danger was blown over. But last week, when I was

at the Castle, where I have for some time attended Mr Delvile, who has

had a severe fit of the gout, I found him in an agitation of spirits

that made me apprehend it would be thrown into his stomach. I desired

Mrs Delvile to use her influence to calm him; but she was herself in

still greater emotion, and acquainting me she was obliged to leave

him, desired I would spend with him every moment in my power. I have

therefore almost lived at the Castle during her absence, and, in

the course of our many conversations, he has acknowledged to me the

uneasiness under which he has laboured, from the intelligence concerning

his son, which he had just received.”

Cecilia wished here to enquire _how_ received, and from whom, but had

not the courage, and therefore he proceeded.

“I was still with the father when Mr Mortimer arrived post at my house

to fetch me hither. I was sent for home; he informed me of his errand

without disguise, for he knew I was well acquainted with the original

secret whence all the evil arose. I told him my distress in what

manner to leave his father; and he was extremely shocked himself when

acquainted with his situation. We agreed that it would be vain to

conceal from him the indisposition of Mrs Delvile, which the delay of

her return, and a thousand other accidents, might in some unfortunate

way make known to him. He commissioned me, therefore, to break it to

him, that he might consent to my journey, and at the same time to quiet

his own mind, by assuring him all he had apprehended was wholly at an

end.”

He stopt, and looked to see how Cecilia bore these words.

“It is all at an end, Sir;” said she, with firmness; “but I have not yet

heard your commission; what, and from whom is that?”

“I am thoroughly satisfied it is unnecessary;” he answered, “since the

young man can but submit, and you can but give him up.”

“But still, if there is a message, it is fit I should hear it.”

“If you chase it, so it is. I told Mr Delvile whither I was coming,

and I repeated to him his son's assurances. He was relieved, but not

satisfied; he would not see him, and gave me for him a prohibition of

extreme severity, and to _you_ he bid me say--”

“From _him_, then, is my message?” cried Cecilia, half frightened, and

much disappointed.

“Yes,” said he, understanding her immediately, “for the son, after

giving me his first account, had the wisdom and forbearance not once to

mention you.”

“I am very glad,” said she, with a mixture of admiration and regret, “to

hear it. But, what, Sir, said Mr Delvile?”

“He bid me tell you that either _he_, or _you_ must see his son never

more.”

“It was indeed unnecessary,” cried she, colouring with resentment, “to

send me such a message. I meant not to see him again, he meant not to

desire it. I return him, however, no answer, and I will make him no

promise; to Mrs Delvile alone I hold myself bound; to him, send what

messages he may, I shall always hold myself free. But believe me, Dr

Lyster, if with his name, his son had inherited his character, his

desire of our separation would be feeble, and trifling, compared with my

own!”

“I am sorry, my good young lady,” said he, “to have given you this

disturbance; yet I admire your spirit, and doubt not but it will enable

you to forget any little disappointment you may have suffered. And what,

after all, have you to regret? Mortimer Delvile is, indeed, a young man

that any woman might wish to attach; but every woman cannot have him,

and you, of all women, have least reason to repine in missing him,

for scarcely is there another man you may not chuse or reject at your

pleasure.”

Little as was the consolation Cecilia could draw from this speech,

she was sensible it became not her situation to make complaints, and

therefore, to end the conversation she proposed calling in the Miss

Charltons.

“No, no,” said he, “I must step up again to Mrs Delvile, and then

be-gone. To-morrow morning I shall but call to see how she is, and leave

some directions, and set off. Mr Mortimer Delvile accompanies me back:

but he means to return hither in a week, in order to travel with his

mother to Bristol. Mean time, I purpose to bring about a reconciliation

between him and his father, whose prejudices are more intractable than

any man's I ever met with.”

“It will be strange indeed,” said Cecilia, “should a reconciliation

_now_ be difficult!”

“True; but it is long since he was young himself, and the softer

affections he never was acquainted with, and only regards them in his

son as derogatory to his whole race. However, if there were not some few

such men, there would hardly be a family in the kingdom that could count

a great grand-father. I am not, I must own, of his humour myself, but

I think it rather peculiarly stranger, than peculiarly worse than most

other peoples; and how, for example, was that of _your_ uncle a whit the

better? He was just as fond of _his_ name, as if, like Mr Delvile, he

could trace it from the time of the Saxons.”

Cecilia strongly felt the truth of this observation, but not chusing to

discuss it, made not any answer, and Dr Lyster, after a few good-natured

apologies, both for his friends the Delviles and himself, went up

stairs.

“What continual disturbance,” cried she, when left alone, “keeps me

thus for-ever from rest! no sooner is one wound closed, but another is

opened; mortification constantly succeeds distress, and when my heart is

spared; my pride is attacked, that not a moment of tranquility may ever

be allowed me! Had the lowest of women won the affections of Mr Delvile,

could his father with less delicacy or less decency have acquainted her

with his inflexible disapprobation? To send with so little ceremony a

message so contemptuous and so peremptory!--but perhaps it is better,

for had he, too, like Mrs Delvile, joined kindness with rejection, I

might still more keenly have felt the perverseness of my destiny.”

CHAPTER vii.

A PARTING.

