“My Maid.”
“Your maid?--and she waits for you thus at the door?”--
“What, what is it you mean?”
“Tell the man, madam, whither to go.”
“I don't know myself--any where you please--do you order him.”
“I order him!--you came not hither to receive orders from _me_!--where
was it you had purposed to rest?”
“I don't know--I meant to go to Mrs Hill's--I have no place taken.”--
“No place taken!” repeated he, in a voice faultering between passion
and grief; “you purposed, then, to stay here?--I have perhaps driven you
away?”
“Here!” cried Cecilia, mingling, in her turn, indignation with surprise,
“gracious heaven! what is it you mean to doubt?”
“Nothing!” cried he, with emphasis, “I never have had, I never _will_
have a doubt! I will know, I will have _conviction_ for every thing!
Postilion, drive to St James's-square!--to Mr Delvile's. There, madam, I
will wait upon you.”
“No! stay, postilion!” called out Cecilia, seized with terror
inexpressible; “let me get out, let me speak with you at once!”
“It cannot be; I will follow you in a few minutes--drive on, postilion!”
“No, no!--I will not go--I dare not leave you--unkind Delvile!--what is
it you suspect.”
“Cecilia,” cried he, putting his hand upon the chaise-door, “I have
ever believed you spotless as an angel! and, by heaven! I believe you so
still, in spite of appearances--in defiance of every thing!--Now then be
satisfied;--I will be with you very soon. Meanwhile, take this letter,
I was just going to send to you.--Postilion, drive on, or be at your
peril!”
The man waited no further orders, nor regarded the prohibition of
Cecilia, who called out to him without ceasing; but he would not listen
to her till he got to the end of the street; he then stopt, and she
broke the seal of her letter, and read, by the light of the lamps,
enough to let her know that Delvile had written it upon the road from
Dover to London, to acquaint her his mother was now better, and had
taken pity of his suspense and impatience, and insisted upon his coming
privately to England, to satisfy himself fully about Mr Monckton,
communicate his marriage to his father, and give those orders towards
preparing for its being made public, which his unhappy precipitation in
leaving the kingdom had prevented.
This letter, which, though written but a few hours before she received
it, was full of tenderness, gratitude and anxiety for her happiness,
instantly convinced her that his strange behaviour had been wholly
the effect of a sudden impulse of jealousy; excited by so unexpectedly
finding her in town, at the very house where his father had assured
him she had an improper connexion, and alone, so suspiciously, with
the young man affirmed to be her favourite. He knew nothing of the
ejectment, nothing of any reason for her leaving Suffolk, every thing
had the semblance of no motive but to indulge a private and criminal
inclination.
These thoughts, which confusedly, yet forcibly, rushed upon her mind,
brought with them at once an excuse for his conduct, and an alarm for
his danger; “He must think,” she cried, “I came to town only to meet Mr
Belfield!” then, opening the chaise-door herself, she jumpt out, and ran
back into Portland-street, too impatient to argue with the postilion to
return with her, and stopt not till she came to Mrs Belfield's house.
She knocked at the door with violence; Mrs Belfield came to it herself;
“Where,” cried she, hastily entering as she spoke, “are the gentlemen?”
“Lack-a-day! ma'am,” answered Mrs Belfield, “they are both gone out.”
“Gone out?--where to?--which way?”
“I am sure I can't tell, ma'am, no more than you can; but I am sadly
afraid they'll have a quarrel before they've done.”
“Oh heaven!” cried Cecilia, who now doubted not a second duel, “tell me,
shew me, which way they went?”
“Why, ma'am, to let you into the secret,” answered Mrs Belfield, “only I
beg you'll take no notice of it to my son, but, seeing them so much out
of sorts, I begged the favour of Mr Simkins, as Mr Hobson was gone out
to his club, just to follow them, and see what they were after.”
Cecilia was much rejoiced this caution had been taken, and determined to
wait his return. She would have sent for the chaise to follow her; but
Mrs Belfield kept no servant, and the maid of the house was employed in
preparing the supper.
When Mr Simkins came back, she learnt, after various interruptions from
Mrs Belfield, and much delay from his own slowness and circumlocution,
that he had pursued the two gentlemen to the * * coffee-house.
She hesitated not a moment in resolving to follow them: she feared the
failure of any commission, nor did she know whom to entrust with
one: and the danger was too urgent for much deliberation. She begged,
therefore, that Mr. Simkins would walk with her to the chaise; but
hearing that the coffee-house was another way, she desired Mrs Belfield
to let the servant run and order it to Mrs Roberts, in Fetterlane, and
then eagerly requested Mr Simkins to accompany her on foot till they met
with an hackney-coach.
They then set out, Mr Simkins feeling proud and happy in being allowed
to attend her, while Cecilia, glad of any protection, accepted his offer
of continuing with her, even after she met with an hackney-coach.
When she arrived at the coffee-house, she ordered the coachman to desire
the master of it to come and speak with her.
He came, and she hastily called out, “Pray, are two gentlemen here?”
“Here are several gentlemen here, madam.”
“Yes, yes,--but are two upon any business--any particular business--”
“Two gentlemen, madam, came about half an hour ago, and asked for a room
to themselves.”
“And where are they now?--are they up stairs?--down stairs?--where are
they?”
“One of them went away in about ten minutes, and the other soon after.”
Bitterly chagrined and disappointed, she knew not what step to take
next; but, after some consideration, concluded upon obeying Delvile's
own directions, and proceeding to St James's-square, where alone, now,
she seemed to have any chance of meeting with him. Gladly, however, she
still consented to be accompanied by Mr Simkins, for her dread of being
alone, at so late an hour, in an hackney-coach, was invincible. Whether
Delvile himself had any authority for directing her to his father's,
or whether, in the perturbation of his new--excited and agonising
sensations of jealousy, he had forgotten that any authority was
necessary, she knew not; nor could she now interest herself in the
doubt: a second scene, such as had so lately passed with Mr Monckton,
occupied all her thoughts: she knew the too great probability that
the high spirit of Belfield would disdain making the explanation which
Delvile in his present agitation might require, and the consequence of
such a refusal must almost inevitably be fatal.
CHAPTER vii.
A PURSUIT.
The moment the porter came to the door, Cecilia eagerly called out from
the coach, “Is Mr Delvile here?”
“Yes, madam,” he answered, “but I believe he is engaged.”
“Oh no matter for any engagement!” cried she, “on the door,--I must speak
to him this moment!”
“If you will please to step into the parlour, madam, I will tell
his gentleman you are here; but he will be much displeased if he is
disturbed without notice.”
“Ah heaven!” exclaimed she, “what Mr Delvile are you talking of?”
“My master, madam.”
Cecilia, who had got out of the coach, now hastily returned to it,
and was some time in too great agony to answer either the porter, who
desired some message, or the coachman, who asked whither he was to
drive. To see Mr Delvile, unprotected by his son, and contrary to his
orders, appeared to her insupportable; yet to what place could she go?
where was she likely to meet with Delvile? how could he find her if she
went to Mrs Hill's? and in what other house could she at present claim
admittance?
After a little recovering from this cruel shock, she ventured, though in
a faultering voice, to enquire whether young Mr Delvile had been there?
“Yes, madam,” the porter answered; “we thought he was abroad, but he
called just now, and asked if any lady had been at the house. He would
not even stay to go up to my master, and we have not dared tell him of
his arrival.”
This a little revived her; to hear that he had actually been enquiring
for her, at least assured her of his safety from any immediate violence,
and she began to hope she might now possibly meet with him time
enough to explain all that had past in his absence, and occasioned her
seemingly strange and suspicious situation at Belfield's. She compelled
herself, therefore, to summon courage for seeing his father, since, as
he had directed her to the house, she concluded he would return there to
seek her, when he had wandered elsewhere to no purpose.
She then, though with much timidity and reluctance, sent a message to Mr
Delvile to entreat a moment's audience.
An answer was brought her that he saw no company so late at night.
Losing now all dread of his reproaches, in her superior dread of missing
Delvile, she called out earnestly to the man, “Tell him, Sir, I beseech
him not to refuse me! tell him I have something to communicate that
requires his immediate attention!”
The servant obeyed; but soon returning, said his master desired him to
acquaint her he was engaged every moment he stayed in town, and must
positively decline seeing her.
“Go to him again,” cried the harassed Cecilia, “assure him I come not
from myself, but by the desire of one he most values: tell him I entreat
but permission to wait an hour in his house, and that I have no other
place in the world whither I can go!”
Mr Delvile's own gentleman brought, with evident concern, the answer
to this petition; which was, that while the Honourable Mr Delvile was
himself alive, he thought the desire of any other person concerning his
house, was taking with him a very extraordinary liberty; and that he was
now going to bed, and had given orders to his servants to carry him no
more messages whatsoever, upon pain of instant dismission.
