BOOK X.

CHAPTER i

A DISCOVERY.

Cecilia's journey back to the country was as safe and free from

interruption as her journey had been to town, and all that distinguished

them was what passed in her own mind: the doubts, apprehensions, and

desponding suspense which had accompanied her setting out, were now

all removed, and certainty, ease, the expectation of happiness, and the

cessation of all perplexity, had taken their place. She had nothing left

to dread but the inflexibility of Mr Delvile, and hardly any thing even

to hope but the recovery of his lady.

Her friends at her return expressed their wonder at her expedition,

but their wonder at what occasioned it, though still greater, met no

satisfaction. Henrietta rejoiced in her sight, though her absence had

been so short; and Cecilia, whose affection with her pity increased,

intimated to her the event for which she wished her to prepare herself,

and frankly acknowledged she had reason to expect it would soon take

place.

Henrietta endeavoured with composure to receive this intelligence, and

to return such a mark of confidence with chearful congratulations: but

her fortitude was unequal to an effort so heroic, and her character was

too simple to assume a greatness she felt not: she sighed and changed

colour; and hastily quitted the room that she might sob aloud in

another.

Warm-hearted, tender, and susceptible, her affections were all

undisguised: struck with the elegance of Delvile, and enchanted by his

services to her brother, she had lost to him her heart at first without

missing it, and, when missed, without seeking to reclaim it. The

hopelessness of such a passion she never considered, nor asked herself

its end, or scarce suspected its aim; it was pleasant to her at the

time, and she looked not to the future, but fed it with visionary

schemes, and soothed it with voluntary fancies. Now she knew all was

over, she felt the folly she had committed, but though sensibly and

candidly angry at her own error, its conviction offered nothing but

sorrow to succeed it.

The felicity of Cecilia, whom she loved, admired and revered, she wished

with the genuine ardour of zealous sincerity; but that Delvile, the very

cause and sole subject of her own personal unhappiness, should himself

constitute that felicity, was too much for her spirits, and seemed to

her mortified mind too cruel in her destiny.

Cecilia, who in the very vehemence of her sorrow saw its innocence,

was too just and too noble to be offended by it, or impute to the bad

passions of envy or jealousy, the artless regret of an untutored mind.

To be penetrated too deeply with the merit of Delvile, with her wanted

no excuse, and she grieved for her situation with but little mixture

of blame, and none of surprise. She redoubled her kindness and caresses

with the hope of consoling her, but ventured to trust her no further,

till reflection, and her natural good sense, should better enable her to

bear an explanation.

Nor was this friendly exertion any longer a hardship to her; the sudden

removal, in her own feelings and affairs, of distress and expectation,

had now so much lightened her heart, that she could spare without

repining, some portion of its spirit to her dejected young friend.

But an incident happened two mornings after which called back, and most

unpleasantly, her attention to herself. She was told that Mrs Matt, the

poor woman she had settled in Bury, begged an audience, and upon sending

for her up stairs, and desiring to know what she could do for her,

“Nothing, madam, just now,” she answered, “for I don't come upon my own

business, but to tell some news to you, madam. You bid me never take

notice of the wedding, that was to be, and I'm sure I never opened my

mouth about it from that time to this; but I have found out who it was

put a stop to it, and so I come to tell you.”

Cecilia, extremely amazed, eagerly desired her to go on.

“Why, madam, I don't know the gentlewoman's name quite right yet, but

I can tell you where she lives, for I knew her as soon as I set eyes on

her, when I see her at church last Sunday, and I would have followed her

home, but she went into a coach, and I could not walk fast enough; but I

asked one of the footmen where she lived, and he said at the great house

at the Grove: and perhaps, madam, you may know where that is: and then

he told me her name, but that I can't just now think of.”

“Good heaven!” cried Cecilia,--“it could not be Bennet?”

“Yes, ma'am, that's the very name; I know it again now I hear it.”

Cecilia then hastily dismissed her, first desiring her not to mention

the circumstance to any body.

Shocked and dismayed, she now saw, but saw with horror, the removal of

all her doubts, and the explanation of all her difficulties, in the

full and irrefragable discovery of the perfidy of her oldest friend and

confident.

Miss Bennet herself she regarded in the affair as a mere tool, which,

though in effect it did the work, was innocent of its mischief, because

powerless but in the hand of its employer.

“That employer,” cried she, “must be Mr Monckton! Mr Monckton whom so

long I have known, who so willingly has been my counsellor, so ably my

instructor! in whose integrity I have confided, upon whose friendship

I have relied! my succour in all emergencies, my guide in all

perplexities!--Mr _Monckton_ thus dishonourably, thus barbarously to

betray me! to turn against me the very confidence I had reposed in his

regard for me! and make use of my own trust to furnish the means to

injure me!”--

She was now wholly confirmed that he had wronged her with Mr Delvile;

she could not have two enemies so malignant without provocation, and he

who so unfeelingly could dissolve a union at the very altar, could alone

have the baseness to calumniate her so cruelly.

Evil thoughts thus awakened, stopt not merely upon facts; conjecture

carried her further, and conjecture built upon probability. The

officiousness of Morrice in pursuing her to London, his visiting her

when there, and his following and watching Delvile, she now reasonably

concluded were actions directed by Mr Monckton, whose house he had but

just left, and whose orders, whatever they might be, she was almost

certain he would obey. Availing himself, therefore, of the forwardness

and suppleness which met in this young man, she doubted not but his

intelligence had contributed to acquaint him with her proceedings.

The motive of such deep concerted and accumulated treachery was next to

be sought: nor was the search long; one only could have tempted him to

schemes so hazardous and costly; and, unsuspicious as she was, she now

saw into his whole design.

Long accustomed to regard him as a safe and disinterested old friend,

the respect with which, as a child, she had looked up to him, she

had insensibly preserved when a woman. That respect had taught her to

consider his notice as a favour, and far from suspiciously shunning, she

had innocently courted it: and his readiness in advising and tutoring

her, his frank and easy friendliness of behaviour, had kept his

influence unimpaired, by preventing its secret purpose from being

detected.

But now the whole mystery was revealed; his aversion to the Delviles, to

which hitherto she had attributed all she disapproved in his behaviour,

she was convinced must be inadequate to stimulate him to such lengths.

That aversion itself was by this late surmise accounted for, and no

sooner did it occur to her, than a thousand circumstances confirmed it.

The first among these was the evident ill will of Lady Margaret, which

though she had constantly imputed to the general irascibility for which

her character was notorious, she had often wondered to find impenetrable

to all endeavours to please or soften her. His care of her fortune, his

exhortations against her expences, his wish to make her live with Mr

Briggs, all contributed to point out the selfishness of his attentions,

which in one instance rendered visible, became obvious in every other.

Yet various as were the incidents that now poured upon her memory to

his disgrace, not one among them took its rise from his behaviour to

herself, which always had been scrupulously circumspect, or if for a

moment unguarded, only at a season when her own distress or confusion

had prevented her from perceiving it. This recollection almost staggered

her suspicions; yet so absolute seemed the confirmation they received

from every other, that her doubt was overpowered, and soon wholly

extinguished.

She was yet ruminating on this subject, when, word was brought her that

Mr Monckton was in the parlour.

Mingled disgust and indignation made her shudder at his name, and

without pausing a moment, she sent him word she was engaged, and could

not possibly leave her room.

Astonished by such a dismission, he left the house in the utmost

confusion. But Cecilia could not endure to see him, after a discovery of

such hypocrisy and villainy.

She considered, however, that the matter could not rest here: he would

demand an explanation, and perhaps, by his unparalleled address, again

contrive to seem innocent, notwithstanding appearances were at present

so much against him. Expecting, therefore, some artifice, and determined

not to be duped by it, she sent again for the Pew-opener, to examine her

more strictly.

The woman was out at work in a private family, and could not come till

the evening: but, when further questioned, the description she gave of

Miss Bennet was too exact to be disputed.

She then desired her to call again the next morning and sent a servant

to the Grove, with her compliments to Miss Bennet, and a request that

she might send her carriage for her the next day, at any time she

pleased, as she wished much to speak with her.

This message, she was aware, might create some suspicion, and put her

upon her guard; but she thought, nevertheless, a sudden meeting with the

Pew-opener, whom she meant abruptly to confront with her, would baffle

the security of any previously settled scheme.

To a conviction such as this even Mr Monckton must submit, and since he

was lost to her as a friend, she might at least save herself the pain of

keeping up his acquaintance.

CHAPTER ii.

AN INTERVIEW.

The servant did not return till it was dark; and then, with a look of

much dismay, said he had been able to meet with nobody who could either

give or take a message; that the Grove was all in confusion, and the

whole country in an uproar, for Mr Monckton, just as he arrived, had

been brought home dead!

Cecilia screamed with involuntary horror; a pang like remorse seized her

mind, with the apprehension she had some share in this catastrophe,

and innocent as she was either of his fall or his crimes, she no

sooner heard he was no more, than she forgot he had offended her, and

reproached herself with severity for the shame to which she meant to

expose him the next morning.

Dreadfully disturbed by this horrible incident, she entreated Mrs

Harrel and Henrietta to sup by themselves, and going into her own room,

determined to write the whole affair to Delvile, in a letter she should

direct to be left at the post-office for him at Margate.

And here strongly she felt the happiness of being actually his wife; she

could now without reserve make him acquainted with all her affairs, and

tell to the master of her heart every emotion that entered it.

While engaged in this office, the very action of which quieted her,

a letter was brought her from Delvile himself. She received it with

gratitude and opened it with joy; he had promised to write soon, but so

soon she had thought impossible.

The reading took not much time; the letter contained but the following

words:

_To Miss Beverley_.

MY CECILIA!--Be alone, I conjure you; dismiss every body, and admit me

this moment!

Great was her astonishment at this note! no name to it, no conclusion,

the characters indistinct, the writing crooked, the words so few, and

those few scarce legible!

He desired to see her, and to see her alone; she could not hesitate in

her compliance,--but whom could she dismiss?--her servants, if ordered

away, would but be curiously upon the watch,--she could think of no

expedient, she was all hurry and amazement.

She asked if any one waited for an answer? The footman said no; that

the note was given in by somebody who did not speak, and who ran out of

sight the moment he had delivered it.

She could not doubt this was Delvile himself,--Delvile who should now

be just returned from the castle to his mother, and whom she had thought

not even a letter would reach if directed any where nearer than Margate!

All she could devise in obedience to him, was to go and wait for him

alone in her dressing-room, giving orders that if any one called they

might be immediately brought up to her, as she expected somebody upon

business, with whom she must not be interrupted.

This was extremely disagreeable to her; yet, contrary as it was to their

agreement, she felt no inclination to reproach Delvile; the abruptness

of his note, the evident hand-shaking with which it had been written,

the strangeness of the request in a situation such as theirs,--all

concurred to assure her he came not to her idly, and all led her to

apprehend he came to her with evil tidings.

What they might be, she had no time to conjecture; a servant, in a few

minutes, opened the dressing-room door, and said, “Ma'am, a gentleman;”

and Delvile, abruptly entering, shut it himself, in his eagerness to get

rid of him.

At his sight, her prognostication of ill became stronger! she went

forward to meet him, and he advanced to her smiling and in haste;

but that smile did not well do its office; it concealed not a pallid

countenance, in which every feature spoke horror; it disguised not an

aching heart, which almost visibly throbbed with intolerable emotion!