The next morning Dr Lyster called early, and having visited Mrs Delvile,

and again met the two gentlemen of the faculty in whose care she was to

remain, he took his leave. But not without contriving first to speak a

few words to Cecilia in private, in which he charged her to be careful

of her health, and re-animate her spirits. “Don't suppose,” said he,

“that because I am a friend of the Delvile family, I am either blind to

your merits, or to their foibles, far from it; but then why should

they interfere with one another? Let them keep their prejudices, which,

though different, are not worse than their neighbours, and do you retain

your excellencies, and draw from them the happiness they ought to give

you. People reason and refine themselves into a thousand miseries, by

chusing to settle that they can only be contented one way; whereas,

there are fifty ways, if they would but look about them, that would

commonly do as well.”

“I believe, indeed, you are right,” answered Cecilia, “and I thank you

for the admonition; I will do what I can towards studying your scheme of

philosophy, and it is always one step to amendment, to be convinced that

we want it.”

“You are a sensible and charming girl,” said Dr Lyster, “and Mr Delvile,

should he find a daughter-in-law descended in a right line from Egbert,

first king of all England, won't be so well off as if he had satisfied

himself with you. However, the old gentleman has a fair right, after

all, to be pleased his own way, and let us blame him how we will, we

shall find, upon sifting, it is for no other reason but because his

humour happens to clash with our own.”

“That, indeed,” said Cecilia, smiling, “is a truth incontrovertible! and

a truth to which, for the future, I will endeavour to give more weight.

But will you permit me now to ask one question?--Can you tell me

from whom, how, or when the intelligence which has caused all this

disturbance---”

She hesitated, but, comprehending her readily, he answered “How they got

at it, I never heard, for I never thought it worth while to enquire, as

it is so generally known, that nobody I meet with seems ignorant of it.”

This was another, and a cruel shock to Cecilia, and Dr Lyster,

perceiving it, again attempted to comfort her. “That the affair is

somewhat spread,” said he, “is now not to be helped, and therefore

little worth thinking of; every body will agree that the choice of

both does honour to both, and nobody need be ashamed to be successor to

either, whenever the course of things leads Mr Mortimer and yourself

to make another election. He wisely intends to go abroad, and will not

return till he is his own man again. And as to you, my good young

lady, what, after a short time given to vexation, need interrupt your

happiness? You have the whole world before you, with youth, fortune,

talents, beauty and independence; drive, therefore, from your head

this unlucky affair, and remember there can hardly be a family in the

kingdom, this one excepted, that will not rejoice in a connection with

you.”

He then good-humouredly shook hands with her, and went into his chaise.

Cecilia, though not slow in remarking the ease and philosophy with

which every one can argue upon the calamities, and moralize upon the

misconduct of others, had still the candour and good sense to see that

there was reason in what he urged, and to resolve upon making the best

use in her power of the hints for consolation she might draw from his

discourse.

During the following week, she devoted herself almost wholly to Mrs

Delvile, sharing with the maid, whom she had brought with her from the

Castle, the fatigue of nursing her, and leaving to the Miss Charltons

the chief care of their grandmother. For Mrs Delvile appeared every hour

more sensible of her attention, and more desirous of her presence, and

though neither of them spoke, each was endeared to the other by the

tender offices of friendship which were paid and received.

When this week was expired, Dr Lyster was prevailed upon to return again

to Bury, in order to travel himself with Mrs Delvile to Bristol. “Well,”

cried he, taking Cecilia by the first opportunity aside, “how are you?

Have you studied my scheme of philosophy, as you promised me?”

“O yes,” said she, “and made, I flatter myself, no little proficiency.”

“You are a good girl,” cried he, “a very extraordinary girl! I am sure

you are; and upon my honour I pity poor Mortimer with all my soul! But

he is a noble young fellow, and behaves with a courage and spirit that

does me good to behold. To have obtained you, he would have moved heaven

and earth, but finding you out of his reach, he submits to his fate like

a man.”

Cecilia's eyes glistened at this speech; “Yes,” said she, “he long since

said 'tis suspence, 'tis hope, that make the misery of life,--for there

the Passions have all power, and Reason has none. But when evils are

irremediable, and we have neither resources to plan, nor castle-building

to delude us, we find time for the cultivation of philosophy, and

flatter ourselves, perhaps, that we have found inclination!”

“Why you have considered this matter very deeply,” said he; “but I must

not have you give way to these serious reflections. Thought, after all,

has a cruel spite against happiness; I would have you, therefore, keep

as much as you conveniently can, out of its company. Run about and

divert yourself, 'tis all you have for it. The true art of happiness in

this most whimsical world, seems nothing more nor less than this--Let

those who have leisure, find employment, and those who have business,

find leisure.”

He then told her that Mr Delvile senior was much better, and no longer

confined to his room: and that he had had the pleasure of seeing an

entire reconciliation take place between him and his son, of whom he was

more fond and more proud than any other father in the universe.