Cecilia now seemed totally destitute of all resource, and for a few
dreadful minutes, gave herself up to utter despondency: nor, when she
recovered her presence of mind, could she form any better plan than that
of waiting in the coach to watch the return of Delvile.
She told the coachman, therefore, to drive to a corner of the square,
begging Mr Simkins to have patience, which he promised with much
readiness, and endeavoured to give her comfort, by talking without
cessation.
She waited here near half an hour. She then feared the disappointment of
Delvile in not meeting her at first, had made him conclude she meant
not to obey his directions, and had perhaps urged him to call again upon
Belfield, whom he might fancy privy to her non-appearance. This was
new horror to her, and she resolved at all risks to drive to
Portland-street, and enquire if Belfield himself was returned home. Yet,
lest they should mutually be pursuing each other all night, she stopt
again at Mr Delvile's, and left word with the porter, that if young Mr
Delvile should come home, he would hear of the person he was enquiring
for at Mrs Roberts's in Fetter-lane. To Belfield's she did not dare
to direct him; and it was her intention, if there she procured no new
intelligence, to leave the same message, and then go to Mrs Roberts
without further delay. To make such an arrangement with a servant who
knew not her connection with his young master, was extremely repugnant
to her; but the exigence was too urgent for scruples, and there was
nothing to which she would not have consented, to prevent the fatal
catastrophe she apprehended.
When she came to Belfield's, not daring to enter the house, she sent in
Mr Simkins, to desire that Mrs Belfield would be so good as to step to
the coach door.
“Is your son, madam,” she cried, eagerly, “come home? and is any body
with him?”
“No, ma'am; he has never once been across the threshold since that
gentleman took him out; and I am half out of my wits to think”--
“Has that gentleman,” interrupted Cecilia, “been here anymore?”
“Yes, ma'am, that's what I was going to tell you; he came again just
now, and said”--
“Just now?--good heaven!--and which way is he gone?”
“Why he is after no good, I am afraid, for he was in a great passion,
and would hardly hear any thing I said.”
“Pray, pray answer me quick!--where, which way did he go?”
“Why, he asked me if I knew whither my son was come from the * *
coffee-house; why, says I, I'm sure I can't tell, for if it had not been
for Mr Simkins, I should not so much as have known he ever went to the
* * coffee-house; however, I hope he a'n't come away, because if he is,
poor Miss Beverley will have had all that trouble for nothing; for she's
gone after him in a prodigious hurry; and upon my only saying that, he
seemed quite beside himself, and said, if I don't meet with your son at
the * * coffee-house myself, pray, when he comes in, tell him I shall be
highly obliged to him to call there; and then he went away, in as great
a pet as ever you saw.”
Cecilia listened to this account with the utmost terror and misery; the
suspicions of Delvile would now be aggravated, and the message he
had left for Belfield, would by him be regarded as a defiance. Again,
however, to the * * coffee-house she instantly ordered the coach, an
immediate explanation from herself seeming the only possible chance for
preventing the most horrible conclusion to this unfortunate and eventful
evening.
She was still accompanied by Mr Simkins, and, but that she attended to
nothing he said, would not inconsiderably have been tormented by his
conversation. She sent him immediately into the coffee-room, to enquire
if either of the gentlemen were then in the house.
He returned to her with a waiter, who said, “One of them, madam, called
again just now, but he only stopt to write a note, which he left to be
given to the gentleman who came with him at first. He is but this moment
gone, and I don't think he can be at the bottom of the street.”
“Oh drive then, gallop after him!”--cried Cecilia; “coachman! go this
moment!”
“My horses are tired,” said the man, “they have been out all day, and
they will gallop no further, if I don't stop and give them a drink.”
Cecilia, too full of hope and impatience for this delay, forced open
the door herself, and without saying another word, jumped out of the
carriage, with intention to run down the street; but the coachman
immediately seizing her, protested she should not stir till he was paid.
In the utmost agony of mind at an hindrance by which she imagined
Delvile would be lost to her perhaps for ever, she put her hand in her
pocket, in order to give up her purse for her liberty; but Mr Simkins,
who was making a tiresome expostulation with the coachman, took it
himself, and declaring he would not see the lady cheated, began a
tedious calculation of his fare.
“O pay him any thing!” cried she, “and let us be gone! an instant's
delay may be fatal!”
Mr Simkins, too earnest to conquer the coachman to attend to her
distress, continued his prolix harangue concerning a disputed shilling,
appealing to some gathering spectators upon the justice of his cause;
while his adversary, who was far from sober, still held Cecilia, saying
the coach had been hired for the lady, and he would be paid by herself.
“Good God!” cried the agitated Cecilia,--“give him my purse at
once!--give him every thing he desires!”--
The coachman, at this permission, encreased his demands, and Mr Simkins,
taking the number of his coach, protested he would summons him to the
Court of Conscience the next morning. A gentleman, who then came out
of the coffee-house, offered to assist the lady, but the coachman, who
still held her arm, swore he would have his right.
“Let me go! let me pass!” cried she, with encreasing eagerness and
emotion; “detain me at your peril!--release me this moment--only let me
run to the end of the street,--good God! good Heaven! detain me not for
mercy!”
Mr Simkins, humbly desiring her not to be in haste, began a formal
apology for his conduct; but the inebriety of the coachman became
evident; a mob was collecting; Cecilia, breathless with vehemence and
terror, was encircled, yet struggled in vain to break away; and the
stranger gentleman, protesting, with sundry compliments, he would
himself take care of her, very freely seized her hand.
This moment, for the unhappy Cecilia, teemed with calamity; she was
wholly overpowered; terror for Delvile, horror for herself, hurry,
confusion, heat and fatigue, all assailing her at once, while all means
of repelling them were denied her, the attack was too strong for her
fears, feelings, and faculties, and her reason suddenly, yet totally
failing her, she madly called out, “He will be gone! he will be gone!
and I must follow him to Nice!”
The gentleman now retreated; but Mr Simkins, who was talking to the mob,
did not hear her; and the coachman, too much intoxicated to perceive her
rising frenzy, persisted in detaining her.
“I am going to France!” cried she, still more wildly, “why do you stop
me? he will die if I do not see him, he will bleed to death!”
The coachman, still unmoved, began to grow very abusive; but the
stranger, touched by compassion, gave up his attempted gallantry, and Mr
Simkins, much astonished, entreated her not to be frightened: she was,
however, in no condition to listen to him; with a strength hitherto
unknown to her, she forcibly disengaged herself from her persecutors;
yet her senses were wholly disordered; she forgot her situation, her
intention, and herself; the single idea of Delvile's danger took sole
possession of her brain, though all connection with its occasion was
lost, and the moment she was released, she fervently clasped her hands,
exclaiming, “I will yet heal his wound, even at the hazard of my life!”
and springing forward, was almost instantly out of sight.
Mr Simkins now, much alarmed, and earnestly calling after her, entered
into a compromise with the coachman, that he might attend her; but the
length of his negociation defeated its purpose, and before he was
at liberty to follow her, all trace was lost by which he might have
overtaken her. He stopt every passenger he met to make enquiries, but
though they led him on some way, they led him on in vain; and, after
a useless and ill-managed pursuit, he went quietly to his own home,
determining to acquaint Mrs Belfield with what had happened the next
morning.
Mean while the frantic Cecilia escaped both pursuit and insult by the
velocity of her own motion. She called aloud upon Delvile as she flew to
the end of the street. No Delvile was there!--she turned the corner;
yet saw nothing of him; she still went on, though unknowing whither,
the distraction of her mind every instant growing greater, from the
inflammation of fatigue, heat, and disappointment. She was spoken to
repeatedly; she was even caught once or twice by her riding habit; but
she forced herself along by her own vehement rapidity, not hearing what
was said, nor heeding what was thought. Delvile, bleeding by the arm of
Belfield, was the image before her eyes, and took such full possession
of her senses, that still, as she ran on, she fancied it in view. She
scarce touched the ground; she scarce felt her own motion; she seemed
as if endued with supernatural speed, gliding from place to place, from
street to street; with no consciousness of any plan, and following no
other direction than that of darting forward where-ever there was most
room, and turning back when she met with any obstruction; till quite
spent and exhausted, she abruptly ran into a yet open shop, where,
breathless and panting, she sunk upon the floor, and, with a look
disconsolate and helpless, sat for some time without speaking.
The people of the house, concluding at first she was a woman of the
town, were going roughly to turn her out; but soon seeing their mistake,
by the evident distraction of her air and manner, they enquired of some
idle people who, late as it was, had followed her, if any of them knew
who she was, or whence she came?
They could give no account of her, but supposed she was broke loose from
Bedlam.
Cecilia then, wildly starting up, exclaimed, “No, no,--I am not mad,--I
am going to Nice--to my husband.”