Yet he addressed her in terms of tenderness and peace; but his tremulous

voice counteracted his words, and spoke that all within was tumult and

war!

Cecilia, amazed, affrighted, had no power to hasten an explanation,

which, on his own part, he seemed unable, or fearful to begin. He talked

to her of his happiness in again seeing her before he left the kingdom,

entreated her to write to him continually, said the same thing two and

three times in a breath, began with one subject, and seemed unconscious

he wandered presently into another, and asked her questions innumerable

about her health, journey, affairs, and ease of mind, without hearing

from her any answer, or seeming to miss that she had none.

Cecilia grew dreadfully terrified; something strange and most alarming

she was sure must have happened, but _what_, she had no means to know,

nor courage, nor even words to enquire.

Delvile, at length, the first hurry of his spirits abating, became more

coherent and considerate: and looking anxiously at her, said, “Why this

silence, my Cecilia?”

“I know not!” said she, endeavouring to recover herself, “but your

coming was unexpected: I was just writing to you at Margate.”

“Write still, then; but direct to Ostend; I shall be quicker than the

post; and I would not lose a letter--a line--a word from you, for all

the world can offer me!”

“Quicker than the post?” cried Cecilia; “but how can Mrs Delvile--” she

stopt; not knowing what she might venture to ask.

“She is now on the road to Margate; I hope to be there to receive her. I

mean but to bid you adieu, and be gone.”

Cecilia made no answer; she was more and more astonished, more and more

confounded.

“You are thoughtful?” said he, with tenderness; “are you

unhappy?--sweetest Cecilia! most excellent of human creatures! if I have

made you unhappy--and I must!--it is inevitable!--”

“Oh Delvile!” cried she, now assuming more courage, “why will you not

speak to me openly?--something, I see, is wrong; may I not hear it? may

I not tell you, at least, my concern that any thing has distressed you?”

“You are too good!” cried he; “to deserve you is not possible, but to

afflict you is inhuman!”

“Why so?” cried she, more chearfully; “must I not share the common lot?

or expect the whole world to be new modelled, lest I should meet in it

any thing but happiness?”

“There is not, indeed, much danger! Have you pen and ink here?”

She brought them to him immediately, with paper.

“You have been writing to me, you say?--I will begin a letter myself.”

“To me?” cried she.

He made no answer, but took up the pen, and wrote a few words, and then,

flinging it down, said, “Fool!--I could have done this without coming!”

“May I look at it?” said she; and, finding he made no opposition,

advanced and read.

_I fear to alarm you by rash precipitation,--I fear to alarm you by

lingering suspense,--but all is not well--_

“Fear nothing!” cried she, turning to him with the kindest earnestness;

“tell me, whatever it may be!--Am I not your wife? bound by every tie

divine and human to share in all your sorrows, if, unhappily, I cannot

mitigate them!”

“Since you allow me,” cried he, gratefully, “so sweet a claim, a claim

to which all others yield, and which if you repent not giving me, will

make all others nearly immaterial to me,--I will own to you that all,

indeed, is not well! I have been hasty,--you will blame me; I deserve,

indeed, to be blamed!--entrusted with your peace and happiness, to

suffer rage, resentment, violence, to make me forego what I owed to such

a deposite!--If your blame, however, stops short of repentance--but it

cannot!”

“What, then,” cried she with warmth, “must you have done? for there

is not an action of which I believe you capable, there is not an event

which I believe to be possible, that can ever make me repent belonging

to you wholly!”

“Generous, condescending Cecilia!” cried he; “Words such as these, hung

there not upon me an evil the most depressing, would be almost more than

I could bear--would make me too blest for mortality!”

“But words such as these,” said she more gaily, “I might long have

coquetted ere I had spoken, had you not drawn them from me by this

alarm. Take, therefore, the good with the ill, and remember, if all does

not go right, you have now a trusty friend, as willing to be the partner

of your serious as your happiest hours.”

“Shew but as much firmness as you have shewn sweetness,” cried he, “and

I will fear to tell you nothing.”

She reiterated her assurances; they then both sat down, and he began his

account.

“Immediately from your lodgings I went where I had ordered a chaise, and

stopped only to change horses till I reached Delvile Castle. My father

saw me with surprise, and received me with coldness. I was compelled by

my situation to be abrupt, and told him I came, before I accompanied

my mother abroad, to make him acquainted with an affair which I thought

myself bound in duty and respect to suffer no one to communicate to him

but myself. He then sternly interrupted me, and declared in high terms,

that if this affair concerned _you_, he would not listen to it. I

attempted to remonstrate upon this injustice, when he passionately broke

forth into new and horrible charges against you, affirming that he had

them from authority as indisputable as ocular demonstration. I was then

certain of some foul play.”--

“Foul play indeed!” cried Cecilia, who now knew but too well by whom she

had been injured. “Good heaven, how have I been deceived, where most I

have trusted!”

“I told him,” continued Delvile, “some gross imposition had been

practiced upon him, and earnestly conjured him no longer to conceal

from me by whom. This, unfortunately, encreased his rage; imposition,

he said, was not so easily played upon him, he left that for _me_ who so

readily was duped; while for himself, he had only given credit to a man

of much consideration in Suffolk, who had known you from a child, who

had solemnly assured him he had repeatedly endeavoured to reclaim you,

who had rescued you from the hands of Jews at his own hazard and loss,

and who actually shewed him bonds acknowledging immense debts, which

were signed with your own hand.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Cecilia, “I believed not such guilt and perfidy

possible!”

“I was scarce myself,” resumed Delvile, “while I heard him: I demanded

even with fierceness his author, whom I scrupled not to execrate as he

deserved; he coldly answered he was bound by an oath never to reveal

him, nor should he repay his honourable attention to his family by a

breach of his own word, were it even less formally engaged. I then

lost all patience; to mention honour, I cried, was a farce, where

such infamous calumnies were listened to;--but let me not shock you

unnecessarily, you may readily conjecture what passed.”

“Ah me!” cried Cecilia, “you have then quarrelled with your father!”

“I have!” said he; “nor does he yet know I am married: in so much wrath

there was no room for narration; I only pledged myself by all I held

sacred, never to rest till I had cleared your fame, by the detection of

this villainy, and then left him without further explanation.”

“Oh return, then, to him directly!” cried Cecilia, “he is your father,

you are bound to bear with his displeasure;--alas! had you never known

me, you had never incurred it!”

“Believe me,” he answered, “I am ill at ease under it: if you wish it,

when you have heard me, I will go to him immediately; if not, I will

write, and you shall yourself dictate what.”

Cecilia thanked him, and begged he would continue his account.

“My first step, when I left the Castle, was to send a letter to my

mother, in which I entreated her to set out as soon as possible for

Margate, as I was detained from her unavoidably, and was unwilling my

delay should either retard our journey, or oblige her to travel faster.

At Margate I hoped to be as soon as herself, if not before her.”

“And why,” cried Cecilia, “did you not go to town as you had promised,

and accompany her?”

“I had business another way. I came hither.”

“Directly?”

“No; but soon.”

“Where did you go first?”

“My Cecilia, it is now you must summon your fortitude: I left my

father without an explanation on my part;--but not till, in his rage of

asserting his authority, he had unwarily named his informant.”

“Well!”

“That informant--the most deceitful of men!--was your long pretended

friend, Mr Monckton!”

“So I feared!” said Cecilia, whose blood now ran cold through her veins

with sudden and new apprehensions.

“I rode to the Grove, on hack-horses, and on a full gallop the whole

way. I got to him early in the evening. I was shewn into his library. I

told him my errand.--You look pale, my love? You are not well?--”

Cecilia, too sick for speech, leant her head upon a table. Delvile was

going to call for help; but she put her hand upon his arm to stop

him, and, perceiving she was only mentally affected, he rested, and

endeavoured by every possible means to revive her.

After a while, she again raised her head, faintly saying, “I am sorry

I interrupted you; but the conclusion I already know,--Mr Monckton is

dead!”

“Not dead,” cried he; “dangerously, indeed, wounded, but thank heaven,

not actually dead!”

“Not dead?” cried Cecilia, with recruited strength and spirits, “Oh then

all yet may be well!--if he is not dead; he may recover!”

“He may; I hope he will!”

“Now, then,” she cried, “tell me all: I can bear any intelligence but of

death by human means.”

“I meant not to have gone such lengths; far from it; I hold duels in

abhorrence, as unjustifiable acts of violence, and savage devices of

revenge. I have offended against my own conviction,--but, transported

with passion at his infamous charges, I was not master of my reason; I

accused hum of his perfidy; he denied it; I told him I had it from my

father,--he changed the subject to pour abuse upon him; I insisted on a

recantation to clear you; he asked by what right? I fiercely answered;

by a husband's! His countenance, then, explained at least the motives

of his treachery,--he loves you himself! he had probably schemed to keep

you free till his wife died, and then concluded his machinations would

secure you his own. For this purpose, finding he was in danger of losing

you, he was content even to blast your character, rather than suffer you

to escape him! But the moment I acknowledged my marriage he grew more

furious than myself; and, in short-for why relate the frenzies of rage?

we walked out together; my travelling pistols were already charged;

I gave him his choice of them, and, the challenge being mine, for

insolence joined with guilt had robbed me of all forbearance, he fired

first, but missed me: I then demanded whether he would clear your

fame? he called out 'Fire! I will make no terms,'--I did fire,--and

unfortunately aimed better! We had neither of us any second, all was the

result of immediate passion; but I soon got people to him, and assisted

in conveying him home. He was at, first believed to be dead, and I was

seized by his servants; but he afterwards shewed signs of life, and by

sending for my friend Biddulph, I was released. Such is the melancholy

transaction I came to relate to you, flattering myself it would

something less shock you from me than from another: yet my own real

concern for the affair, the repentance with which from the moment the

wretch fell, I was struck in being his destroyer, and the sorrow, the

remorse, rather, which I felt, in coming to wound you with such

black, such fearful intelligence,--you to whom all I owe is peace and

comfort!--these thoughts gave me so much disturbance, that, in fact, I

knew less than any other how to prepare you for such a tale.”

He stopt; but Cecilia could say nothing: to censure him now would both

be cruel and vain; yet to pretend she was satisfied with his conduct,

would be doing violence to her judgment and veracity. She saw, too, that

his error had sprung wholly from a generous ardor in her defence, and

that his confidence in her character, had resisted, without wavering,

every attack that menaced it. For this she felt truly grateful; yet

his quarrel with his father,--the danger of his mother,--his necessary

absence,--her own clandestine situation,--and more than all, the

threatened death of Mr Monckton by his hands, were circumstances so full

of dread and sadness, she knew not upon which to speak,--how to offer

him comfort,--how to assume a countenance that looked able to receive

any, or by what means to repress the emotions which to many ways

assailed her. Delvile, having vainly waited some reply, then in a

tone the most melancholy, said, “If it is yet possible you can be

sufficiently interested in my fate to care what becomes of me, aid me

now with your counsel, or rather with your instructions; I am scarce

able to think for myself, and to be thought for by you, would yet be a

consolation that would give me spirit for any thing.”

Cecilia, starting from her reverie, repeated, “To care what becomes of

you-? Oh Delvile!--make not my heart bleed by words of such unkindness!”