“Think of him, however, my dear young lady,” he continued, “no more,

for the matter I see is desperate: you must pardon my being a little

officious, when I confess to you I could not help proposing to the old

gentleman an expedient of my own; for as I could not drive you out of

my head, I employed myself in thinking what might be done by way of

accommodation. Now my scheme was really a very good one, only when

people are prejudiced, all reasoning is thrown away upon them. I

proposed sinking _both_ your names, since they are so at variance

with one another, and so adopting a third, by means of a title. But Mr

Delvile angrily declared, that though such a scheme might do very

well for the needy Lord Ernolf, a Peer of twenty years, his own noble

ancestors should never, by his consent, forfeit a name which so many

centuries had rendered honourable. His son Mortimer, he added, must

inevitably inherit the title of his grandfather, his uncle being old

and unmarried; but yet he would rather see him a beggar, than lose his

dearest hope that _Delvile_, Lord _Delvile_, would descend, both name

and title, from generation to generation unsullied and uninterrupted.”

“I am sorry, indeed,” said Cecilia, “that such a proposal was made, and

I earnestly entreat that none of any sort may be repeated.”

“Well, well,” said he, “I would not for the world do any mischief, but

who would not have supposed such a proposal would have done good?”

“Mr Mortimer,” he then added, “is to meet us at--for he would not, he

said, come again to this place, upon such terms as he was here last

week, for the whole worth of the king's dominions.”

The carriage was now ready, and Mrs Delvile was prepared to depart.

Cecilia approached to take leave of her, but Dr Lyster following, said

“No talking! no thanking! no compliments of any sort! I shall carry off

my patient without permitting one civil speech, and for all the rudeness

I make her guilty of, I am willing to be responsible.”

Cecilia would then have retreated, but Mrs Delvile, holding out both her

hands, said “To every thing else, Dr Lyster, I am content to submit; but

were I to die while uttering the words, I cannot leave this inestimable

creature without first saying how much I love her, how I honour, and

how I thank her! without entreating her to be careful of her health, and

conjuring her to compleat the greatness of her conduct, by not suffering

her spirits to sink from the exertion of her virtue. And now my love,

God bless you!”

She then embraced her, and went on; Cecilia, at a motion of Dr Lyster's,

forbearing to follow her.

“And thus,” cried she, when they were gone, “thus ends all my connection

with this family! which it seems as if I was only to have known for the

purpose of affording a new proof of the insufficiency of situation to

constitute happiness. Who looks not upon mine as the perfection of

human felicity?--And so, perhaps, it is, for it may be that Felicity and

Humanity are never permitted to come nearer.”

And thus, in philosophic sadness, by reasoning upon the universality

of misery, she restrained, at least, all violence of sorrow, though her

spirits were dejected, and her heart was heavy.

But the next day brought with it some comfort that a little lightened

her sadness; Mrs Charlton, almost wholly recovered, was able to go down

stairs, and Cecilia had at least the satisfaction of seeing an happy

conclusion to an illness of which, with the utmost concern and regret,

she considered herself as the cause. She attended her with the most

unremitting assiduity, and being really very thankful, endeavoured

to appear happy, and flattered herself that, by continual effort, the

appearance in a short time would become reality.

Mrs Charlton retired early, and Cecilia accompanied her up stairs:

and while she was with her, was informed that Mr Monckton was in the

parlour.

The various, afflicting, and uncommon scenes in which she had been

engaged since she last saw him, had almost wholly driven him from her

remembrance, or when at any time he recurred to it, it was only to

attribute the discontinuance of his visits to the offence she had

given him, in refusing to follow his advice by relinquishing her London

expedition.

Full, therefore, of the mortifying transactions which had passed since

their parting, and fearful of his enquiries into disgraces he had nearly

foretold, she heard him announced with chagrin, and waited upon him in

the most painful confusion.

Far different were the feelings of Mr Monckton; he read in her

countenance the dejection of disappointment, which impressed upon his

heart the vivacity of hope: her evident shame was to him secret triumph,

her ill-concealed sorrow revived all his expectations.

She hastily began a conversation by mentioning her debt to him, and

apologising for not paying it the moment she was of age. He knew but

too well how her time had been occupied, and assured her the delay was

wholly immaterial.

He then led to an enquiry into the present situation of her affairs;

but unable to endure a disquisition, which could only be productive of

censure and mortification, she hastily stopt it, exclaiming, “Ask me

not, I entreat you, Sir, any detail of what has passed,--the event has

brought me sufferings that may well make blame be dispensed with;--I

acknowledge all your wisdom, I am sensible of my own error, but the

affair is wholly dropt, and the unhappy connection I was forming is

broken off for-ever!”

Little now was Mr Monckton's effort in repressing his further curiosity,

and he started other subjects with readiness, gaiety and address. He

mentioned Mrs Charlton, for whom he had not the smallest regard; he

talked to her of Mrs Harrel, whose very existence was indifferent to

him; and he spoke of their common acquaintance in the country, for not

one of whom he would have grieved, if assured of meeting no more. His

powers of conversation were enlivened by his hopes; and his exhilarated

spirits made all subjects seem happy to him. A weight was removed from

his mind which had nearly borne down even his remotest hopes; the object

of his eager pursuit seemed still within his reach, and the rival into

whose power he had so lately almost beheld her delivered, was totally

renounced, and no longer to be dreaded. A revolution such as this,

raised expectations more sanguine than ever; and in quitting the house,

he exultingly considered himself released from every obstacle to his

views--till, just as he arrived home, he recollected his wife!

CHAPTER viii.

A TALE.

A week passed, during which Cecilia, however sad, spent her time as

usual with the family, denying to herself all voluntary indulgence of

grief, and forbearing to seek consolation from solitude, or relief from

tears. She never named Delvile, she begged Mrs Charlton never to mention

him; she called to her aid the account she had received from Dr Lyster

of his firmness, and endeavoured, by an emulous ambition, to fortify her

mind from the weakness of depression and regret.