“She's quite crazy,” said the man of the house, who was a Pawn-Broker;
“we had better get rid of her before she grows mischievous--”
“She's somebody broke out from a private mad house, I dare say,” said a
man who had followed her into the shop; “and if you were to take care of
her a little while, ten to one but you'll get a reward for it.”
“She's a gentlewoman, sure enough,” said the mistress of the house,
“because she's got such good things on.”
And then, under pretence of trying to find some direction to her upon
a letter, or paper, she insisted upon searching her pockets: here,
however, she was disappointed in her expectations: her purse was in the
custody of Mr Simkins, but neither her terror nor distress had saved her
from the daring dexterity of villainy, and her pockets, in the mob,
had been rifled of whatever else they contained. The woman therefore
hesitated some time whether to take charge of her or, not: but being
urged by the man who made the proposal, and who said they might depend
upon seeing her soon advertised, as having escaped from her keepers,
they ventured to undertake her.
Mean while she endeavoured again to get out, calling aloud upon Delvile
to rescue her, but so wholly bereft of sense and recollection, she could
give no account who she was, whence she came, or whither she wished to
go.
They then carried her up stairs, and attempted to make her lie down
upon a bed; but supposing she refused because it was not of straw, they
desisted; and, taking away the candle, locked the door, and all went to
rest.
In this miserable condition, alone and raving, she was left to pass
the night! in the early part of it, she called upon Delvile without
intermission, beseeching him to come to her defence in one moment, and
deploring his death the next; but afterwards, her strength being wholly
exhausted by these various exertions and fatigues, she threw herself
upon the floor, and lay for some minutes quite still. Her head then
began to grow cooler, as the fever into which terror and immoderate
exercise had thrown her abated, and her memory recovered its functions.
This was, however, only a circumstance of horror to her: she found
herself shut up in a place of confinement, without light, without
knowledge where she was, and not a human being near her!
Yet the same returning reason which enabled her to take this view of
her own situation, brought also to her mind that in which she had left
Delvile;--under all the perturbation of new-kindled jealousy, just
calling upon Belfield,--Belfield, tenacious of his honour even more than
himself,--to satisfy doubts of which the very mention would be received
as a challenge!
“Oh yet, oh yet,” cried she, “let me fly and overtake them!--I may find
them before morning, and to-night it must surely have been too late for
this work of death!”
She then arose to feel for the door, and succeeded; but it was locked,
and no effort she could make enabled her to open it.
Her agony was unspeakable; she called out with violence upon the people
of the house, conjured them to set her at liberty, offered any reward
for their assistance, and threatened them with a prosecution if
detained.
Nobody, however, came near her: some slept on notwithstanding all the
disturbance she could make, and others; though awakened by her cries,
concluded them the ravings of a mad woman, and listened not to what she
said.
Her head was by no means in a condition to bear this violence of
distress; every pulse was throbbing, every vein seemed bursting, her
reason, so lately returned, could not bear the repetition of such a
shock, and from supplicating for help with all the energy of feeling
and understanding, she soon continued the cry from mere vehemence of
distraction.
Thus dreadfully passed the night; and in the morning, when the woman of
the house came to see after her, she found her raving with such frenzy,
and desperation, that her conscience was perfectly at ease in the
treatment she had given her, being now firmly satisfied she required the
strictest confinement.
She still, however, tried to get away; talked of Delvile without
cessation, said she should be too late to serve him, told the woman she
desired but to prevent murder, and repeatedly called out, “Oh beloved of
my heart! wait but a moment, and I will snatch thee from destruction!”
Mrs Wyers, this woman, now sought no longer to draw from her whence she
came, or who she was, but heard her frantic exclamations without any
emotion, contentedly concluding that her madness was incurable: and
though she was in a high fever, refused all sustenance, and had every
symptom of an alarming and dangerous malady, she was fully persuaded
that her case was that of decided insanity, and had not any notion of
temporary or accidental alienation of reason.
All she could think of by way of indulgence to her, was to bring her
a quantity of straw, having heard that mad people were fond of it; and
putting it in a heap in one corner of the room, she expected to see her
eagerly fly at it.
Cecilia, however, distracted as she was, was eager for nothing but to
escape, which was constantly her aim, alike when violent or when quiet.
Mrs Wyers, finding this, kept her closely confined, and the door always
locked, whether absent or present.
CHAPTER vii.
AN ENCOUNTER.
Two whole days passed thus; no enquiries reached Mrs Wyers, and she
found in the news-papers no advertisement. Meanwhile Cecilia grew worse
every moment, tasted neither drink nor food, raved incessantly, called
out twenty times in a breath, “Where is he? which way is he gone?”
and implored the woman by the most pathetic remonstrances, to save her
unhappy Delvile, _dearer to her than life, more precious than peace or
rest_!
At other times she talked of her marriage, of the displeasure of his
family, and of her own remorse; entreated the woman not to betray her,
and promised to spend the remnant of her days in the heaviness of sorrow
and contrition.
Again her fancy roved, and Mr Monckton took sole possession of it. She
reproached him for his perfidy, she bewailed that he was massacred, she
would not a moment out-live him, and wildly declared _her last remains
should moulder in his hearse_! And thus, though naturally and commonly
of a silent and quiet disposition, she was now not a moment still, for
the irregular starts of a terrified and disordered imagination, were
changed into the constant ravings of morbid delirium.
The woman, growing uneasy from her uncertainty of pay for her trouble,
asked the advice of some of her friends what was proper for her to do;
and they counselled her to put an advertisement into the papers herself
the next morning.
The following, therefore, was drawn up and sent to the printer of the
Daily Advertiser.
MADNESS.
Whereas a crazy young lady, tall, fair complexioned, with blue eyes and
light hair, ran into the Three Blue Balls, in----street, on Thursday
night, the 2nd instant, and has been kept there since out of charity.
She was dressed in a riding habit. Whoever she belongs to is desired to
send after her immediately. She has been treated with the utmost care
and tenderness. She talks much of some person by the name of Delvile.
N.B.--She had no money about her.
May, 1780.
This had but just been sent off, when Mr Wyers, the man of the house,
coming up stairs, said, “Now we shall have two of them, for here's
the crazy old gentleman below, that says he has just heard in the
neighbourhood of what has happened to us, and he desires to see the poor
lady.”
“It's as well let him come up, then,” answered Mrs Wyers, “for he goes
to all sort of places and people, and ten to one but he'll bustle about
till he finds out who she is.”
Mr Wyers then went down stairs to send him up.
He came instantly. It was Albany, who in his vagrant rambles, having
heard an unknown mad lady was at this pawn-broker's, came, with his
customary eagerness to visit and serve the unhappy, to see what could be
done for her.
When he entered the room, she was sitting upon the bed, her eyes
earnestly fixed upon the window, from which she was privately indulging
a wish to make her escape. Her dress was in much disorder, her fine hair
was dishevelled, and the feathers of her riding hat were broken and half
falling down, some shading her face, others reaching to her shoulder.
“Poor lady!” cried Albany, approaching her, “how long has she been in
this state?”
She started at the sound of a new voice, she looked round,--but what was
the astonishment of Albany to see who it was!--He stept back,-he came
forward,--he doubted his own senses,--he looked at her earnestly,--he
turned from her to look at the woman of the house,--he cast his eyes
round the room itself, and then, lifting up his hands, “O sight of woe!”
he cried, “the generous and good! the kind reliever of distress! the
benign sustainer of misery!--is _This_ Cecilia!”--
Cecilia, imperfectly recollecting, though not understanding him, sunk
down at his feet, tremblingly called out, “Oh, if he is yet to be saved,
if already he is not murdered,--go to him! fly after him! you will
presently overtake him, he is only in the next street, I left him there
myself, his sword drawn, and covered with human blood!”
“Sweet powers of kindness and compassion!” cried the old man, “look upon
this creature with pity! she who raised the depressed, she who cheared
the unhappy! she whose liberal hand turned lamentations into joy! who
never with a tearless eye could hear the voice of sorrow!--is _This_ she
herself!--can _This_ be Cecilia!”
“O do not wait to talk!” cried she, “go to him now, or you will never
see him more! the hand of death is on him,--cold, clay-cold is its
touch! he is breathing his last--Oh murdered Delvile! massacred husband
of my heart! groan not so piteously! fly to him, and weep over him!--fly
to him and pluck the poniard from his wounded bosom!”
“Oh sounds of anguish and horror!” cried the melted moralist, tears
running quick down his rugged cheeks; “melancholy indeed is this
sight, humiliating to morality! such is human strength, such human
felicity!--weak as our virtues, frail as our guilty natures!”
“Ah,” cried she, more wildly, “no one will save me now! I am married,
and no one will listen to me! ill were the auspices under which I gave
my hand! Oh it was a work of darkness, unacceptable and offensive! it
has been sealed, therefore, with blood, and to-morrow it will be signed
with murder!”