“Forgive me,” cried he, “I meant not a reproach; I meant but to state

my own consciousness how little I deserve from you. You talked to me of

going to my father? do you still wish it?”

“I think so!” cried she; too much disturbed to know what she said, yet

fearing again to hurt him by making him wait her answer.

“I will go then,” said he, “without doubt: too happy to be guided by

you, which-ever way I steer. I have now, indeed much to tell him; but

whatever may be his wrath, there is little fear, at this time, that my

own temper cannot bear it! what next shall I do?”

“What next?” repeated she; “indeed I know not!”

“Shall I go immediately to Margate? or shall I first ride hither?”

“If you please,” said she, much perturbed, and deeply sighing.

“I please nothing but by your direction, to follow that is my only

chance of pleasure. Which, then, shall I do?-you will not, now, refuse

to direct me?”

“No, certainly, not for the world!”

“Speak to me, then, my love, and tell me;--why are you thus silent?--is

it painful to you to counsel me?”

“No, indeed!” said she, putting her hand to her head, “I will speak to

you in a few minutes.”

“Oh my Cecilia!” cried he, looking at her with much alarm, “call back

your recollection! you know not what you say, you take no interest in

what you answer.”

“Indeed I do!” said she, sighing deeply, and oppressed beyond the

power of thinking, beyond any power but an internal consciousness of

wretchedness.

“Sigh not so bitterly,” cried he, “if you have any compassion! sigh not

so bitterly,--I cannot bear to hear you!”

“I am very sorry indeed!” said she, sighing again, and not seeming

sensible she spoke.

“Good Heaven!” cried he, rising, “distract me not with this

horror!--speak not to me in such broken sentences!--Do you hear me,

Cecilia?--why will you not answer me?”

She started and trembled, looked pale and affrighted, and putting both

her hands upon her heart, said, “Oh yes!--but I have an oppression

here,--a tightness, a fulness,--I have not room for breath!”

“Oh beloved of my heart!” cried he, wildly casting himself at her feet,

“kill me not with this terror!--call back your faculties,--awake from

this dreadful insensibility! tell me at least you know me!--tell me I

have not tortured you quite to madness!--sole darling of my affections!

my own, my wedded Cecilia!--rescue me from this agony! it is more than I

can support!”---

This energy of distress brought back her scattered senses, scarce more

stunned by the shock of all this misery, than by the restraint of her

feelings in struggling to conceal it. But these passionate exclamations

restoring her sensibility, she burst into tears, which happily relieved

her mind from the conflict with which it was labouring, and which, not

thus effected, might have ended more fatally.

Never had Delvile more rejoiced in her smiles than now in these

seasonable tears, which he regarded and blest as the preservers of her

reason. They flowed long without any intermission, his soothing and

tenderness but melting her to more sorrow: after a while, however, the

return of her faculties, which at first seemed all consigned over to

grief, was manifested by the returning strength of her mind: she blamed

herself severely for the little fortitude she had shewn, but having now

given vent to emotions too forcible to be wholly stiffed, she assured

him he might depend upon her' better courage for the future, and

entreated him to consider and settle his affairs.

Not speedily, however, could Delvile himself recover. The torture he had

suffered in believing, though only for a few moments, that the terror

he had given to Cecilia had affected her intellects, made even a deeper

impression upon his imagination, than the scene of fury and death, which

had occasioned that terror: and Cecilia, who now strained every nerve

to repair by her firmness, the pain which by her weakness she had given

him, was sooner in a condition for reasoning and deliberation than

himself.

“Ah Delvile!” she cried, comprehending what passed within him, “do

you allow nothing for surprize? and nothing for the hard conflict of

endeavouring to suppress it? do you think me still as unfit to advise

with, and as worthless, as feeble a counsellor, as during the first

confusion of my mind?”

“Hurry not your tender spirits, I beseech you,” cried he, “we have time

enough; we will talk about business by and by.”

“What time?” cried she, “what is it now o'clock?”

“Good Heaven!” cried he, looking at his watch, “already past ten! you

must turn me out, my Cecilia, or calumny will still be busy, even though

poor Monckton is quiet.”

“I _will_ turn you out,” cried she, “I am indeed most earnest to have

you gone. But tell me your plan, and which way you mean to go?”

“That;” he answered, “you shall decide for me yourself: whether to

Delvile Castle, to finish one tale, and wholly communicate another, or

to Margate, to hasten my mother abroad, before the news of this calamity

reaches her.”

“Go to Margate,” cried she, eagerly, “set off this very moment! you can

write to your father from Ostend. But continue, I conjure you, on the

continent, till we see if this unhappy man lives, and enquire, of those

who can judge, what must follow if he should not!”

“A trial,” said he, “must follow, and it will go, I fear, but hardly

with me! the challenge was mine; his servants can all witness I went

to him, not he to me,--Oh my Cecilia! the rashness of which I have been

guilty, is so opposite to my principles, and, all generous as is your

silence, I know it so opposite to yours, that never, should his blood be

on my hands, wretch as he was, never will my heart be quiet more.”

“He will live, he will live!” cried Cecilia, repressing her horror,

“fear nothing, for he will live;--and as to his wound and his

sufferings, his perfidy has deserved them. Go, then, to Margate; think

only of Mrs Delvile, and save her, if possible, from hearing what has

happened.”

“I will go,--stay,--do which and whatever you bid me: but, should what I

fear come to pass, should my mother continue ill, my father inflexible,

should this wretched man die, and should England no longer be a country

I shall love to dwell in,--could you, then, bear to own,--would you,

then, consent to follow me?”

“Could I?--am I not yours? may you not command me? tell me, then, you

have only to say,--shall I accompany you at once?”

Delvile, affected by her generosity, could scarce utter his thanks; yet

he did not hesitate in denying to avail himself of it; “No, my Cecilia,”

he cried, “I am not so selfish. If we have not happier days, we will at

least wait for more desperate necessity. With the uncertainty if I have

not this man's life to answer for at the hazard of my own, to take my

wife--my bride,--from the kingdom I must fly!--to make her a fugitive

and an exile in the first publishing that she is mine! No, if I am not a

destined alien for life I can never permit it. Nothing less, believe

me, shall ever urge my consent to wound the chaste propriety of your

character, by making you an eloper with a duelist.”

They then again consulted upon their future plans; and concluded that in

the present disordered state of their affairs, it would be best not to

acknowledge even to Mr Delvile their marriage, to whom the news of the

duel, and Mr Monckton's danger, would be a blow so severe, that, to add

to it any other might half distract him.

To the few people already acquainted with it, Delvile therefore

determined to write from Ostend, re-urging his entreaties for their

discretion and secrecy. Cecilia promised every post to acquaint him how

Mr Monckton went on, and she then besought him to go instantly, that he

might out-travel the ill news to his mother.

He complied, and took leave of her in the tenderest manner, conjuring

her to support her spirits, and be careful of her health. “Happiness,”

said he, “is much in arrears with us, and though my violence may have

frightened it away, your sweetness and gentleness will yet attract it

back: all that for me is in store must be received at your hands,--what

is offered in any other way, I shall only mistake for evil! droop not,

therefore, my generous Cecilia, but in yourself preserve me!”

“I will not droop,” said she; “you will find, I hope, you have not

intrusted yourself in ill hands.”

“Peace then be with you, my love!--my comforting, my soul-reviving

Cecilia! Peace, such as angels give, and such as may drive from your

mind the remembrance of this bitter hour!”

He then tore himself away.

Cecilia, who to his blessings could almost, like the tender Belvidera,

have exclaimed,

“O do not leave me!--stay with me and curse me!”

listened to his steps till she could hear them no longer, as if the

remaining moments of her life were to be measured by them: but then,

remembering the danger both to herself and him of his stay, she

endeavoured to rejoice that he was gone, and, but that her mind was in

no state for joy, was too rational not to have succeeded.

Grief and horror for what was past, apprehension and suspense for

what was to come, so disordered her whole frame, so confused even her

intellects, that when not all the assistance of fancy could persuade

her she still heard the footsteps of Delvile, she went to the chair upon

which he had been seated, and taking possession of it, sat with her arms

crossed, silent, quiet, and erect, almost vacant of all thought, yet

with a secret idea she was doing something right.

Here she continued till Henrietta came to wish her good night; whose

surprise and concern at the strangeness of her look and attitude, once

more recovered her. But terrified herself at this threatened wandering

of her reason, and certain she must all night be a stranger to rest, she

accepted the affectionate offer of the kind-hearted girl to stay with

her, who was too much grieved for her grief to sleep any more than

herself.

She told her not what had passed; that, she knew, would be fruitless

affliction to her: but she was soothed by her gentleness, and her

conversation was some security from the dangerous rambling of her ideas.

Henrietta herself found no little consolation in her own private

sorrows, that she was able to give comfort to her beloved Miss Beverley,

from whom she had received favours and kind offices innumerable. She

quitted her not night nor day, and in the honest pride of a little

power to skew the gratefulness of her heart, she felt a pleasure and

self-consequence she had never before experienced.

CHAPTER iii.

A SUMMONS.

Cecilia's earliest care, almost at break of day, was to send to the

Grove; from thence she heard nothing but evil; Mr Monckton was still

alive, but with little or no hope of recovery, constantly delirious, and

talking of Miss Beverley, and of her being married to young Delvile.

Cecilia, who knew well this, at least, was no delirium, though shocked

that he talked of it, hoped his danger less than was apprehended.

The next day, however, more fatal news was brought her, though not from

the quarter she expected it: Mr Monckton, in one of his raving fits, had

sent for Lady Margaret to his bed side, and used her almost inhumanly:

he had railed at her age and her infirmities with incredible fury,

called her the cause of all his sufferings, and accused her as the

immediate agent of Lucifer in his present wound and danger. Lady

Margaret, whom neither jealousy nor malignity had cured of loving him,

was dismayed and affrighted; and in hurrying out of the room upon his

attempting, in his frenzy, to strike her, she dropt down dead in an

apoplectic fit.

“Good Heaven!” thought Cecilia, “what an exemplary punishment has this

man! he loses his hated wife at the very moment when her death could

no longer answer his purposes! Poor Lady Margaret! her life has been as

bitter as her temper! married from a view of interest, ill used as a bar

to happiness, and destroyed from the fruitless ravings of despair!”

She wrote all this intelligence to Ostend, whence she received a letter

from Delvile, acquainting her he was detained from proceeding further

by the weakness and illness of his mother, whose sufferings from

seasickness had almost put an end to her existence.

Thus passed a miserable week; Monckton still merely alive, Delvile

detained at Ostend, and Cecilia tortured alike by what was recently

passed, actually present, and fearfully expected; when one morning she

was told a gentleman upon business desired immediately to speak with

her.

She hastily obeyed the summons; the constant image of her own mind,

Delvile, being already present to her, and a thousand wild conjectures

upon what had brought him back, rapidly occurring to her.

Her expectations, however, were ill answered, for she found an entire

stranger; an elderly man, of no pleasant aspect or manners.

She desired to know his business.

“I presume, madam, you are the lady of this house?”

She bowed an assent.

“May I take the liberty, madam, to ask your name?'

“My name, sir?”

“You will do me a favour, madam, by telling it me.”

“Is it possible you are come hither without already knowing it?”

“I know it only by common report, madam.”