This week, a week of struggle with all her feelings, was just elapsed,

when she received by the post the following letter from Mrs Delvile.

_To Miss Beverley_.

BRISTOL, _Oct_. 21.

My sweet young friend will not, I hope, be sorry to hear of my safe

arrival at this place: to me every account of her health and welfare,

will ever be the intelligence I shall most covet to receive. Yet I mean

not to ask for it in return; to chance I will trust for information, and

I only write now to say I shall write no more.

Too much for thanks is what I owe you, and what I think of you is beyond

all power of expression. Do not, then, wish me ill, ill as I have seemed

to merit of you, for my own heart is almost broken by the tyranny I have

been compelled to practise upon yours. And now let me bid a long adieu

to you, my admirable Cecilia; you shall not be tormented with a useless

correspondence, which can only awaken painful recollections, or give

rise to yet more painful new anxieties. Fervently will I pray for

the restoration of your happiness, to which nothing can so greatly

contribute as that wise, that uniform command, so feminine, yet so

dignified, you maintain over your passions; which often I have admired,

though never so feelingly as at this conscious moment! when my own

health is the sacrifice of emotions most fatally unrestrained.

Send to me no answer, even if you have the sweetness to wish it; every

new proof of the generosity of your nature is to me but a new wound.

Forget us, therefore, wholly,--alas! you have only known us for sorrow!

forget us, dear and invaluable Cecilia! though, ever, as you have

nobly deserved, must you be fondly and gratefully remembered by AUGUSTA

DELVILE.

The attempted philosophy, and laboured resignation of Cecilia, this

letter destroyed: the struggle was over, the apathy was at an end, and

she burst into an agony of tears, which finding the vent they had

long sought, now flowed unchecked down her cheeks, sad monitors of the

weakness of reason opposed to the anguish of sorrow!

A letter at once so caressing, yet so absolute, forced its way to her

heart, in spite of the fortitude she had flattered herself was its

guard. In giving up Delvile she was satisfied of the propriety of seeing

him no more, and convinced that even to talk of him would be folly

and imprudence; but to be told that for the future they must remain

strangers to the existence of each other--there seemed in this a

hardship, a rigour, that was insupportable.

“Oh what,” cried she, “is human nature! in its best state how imperfect!

that a woman such as this, so noble in character, so elevated in

sentiment, with heroism to sacrifice to her sense of duty the happiness

of a son, whom with joy she would die to serve, can herself be thus

governed by prejudice, thus enslaved, thus subdued by opinion!” Yet

never, even when miserable, unjust or irrational; her grief was unmixed

with anger, and her tears streamed not from resentment, but affliction.

The situation of Mrs Delvile, however different, she considered to be

as wretched as her own. She read, therefore, with sadness, but not

bitterness, her farewell, and received not with disdain, but with

gratitude, her sympathy. Yet though her indignation was not irritated,

her sufferings were doubled, by a farewell so kind, yet so despotic, a

sympathy so affectionate, yet so hopeless.

In this first indulgence of grief which she had granted to her

disappointment, she was soon interrupted by a summons down stairs to a

gentleman.

Unfit and unwilling to be seen, she begged that he might leave his name,

and appoint a time for calling again.

Her maid brought for answer, that he believed his name was unknown to

her, and desired to see her now, unless she was employed in some matter

of moment. She then put up her letter, and went into the parlour; and

there, to her infinite amazement, beheld Mr Albany.

“How little, Sir,” she cried, “did I expect this pleasure.”

“This pleasure,” repeated he, “do you call it?--what strange abuse of

words! what causeless trifling with honesty! is language of no purpose

but to wound the ear with untruths? is the gift of speech only granted

us to pervert the use of understanding? I can give you no pleasure,

I have no power to give it any one; you can give none to me-the whole

world could not invest you with the means!”

“Well, Sir,” said Cecilia, who had little spirit to defend herself, “I

will not vindicate the expression, but of this I will unfeignedly assure

you, I am at least as glad to see you just now, as I should be to see

anybody.”

“Your eyes,” cried he, “are red, your voice is inarticulate;--young,

rich, and attractive, the world at your feet; that world yet untried,

and its falsehood unknown, how have you thus found means to anticipate

misery? which way have you uncovered the cauldron of human woes? Fatal

and early anticipation! that cover once removed, can never be replaced;

those woes, those boiling woes, will pour out upon you continually,

and only when your heart ceases to beat, will their ebullition cease to

torture you!”

“Alas!” cried Cecilia, shuddering, “how cruel, yet how true!”

“Why went you,” cried he, “to the cauldron? it came not to you. Misery

seeks not man, but man misery. He walks out in the sun, but stops

not for a cloud; confident, he pursues his way, till the storm which,

gathering, he might have avoided, bursts over his devoted head. Scared

and amazed, he repents his temerity; he calls, but it is then too late;

he runs, but it is thunder which follows him! Such is the presumption

of man, such at once is the arrogance and shallowness of his nature! And

thou, simple and blind! hast thou, too, followed whither Fancy has led

thee, unheeding that thy career was too vehement for tranquility,

nor missing that lovely companion of youth's early innocence, till,

adventurous and unthinking, thou hast lost her for ever!”