“Poor distracted creature!” exclaimed he, “thy pangs I have felt, but
thy innocence I have forfeited!--my own wounds bleed afresh,--my own
brain threatens new frenzy.”--
Then, starting up, “Good woman,” he added, “kindly attend her,--I will
seek out her friends, put her into bed, comfort, sooth, compose her.--I
will come to you again, and as soon as I can.”
He then hurried away.
“Oh hour of joy!” cried Cecilia, “he is gone to rescue him! oh blissful
moment! he will yet be snatched from slaughter!”
The woman lost not an instant in obeying the orders she had received;
she was put into bed, and nothing was neglected, as far as she had
power and thought, to give a look of decency and attention to her
accommodations.
He had not left them an hour, when Mary, the maid who had attended
her from Suffolk, came to enquire for her lady. Albany, who was now
wandering over the town in search of some of her friends, and who
entered every house where he imagined she was known, had hastened to
that of Mrs Hill the first of any, as he was well acquainted with her
obligations to Cecilia; there, Mary herself, by the directions which
her lady had given Mrs Belfield, had gone; and there, in the utmost
astonishment and uneasiness, had continued till Albany brought news of
her.
She was surprised and afflicted beyond measure, not only at the state of
her mind, and her health, but to find her in a bed and an apartment so
unsuitable to her rank of life, and so different to what she had ever
been accustomed. She wept bitterly while she enquired at the bed-side
how her lady did, but wept still more, when, without answering, or
seeming to know her, Cecilia started up, and called out, “I must be
removed this moment! I must go to St James's-square,--if I stay an
instant longer, the passing-bell will toll, and then how shall I be in
time for the funeral?”
Mary, alarmed and amazed, turned hastily from her to the woman of the
house, who calmly said, the lady was only in a raving fit, and must not
be minded.
Extremely frightened at this intelligence, she entreated her to be quiet
and lie still. But Cecilia grew suddenly so violent, that force only
could keep her from rising; and Mary, unused to dispute her commands,
prepared to obey them.
Mrs Wyers now in her turn opposed in vain; Cecilia was peremptory, and
Mary became implicit, and, though not without much difficulty, she
was again dressed in her riding habit. This operation over, she moved
towards the door, the temporary strength of delirium giving, her a
hardiness that combated fever, illness, fatigue, and feebleness. Mary,
however averse and fearful, assisted her, and Mrs Wyers, compelled by
the obedience of her own servant, went before them to order a chair.
Cecilia, however, felt her weakness when she attempted to move down
stairs; her feet tottered, and her head became dizzy; she leaned it
against Mary, who called aloud for more help, and made her sit down till
it came. Her resolution, however, was not to be altered; a stubbornness,
wholly foreign to her genuine character, now made her stern and
positive; and Mary, who thought her submission indispensable, cried, but
did not offer to oppose her.
Mr and Mrs Wyers both came up to assist in supporting her, and Mr Wyers
offered to carry her in his arms; but she would not consent; when she
came to the bottom of the stairs, her head grew worse, she again lent
it upon Mary, but Mr Wyers was obliged to hold them both. She still,
however, was firm in her determination, and was making another effort to
proceed, when Delvile rushed hastily into the shop.
He had just encountered Albany; who, knowing his acquaintance, though
ignorant of his marriage, with Cecilia, had informed him where to seek
her.
He was going to make enquiry if he was come to the right house, when
he perceived her,--feeble, shaking, leaning upon one person, and half
carried by another!--he started back, staggered, gasped for breath,--but
finding they were proceeding, advanced with trepidation, furiously
calling out, “Hold! stop!--what is it you are doing? Monsters of savage
barbarity, are you murdering my wife?”
The well-known voice no sooner struck the ears of Cecilia, than
instantly recollecting it, she screamed, and, is suddenly endeavouring
to spring forward, fell to the ground.
Delvile had vehemently advanced to catch her in his arms and save her
fall, which her unexpected quickness had prevented her attendants from
doing; but the sight of her changed complection, and the wildness of her
eyes and air, again made him start,--his blood froze through his veins,
and he stood looking at her, cold and almost petrified.
Her own recollection of him seemed lost already; and exhausted by the
fatigue she had gone through in dressing and coming down stairs, she
remained still and quiet, forgetting her design of proceeding, and
forming no new one for returning.
Mary, to whom, as to all her fellow servants, the marriage of Cecilia
had been known, before she left the country, now desired from Delvile
directions what was to be done.
Delvile, starting suddenly at this call from the deepest horror into the
most desperate rage, fiercely exclaimed, “Inhuman wretches! unfeeling,
execrable wretches, what is it you have done to her? how came she
hither?--who brought her?--who dragged her?--by what infamous usage has
she been sunk into this state?”
“Indeed, sir, I don't know!” cried Mary.
“I assure you, sir,” said Mrs Wyers, “the lady--”
“Peace!” cried he, furiously, “I will not hear your falsehoods!--peace,
and begone!”--
Then, casting himself upon the ground by her side, “Oh my Cecilia,”
he cried, “where hast thou been thus long? how have I lost thee? what
dreadful calamity has befallen thee?--answer me, my love! raise your
sweet head and answer me!--oh speak!--say to me any thing; the bitterest
words will be mercy to this silence!”---
Cecilia then, suddenly looking up, called out with great quickness, “Who
are you?”
“Who am I!” cried he, amazed and affrighted.
“I should be glad you would go away,” cried she, in a hurrying manner,
“for you are quite unknown to me.”
Delvile, unconscious of her insanity, and attributing to resentment
this aversion and repulse, hastily moved from her, mournfully answering,
“Well indeed may you disclaim me, refuse all forgiveness, load me with
hatred and reproach, and consign me to eternal anguish! I have merited
severer punishment still; I have behaved like a monster, and I am
abhorrent to myself!”
Cecilia now, half rising, and regarding him with mingled terror and
anger, eagerly exclaimed, “If you do not mean to mangle and destroy me,
begone this instant.”
“To mangle you!” repeated Delvile, shuddering, “how horrible!--but I
deserve it!--look not, however, so terrified, and I will tear myself
away from you. Suffer me but to assist in removing you from this place,
and I will only watch you at a distance, and never see you more till you
permit me to approach you.”
“Why, why,” cried Cecilia, with a look of perplexity and impatience,
“will you not tell me your name, and where you come from?”
“Do you not know me?” said he, struck with new horror; “or do you only
mean to kill me by the question?”
“Do you bring me any message from Mr Monckton?”
“From Mr Monckton?--no; but he lives and will recover.”
“I thought you had been Mr Monckton yourself.”
“Too cruel, yet justly cruel Cecilia!--is then Delvile utterly
renounced?--the guilty, the unhappy Delvile!--is he cast off for ever?
have you driven him wholly from your heart? do you deny him even a place
in your remembrance?”
“Is your name, then, Delvile?”
“O what is it you mean? Is it me or my name you thus disown?”
“'Tis a name,” cried she, sitting up, “I well remember to have heard,
and once I loved it, and three times I called upon it in the dead of
night. And when I was cold and wretched, I cherished it; and when I was
abandoned and left alone, I repeated it and sung to it.”
“All-gracious powers!” cried Delvile, “her reason is utterly gone!”
And, hastily rising, he desperately added, “what is death to this
blow?--Cecilia, I am content to part with thee!”
Mary now, and Mrs Wyers, poured upon him eagerly an account of her
illness, and insanity, her desire of removal, and their inability to
control her.
Delvile, however, made no answer; he scarce heard them: the deepest
despair took possession of his mind, and, rooted to the spot where he
stood, he contemplated iii dreadful stillness the fallen and altered
object of his best hopes and affections; already in her faded cheeks
and weakened frame, his agonising terror read the quick impending
destruction of all his earthly happiness! the sight was too much for
his fortitude, and almost for his understanding; and when his woe became
utterable, he wrung his hands, and groaning aloud, called out, “Art thou
gone so soon! my wife! my Cecilia! have I lost thee already?”
Cecilia, with utter insensibility to what was passing, now suddenly, and
with a rapid yet continued motion, turned her head from side to side,
her eyes wildly glaring, and yet apparently regarding nothing.
“Dreadful! dreadful!” exclaimed Delvile, “what a sight is this!” and
turning from her to the people of the house, he angrily said, “why is
she here upon the floor? could you not even allow her a bed? Who attends
her? Who waits upon her? Why has nobody sent for help?--Don't answer
me,--I will not hear you, fly this moment for a physician,--bring two,
bring three--bring all you can find?”
Then, still looking from Cecilia, whose sight he could no longer
support, he consulted with Mary whither she should be conveyed: and, as
the night was far advanced, and no place was prepared for her elsewhere,
they soon agreed that she could only be removed up stairs.