“Common report, sir, I believe is seldom wrong in a matter where to be

right is so easy.”

“Have you any objection, madam, to telling me your name?”

“No, sir; but your business can hardly be very important, if you are yet

to learn whom you are to address. It will be time enough, therefore, for

us to meet when you are elsewhere satisfied in this point.”

She would then have left the room.

“I beg, madam,” cried the stranger, “you will have patience; it is

necessary, before I can open my business, that I should hear your name

from yourself.”

“Well, sir,” cried she with some hesitation, “you can scarce have come

to this house, without knowing that its owner is Cecilia Beverley.”

“That, madam, is your maiden name.”

“My maiden name?” cried she, starting.

“Are you not married, madam?”

“Married, sir?” she repeated, while her cheeks were the colour of

scarlet.

“It is, properly, therefore, madam, the name of your husband that I mean

to ask.”

“And by what authority, sir,” cried she, equally astonished and

offended, “do you make these extraordinary enquiries?”

“I am deputed, madam, to wait upon you by Mr Eggleston, the next heir

to this estate, by your uncle's will, if you die without children, or

change your name when you marry. His authority of enquiry, madam,

I presume you will allow, and he has vested it in me by a letter of

attorney.”

Cecilia's distress and confusion were now unspeakable; she knew not what

to own or deny, she could not conjecture how she had been betrayed, and

she had never made the smallest preparation against such an attack.

“Mr Eggleston, madam,” he continued, “has been pretty credibly informed

that you are actually married: he is very desirous, therefore, to

know what are your intentions, for your continuing to be called _Miss_

Beverley, as if still single, leaves him quite in the dark: but, as he

is so deeply concerned in the affair, he expects, as a lady of honour,

you will deal with him without prevarication.”

“This demand, sir,” said Cecilia, stammering, “is so extremely--so--so

little expected--”

“The way, madam, in these cases, is to keep pretty closely to the point;

are you married or are you not?”

Cecilia, quite confounded, made no answer: to disavow her marriage, when

thus formally called upon, was every way unjustifiable; to acknowledge

it in her present situation, would involve her in difficulties

innumerable.

“This is not, madam, a slight thing; Mr Eggleston has a large family and

a small fortune, and that, into the bargain, very much encumbered;

it cannot, therefore, be expected that he will knowingly connive at

cheating himself, by submitting to your being actually married, and

still enjoying your estate though your husband does not take your name.”

Cecilia, now, summoning more presence of mind, answered, “Mr Eggleston,

sir, has, at least, nothing to fear from imposition: those with whom he

has, or may have any transactions in this affair, are not accustomed to

practice it.”

“I am far from meaning any offence, madam; my commission from Mr

Eggleston is simply this, to beg you will satisfy him upon what grounds

you now evade the will of your late uncle, which, till cleared up,

appears a point manifestly to his prejudice.”

“Tell him, then, sir, that whatever he wishes to know shall be explained

to him in about a week. At present I can give no other answer.”

“Very well, madam; he will wait that time, I am sure, for he does not

wish to put you to any inconvenience. But when he heard the gentleman

was gone abroad without owning his marriage, he thought it high time to

take some notice of the matter.”

Cecilia, who by this speech found she was every way discovered, was

again in the utmost confusion, and with much trepidation, said, “since

you seem so well, sir, acquainted with this affair, I should be glad you

would inform me by what means you came to the knowledge of it?”

“I heard it, madam, from Mr Eggleston himself, who has long known it.”

“Long, sir?--impossible! when it is not yet a fortnight--not ten days,

or no more, that---”

She stopt, recollecting she was making a confession better deferred.

“That, madam,” he answered, “may perhaps bear a little contention: for

when this business comes to be settled, it will be very essential to

be exact as to the time, even to the very hour; for a large income per

annum, divides into a small one per diem: and if your husband keeps his

own name, you must not only give up your uncle's inheritance from

the time of relinquishing yours, but refund from the very day of your

marriage.”

“There is not the least doubt of it,” answered she; “nor will the

smallest difficulty be made.”

“You will please, then, to recollect, madam, that this sum is every hour

encreasing; and has been since last September, which made half a year

accountable for last March. Since then there is now added---”

“Good Heaven, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “what calculation are you making out?

do you call last week last September?”

“No, madam; but I call last September the month in which you were

married.”

“You will find yourself, then, sir, extremely mistaken; and Mr Eggleston

is preparing himself for much disappointment, if he supposes me so long

in arrears with him.”

“Mr Eggleston, madam, happens to be well informed of this transaction,

as, if there is any dispute in it, you will find. He was your immediate

successor in the house to which you went last September in Pall-Mall;

the woman who kept it acquainted his servants that the last lady who

hired it stayed with her but a day, and only came to town, she found, to

be married: and hearing, upon enquiry, this lady was Miss Beverley, the

servants, well knowing that their master was her conditional heir, told

him the circumstance.”

“You will find all this, sir, end in nothing.”

“That, madam, as I said before, remains to be proved. If a young lady at

eight o'clock in the morning, is seen,--and she was seen, going into a

church with a young gentleman, and one female friend; and is afterwards

observed to come out of it, followed by a clergyman and another person,

supposed to have officiated as father, and is seen get into a coach with

same young gentleman, and same female friend, why the circumstances are

pretty strong!--”

“They may seem so, Sir; but all conclusions drawn from them will be

erroneous. I was not married then, upon my honour!”

“We have little, madam, to do with professions; the circumstances are

strong enough to bear a trial, and--”

“A trial!--”

“We have traced, madam, many witnesses able to stand to divers

particulars; and eight months share of such an estate as this, is well

worth a little trouble.”

“I am amazed, sir! surely Mr Eggleston never desired you to make use of

this language to me?”

“Mr Eggleston, madam, has behaved very honourably; though he knew

the whole affair so long ago, he was persuaded Mr Delvile had private

reasons for a short concealment; and expecting every day when they would

be cleared up by his taking your name, he never interfered: but being

now informed he set out last week for the continent, he has been advised

by his friends to claim his rights.”

“That claim, sir, he need not fear will be satisfied; and without any

occasion for threats of enquiries or law suits.”

“The truth, madam, is this; Mr Eggleston is at present in a little

difficulty about some money matters, which makes it a point with him of

some consequence to have the affair settled speedily: unless you could

conveniently compromise the matter, by advancing a particular sum,

till it suits you to refund the whole that is due to him, and quit the

premises.”

“Nothing, sir, is due to him! at least, nothing worth mentioning. I

shall enter into no terms, for I have no compromise to make. As to the

premises, I will quit them with all the expedition in my power.”

“You will do well, madam; for the truth is, it will not be convenient to

him to wait much longer.”

He then went away.

“When, next,” cried Cecilia, “shall I again be weak, vain, blind enough

to form any plan with a hope of secresy? or enter, with _any_ hope, into

a clandestine scheme! betrayed by those I have trusted, discovered

by those I have not thought of, exposed to the cruellest alarms, and

defenceless from the most shocking attacks!--Such has been the life I

have led since the moment I first consented to a private engagement!--Ah

Delvile! your mother, in her tenderness, forgot her dignity, or she

would not have concurred in an action which to such disgrace made me

liable!”

CHAPTER iv.

A DELIBERATION.

It was necessary, however, not to moralize, but to act; Cecilia had

undertaken to give her answer in a week, and the artful attorney had

drawn from her an acknowledgment of her situation, by which he might

claim it yet sooner.

The law-suit with which she was threatened for the arrears of eight

months, alarmed her not, though it shocked her, as she was certain she

could prove her marriage so much later.

It was easy to perceive that this man had been sent with a view of

working from her a confession, and terrifying from her some money;

the confession, indeed, in conscience and honesty she could not wholly

elude, but she had suffered too often by a facility in parting with

money to be there easily duped.

Nothing, however, was more true, than that she now lived upon an estate

of which she no longer was the owner, and that all she either spent or

received was to be accounted for and returned, since by the will of her

uncle, unless her husband took her name, her estate on the very day of

her marriage was to be forfeited, and entered upon by the Egglestons.

Delvile's plan and hope of secresy had made them little weigh this

matter, though this premature discovery so unexpectedly exposed her to

their power.

The first thought that occurred to her, was to send an express to

Delvile, and desire his instructions how to proceed; but she dreaded his

impetuosity of temper, and was almost certain that the instant he should

hear she was in any uneasiness or perplexity, he would return to her, at

all hazards, even though Mr Monckton were dead, and his mother herself

dying. This step, therefore, she did not dare risk, preferring any

personal hardship, to endangering the already precarious life of Mrs

Delvile, or to hastening her son home while Mr Monckton was in so

desperate a situation.

But though what to avoid was easy to settle, what to seek was difficult

to devise. She bad now no Mrs Charlton to receive her, not a creature in

whom she could confide. To continue her present way of living was deeply

involving Delvile in debt, a circumstance she had never considered, in

the confusion and hurry attending all their plans and conversations, and

a circumstance which, though to him it might have occurred, he could not

in common delicacy mention.

Yet to have quitted her house, and retrenched her expences, would have

raised suspicions that must have anticipated the discovery she so much

wished to have delayed. That wish, by the present danger of its failure,

was but more ardent; to have her affairs and situation become

publicly known at the present period, she felt would half distract

her.--Privately married, parted from her husband at the very moment of

their union, a husband by whose hand the apparent friend of her earliest

youth was all but killed, whose father had execrated the match, whose

mother was now falling a sacrifice to the vehemence with which she had

opposed it, and who himself, little short of an exile, knew not yet

if, with personal safety, he might return to his native land! To

circumstances so dreadful, she had now the additional shock of being

uncertain whether her own house might not be seized, before any other

could be prepared for her reception!

Yet still whither to go, what to do, or what to resolve, she was wholly

unable to determine; and after meditating almost to madness in the

search of some plan or expedient, she was obliged to give over the

attempt, and be satisfied with remaining quietly where she was, till she

had better news from Delvile of his mother, or better news to send him

of Mr Monckton; carefully, mean time, in all her letters avoiding to

alarm him by any hint of her distress.

Yet was she not idle, either from despair or helplessness: she found her

difficulties encreased, and she called forth more resolution to combat

them: she animated herself by the promise she had made Delvile, and

recovering from the sadness to which she had at first given way, she now

exerted herself with vigour to perform it as she ought.

She began by making an immediate inspection into her affairs, and

endeavouring, where expence seemed unnecessary, to lessen it. She gave

Henrietta to understand she feared they must soon part; and so afflicted

was the unhappy girl at the news, that she found it the most cruel

office she had to execute. The same intimation she gave to Mrs Harrel,

who repined at it more openly, but with a selfishness so evident that it

blunted the edge of pity. She then announced to Albany her inability to

pursue, at present, their extensive schemes of benevolence; and though

he instantly left her, to carry on his laborious plan elsewhere, the

reverence she had now excited in him of her character, made him leave

her with no sensation but of regret, and readily promise to return when

her affairs were settled, or her mind more composed.

These little preparations, which were all she could make, with enquiries

after Mr Monckton, and writing to Delvile, sufficiently filled up her

time, though her thoughts were by no means confined to them. Day after

day passed, and Mr Monckton continued to linger rather than live; the

letters of Delvile, still only dated from Ostend, contained the most

melancholy complaints of the illness of his mother; and the time

advanced when her answer would be claimed by the attorney.