In the present weak state of Cecilia's spirits, this attack was too much

for her; and the tears she had just, and with difficulty restrained,

again forced their way down her cheeks, as she answered, “It is but too

true,--I have lost her for ever!”

“Poor thing,” said he, while the rigour of his countenance was

softened into the gentlest commiseration, “so young!--looking, too, so

innocent--'tis hard!--And is nothing left thee? no small remaining hope,

to cheat, humanely cheat thy yet not wholly extinguished credulity?”

Cecilia wept without answering.

“Let me not,” said he, “waste my compassion upon nothing; compassion is

with me no effusion of affectation; tell me, then, if thou deservest it,

or if thy misfortunes are imaginary, and thy grief is factitious?”

“Factitious,” repeated she, “Good heaven!”

“Answer me, then, these questions, in which I shall comprise the only

calamities for which sorrow has no controul, or none from human motives.

Tell me, then, have you lost by death the friend of your bosom?”

“No!”

“Is your fortune dissipated by extravagance, and your power of relieving

the distressed at an end?”

“No; the power and the will are I hope equally undiminished.”

“O then, unhappy girl! have you been guilty of some vice, and hangs

remorse thus heavy on your conscience?”

“No, no; thank heaven, to that misery, at least, I am a stranger!”

His countenance now again resumed its severity, and, in the sternest

manner, “Whence then,” he said, “these tears? and what is this caprice

you dignify with the name of sorrow?--strange wantonness of indolence

and luxury! perverse repining of ungrateful plenitude!--oh hadst thou

known what _I_ have suffered!”--

“Could I lessen what you have suffered,” said Cecilia, “I should

sincerely rejoice; but heavy indeed must be your affliction, if mine in

its comparison deserves to be styled caprice!”

“Caprice!” repeated he, “'tis joy! 'tis extacy compared with mine!--Thou

hast not in licentiousness wasted thy inheritance! thou hast not by

remorse barred each avenue to enjoyment! nor yet has the cold grave

seized the beloved of thy soul!”

“Neither,” said Cecilia, “I hope, are the evils you have yourself

sustained so irremediable?”

“Yes, I have borne them all!--_have_ borne? I bear them still; I shall

bear them while I breathe! I may rue them, perhaps, yet longer.”

“Good God!” cried Cecilia, shrinking, “what a world is this! how full of

woe and wickedness!”

“Yet thou, too, canst complain,” cried he, “though happy in life's only

blessing, Innocence! thou, too, canst murmur, though stranger to death's

only terror, Sin! Oh yet if thy sorrow is unpolluted with guilt, be

regardless of all else, and rejoice in thy destiny!”

“But who,” cried she, deeply sighing, “shall teach me such a lesson of

joy, when all within rises to oppose it?”

“I,” cried he, “will teach it thee, for I will tell thee my own sad

story. Then wilt thou find how much happier is thy lot, then wilt thou

raise thy head in thankful triumph.”

“O no! triumph comes not so lightly! yet if you will venture to trust

me with some account of yourself, I shall be glad to hear it, and much

obliged by the communication.”

“I will,” he answered, “whatever I may suffer: to awaken thee from this

dream of fancied sorrow, I will open all my wounds, and thou shalt probe

them with fresh shame.”

“No, indeed,” cried Cecilia with quickness, “I will not hear you, if the

relation will be so painful.”

“Upon _me_ this humanity is lost,” said he, “since punishment and

penitence alone give me comfort. I will tell thee, therefore, my crimes,

that thou mayst know thy own felicity, lest, ignorant it means nothing

but innocence, thou shouldst lose it, unconscious of its value. Listen

then to me, and learn what Misery is! Guilt is alone the basis of

lasting unhappiness;--Guilt is the basis of mine, and therefore I am a

wretch for ever!”

Cecilia would again have declined hearing him, but he refused to be

spared: and as her curiosity had long been excited to know something of

his history, and the motives of his extraordinary conduct, she was glad

to have it satisfied, and gave him the utmost attention.

“I will not speak to you of my family,” said he; “historical accuracy

would little answer to either of us. I am a native of the West Indies,

and I was early sent hither to be educated. While I was yet at the

University, I saw, I adored, and I pursued the fairest flower that ever

put forth its sweet buds, the softest heart that ever was broken by

ill-usage! She was poor and unprotected, the daughter of a villager;

she was untaught and unpretending, the child of simplicity! But fifteen

summers had she bloomed, and her heart was an easy conquest; yet, once

made mine, it resisted all allurement to infidelity. My fellow students

attacked her; she was assaulted by all the arts of seduction; flattery,

bribery, supplication, all were employed, yet all failed; she was wholly

my own; and with sincerity so attractive, I determined to marry her in

defiance of all worldly objections.

“The sudden death of my father called me hastily to Jamaica; I feared

leaving this treasure unguarded, yet in decency could neither marry nor

take her directly; I pledged my faith, therefore, to return to her,

as soon as I had settled my affairs, and I left to a bosom friend the

inspection of her conduct in my absence.

“To leave her was madness,--to trust in man was madness,--Oh hateful

race! how has the world been abhorrent to me since that time! I have

loathed the light of the sun, I have shrunk from the commerce of my

fellow creatures; the voice of man I have detested, his sight I have

abominated!--but oh, more than all should I be abominated myself!