Delvile now attempted to carry her in his arms; but trembling and
unsteady, he had not strength to sustain her; yet not enduring to behold
the helplessness he could not assist, he conjured them to be careful
and gentle, and, committing her to their trust, ran out himself for a
physician.
Cecilia resisted them with her utmost power, imploring them not to bury
her alive, and averring she had received intelligence they meant to
entomb her with Mr Monckton.
They put her, however, to bed, but her raving grew still more wild and
incessant.
Delvile soon returned with a physician, but had not courage to attend
him to her room. He waited for him at the foot of the stairs, where,
hastily stopping him,
“Well, sir,” he cried, “is it not all over? is it not impossible she can
live?”
“She is very ill, indeed, sir,” he answered, “but I have given
directions which perhaps---”
“_Perhaps_!” interrupted Delvile, shuddering, “do not stab me with such
a word!”
“She is very delirious,” he continued, “but as her fever is very high,
that is not so material. If the orders I have given take effect, and the
fever is got under, all the rest will be well of course.”
He then went away; leaving Delvile as much thunderstruck by answers
so alarming, as if he had consulted him in full hope, and without even
suspicion of her danger.
The moment he recovered from this shock, he flew out of the house for
more advice.
He returned and brought with him two physicians. They confirmed the
directions already given, but would pronounce nothing decisively of her
situation.
Delvile, half mad with the acuteness of his misery, charged them all
with want of skill, and wrote instantly into the country for Dr Lyster.
He went out himself in search of a messenger to ride off express, though
it was midnight, with his letter; and then, returning, he was hastening
to her room, but, while yet at the door, hearing her still raving, his
horror conquered his eagerness, and, hurrying down stairs, he spent the
remnant of the long and seemingly endless night in the shop.
CHAPTER ix.
A TRIBUTE.
Mean while Cecilia went through very severe discipline, sometimes
strongly opposing it, at other times scarce sensible what was done to
her.
The whole of the next day passed in much the same manner, neither did
the next night bring any visible alteration. She had now nurses and
attendants even more than sufficient, for Delvile had no relief but from
calling in more help. His terror of again seeing her encreased with his
forbearance; the interview which had already past had almost torn him
asunder, and losing all courage for attempting to enter her room, he now
spent almost all his time upon the stairs which led to it. Whenever she
was still, he seated himself at her chamber door, where, if he could
hear her breathe or move, a sudden hope of her recovery gave to him a
momentary extasy that recompensed all his sufferings. But the instant
she spoke, unable to bear the sound of so loved a voice uttering nothing
but the incoherent ravings of lightheadedness, he hastened down stairs,
and flying out of the house, walked in the neighbouring streets, till he
could again gather courage to enquire or to listen how she went on.
The following morning, however, Dr Lyster came, and every hope revived.
He flew to embrace him, told him instantly his marriage with Cecilia,
and besought him by some superior effort of his extraordinary abilities
to save him the distraction of her loss.
“My good friend,” cried the worthy Doctor, “what is this you ask of me?
and how can this poor young lady herself want advice more than you do?
Do you think these able physicians actually upon the spot, with all
the experience of full practice in London to assist their skill, want a
petty Doctor out of the country to come and teach them what is right?”
“I have more reliance upon you,” cried Delvile, than upon the whole
faculty; come, therefore, and prescribe for her,--take some new course
“--
“Impossible, my good Sir, impossible! I must not lose my wits from
vanity, because you have lost yours from affliction. I could not refuse
to come to you when you wrote to me with such urgency, and I will now go
and see the young lady, as a _friend_, with all my heart. I am sorry for
you at my soul, Mr Mortimer! She is a lovely young creature, and has an
understanding, for her years and sex, unequalled.”
“Never mention her to me!” cried the impatient Delvile, “I cannot bear
it! Go up to her, dear Doctor, and if you want a consultation, send, if
you please, for every physician in town.”
Dr Lyster desired only that those who had already attended might
be summoned; and then, giving up to his entreaties the accustomed
ceremonial of waiting for them, he went to Cecilia.
Delvile did not dare accompany him; and so well was he acquainted with
his plainness and sincerity, that though he expected his return with
eagerness, he no sooner heard him upon the stairs, than fearing to know
his opinion, he hastily snatched up his hat, and rushed vehemently out
of the house to avoid him.
He continued to walk about the streets, till even the dread of ill
news was less horrible to him than this voluntary suspense, and then he
returned to the house.
He found Dr Lyster in a small back parlour, which Mrs Wyers, finding she
should now be well paid, had appropriated for Delvile's use.
Delvile, putting his hand upon the Doctor's shoulder, said, “Well, my
dear Dr Lyster, _you_, still, I hope”--
“I would I could make you easy!” interrupted the Doctor; “yet, if you
are rational, one comfort, at all events, I can give you; the crisis
seems approaching, and either she will recover, or before to-morrow
morning”---
“Don't go on, Sir!” cried Delvile, with mingled rage and horror, “I
will not have her days limited! I sent not for you to give me such an
account!”
And again he flew out of the house, leaving Dr Lyster unaffectedly
concerned for him, and too kind-hearted and too wise to be offended at
the injustice of immoderate sorrow.
In a few minutes, however, from the effect rather of despair than
philosophy, Delvile grew more composed, and waited upon Dr Lyster to
apologize for his behaviour. He received his hearty forgiveness, and
prevailed upon him to continue in town till the whole was decided.
About noon, Cecilia, from the wildest rambling and most perpetual
agitation, sunk suddenly into a state of such utter insensibility,
that she appeared unconscious even of her existence; and but that she
breathed, she might already have passed for being dead.
When Delvile heard this, he could no longer endure even his post upon
the stairs; he spent his whole time in wandering about the streets, or
stopping in Dr Lyster's parlour to enquire if all was over.
That humane physician, not more alarmed at the danger of Cecilia, than
grieved at the situation of Delvile, thought the present fearful crisis
at least offered an opportunity of reconciling him with his father. He
waited, therefore, upon that gentleman in St James's-square, and openly
informed him of the dangerous state of Cecilia, and the misery of his
son.
Mr Delvile, though he would gladly, to have annulled an alliance he held
disgraceful to his family, have received intelligence that Cecilia was
no more, was yet extremely disconcerted to hear of sufferings to which
his own refusal of an asylum he was conscious had largely contributed;
and after a haughty struggle between tenderness and wrath, he begged the
advice of Dr Lyster how his son might be drawn from such a scene.
Dr Lyster, who well knew Delvile was too desperate to be tractable,
proposed surprising him into an interview by their returning together:
Mr Delvile, however apprehensive and relenting, conceded most
unwillingly to a measure he held beneath him, and, when he came to the
shop, could scarce be persuaded to enter it. Mortimer, at that time,
was taking a solitary ramble; and Dr Lyster, to complete the work he
had begun of subduing the hard pride of his father, contrived, under
pretence of waiting for him, to conduct him to the room of the invalide.
Mr Delvile, who knew not whither he was going, at first sight of the bed
and the attendants, was hastily retreating; but the changed and livid
face of Cecilia caught his eye, and, struck with sudden consternation,
he involuntarily stopt.
“Look at the poor young lady!” cried Dr Lyster; “can you wonder a sight
such as this should make Mr Mortimer forget every thing else?”
She was wholly insensible, but perfectly quiet; she seemed to
distinguish nothing, and neither spoke nor moved.
Mr Delvile regarded her with the utmost horror: the refuge he so
implacably refused her on the night when her intellects were disordered,
he would now gladly have offered at the expence of almost similar
sufferings, to have relieved himself from those rising pangs which
called him author of this scene of woe. His pride, his pomp, his ancient
name, were now sunk in his estimation; and while he considered himself
the destroyer of this unhappy young creature, he would have sacrificed
them all to have called himself her protector. Little is the boast of
insolence when it is analysed by the conscience! bitter is the agony
of self-reproach, where misery follows hardness of heart! yet, when the
first painful astonishment from her situation abated, the remorse she
excited being far stronger than the pity, he gave an angry glance at Dr
Lyster for betraying him into such a sight, and hastily left the room.
Delvile, who was now impatiently waiting to see Dr Lyster in the little
parlour, alarmed at the sound of a new step upon the stairs, came out to
enquire who had been admitted. When he saw his father, he shrunk back;
but Mr Delvile, no longer supported by pride, and unable to recover from
the shock he had just received, caught him in his arms, and said “Oh
come home to me, my son! this is a place to destroy you!”
“Ah, Sir,” cried Delvile, “think not of me now!--you must shew me no
kindness; I am not in a state to bear it!” And, forcibly breaking from
him, he hurried out of the house.
Mr Delvile, all the father awakened in his bosom, saw his departure
with more dread than anger; and returned himself to St James's-square,
tortured with parental fears, and stung by personal remorse, lamenting
his own inflexibility, and pursued by the pale image of Cecilia.