The thought of such another visit was almost intolerable; and within two

days of the time that she expected it, she resolved to endeavour herself

to prevail with Mr Eggleston to wait longer.

Mr Eggleston was a gentleman whom she knew little more than by sight; he

was no relation to her family, nor had any connection with the Dean,

but by being a cousin to a lady he had married, and who had left him

no children. The dean had no particular regard for him, and had rather

mentioned him in his will as the successor of Cecilia, in case she died

unmarried or changed her name, as a mark that he approved of her doing

neither, than as a matter he thought probable, if even possible, to turn

out in his favour.

He was a man of a large family, the sons of which, who were extravagant

and dissipated, had much impaired his fortune by prevailing with him to

pay their debts, and much distressed him in his affairs by successfully

teasing him for money.

Cecilia, acquainted with these circumstances, knew but too well with

what avidity her estate would be seized by them, and how little the sons

would endure delay, even if the father consented to it. Yet since the

sacrifice to which she had agreed must soon make it indisputably

their own, she determined to deal with them openly; and acknowledged,

therefore, in her letter, her marriage without disguise, but begged

their patience and secresy, and promised, in a short time, the most

honourable retribution and satisfaction.

She sent this letter by a man and horse, Mr Eggleston's habitation being

within fifteen miles of her own.

The answer was from his eldest son, who acquainted her that his father

was very ill, and had put all his affairs into the hands of Mr Carn, his

attorney, who was a man of great credit, and would see justice done on

all sides.

If this answer, which she broke open the instant she took it into

her hand, was in itself a cruel disappointment to her, how was that

disappointment embittered by shame and terror, when, upon again folding

it up, she saw it was directed to Mrs Mortimer Delvile!

This was a decisive stroke; what they wrote to her, she was sure they

would mention to all others; she saw they were too impatient for her

estate to be moved by any representations to a delay, and that their

eagerness to publish their right, took from them all consideration of

what they might make her suffer. Mr Eggleston, she found, permitted

himself to be wholly governed by his son; his son was a needy and

profligate spendthrift, and by throwing the management of the affair

into the hands of an attorney, craftily meant to shield himself from the

future resentment of Delvile, to whom, hereafter, he might affect, at

his convenience, to disapprove Mr Carn's behaviour, while Mr Carn was

always secure, by averring he only exerted himself for the interest of

his client.

The discerning Cecilia, though but little experienced in business, and

wholly unsuspicious by nature, yet saw into this management, and doubted

not these excuses were already arranged. She had only, therefore, to

save herself an actual ejectment, by quitting a house in which she was

exposed to such a disgrace.

But still whither to go she knew not! One only attempt seemed in her

power for an honourable asylum, and that was more irksomely painful to

her than seeking shelter in the meanest retreat: it was applying to Mr

Delvile senior.

The action of leaving her house, whether quietly or forcibly, could not

but instantly authenticate the reports spread by the Egglestons of her

marriage: to hope therefore for secresy any longer would be folly, and

Mr Delvile's rage at such intelligence might be still greater to hear

it by chance than from herself. She now lamented that Delvile had not

at once told the tale, but, little foreseeing such a discovery as the

present, they had mutually concluded to defer the communication till his

return.

Her own anger at the contemptuous ill treatment she had repeatedly met

from him, she was now content not merely to suppress but to dismiss,

since, as the wife of his son without his consent, she considered

herself no longer as wholly innocent of incurring it. Yet, such was her

dread of his austerity and the arrogance of his reproaches, that, by

choice, she would have preferred an habitation with her own pensioner,

the pew-opener, to the grandest apartment in Delvile Castle while he

continued its lord.

In her present situation, however, her choice was little to be

consulted: the honour of Delvile was concerned in her escaping even

temporary disgrace, and nothing, she knew, would so much gratify him, as

any attention from her to his father. She wrote to him, therefore, the

following letter, which she sent by an express.

_To the Hon. Compton Delvile.

April 29th_, 1780.

SIR,--I should not, even by letter, presume thus to force myself upon

your remembrance, did I not think it a duty I now owe your son, both to

risk and to bear the displeasure it may unhappily occasion. After

such an acknowledgment, all other confession would be superfluous; and

uncertain as I am if you will ever deign to own me, more words than are

necessary would be merely impertinent.

It was the intention of your son, Sir, when he left the kingdom, to

submit wholly to your arbitration, at his return, which should be

resigned, his own name or my fortune: but his request for your decision,

and his supplication for your forgiveness, are both, most unfortunately,

prevented, by a premature and unforeseen discovery of our situation,

which renders an immediate determination absolutely unavoidable.

At this distance from him, I cannot, in time, receive his directions

upon the measures I have to take; pardon me then, Sir, if well knowing

my reference to him will not be more implicit than his own to you, I

venture, in the present important crisis of my affairs, to entreat those

commands instantly, by which I am certain of being guided ultimately.

I would commend myself to your favour but that I dread exciting your

resentment. I will detain you, therefore, only to add, that the father

of Mr Mortimer Delvile, will ever meet the most profound respect from

her who, without his permission, dare sign no name to the honour she now

has in declaring herself his most humble, and most obedient servant.

* * * * *

Her mind was somewhat easier when this letter was written, because she

thought it a duty, yet felt reluctance in performing it. She wished to

have represented to him strongly the danger of Delvile's hearing her

distress, but she knew so well his inordinate self-sufficiency, she

feared a hint of that sort might be construed into an insult, and

concluded her only chance that he would do any thing, was by leaving

wholly to his own suggestions the weighing and settling what.

But though nothing was more uncertain than whether she should be

received at Delvile Castle, nothing was more fixed than that she must

quit her own house, since the pride of Mr Delvile left not even a chance

that his interest would conquer it. She deferred not, therefore, any

longer making preparations for her removal, though wholly unsettled

whither.

Her first, which was also her most painful task, was to acquaint

Henrietta with her situation: she sent, therefore, to desire to speak

with her, but the countenance of Henrietta shewed her communication

would not surprise her.

“What is the matter with my dear Henrietta?” cried Cecilia; “who is

it has already afflicted that kind heart which I am now compelled to

afflict for myself?”

Henrietta, in whom anger appeared to be struggling with sorrow,

answered, “No, madam, not afflicted for _you_! it would be strange if I

were, thinking as I think!”

“I am glad,” said Cecilia, calmly, “if you are not, for I would give to

you, were it possible, nothing but pleasure and joy.”

“Ah madam!” cried Henrietta, bursting into tears, “why will you say so

when you don't care what becomes of me! when you are going to cast me

off!--and when you will soon be too happy ever to think of me more!”

“If I am never happy till then,” said Cecilia, “sad, indeed, will be

my life! no, my gentlest friend, you will always have your share in

my heart; and always, to me, would have been the welcomest guest in my

house, but for those unhappy circumstances which make our separating

inevitable.”

“Yet you suffered me, madam, to hear from any body that you was married

and going away; and all the common servants in the house knew it before

me.”

“I am amazed!” said Cecilia; “how and which way can they have heard it?”

“The man that went to Mr Eggleston brought the first news of it, for

he said all the servants there talked of nothing else, and that their

master was to come and take possession here next Thursday.”

Cecilia started at this most unwelcome intelligence; “Yet you envy

me,” she cried, “Henrietta, though I am forced from my house! though in

quitting it, I am unprovided with any other, and though him for whom

I relinquish it, is far off, without means of protecting, or power of

returning to me!”

“But you are married to him, madam!” cried she, expressively.

“True, my love; but, also, I am parted from him!”

“Oh how differently,” exclaimed Henrietta, “do the great think from

the little! were _I_ married,--and _so_ married, I should want neither

house, nor fine cloaths, nor riches, nor any thing;--I should not care

where I lived,--every place would be paradise! I would walk to him

barefoot if he were a thousand miles off, and I should mind nobody else

in the world while I had him to take care of me!”

Ah Delvile! thought Cecilia, what powers of fascination are yours!

should I be tempted to repine at what I have to bear, I will think of

this heroick girl and blush!

Mrs Harrel now broke in upon them, eager to be informed of the truth or

falsehood of the reports which were buzzed throughout the house.

Cecilia briefly related to them both the state of her affairs, earnestly

expressing her concern at the abrupt separation which must take place,

and for which she had been unable to prepare them, as the circumstances

which led to it had been wholly unforeseen by herself.

Mrs Harrel listened to the account with much curiosity and surprize; but

Henrietta wept incessantly in hearing it: the object of a passion ardent

as it was romantic, lost to her past recovery; torn herself, probably

for ever, from the best friend she had in the world; and obliged to

return thus suddenly to an home she detested,--Henrietta possessed not

the fortitude to hear evils such as these, which, to her inexperienced

heart, appeared the severest that could be inflicted.

This conversation over, Cecilia sent for her Steward, and desired him,

with the utmost expedition, to call in all her bills, and instantly to

go round to her tenants within twenty miles, and gather in, from those

who were able to pay, the arrears now due to her; charging him, however,

upon no account, to be urgent with such as seemed distressed.

The bills she had to pay were collected without difficulty; she never

owed much, and creditors are seldom hard of access; but the money she

hoped to receive fell very short of her expectations, for the indulgence

she had shewn to her tenants had ill prepared them for so sudden a

demand.

CHAPTER v.

A DECISION.

This business effectually occupied the present and following day; the

third, Cecilia expected her answer from Delvile Castle, and the visit

she so much dreaded from the attorney.

The answer arrived first.

_To Miss Beverley_.

MADAM,--As my son has never apprized me of the extraordinary step which

your letter intimates, I am too unwilling to believe him capable of so

far forgetting what he owes his family, to ratify any such intimation by

interfering with my counsel or opinion.--I am, Madam, &c.,

COMPTON DELVILE.

DELVILE CASTLE, _May 1st, 1780_.

Cecilia had little right to be surprised by this letter, and she had not

a moment to comment upon it, before the attorney arrived.

“Well, madam,” said the man, as he entered the parlour, “Mr Eggleston

has stayed your own time very patiently: he commissions me now to

enquire if it is convenient to you to quit the premises.”

“No, Sir, it is by no means convenient to me; and if Mr Eggleston will

wait some time longer, I shall be greatly obliged to him.”

“No doubt, madam, but he will, upon proper considerations.”

“What, Sir, do you call proper?”

“Upon your advancing to him, as I hinted before, an immediate particular

sum from what must, by and bye, be legally restituted.”

“If this is the condition of his courtesy, I will quit the house without

giving him further trouble.”

“Just as it suits you, madam. He will be glad to take possession

to-morrow or next day.”

“You did well, Sir, to commend his patience! I shall, however, merely

discharge my servants, and settle my accounts, and be ready to make way

for him.”

“You will not take it amiss, madam, if I remind you that the account

with Mr Eggleston must be the first that is settled.”

“If you mean the arrears of this last fortnight or three weeks,

I believe I must desire him to wait Mr Delvile's return, as I may

otherwise myself be distressed for ready money.”

“That, madam, is not likely, as it is well known you have a fortune that

was independent of your late uncle; and as to distress for ready money,

it is a plea Mr Eggleston can urge much more strongly.”

“This is being strangely hasty, Sir!--so short a time as it is since Mr

Eggleston could expect _any_ of this estate!”