“When I came to my fortune, intoxicated with sudden power, I forgot this

fair blossom, I revelled in licentiousness and vice, and left it exposed

and forlorn. Riot succeeded riot, till a fever, incurred by my own

intemperance, first gave me time to think. Then was she revenged, for

then first remorse was my portion: her image was brought back to my mind

with frantic fondness, and bitterest contrition. The moment I recovered,

I returned to England; I flew to claim her,--but she was lost! no one

knew whither she was gone; the wretch I had trusted pretended to know

least of all; yet, after a furious search, I traced her to a cottage,

where he had concealed her himself!

“When she saw me, she screamed and would have flown; I stopt her, and

told her I came faithfully and honourably to make her my wife:--her

own faith and honour, though sullied, were not extinguished, for she

instantly acknowledged the fatal tale of her undoing!

“Did I recompense this ingenuousness? this unexampled, this beautiful

sacrifice to intuitive integrity? Yes! with my curses!--I loaded her

with execrations, I reviled her in language the most opprobrious, I

insulted her even for her confession! I invoked all evil upon her

from the bottom of my heart--She knelt at my feet, she implored

my forgiveness and compassion, she wept with the bitterness of

despair,--and yet I spurned her from me!--Spurned?--let me not hide

my shame! I barbarously struck her!--nor single was the blow!--it was

doubled, it was reiterated!--Oh wretch, unyielding and unpitying!

where shall hereafter be clemency for thee!--So fair a form! so young a

culprit! so infamously seduced! so humbly penitent!

“In this miserable condition, helpless and deplorable, mangled by these

savage hands, and reviled by this inhuman tongue, I left her, in search

of the villain who had destroyed her: but, cowardly as treacherous,

he had absconded. Repenting my fury, I hastened to her again; the

fierceness of my cruelty shamed me when I grew calmer, the softness of

her sorrow melted me upon recollection: I returned, therefore, to soothe

her,--but again she was gone! terrified with expectation of insult, she

hid herself from all my enquiries. I wandered in search of her two long

years to no purpose, regardless of my affairs, and of all things but

that pursuit. At length, I thought I saw her--in London, alone, and

walking in the streets at midnight,--I fearfully followed her,--and

followed her into an house of infamy!

“The wretches by whom she was surrounded were noisy and drinking, they

heeded me little,--but she saw and knew me at once! She did not speak,

nor did I,--but in two moments she fainted and fell.

“Yet did I not help her; the people took their own measures to recover

her, and when she was again able to stand, would have removed her to

another apartment.

“I then went forward, and forcing them away from her with all the

strength of desperation, I turned to the unhappy sinner, who to chance

only seemed to leave what became of her, and cried, From this scene of

vice and horror let me yet rescue you! you look still unfit for such

society, trust yourself, therefore, to me. I seized her hand, I drew,

I almost dragged her away. She trembled, she could scarce totter, but

neither consented nor refused, neither shed a tear, nor spoke a word,

and her countenance presented a picture of affright, amazement, and

horror.

“I took her to a house in the country, each of us silent the whole way.

I gave her an apartment and a female attendant, and ordered for her

every convenience I could suggest. I stayed myself in the same house,

but distracted with remorse for the guilt and ruin into which I had

terrified her, I could not bear her sight.

“In a few days her maid assured me the life she led must destroy her;

that she would taste nothing but bread and water, never spoke, and never

slept.

“Alarmed by this account, I flew into her apartment; pride and

resentment gave way to pity and fondness, and I besought her to take

comfort. I spoke, however, to a statue, she replied not, nor seemed to

hear me. I then humbled myself to her as in the days of her innocence

and first power, supplicating her notice, entreating even her

commiseration! all was to no purpose; she neither received nor repulsed

me, and was alike inattentive to exhortation and to prayer.

“Whole hours did I spend at her feet, vowing never to arise till she

spoke to me,--all, all, in vain! she seemed deaf, mute, insensible; her

face unmoved, a settled despair fixed in her eyes,--those eyes that had

never looked at me but with dove-like softness and compliance!--She sat

constantly in one chair, she never changed her dress, no persuasions

could prevail with her to lie down, and at meals she just swallowed so

much dry bread as might save her from dying for want of food.

“What was the distraction of my soul, to find her bent upon this course

to her last hour!--quick came that hour, but never will it be forgotten!

rapidly it was gone, but eternally it will be remembered!

“When she felt herself expiring, she acknowledged she had made a

vow, upon entering the house, to live speechless and motionless, as a

pennance for her offences!

“I kept her loved corpse till my own senses failed me,--it was then only

torn from me,--and I have lost all recollection of three years of my

existence!”

Cecilia shuddered at this hint, yet was not surprised by it; Mr Gosport

had acquainted her he had been formerly confined; and his flightiness,

wildness, florid language, and extraordinary way of life, bad long led

her to suspect his reason had been impaired.

“The scene to which my memory first leads me back,” he continued, “is

visiting her grave; solemnly upon it I returned her vow, though not by

one of equal severity. To her poor remains did I pledge myself, that

the day should never pass in which I would receive nourishment, nor the

night come in which I would take rest, till I had done, or zealously

attempted to do, some service to a fellow-creature.