She was still in this unconscious state, and apparently as free from
suffering as from enjoyment, when a new voice was suddenly heard
without, exclaiming, “Oh where is she? where is she? where is my dear
Miss Beverley?” and Henrietta Belfield ran wildly into the room.
The advertisement in the news-papers had at once brought her to town,
and directed her to the house: the mention that the lost lady _talked
much of a person by the name of Delvile_, struck her instantly to mean
Cecilia; the description corresponded with this idea, and the account of
the dress confirmed it: Mr Arnott, equally terrified with herself, had
therefore lent her his chaise to learn the truth of this conjecture, and
she had travelled all night.
Flying up to the bedside, “Who is this?” she cried, “this is not Miss
Beverley?” and then screaming with unrestrained horror, “Oh mercy!
mercy!” she called out, “yes, it is indeed! and nobody would know
her!--her own mother would not think her her child!”
“You must come away, Miss Belfield,” said Mary, “you must indeed,--the
doctors all say my lady must not be disturbed.”
“Who shall take me away?” cried she, angrily, “nobody Mary! not all the
doctors in the world! Oh sweet Miss Beverley! I will lie down by your
side,--I will never quit you while you live,--and I wish, I wish I could
die to save your precious life!”
Then, leaning over her, and wringing her hands, “Oh I shall break my
heart,” she cried, “to see her in this condition! Is this the so happy
Miss Beverley, that I thought every body born to give joy to? the
Miss Beverley that seemed queen of the whole world! yet so good and so
gentle, so kind to the meanest person! excusing every body's faults but
her own, and telling them how they might mend, and trying to make them
as good as herself!--Oh who would know her! who would know her! what
have they done to you, my beloved Miss Beverley? how have they altered
and disfigured you in this wicked and barbarous manner?”
In the midst of this simple yet pathetic testimony, to the worth and
various excellencies of Cecilia, Dr Lyster came into the room. The women
all flocked around him, except Mary, to vindicate themselves from any
share in permitting this new comer's entrance and behaviour; but Mary
only told him who she was, and said, that if her lady was well enough to
know her, there was nobody she was certain she would have been so glad
to see.
“Young lady,” said the doctor, “I would advise you to walk into another
room till you are a little more composed.”
“Every body, I find, is for hurrying me away,” cried the sobbing
Henrietta, whose honest heart swelled with its own affectionate
integrity; “but they might all save themselves the trouble, for go I
will not!”
“This is very wrong,” said the doctor, “and must not be suffered: do you
call it friendship to come about a sick person in this manner?”
“Oh my Miss Beverley!” cried Henrietta, “do you hear how they all
upbraid me? how they all want to force me away from you, and to hinder
me even from looking at you! Speak for me, sweet lady! speak for me
yourself! tell them the poor Henrietta will not do you any harm; tell
them she only wishes just to sit by you, and to see you!--I will hold by
this dear hand,--I will cling to it till the last minute; and you will
not, I know you will not, give orders to have it taken away from me!”
Dr Lyster, though his own good nature was much affected by this fond
sorrow, now half angrily represented to her the impropriety of indulging
it: but Henrietta, unused to disguise or repress her feelings, grew only
the more violent, the more she was convinced of Cecilia's danger: “Oh
look but at her,” she exclaimed, “and take me from her if you can!
see how her sweet eyes are fixed! look but what a change in her
complexion!--She does not see me, she does not know me,--she does not
hear me! her hand seems quite lifeless already, her face is all fallen
away!--Oh that I had died twenty deaths before I had lived to see this
sight!--poor wretched Henrietta, thou bast now no friend left in the
world! thou mayst go and lie down in some corner, and no one will come
and say to thee a word of comfort!”
“This must not be!” said Dr Lyster, “you must take her away.”
“You shall not!” cried she, desperately, “I will stay with her till she
has breathed her last, and I will stay with her still longer! and if she
was to speak to you this moment, she would tell you that she chose it.
She loved the poor Henrietta, and loved to have her near her; and when
she was ill, and in much distress, she never once bid me leave her room.
Is it not true, my sweet Miss Beverley? do you not know it to be true?
Oh look not so dreadfully! turn to your unhappy Henrietta; sweetest,
best of ladies! will you not speak to her once more? will you not say to
her one single word?”
Dr Lyster now grew very angry, and telling her such violence might have
fatal consequences, frightened her into more order, and drew her away
himself. He had then the kindness to go with her into another room,
where, when her first vehemence was spent, his remonstrances and
reasoning brought her to a sense of the danger she might occasion, and
made her promise not to return to the room till she had gained strength
to behave better.
When Dr Lyster went again to Delvile, he found him greatly alarmed
by his long stay; he communicated to him briefly what had passed, and
counselled him to avoid encreasing his own grief by the sight of
what was suffered by this unguarded and ardent girl. Delvile readily
assented, for the weight of his own woe was too heavy to bear any
addition.
Henrietta now, kept in order by Dr Lyster, contented herself with only
sitting on the bed, without attempting to speak, and with no other
employment than alternately looking at her sick friend, and covering
her streaming eyes with her handkerchief; from time to time quitting the
room wholly, for the relief of sobbing at liberty and aloud in another.
But, in the evening, while Delvile and Dr Lyster were taking one of
their melancholy rambles, a new scene was acted in the apartment of
the still senseless Cecilia. Albany suddenly made his entrance into it,
accompanied by three children, two girls and one boy, from the ages of
four to six, neatly dressed, clean, and healthy.
“See here!”' cried he, as he came in, “see here what I've brought
you! raise, raise your languid head, and look this way! you think me
rigid,--an enemy to pleasure, austere, harsh, and a forbidder of joy:
look at this sight, and see the contrary! who shall bring you comfort,
joy, pleasure, like this? three innocent children, clothed and fed by
your bounty!”
Henrietta and Mary, who both knew him well, were but little surprised at
anything he said or did, and the nurses presumed not to interfere but by
whispers.
Cecilia, however, observed nothing that passed; and Albany, somewhat
astonished, approached nearer to the bed; “Wilt thou not speak?” he
cried.
“She can't, Sir,” said one of the women; “she has been speechless many
hours.”
The air of triumph with which he had entered the room was now changed
into disappointment and consternation. For some minutes he thoughtfully
and sorrowfully contemplated her, and then, with a deep sigh, said, “How
will the poor rue this day!” Then, turning to the children, who, awed by
this scene, were quiet from terror. “Alas!” he said, “ye helpless babes,
ye know not what you have lost: presumptuously we came; unheeded we must
return! I brought you to be seen by your benefactress, but she is going
where she will find many such.”
He then led them away; but, suddenly coming back, “I may see her,
perhaps, no more! shall I not, then, pray for her? Great and aweful is
the change she is making; what are human revolutions, how pitiful, how
insignificant, compared with it!--Come, little babies, come; with gifts
has she often blessed _you_, with wishes bless _her_! Come, let us kneel
round her bed; let us all pray for her together; lift up your innocent
hands, and for all of you I will speak.”
He then made the children obey his injunctions, and having knelt
himself, while Henrietta and Mary instantly did the same, “Sweet
flower!” he cried, “untimely cropt in years, yet in excellence mature!
early decayed in misery, yet fragrant in innocence! Gentle be thy exit,
for unsullied have been thy days; brief be thy pains, for few have been
thy offences! Look at her sweet babes, and bear her in your remembrance;
often will I visit you and revive the solemn scene. Look at her ye,
also, who are nearer to your end--Ah! will you bear it like her!”
He paused; and the nurses and Mrs Wyers, struck by this call, and moved
by the general example, crept to the bed, and dropt on their knees,
almost involuntarily.
“She departs,” resumed Albany, “the envy of the world! while yet no
guilt had seized her soul, and no remorse had marred her peace. She was
the hand-maid of charity, and pity dwelt in her bosom! her mouth
was never open but to give comfort; her foot-steps were followed by
blessings! Oh happy in purity, be thine the song of triumph!--softly
shalt thou sink to temporary sleep,--sublimely shalt thou rise to life
that wakes for ever!”
He then got up, took the children by their little hands, and went away.
CHAPTER x.
A TERMINATION.
Dr Lyster and Delvile met them at the entrance into the house. Extremely
alarmed lest Cecilia had received any disturbance, they both hastened
up stairs, but Delvile proceeded only to the door. He stopt there and
listened; but all was silent; the prayers of Albany had struck an awe
into every one; and Dr Lyster soon returned to tell him there was no
alteration in his patient.
“And he has not disturbed her?” cried Delvile.
“No, not at all.”
“I think, then,” said he, advancing, though trembling, “I will yet see
her once more.”
“No, no, Mr Mortimer,” cried the doctor, “why should you give yourself
so unnecessary a shock?”
“The shock,” answered he, “is over!--tell me, however, is there any
chance I may hurt _her_?”
“I believe not; I do not think, just now, she will perceive you.”