“That, madam, is nothing to the purpose; from the moment it is his, he

has as many wants for it as any other gentleman. He desired me, however,

to acquaint you, that if you still chose an apartment in this house,

till Mr Delvile returns, you shall have one at your service.”

“To be a _guest_ in this house, Sir,” said Cecilia, drily, “might

perhaps seem strange to me; I will not, therefore, be so much in his

way.”

Mr Carn then informed her she might put her seal upon whatever she meant

hereafter to claim or dispute, and took his leave.

Cecilia now shut herself up in her own room, to meditate without

interruption, before she would proceed to any action. She felt much

inclination to send instantly for some lawyer; but when she considered

her peculiar situation, the absence of her husband, the renunciation of

his father, the loss of her fortune, and her ignorance upon the subject,

she thought it better to rest quiet till Delvile's own fate, and own

opinion could be known, than to involve herself in a lawsuit she was so

little able to superintend.

In this cruel perplexity of her mind and her affairs, her first thought

was to board again with Mrs Bayley; but that was soon given up, for she

felt a repugnance unconquerable to continuing in her native county, when

deprived of her fortune, and cast out of her dwelling.

Her situation, indeed, was singularly unhappy, since, by this unforeseen

vicissitude of fortune, she was suddenly, from being an object of envy

and admiration, sunk into distress, and threatened with disgrace; from

being every where caressed, and by every voice praised, she blushed to

be seen, and expected to be censured; and, from being generally regarded

as an example of happiness, and a model of virtue, she was now in

one moment to appear to the world, an outcast from her own house, yet

received into no other! a bride, unclaimed by a husband! an HEIRESS,

dispossessed of all wealth!

To be first acknowledged as _Mrs Delvile_ in a state so degrading, she

could not endure; and to escape from it, one way alone remained, which

was going instantly abroad.

Upon this, therefore, she finally determined: her former objections to

such a step being now wholly, though unpleasantly removed, since she had

neither estate nor affairs to demand her stay, and since all hopes of

concealment were totally at an end. Her marriage, therefore, and its

disgraceful consequences being published to the world, she resolved

without delay to seek the only asylum which was proper for her, in the

protection of the husband for whom she had given up every other.

She purposed, therefore, to go immediately and privately to London,

whence she could best settle her route for the continent: where she

hoped to arrive before the news of her distress reached Delvile, whom

nothing, she was certain, but her own presence, could keep there for a

moment after hearing it.

Thus decided, at length, in her plan, she proceeded to put it in

execution with calmness and intrepidity; comforting herself that the

conveniencies and indulgencies with which she was now parting, would

soon be restored to her, and though not with equal power, with far more

satisfaction. She told her steward her design of going the next morning

to London, bid him pay instantly all her debts, and discharge all

her servants, determining to keep no account open but that with Mr

Eggleston, which he had made so intricate by double and undue demands,

that she thought it most prudent and safe to leave him wholly to

Delvile.

She then packed up all her papers and letters, and ordered her maid to

pack up her clothes.

She next put her own seal upon her cabinets, draws, and many other

things, and employed almost all her servants at once, in making complete

inventories of what every room contained.

She advised Mrs Harrel to send without delay for Mr Arnott, and return

to his house. She had first purposed to carry Henrietta home to her

mother herself; but another scheme for her now occurred, from which she

hoped much future advantage to the amiable and dejected girl.

She knew well, that deep as was at present her despondency, the removal

of all possibility of hope, by her knowledge of Delvile's marriage, must

awaken her before long from the delusive visions of her romantic fancy;

Mr Arnott himself was in a situation exactly similar, and the knowledge

of the same event would probably be productive of the same effect. When

Mrs Harrel, therefore, began to repine at the solitude to which she was

returning, Cecilia proposed to her the society of Henrietta, which, glad

to catch at any thing that would break into her loneliness, she listened

to with pleasure, and seconded by an invitation.

Henrietta, to whom all houses appeared preferable to her own home,

joyfully accepted the offer, committing to Cecilia the communication of

the change of her abode to Mrs Belfield.

Cecilia, who in the known and tried honour of Mr Arnott would

unreluctantly have trusted a sister, was much pleased by this little

arrangement, from which should no good ensue, no evil, at least, was

probable. But she hoped, through the mutual pity their mutual melancholy

might inspire, that their minds, already not dissimilar, would be

softened in favour of each other, and that, in conclusion, each might

be happy in receiving the consolation each could give, and a union would

take place, in which their reciprocal disappointment might, in time, be

nearly forgotten.

There was not, indeed, much promise of such an event in the countenance

of Mr Arnott, when, late at night, he came for his sister, nor in the

unbounded sorrow of Henrietta, when the moment of leave-taking arrived.

Mr Arnott looked half dead with the shock his sister's intelligence had

given him, and Henrietta's heart, torn asunder between friendship

and love, was scarce able to bear a parting, which from Cecilia, she

regarded as eternal, added to the consciousness it was occasioned by her

going to join Delvile for life!

Cecilia, who both read and pitied these conflicting emotions, was

herself extremely hurt by this necessary separation. She tenderly

loved Henrietta, she loved her even the more for the sympathy of their

affections, which called forth the most forcible commiseration,--that

which springs from fellow-feeling!

“Farewell,” she cried, “my Henrietta, be but happy as you are innocent,

and be both as I love you, and nothing will your friends have to wish

for you, or yourself to regret.”

“I must always regret,” cried the sobbing Henrietta, “that I cannot live

with you for ever! I should regret it if I were queen of all the world,

how much more then, when I am nothing and nobody! I do not wish _you_

happy, madam, for I think happiness was made on purpose for you, and

nobody else ever had it before; I only wish you health and long life,

for the sake of those who will be made as happy as you,--for you will

spoil them,--as you have spoilt me,--from being ever happy without you!”

Cecilia re-iterated her assurances of a most faithful regard, embraced

Mrs Harrel, spoke words of kindness to the drooping Mr Arnott, and then

parted with them all.

Having still many small matters to settle, and neither company nor

appetite, she would eat no supper; but, in passing thro' the hall, in

her way to her own room, she was much surprised to see all her domestics

assembled in a body. She stopt to enquire their intention, when they

eagerly pressed forward, humbly and earnestly entreating to know why

they were discharged? “For no reason in the world,” cried Cecilia, “but

because it is at present out of my power to keep you any longer.”

“Don't part with _me_, madam, for that,” cried one of them, “for I will

serve you for nothing!”

“So will I!” cried another, “And I!” “And I!” was echoed by them all;

while “no other such mistress is to be found!” “We can never bear any

other place!” and “keep _me_, madam, at least!” was even clamorously

urged by each of them.

Cecilia, distressed and flattered at once by their unwillingness to

quit her, received this testimony of gratitude for the kind and liberal

treatment they had received, with the warmest thanks both for their

services and fidelity, and assured them that when again she was settled,

all those who should be yet unprovided with places, should be preferred

in her house before any other claimants.

Having, with difficulty, broken from them, she sent for her own man,

Ralph, who had lived with her many years before the death of the Dean,

and told him she meant still to continue him in her service. The man

heard it with great delight, and promised to re-double his diligence to

deserve her favour. She then communicated the same news to her maid, who

had also resided with her some years, and by whom with the same, or more

pleasure it was heard.

These and other regulations employed her almost all night; yet late

and fatigued as she went to bed, she could not close her eyes: fearful

something was left undone, she robbed herself of the short time she had

allowed to rest, by incessant meditation upon what yet remained to be

executed. She could recollect, however, one only thing that had escaped

her vigilance, which was acquainting the pew-opener, and two or three

other poor women who had weekly pensions from her, that they must, at

least for the present, depend no longer upon her assistance.

Nothing indeed could be more painful to her than giving them such

information, yet not to be speedy with it would double the barbarity of

their disappointment. She even felt for these poor women, whose loss in

her she knew would be irreparable, a compassion that drove from her mind

almost every other subject, and determined her, in order to soften to

them this misfortune, to communicate it herself, that she might prevent

them from sinking under it, by reviving them with hopes of her future

assistance.

She had ordered at seven o'clock in the morning an hired chaise at the

door, and she did not suffer it long to wait for her. She quitted her

house with a heart full of care and anxiety, grieving at the necessity

of making such a sacrifice, uncertain how it would turn out, and

labouring under a thousand perplexities with respect to the measures

she ought immediately to take. She passed, when she reached the hall,

through a row of weeping domestics, not one of whom with dry eyes could

see the house bereft of such a mistress. She spoke to them all with

kindness, and as much as was in her power with chearfulness: but the

tone of her voice gave them little reason to think the concern at this

journey was all their own.

She ordered her chaise to drive round to the pew-opener's and thence to

the rest of her immediate dependents. She soon, however, regretted that

she had given herself this task; the affliction of these poor pensioners

was clamorous, was almost heart-breaking; they could live, they said, no

longer, they were ruined for ever; they should soon be without bread

to eat, and they might cry for help in vain, when their generous, their

only benefactress was far away!

Cecilia made the kindest efforts, to comfort and encourage them,

assuring them the very moment her own affairs were arranged, she would

remember them all, visit them herself, and contribute to their relief,

with all the power she should have left. Nothing, however, could console

them; they clung about her, almost took the horses from the chaise,

and conjured her not to desert those who were solely cherished by her

bounty!

Nor was this all she had to suffer; the news of her intention to quit

the county was now reported throughout the neighbourhood, and had spread

the utmost consternation among the poor in general, and the lower close

of her own tenants in particular, and the road was soon lined with

women and children, wringing their hands and crying. They followed

her carriage with supplications that she would return to them, mixing

blessings with their lamentations, and prayers for her happiness with

the bitterest repinings at their own loss!

Cecilia was extremely affected; her liberal and ever-ready hand was

every other instant involuntarily seeking her purse, which her many

immediate expences, made her prudence as often check: and now first she

felt the capital error she had committed, in living constantly to the

utmost extent of her income, without ever preparing, though so able to

have done it, against any unfortunate contingency.

When she escaped, at last, from receiving any longer this painful

tribute to her benevolence, she gave orders to her man to ride forward

and stop at the Grove, that a precise and minute account of Mr Monckton,

might be the last, as it was now become the most important, news she

should hear in Suffolk. This he did, when to her equal surprise and

delight, she heard that he was suddenly so much better, there were hopes

of his recovery.

Intelligence so joyful made her amends for almost every thing; yet she

hesitated not in her plan of going abroad, as she knew not where to be

in England, and could not endure to hurry Delvile from his sick mother,

by acquainting him with her helpless and distressed situation. But so

revived were her spirits by these unexpected tidings, that a gleam of

brightest hope once more danced before her eyes, and she felt herself

invigorated with fresh courage and new strength, sufficient to support

her through all hardships and fatigues.

Spirits and courage were indeed much wanted for the enterprize she had

formed; but little used to travelling, and having never been out of

England, she knew nothing of the route but by a general knowledge of

geography, which, though it could guide her east or west, could teach

her nothing of foreign customs, the preparations necessary for the

journey, the impositions she should guard against, nor the various

dangers to which she might be exposed, from total ignorance of the

country through which she had to pass.

Conscious of these deficiencies for such an undertaking, she deliberated

without intermission how to obviate them. Yet sometimes, when to these

hazards, those arising from her youth and sex were added, she was upon

the point of relinquishing her scheme, as too perilous for execution,

and resolving to continue privately in London till some change happened

in her affairs.