“For this purpose have I wandered from city to city, from the town to

the country, and from the rich to the poor. I go into every house where

I can gain admittance, I admonish all who will hear me, I shame even

those who will not. I seek the distressed where ever they are hid,

I follow the prosperous to beg a mite to serve them. I look for the

Dissipated in public, where, amidst their licentiousness, I check them;

I pursue the Unhappy in private, where I counsel and endeavour to

assist them. My own power is small; my relations, during my sufferings,

limiting me to an annuity; but there is no one I scruple to solicit, and

by zeal I supply ability.

“Oh life of hardship and pennance! laborious, toilsome, and restless!

but I have merited no better, and I will not repine at it; I have vowed

that I will endure it, and I will not be forsworn.

“One indulgence alone from time to time I allow myself,--'tis Music!

which has power to delight me even to rapture! it quiets all anxiety, it

carries me out of myself, I forget through it every calamity, even the

bitterest anguish.

“Now then, that thou hast heard me, tell me, hast _thou_ cause of

sorrow?”

“Alas,” cried Cecilia, “this indeed is a Picture of Misery to make _my_

lot seem all happiness!”

“Art thou thus open to conviction?” cried he, mildly; “and dost thou not

fly the voice of truth! for truth and reproof are one.”

“No, I would rather seek it; I feel myself wretched, however inadequate

may be the cause; I wish to be more resigned, and if you can instruct me

how, I shall thankfully attend to you.”

“Oh yet uncorrupted creature!” cried he, “with joy will I be thy

monitor,--joy long untasted! Many have I wished to serve, all, hitherto,

have rejected my offices; too honest to flatter them, they had not the

fortitude to listen to me; too low to advance them, they had not the

virtue to bear with me. You alone have I yet found pure enough not to

fear inspection, and good enough to wish to be better. Yet words alone

will not content me; I must also have deeds. Nor will your purse,

however readily opened, suffice, you must give to me also your time

and your thoughts; for money sent by others, to others only will afford

relief; to enlighten your own cares, you must distribute it yourself.”

“You shall find me,” said she, “a docile pupil, and most glad to be

instructed how my existence may be useful.”

“Happy then,” cried he, “was the hour that brought me to this country;

yet not in search of you did I come, but of the mutable and ill-fated

Belfield. Erring, yet ingenious young man! what a lesson to the vanity

of talents, to the gaiety, the brilliancy of wit, is the sight of that

green fallen plant! not sapless by age, nor withered by disease,

but destroyed by want of pruning, and bending, breaking by its own

luxuriance!”

“And where, Sir, is he now?

“Labouring wilfully in the field, with those who labour compulsatorily;

such are we all by nature, discontented, perverse, and changeable;

though all have not courage to appear so, and few, like Belfield, are

worth watching when they do. He told me he was happy; I knew it could

not be: but his employment was inoffensive, and I left him without

reproach. In this neighbourhood I heard of you, and found your name was

coupled with praise. I came to see if you deserved it; I have seen, and

am satisfied.”

“You are not, then, very difficult, for I have yet done nothing. How are

we to begin these operations you propose? You have awakened me by them

to an expectation of pleasure, which nothing else, I believe, could just

now have given me.”

“We will work,” cried he, “together, till not a woe shall remain upon

your mind. The blessings of the fatherless, the prayers of little

children, shall heal all your wounds with balm of sweetest fragrance.

When sad, they shall cheer, when complaining, they shall soothe you. We

will go to their roofless houses, and see them repaired; we will exclude

from their dwellings the inclemency of the weather; we will clothe them

from cold, we will rescue them from hunger. The cries of distress shall

be changed to notes of joy: your heart shall be enraptured, mine, too,

shall revive--oh whither am I wandering? I am painting an Elysium!

and while I idly speak, some fainting object dies for want of succour!

Farewell; I will fly to the abodes of wretchedness, and come to you

to-morrow to render them the abodes of happiness.”

He then went away.

This singular visit was for Cecilia most fortunately timed: it almost

surprised her out of her peculiar grief, by the view which it opened

to her of general calamity; wild, flighty, and imaginative as were

his language and his counsels, their morality was striking, and their

benevolence was affecting. Taught by him to compare her state with that

of at least half her species, she began more candidly to weigh what was

left with what was withdrawn, and found the balance in her favour.

The plan he had presented to her of good works was consonant to her

character and inclinations; and the active charity in which he proposed

to engage her, re-animated her fallen hopes, though to far different

subjects from those which had depressed them. Any scheme of worldly

happiness would have sickened and disgusted her; but her mind was just

in the situation to be impressed with elevated piety, and to adopt any

design in which virtue humoured melancholy.

CHAPTER ix.

A SHOCK.

Cecelia passed the rest of the day in fanciful projects of beneficence;

she determined to wander with her romantic new ally whither-so-ever

he would lead her, and to spare neither fortune, time, nor trouble, in

seeking and relieving the distressed. Not all her attempted philosophy

had calmed her mind like this plan; in merely refusing indulgence

to grief, she had only locked it up in her heart, where eternally

struggling for vent, she was almost overpowered by restraining it; but

now her affliction had no longer her whole faculties to itself; the hope

of doing good, the pleasure of easing pain, the intention of devoting

her time to the service of the unhappy, once more delighted her

imagination,--that source of promissory enjoyment, which though often

obstructed, is never, in youth, exhausted.