“Well, then,--I may grieve, perhaps, hereafter, that once more--that
one glance!”--He stopt, irresolute the doctor would again have dissuaded
him, but, after a little hesitation, he assured him he was prepared for
the worst, and forced himself into the room.
When again, however, he beheld Cecilia,--senseless, speechless,
motionless, her features void of all expression, her cheeks without
colour, her eyes without meaning,--he shrunk from the sight, he leant
upon Dr Lyster, and almost groaned aloud.
The doctor would have conducted him out of the apartment; but,
recovering from this first agony, he turned again to view her, and
casting up his eyes, fervently ejaculated, “Oh merciful powers! Take,
or destroy her! let her not linger thus, rather let me lose her
for ever!--O far rather would I see her dead, glad in this dreadful
condition!”
Then, advancing to the bed side, and yet more earnestly looking at her,
“I pray not now,” he cried, “for thy life! inhumanly as I have treated
thee, I am not yet so hardened as to wish thy misery lengthened no;
quick be thy restoration, or short as pure thy passage to eternity!--Oh
my Cecilia! lovely, however altered! sweet even in the arms of death and
insanity! and dearer to my tortured heart in this calamitous state, than
in all thy pride of health and beauty!”--
He stopt, and turned from her, yet could not tear himself away; he came
back, he again looked at her, he hung over her in anguish unutterable;
he kissed each burning hand, he folded to his bosom her feeble form,
and, recovering his speech, though almost bursting with sorrow, faintly
articulated, “Is all over? no ray of reason left? no knowledge of thy
wretched Delvile?--no, none! the hand of death is on her, and she
is utterly gone!--sweet suffering excellence! loved, lost, expiring
Cecilia!--but I will not repine! peace and kindred angels are watching
to receive thee, and if thou art parted from thyself, it were impious
to lament thou shouldst be parted from me.--Yet in thy tomb will be
deposited all that to me could render existence supportable, every
frail chance of happiness, every sustaining hope, and all alleviation of
sorrow!”--
Dr Lyster now again approaching, thought he perceived some change in
his patient, and peremptorily forced him away from her: then returning
himself, he found that her eyes were shut, and she was dropt asleep.
This was an omen the most favourable he could hope. He now seated
himself by the bedside, and determined not to quit her till the expected
crisis was past. He gave the strictest orders for the whole house to be
kept quiet, and suffered no one in the room either to speak or move.
Her sleep was long and heavy; yet, when she awoke, her sensibility
was evidently returned. She started, suddenly raised her head from the
pillow, looked round her, and called out, “where am I now?”
“Thank Heaven!” cried Henrietta, and was rushing forward, when Dr
Lyster, by a stern and angry look, compelled her again to take her seat.
He then spoke to her himself, enquired how she did, and found her quite
rational.
Henrietta, who now doubted not her perfect recovery, wept as violently
for joy as she had before wept for grief; and Mary, in the same belief,
ran instantly to Delvile, eager to carry to him the first tidings that
her mistress had recovered her reason.
Delvile, in the utmost emotion, then returned to the chamber; but
stood at some distance from the bed, waiting Dr Lyster's permission to
approach it.
Cecilia was quiet and composed, her recollection seemed restored,
and her intellects sound: hut she was faint and weak, and contentedly
silent, to avoid the effort of speaking.
Dr Lyster encouraged this stillness, and suffered not anyone, not even
Delvile, to advance to her. After a short time, however, she again, and
very calmly, began to talk to him. She now first knew him, and seemed
much surprised by his attendance. She could not tell, she said, what
of late had happened to her, nor could guess where she was, or by what
means she came into such a place. Dr Lyster desired her at present
not to think upon the subject, and promised her a full account of
everything, when she was stronger, and more fit for conversing.
This for a while silenced her. But, after a short pause, “Tell me,” she
said, “Dr Lyster, have I no friend in this place but you?”
“Yes, yes, you have several friends here,” answered the Doctor, “only I
keep them in order, lest they should hurry or disturb you.”
She seemed much pleased by this speech; but soon after said, “You must
not, Doctor, keep them in order much longer, for the sight of them, I
think, would much revive me.”
“Ah, Miss Beverley!” cried Henrietta, who could not now restrain
herself, “may not _I_, among the rest, come and speak to you?”
“Who is that?” said Cecilia, in a voice of pleasure, though very feeble;
“is it my ever-dear Henrietta?”
“Oh this is joy indeed!” cried she, fervently kissing her cheeks and
forehead, “joy that I never, never expected to have more!”
“Come, come,” cried Dr Lyster, “here's enough of this; did I not do well
to keep such people off?”
“I believe you did,” said Cecilia, faintly smiling; “my too kind
Henrietta, you must be more tranquil!”
“I will, I will indeed, madam!--my dear, dear Miss Beverley, I will
indeed!--now once you have owned me, and once again I hear your sweet
voice, I will do any thing, and every thing, for I am made happy for my
whole life!”
“Ah, sweet Henrietta!” cried Cecilia, giving her her hand, “you must
suppress these feelings, or our Doctor here will soon part us. But tell
me, Doctor, is there no one else that you can let me see?”
Delvile, who had listened to this scene in the unspeakable perturbation
of that hope which is kindled from the very ashes of despair, was now
springing forward; but Dr Lyster, fearful of the consequences, hastily
arose, and with a look and air not to be disputed, took hold of his arm,
and led him out of the room. He then represented to him strongly the
danger of agitating or disturbing her, and charged him to keep from her
sight till better able to bear it; assuring him at the same time that he
might now reasonably hope her recovery.
Delvile, lost in transport, could make no answer, but flew into his
arms, and almost madly embraced him; he then hastened out of sight to
pour forth fervent thanks, and hurrying back with equal speed, again
embraced the Doctor, and while his manly cheeks were burnt with tears of
joy, he could not yet articulate the glad tumult of his soul.
The worthy Dr Lyster, who heartily partook of his happiness, again urged
him to be discreet; and Delvile, no longer intractable and desperate,
gratefully concurred in whatever he commanded. Dr Lyster then returned
to Cecilia, and to relieve her mind from any uneasy suspense, talked to
her openly of Delvile, gave her to understand he was acquainted with
her marriage, and told her he had prohibited their meeting till each was
better able to support it.
Cecilia by this delay seemed half gratified, and half disappointed;
but the rest of the physicians, who had been summoned upon this happy
change, now appearing, the orders were yet more strictly enforced for
keeping her quiet.
She submitted, therefore, peaceably; and Delvile, whose gladdened heart
still throbbed with speechless rapture, contentedly watched at her
chamber door, and obeyed implicitly whatever was said to him.
She now visibly, and almost hourly grew better; and, in a short time,
her anxiety to know all that was passed, and by what means she became so
ill, and confined in a house of which she had not any knowledge, obliged
Dr Lyster to make himself master of these particulars, that he might
communicate them to her with a calmness that Delvile could not attain.
Delvile himself, happy to be spared the bitter task of such a relation,
informed him all he knew of the story, and then entreated him to narrate
to her also the motives of his own strange, and he feared unpardonable
conduct, and the scenes which had followed their parting.
He came, he said, to England, ignorant of all that had past in his
absence, intending merely to wait upon his father, and communicate his
marriage, before he gave directions to his lawyer for the settlements
and preparations which were to precede its further publication. He
meant, also, to satisfy himself, of the real situation of Mr Monckton,
and then, after an interview with Cecilia, to have returned to his
mother, and waited at Nice till he might publicly claim his wife.
To this purpose he had written in his letter, which he meant to have put
in the Post-office in London himself; and he had but just alighted from
his chaise, when he met Ralph, Cecilia's servant, in the street.
Hastily stopping him, he enquired if he had left his place? “No,”
answered Ralph, “I am only come up to town with my lady.”
“With your lady?” cried the astonished Delvile, is your lady then in
town?”
“Yes, sir, she is at Mrs Belfield's.”
“At Mrs Belfield's?--is her daughter returned home?
“No, sir, we left her in the country.”
He was then going on with a further account, but, in too much confusion
of mind to hear him Delvile abruptly wished him good night, and marched
on himself towards Belfield's.
The pleasure with which he would have heard that Cecilia was so near to
him, was totally lost in his perplexity to account for her journey. Her
letters had never hinted at such a purpose,--the news reached him
only by accident,--it was ten o'clock at night,--yet she was at
Belfield's--though the sister was away,--though the mother was
professedly odious to her!--In an instant, all he had formerly heard,
all he had formerly disregarded, rushed suddenly upon his memory, and
he began to believe he had been deluded, that his father was right, and
that Belfield had some strange and improper influence over her heart.
The suspicion was death to him; he drove it from him, he concluded
the whole was some error: his reason as powerfully as his tenderness
vindicated her innocence; and though he arrived at the house in much
disorder, he yet arrived with a firm persuasion of an honourable
explanation.