But though to every thing she could suggest, doubts and difficulties

arose, she had no friend to consult, nor could devise any means by which

they might be terminated. Her maid was her only companion, and Ralph,

who had spent almost his whole life in Suffolk, her only guard and

attendant. To hire immediately some French servant, used to travelling

in his own country, seemed the first step she had to take, and so

essential, that no other appeared feasible till it was done. But where

to hear of such a man she could not tell, and to take one not

well recommended, would be exposing herself to frauds and dangers

innumerable.

Yet so slow as Delvile travelled, from whom her last letter was still

dated Ostend, she thought herself almost certain, could she once reach

the continent, of overtaking him in his route within a day or two of her

landing.

The earnest inclination with which this scheme was seconded, made her

every moment less willing to forego it. It seemed the only harbour for

her after the storm she had weathered, and the only refuge she could

properly seek while thus houseless and helpless. Even were Delvile in

England, he had no place at present to offer her, nor could any thing be

proposed so unexceptionable as her living with Mrs Delvile at Nice,

till he knew his father's pleasure, and, in a separate journey home, had

arranged his affairs either for her return, or her continuance abroad.

With what regret did she now look back to the time when, in a distress

such as this, she should have applied for, and received the advice of

Mr Monckton as oracular! The loss of a counsellor so long, so implicitly

relied upon, lost to her also, only by his own interested worthlessness,

she felt almost daily, for almost daily some intricacy or embarrassment

made her miss his assistance: and though glad, since she found him so

undeserving, that she had escaped the snares he had spread for her,

she grieved much that she knew no man of honest character and equal

abilities, that would care for her sufficiently to supply his place in

her confidence.

As she was situated at present, she could think only of Mr Belfield to

whom she could apply for any advice. Nor even to him was the application

unexceptionable, the calumnies of Mr Delvile senior making it

disagreeable to her even to see him. But he was at once a man of

the world and a man of honour; he was the friend of Mortimer, whose

confidence in him was great, and his own behaviour had uniformly shewn a

respect far removed from impertinence or vanity, and a mind superior to

being led to them by the influence of his gross mother. She had, indeed,

when she last quitted his house, determined never to re-enter it; but

determinations hasty or violent, are rarely observed, because rarely

practicable; she had promised Henrietta to inform Mrs Belfield whither

she was gone, and reconcile her to the absence she still hoped to make

from home. She concluded, therefore, to go to Portland-street without

delay, and enquire openly and at once whether, and when, she might

speak with Mr Belfield; resolving, if tormented again by any forward

insinuations, to rectify all mistakes by acknowledging her marriage.

She gave directions accordingly to the post-boy and Ralph.

With respect to her own lodgings while in town, as money was no longer

unimportant to her, she meant from the Belfields to go to the Hills, by

whom she might be recommended to some reputable and cheap place. To the

Belfields, however, though very late when she arrived in town, she

went first, unwilling to lose a moment in promoting her scheme of going

abroad.

She left her maid in the chaise, and sent Ralph on to Mrs Hill, with

directions to endeavour immediately to procure her a lodging.

CHAPTER vi.

A PRATING.

Cecilia was shewn into a parlour, where Mrs Belfield was very earnestly

discoursing with Mr Hobson and Mr Simkins; and Belfield himself, to her

great satisfaction, was already there, and reading.

“Lack a-day!” cried Mrs Belfield, “if one does not always see the people

one's talking of! Why it was but this morning, madam, I was saying to Mr

Hobson, I wonder, says I, a young lady of such fortunes as Miss Beverley

should mope herself up so in the country! Don't you remember it, Mr

Hobson?”

“Yes, madam,” answered Mr Hobson, “but I think, for my part, the young

lady's quite in the right to do as she's a mind; for that's what I call

living agreeable: and if I was a young lady to-morrow, with such fine

fortunes, and that, it's just what I should do myself: for what I say

is this: where's the joy of having a little money, and being a little

matter above the world, if one has not one's own will?”

“Ma'am,” said Mr Simkins, who had scarce yet raised his head from the

profoundness of his bow upon Cecilia's entrance into the room, “if I may

be so free, may I make bold just for to offer you this chair?”

“I called, madam,” said Cecilia, seizing the first moment in her power

to speak, “in order to acquaint you that your daughter, who is perfectly

well, has made a little change in her situation, which she was anxious

you should hear from myself.”

“Ha! ha! stolen a match upon you, I warrant!” cried the facetious Mr

Hobson; “a good example for you, young lady; and if you take my advice,

you won't be long before you follow it; for as to a lady, let her be

worth never so much, she's a mere nobody, as one may say, till she can

get herself a husband, being she knows nothing of business, and is made

to pay for every thing through the nose.”

“Fie, Mr Hobson, fie!” said Mr Simkins, “to talk so slighting of the

ladies before their faces! what one says in a corner, is quite of

another nature; but for to talk so rude in their company,--I thought you

would scorn to do such a thing.”

“Sir, I don't want to be rude no more than yourself,” said Mr Hobson,

“for what I say is, rudeness is a thing that makes nobody agreeable;

but I don't see because of that, why a man is not to speak his mind to

a lady as well as to a gentleman, provided he does it in a complaisant

fashion.”

“Mr Hobson,” cried Mrs Belfield, very impatiently, “you might as well

let _me_ speak, when the matter is all about my own daughter.”

“I ask pardon, ma'am,” said he, “I did not mean to stop you; for as to

not letting a lady speak, one might as well tell a man in business not

to look at the Daily Advertiser; why, it's morally impossible!”

“But sure, madam,” cried Mrs Belfield, “it's no such thing? You can't

have got her off already?”

“I would I had!” thought Cecilia; who then explained her meaning; but in

talking of Mrs Harrel, avoided all mention of Mr Arnott, well foreseeing

that to hear such a man existed, and was in the same house with her

daughter, would be sufficient authority to her sanguine expectations,

for depending upon a union between them, and reporting it among her

friends, his circumstance being made clear, Cecilia added, “I could

by no means have consented voluntarily to parting so soon with Miss

Belfield, but that my own affairs call me at present out of the

kingdom.” And then, addressing herself to Belfield, she enquired if he

could recommend to her a trusty foreign servant, who would be hired only

for the time she was to spend abroad?

While Belfield was endeavouring to recollect some such person, Mr Hobson

eagerly called out “As to going abroad, madam, to be sure you're to do

as you like, for that, as I say, is the soul of every thing; but else I

can't say it's a thing I much approve; for my notion is this: here's a

fine fortune, got as a man may say, out of the bowels of one's mother

country, and this fine fortune, in default of male issue, is obliged to

come to a female, the law making no proviso to the contrary. Well, this

female, going into a strange country, naturally takes with her this

fortune, by reason it's the main article she has to depend upon; what's

the upshot? why she gets pilfered by a set of sharpers that never saw

England in their lives, and that never lose sight of her till she has

not a sous in the world. But the hardship of the thing is this:

when it's all gone, the lady can come back, but will the money come

back?--No, you'll never see it again: now this is what I call being no

true patriot.”

“I am quite ashamed for to hear you talk so, Mr Hobson!” cried Mr

Simkins, affecting to whisper; “to go for to take a person to task at

this rate, is behaving quite unbearable; it's enough to make the young

lady afraid to speak before you.”

“Why, Mr Simkins,” answered Mr Hobson, “truth is truth, whether one

speaks it or not; and that, ma'am, I dare say, a young lady of your good

sense knows as well as myself.”

“I think, madam,” said Belfield, who waited their silence with great

impatience, “that I know just such a man as you will require, and one

upon whose honesty I believe you may rely.”

“That's more,” said Mr Hobson, “than I would take upon me to say for

any _Englishman_! where you may meet with such a _Frenchman_, I won't be

bold to say.”

“Why indeed,” said Mr Simkins, “if I might take the liberty for to put

in, though I don't mean in no shape to go to contradicting the young

gentleman, but if I was to make bold to speak my private opinion upon

the head, I should be inclinable for to say, that as to putting a

dependance upon the French, it's a thing quite dubious how it may turn

out.”

“I take it as a great favour, ma'am,” said Mrs Belfield, “that you have

been so complaisant as to make me this visit to-night, for I was almost

afraid you would not have done me the favour any more; for, to be sure,

when you was here last, things went a little unlucky: but I had no

notion, for my part, who the old gentleman was till after he was gone,

when Mr Hobson told me it was old Mr Delvile: though, sure enough, I

thought it rather upon the extraordinary order, that he should come here

into my parlour, and make such a secret of his name, on purpose to ask

me questions about my own son.”

“Why I think, indeed, if I may be so free,” said Mr Simkins, “it was

rather petickeler of the gentleman; for, to be sure, if he was so over

curious to hear about your private concerns, the genteel thing, if I may

take the liberty for to differ, would have been for him to say, ma'am,

says he, I'm come to ask the favour of you just to let me a little into

your son's goings on; and any thing, ma'am, you should take a fancy for

to ask me upon the return, why I shall be very compliable, ma'am, says

he, to giving of you satisfaction.”

“I dare say,” answered Mrs Belfield, “he would not have said so much if

you'd have gone down on your knees to ask him. Why he was upon the very

point of being quite in a passion because I only asked him his name!

though what harm that could do him, I'm sure I never could guess.

However, as he was so mighty inquisitive about my son, if I had but

known who he was in time, I should have made no scruple in the world to

ask him if he could not have spoke a few words for him to some of those

great people that could have done him some good. But the thing that I

believe put him so out of humour, was my being so unlucky as to say,

before ever I knew who he was, that I had heard he was not over and

above good-natured; for I saw he did not seem much to like it at the

time.”

“If he had done the generous thing,” said Mr Simkins, “it would have

been for him to have made the proffer of his services of his own

free-will; and it's rather surpriseable to me he should never have

thought of it; for what could be so natural as for him to say, I see,

ma'am, says he, you've got a very likely young gentleman here, that's a

little out of cash, says he, so I suppose, ma'am, says he, a place, or a

pension, or something in that shape of life, would be no bad compliment,

says he.”

“But no such good luck as that will come to my share,” cried Mrs

Belfield, “I can tell you that, for every thing I want to do goes quite

contrary. Who would not have thought such a son as mine, though I say it

before his face, could not have made his fortune long ago, living as he

did, among all the great folks, and dining at their table just like one

of themselves? yet, for all that, you see they let him go on his own

way, and think of him no more than of nobody! I'm sure they might be

ashamed to shew their faces, and so I should tell them at once, if I

could but get sight of them.”

“I don't mean, ma'am,” said Mr Simkins, “for to be finding fault with

what you say, for I would not be unpelite in no shape; but if I might be

so free as for to differ a little bit, I must needs say I am rather for

going to work in anotherguess sort of a manner; and if I was as you--”

“Mr Simkins,” interrupted Belfield, “we will settle this matter another

time.” And then, turning to the wearied Cecilia, “The man, madam,” he

said, “whom I have done myself the honour to recommend to you, I can see

to-morrow morning; may I then tell him to wait upon you?”

“I ask pardon for just putting in,” cried Mr Simkins, before Cecilia

could answer, and again bowing down to the ground, “but I only mean to

say I had no thought for to be impertinent, for as to what I was agoing

to remark, is was not of no consequence in the least.”