She would not give Mrs Charlton the unnecessary pain of hearing the

letter with which she had been so, much affected, but she told her of

the visit of Albany, and pleased her with the account of their scheme.

At night, with less sadness than usual, she retired to rest. In her

sleep she bestowed riches, and poured plenty upon the land; she

humbled the oppressor, she exalted the oppressed; slaves were raised to

dignities, captives restored to liberty; beggars saw smiling abundance,

and wretchedness was banished the world. From a cloud in which she was

supported by angels, Cecilia beheld these wonders, and while enjoying

the glorious illusion, she was awakened by her maid, with news that Mrs

Charlton was dying!

She started up, and, undressed, was running to her apartment,--when the

maid, calling to stop her, confessed she was already dead!

She had made her exit in the night, but the time was not exactly known;

her own maid, who slept in the room with her, going early to her bedside

to enquire how she did, found her cold and motionless, and could only

conclude that a paralytic stroke had taken her off.

Happily and in good time had Cecilia been somewhat recruited by one

night of refreshing slumbers and flattering dreams, for the shock she

now received promised her not soon another.

She lost in Mrs Charlton a friend, whom nearly from her infancy she

had considered as a mother, and by whom she had been cherished with

tenderness almost unequalled. She was not a woman of bright parts, or

much cultivation, but her heart was excellent, and her disposition was

amiable. Cecilia had known her longer than her memory could look back,

though the earliest circumstances she could trace were kindnesses

received from her. Since she had entered into life, and found the

difficulty of the part she had to act, to this worthy old lady alone had

she unbosomed her secret cares. Though little assisted by her counsel,

she was always certain of her sympathy; and while her own superior

judgment directed her conduct, she had the relief of communicating her

schemes, and weighing her perplexities, with a friend to whom nothing

that concerned her was indifferent, and whose greatest wish and chief

pleasure was the enjoyment of her conversation.

If left to herself, in the present period of her life, Mrs Charlton had

certainly not been the friend of her choice. The delicacy of her mind,

and the refinement of her ideas, had now rendered her fastidious,

and she would have looked out for elegancies and talents to which Mrs

Charlton had no pretensions: but those who live in the country have

little power of selection; confined to a small circle, they must be

content with what it offers; and however they may idolize extraordinary

merit when they meet with it, they must not regard it as essential to

friendship, for in their circumscribed rotation, whatever may be their

discontent, they can make but little change.

Such had been the situation to which Mrs Charlton and Mrs Harrel owed

the friendship of Cecilia. Greatly their superior in understanding and

intelligence, had the candidates for her favour been more numerous, the

election had not fallen upon either of them. But she became known to

both before discrimination made her difficult, and when her enlightened

mind discerned their deficiencies, they had already an interest in her

affections, which made her see them with lenity: and though sometimes,

perhaps, conscious she should not have chosen them from many, she

adhered to them with sincerity, and would have changed them for none.

Mrs Harrel, however, too weak for similar sentiments, forgot her

when out of sight, and by the time they met again, was insensible to

everything but shew and dissipation. Cecilia, shocked and surprised,

first grieved from disappointed affection, and then lost that affection

in angry contempt. But her fondness for Mrs Charlton had never known

abatement, as the kindness which had excited it had never known

allay. She had loved her first from childish gratitude; but that love,

strengthened and confirmed by confidential intercourse, was now as

sincere and affectionate as if it had originated from sympathetic

admiration. Her loss, therefore, was felt with the utmost severity, and

neither seeing nor knowing any means of replacing it, she considered it

as irreparable, and mourned it with bitterness.

When the first surprize of this cruel stroke was somewhat lessened, she

sent an express to Mr Monckton with the news, and entreated to see him

immediately. He came without delay, and she begged his counsel what step

she ought herself to take in consequence of this event. Her own house

was still unprepared for her; she had of late neglected to hasten the

workmen, and almost forgotten her intention of entering it. It was

necessary, however, to change her abode immediately; she was no

longer in the house of Mrs Charlton, but of her grand-daughters and

co-heiresses, each of whom she disliked, and upon neither of whom she

had any claim.

Mr Monckton then, with the quickness of a man who utters a thought at

the very moment of its projection, mentioned a scheme upon which

during his whole ride he had been ruminating; which was that she would

instantly remove to his house, and remain there till settled to her

satisfaction.

Cecilia objected her little right of surprising Lady Margaret; but,

without waiting to discuss it, lest new objections should arise, he

quitted her, to fetch himself from her ladyship an invitation he meant

to insist upon her sending.

Cecilia, though heartily disliking this plan, knew not at present what

better to adopt, and thought anything preferable to going again to

Mrs Harrel, since that only could be done by feeding the anxiety of Mr

Arnott.

Mr Monckton soon returned with a message of his own fabrication; for

his lady, though obliged to receive whom he pleased, took care to guard

inviolate the independence of speech, sullenly persevering in refusing

to say anything, or perversely saying only what he least wished to hear.

Cecilia then took a hasty leave of Miss Charltons, who, little affected

by what they had lost, and eager to examine what they had gained, parted

from her gladly, and, with a heavy heart and weeping eyes, borrowed for

the last time the carriage of her late worthy old friend, and for-ever

quitting her hospitable house, sorrowfully set out for the Grove.