“Its a great piece of luck, ma'am,” said Mrs Belfield, “that you should

happen to come here, of a holiday! If my son had not been at home, I

should have been ready to cry for a week: and you might come any day the

year through but a Sunday, and not meet with him any more than if he had

never a home to come to.”

“If Mr Belfield's home-visits are so periodical,” said Cecilia, “it must

be rather less, than more, difficult to meet with him.”

“Why you know, ma'am,” answered Mrs Belfield, “to-day is a red-letter

day, so that's the reason of it.”

“A red-letter day?”

“Good lack, madam, why have not you heard that my son is turned

book-keeper?”

Cecilia, much surprised, looked at Belfield, who, colouring very high,

and apparently much provoked by his mother's loquacity, said, “Had Miss

Beverley not heard it even now, madam, I should probably have lost with

her no credit.”

“You can surely lose none, Sir,” answered Cecilia, “by an employment too

little pleasant to have been undertaken from any but the most laudable

motives.”

“It is not, madam, the employment,” said he, “for which I so much blush

as for the person employed--for _myself_! In the beginning of the winter

you left me just engaged in another business, a business with which

I was madly delighted, and fully persuaded I should be enchanted

for ever;--now, again, in the beginning of the summer,--you find me,

already, in a new occupation!”

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “but far indeed from surprised, that you

found yourself deceived by such sanguine expectations.”

“Deceived!” cried he, with energy, “I was bewitched, I was infatuated!

common sense was estranged by the seduction of a chimera; my

understanding was in a ferment from the ebullition of my imagination!

But when this new way of life lost its novelty,--novelty! that

short-liv'd, but exquisite bliss! no sooner caught than it vanishes, no

sooner tasted than it is gone! which charms but to fly, and comes but

to destroy what it leaves behind!--when that was lost, reason, cool,

heartless reason, took its place, and teaching me to wonder at the

frenzy of my folly, brought me back to the tameness--the sadness of

reality!”

“I am sure,” cried Mrs Belfield, “whatever it has brought you back to,

it has brought you back to no good! it's a hard case, you must needs

think, madam, to a mother, to see a son that might do whatever he would,

if he'd only set about it, contenting himself with doing nothing but

scribble and scribe one day, and when he gets tired of that, thinking of

nothing better than casting up two and two!”

“Why, madam,” said Mr Hobson, “what I have seen of the world is this;

there's nothing methodizes a man but business. If he's never so much

upon the stilts, that's always a sure way to bring him down, by reason

he soon finds there's nothing to be got by rhodomontading. Let every man

be his own carver; but what I say is, them gentlemen that are what one

may call geniuses, commonly think nothing of the main chance, till they

get a tap on the shoulder with a writ; and a solid lad, that knows three

times five is fifteen, will get the better of them in the long run. But

as to arguing with gentlemen of that sort, where's the good of it? You

can never bring them to the point, say what you will; all you can get

from them, is a farrago of fine words, that you can't understand without

a dictionary.”

“I am inclinable to think,” said Mr Simkins, “that the young gentleman

is rather of opinion to like pleasure better than business; and, to be

sure, it's very excusable of him, because it's more agreeabler. And I

must needs say, if I may be so free, I'm partly of the young gentleman's

mind, for business is a deal more trouble.”

“I hope, however,” said Cecilia to Belfield, “your present situation is

less irksome to you?”

“Any situation, madam, must be less irksome than that which I quitted:

to write by rule, to compose by necessity, to make the understanding,

nature's first gift, subservient to interest, that meanest offspring of

art!--when weary, listless, spiritless, to rack the head for invention,

the memory for images, and the fancy for ornament and illusion; and when

the mind is wholly occupied by its own affections and affairs, to call

forth all its faculties for foreign subjects, uninteresting discussions,

or fictitious incidents!--Heavens! what a life of struggle between

the head and the heart! how cruel, how unnatural a war between the

intellects and the feelings!”

“As to these sort of things,” said Mr Hobson, “I can't say I am much

versed in them, by reason they are things I never much studied; but if I

was to speak my notion, it is this; the best way to thrive in the world

is to get money; but how is it to be got? Why by business: for business

is to money, what fine words are to a lady, a sure road to success. Now

I don't mean by this to be censorious upon the ladies, being they have

nothing else to go by, for as to examining if a man knows any thing of

the world, and that, they have nothing whereby to judge, knowing nothing

of it themselves. So that when they are taken in by rogues and sharpers,

the fault is all in the law, for making no proviso against their having

money in their own hands. Let every one be trusted according to their

headpiece and what I say is this: a lady in them cases is much to be

pitied, for she is obligated to take a man upon his own credit, which is

tantamount to no credit at all, being what man will speak an ill word of

himself? you may as well expect a bad shilling to cry out don't take me!

That's what I say, and that's my way of giving my vote.”

Cecilia, quite tired of these interruptions, and impatient to be gone,

now said to Belfield, “I should be much obliged to you, Sir, if you

could send to me the man you speak of tomorrow morning. I wished, also

to consult you with regard to the route I ought to take. My purpose is

to go to Nice, and as I am very desirous to travel expeditiously, you

may perhaps be able to instruct me what is the best method for me to

pursue.”

“Come, Mr Hobson and Mr Simkins,” cried Mrs Belfield, with a look of

much significance and delight, “suppose you two and I was to walk into

the next room? There's no need for us to hear all the young lady may

have a mind to say.”

“She has nothing to say, madam,” cried Cecilia, “that the whole world

may not hear. Neither is it my purpose to talk, but to listen, if Mr

Belfield is at leisure to favour me with his advice.”

“I must always be at leisure, and always be proud, madam,” Belfield

began, when Hobson, interrupting him, said, “I ask pardon, Sir, for

intruding, but I only mean to wish the young lady good night. As to

interfering with business, that's not my way, for it's not the right

method, by reason--”

“We will listen to your reason, Sir,” cried Belfield, “some other time;

at present we will give you all credit for it unheard.”

“Let every man speak his own maxim, Sir,” cried Hobson; “for that's what

I call fair arguing: but as to one person's speaking, and then making an

answer for another into the bargain, why it's going to work no-how; you

may as well talk to a counter, and think because you make a noise upon

it with your own hand, it gives you the reply.”

“Why, Mr Hobson,” cried Mrs Belfield, “I am quite ashamed of you for

being so dull! don't you see my son has something to say to the lady

that you and I have no business to be meddling with?”

“I'm sure, ma'am, for my part,” said Mr Simkins, “I'm very agreeable to

going away, for as to putting the young lady to the blush, it's what I

would not do in no shape.”

“I only mean,” said Mr Hobson, when he was interrupted by Mrs Belfield,

who, out of all patience, now turned him out of the room by the

shoulders, and, pulling Mr Simkins after, followed herself, and shut

the door, though Cecilia, much provoked, desired she would stay, and

declared repeatedly that all her business was public.

Belfield, who had, looked ready to murder them all during this short

scene, now approached Cecilia, and with an air of mingled spirit and

respect, said, “I am much grieved, much confounded, madam, that your

ears should be offended by speeches so improper to reach them; yet if

it is possible I can have the honour of being of any use to you, in me,

still, I hope, you feel you may confide. I am too distant from you in

situation to give you reason to apprehend I can form any sinister views

in serving you; and, permit me to add, I am too near you in mind, ever

to give you the pain of bidding me remember that distance.”

Cecilia then, extremely unwilling to shock a sensibility not more

generous than jealous, determined to continue her enquiries, and, at

the same time, to prevent any further misapprehension, by revealing her

actual situation.

“I am sorry, Sir,” she answered, “to have occasioned this disturbance;

Mrs Belfield, I find, is wholly unacquainted with the circumstance which

now carries me abroad, or it would not have happened.”

Here a little noise in the passage interrupting her, she heard Mrs

Belfield, though in a low voice, say, “Hush, Sir, hush! you must not

come in just now; you've caught me, I confess, rather upon the listening

order; but to tell you the truth, I did not know what might be going

forward. However, there's no admittance now, I assure you, for my son's

upon particular business with a lady, and Mr Hobson and Mr Simkins and

I, have all been as good as turned out by them but just now.”

Cecilia and Belfield, though they heard this speech with mutual

indignation, had no time to mark or express it, as it was answered

without in a voice at once loud and furious, “_You_, madam, may be

content to listen here; pardon me if I am less humbly disposed!” And the

door was abruptly opened by young Delvile!

Cecilia, who half screamed from excess of astonishment, would scarcely,

even by the presence of Belfield and his mother, have been restrained

from flying to meet him, had his own aspect invited such a mark of

tenderness; but far other was the case; when the door was open, he stopt

short with a look half petrified, his feet seeming rooted to the spot

upon which they stood.

“I declare I ask pardon, ma'am,” cried Mrs Belfield, “but the

interruption was no fault of mine, for the gentleman would come in;

and--”

“It is no interruption, madam;” cried Belfield, “Mr Delvile does me

nothing but honour.”

“I thank you, Sir!” said Delvile, trying to recover and come forward,

but trembling violently, and speaking with the most frigid coldness.

They were then, for a few instants, all silent; Cecilia, amazed by his

arrival, still more amazed by his behaviour, feared to speak lest

he meant not, as yet, to avow his marriage, and felt a thousand

apprehensions that some new calamity had hurried him home: while

Belfield was both hurt by his strangeness, and embarrassed for the sake

of Cecilia; and his mother, though wondering at them all, was kept quiet

by her son's looks.

Delvile then, struggling for an appearance of more ease, said, “I seem

to have made a general confusion here:--pray, I beg”--

“None at all, Sir,” said Belfield, and offered a chair to Cecilia.

“No, Sir,” she answered, in a voice scarce audible, “I was just going.”

And again rang the bell.

“I fear I hurry you, madam?” cried Delvile, whose whole frame was now

shaking with uncontrollable emotion; “you are upon business--I ought to

beg your pardon--my entrance, I believe, was unseasonable.”--

“Sir!” cried she, looking aghast at this speech.

“I should have been rather surprised,” he added, “to have met you here,

so late,--so unexpectedly,--so deeply engaged--had I not happened to see

your servant in the street, who told me the honour I should be likely to

have by coming.”

“Good God!--” exclaimed she, involuntarily; but, checking herself as

well as she could, she courtsied to Mrs Belfield, unable to speak to

her, and avoiding even to look at Belfield, who respectfully hung back,

she hastened out of the room: accompanied by Mrs Belfield, who again

began the most voluble and vulgar apologies for the intrusion she had

met with.

Delvile also, after a moment's pause, followed, saying, “Give me leave,

madam, to see you to your carriage.”

Cecilia then, notwithstanding Mrs Belfield still kept talking, could no

longer refrain saying, “Good heaven, what does all this mean?”

“Rather for _me_ is that question,” he answered, in such agitation he

could not, though he meant it, assist her into the chaise, “for mine, I

believe, is the greater surprise!”

“What surprise?” cried she, “explain, I conjure you!”

“By and bye I will,” he answered; “go on postilion.”

“Where, Sir?”

“Where you came from, I suppose.”

“What, Sir, back to Rumford?”

“Rumford!” exclaimed he, with encreasing disorder, “you came then from

Suffolk hither?--from Suffolk to this very house?”

“Good heaven!” cried Cecilia, “come into the chaise, and let me speak

and hear to be understood!”