The door was open,--a chaise was at it in waiting,--Mrs Belfield was
listening in the passage; these appearances were strange, and encreased
his agitation. He asked for her son in a voice scarce audible,--she told
him he was engaged with a lady, and must not be disturbed.
That fatal answer, at a moment so big with the most horrible surmises,
was decisive: furiously, therefore, he forced himself past her, and
opened the door:--but when he saw them together,--the rest of the family
confessedly excluded, his rage turned to horror, and he could hardly
support himself.
“O Dr Lyster!” he continued, “ask of the sweet creature if these
circumstances offer any extenuation for the fatal jealousy which seized
me? never by myself while I live will it be forgiven, but she, perhaps,
who is all softness, all compassion, and all peace, may some time hence
think my sufferings almost equal to my offence.”
He then proceeded in his narration.
When he had so peremptorily ordered her chaise to St James's-square, he
went back to the house, and desired Belfield to walk out with him. He
complied, and they were both silent till they came to a Coffee-house,
where they asked for a private room. The whole way they went, his heart,
secretly satisfied of the purity of Cecilia, smote him for the situation
in which he had left her; yet, having unfortunately gone so far as to
make his suspicions apparent, he thought it necessary to his character
that their abolition should be equally public.
When they were alone, “Belfield,” he said, “to obviate any imputation of
impertinence in my enquiries, I deny not, what I presume you have been
told by herself, that I have the nearest interest in whatever concerns
the lady from whom we are just now parted: I must beg, therefore, an
explicit account of the purpose of your private conversation with her.”
“Mr Delvile,” answered Belfield, with mingled candour and spirit, “I am
not commonly much disposed to answer enquiries thus cavalierly put to
me; yet here, as I find myself not the principal person concerned, I
think I am bound in justice to speak for the absent who is. I assure
you, therefore, most solemnly, that your interest in Miss Beverley I
never heard but by common report, that our being alone together was by
both of us undesigned and undesired, that the honour she did our house
in calling at it, was merely to acquaint my mother with my sister's
removal to Mrs Harrel's, and that the part which I had myself in her
condescension, was simply to be consulted upon a journey which she has
in contemplation to the South of France. And now, sir, having given you
this peaceable satisfaction, you will find me extremely at your service
to offer any other.”
Delvile instantly held out his hand to him; “What you assert,” he said,
“upon your honour, requires no other testimony. Your gallantry and
your probity are equally well known to me; with either, therefore, I am
content, and by no means require the intervention of both.”
They then parted; and now, his doubts removed, and his punctilio
satisfied, he flew to St James's-square, to entreat the forgiveness of
Cecilia for the alarm he had occasioned her, and to hear the reason of
her sudden journey, and change of measures. But when he came there, to
find that his father, whom he had concluded was at Delvile Castle,
was in the house, while Cecilia had not even enquired for him at the
door,--“Oh let me not,” he continued, “even to myself, let me not trace
the agony of that moment!--where to seek her I knew not, why she was in
London I could not divine, for what purpose she had given the postilion
a new direction I could form no idea. Yet it appeared that she wished to
avoid me, and once more, in the frenzy of my disappointment, I supposed
Belfield a party in her concealment. Again, therefore, I sought him,--at
his own house,--at the coffee-house where I had left him,--in vain,
wherever I came, I just missed him, for, hearing of my search, he went
with equal restlessness, from place to place to meet me. I rejoice we
both failed; a repetition of my enquiries in my then irritable state,
must inevitably have provoked the most fatal resentment.
“I will not dwell upon the scenes that followed,--my laborious search,
my fruitless wanderings, the distraction of my suspense, the excess of
my despair!--even Belfield, the fiery Belfield, when I met with him the
next day, was so much touched by my wretchedness, that he bore with
all my injustice; feeling, noble young man! never will I lose the
remembrance of his high-souled patience.
“And now, Dr Lyster, go to my Cecilia; tell her this tale, and try,
for you have skill sufficient, to soften, yet not wound her with my
sufferings. If then she can bear to see me, to bless me with the sound
of her sweet voice, no longer at war with her intellects, to hold out
to me her loved hand, in token of peace and forgiveness.--Oh, Dr Lyster!
preserver of _my_ life in hers! give to me but that exquisite moment,
and every past evil will be for ever obliterated!”
“You must be calmer, Sir,” said the Doctor, “before I make the attempt.
These heroicks are mighty well for sound health, and strong nerves, but
they will not do for an invalide.”
He went, however, to Cecilia, and gave her this narration, suppressing
whatever he feared would most affect her, and judiciously enlivening the
whole by his strictures. Cecilia was much easier for this removal of her
perplexities, and, as her anguish and her terror had been unmixed with
resentment, she had now no desire but to reconcile Delvile with himself.
Dr Lyster, however, by his friendly authority, obliged her for some
time to be content with this relation; but when she grew better, her
impatience became stronger, and he feared opposition would be as hurtful
as compliance.
Delvile, therefore, was now admitted; yet slowly and with trepidation he
advanced, terrified for her, and fearful of himself, filled with remorse
for the injuries she had sustained, and impressed with grief and horror
to behold her so ill and altered.
Supported by pillows, she sat almost upright. The moment she saw him,
she attempted to bend forward and welcome him, calling out in a tone of
pleasure, though faintly, “Ah! dearest Delvile! is it you?” but too
weak for the effort she had made, she sunk back upon her pillow, pale,
trembling, and disordered.
Dr Lyster would then have interfered to postpone their further
conversation; but Delvile was no longer master of himself or his
passions: he darted forward, and kneeling at the bed side, “Sweet
injured excellence!” he cried, “wife of my heart! sole object of my
chosen affection! dost thou yet live? do I hear thy loved voice?--do I
see thee again?--art thou my Cecilia? and have I indeed not lost thee?”
then regarding her more fixedly, “Alas,” he cried, “art thou indeed my
Cecilia! so pale, so emaciated!--Oh suffering angel! and couldst thou
then call upon Delvile, the guilty, but heart-broken Delvile, thy
destroyer, thy murderer, and yet not call to execrate him?”
Cecilia, extremely affected, could not utter a word; she held out to
him her hand, she looked at him with gentleness and kindness, but tears
started into her eyes, and trickled in large drops down her colourless
cheeks.
“Angelic creature!” cried Delvile, his own tears overflowing, while he
pressed to his lips the kind token of her pardon, “can you give to me
again a hand so ill deserved? can you look with such compassion on the
author of your woes? on the wretch, who for an instant could doubt the
purity of a mind so seraphic!”
“Ah, Delvile!” cried she, a little reviving, “think no more of what is
past!--to see you,--to be yours,--drives all evil from my remembrance!”
“I am not worthy this joy!” cried he, rising, kneeling, and rising
again; “I know not how to sustain it! a forgiveness such as this,--when
I believed You must hate me for ever! when repulse and aversion were
all I dared expect,--when my own inhumanity had bereft thee of thy
reason,--when the grave, the pitiless grave, was already open to receive
thee.”--
“Too kind, too feeling Delvile!” cried the penetrated Cecilia, “relieve
your loaded heart from these bitter recollections; mine is lightened
already,--lightened, I think, of every thing but its affection for
_you_!”
“Oh words of transport and extacy!” cried the enraptured Delvile, “oh
partner of my life! friend, solace, darling of my bosom! that so lately
I thought expiring! that I folded to my bleeding heart in the agony of
eternal separation!”--
“Come away, Sir, come away,” cried Dr Lyster, who now saw that Cecilia
was greatly agitated, “I will not be answerable for the continuation of
this scene;” and taking him by the arm, he awakened him from his frantic
rapture, by assuring him she would faint, and forced him away from her.
Soon after he was gone, and Cecilia became more tranquil, Henrietta,
who had wept with bitterness in a corner of the room during this scene,
approached her, and, with an attempted smile, though in a voice hardly
audible, said, “Ah, Miss Beverley, you will, at last, then be happy!
happy as all your goodness deserves. And I am sure I should rejoice in
it if I was to die to make you happier!”
Cecilia, who but too well knew her full meaning, tenderly embraced her,
but was prevented by Dr Lyster from entering into any discourse with
her.
The first meeting, however, with Delvile being over, the second was
far more quiet, and in a very short time, he would scarcely quit her a
moment, Cecilia herself receiving from his sight a pleasure too great
for denial, yet too serene for danger.
The worthy Dr Lyster, finding her prospect of recovery thus fair,
prepared for leaving London: but, equally desirous to do good out of his
profession as in it, he first, at the request of Delvile, waited upon
his father, to acquaint him with his present situation, solicit his
directions for his future proceedings, and endeavour to negociate a
general reconciliation.
Mr Delvile, to whose proud heart social joy could find no avenue, was
yet touched most sensibly by the restoration of Cecilia. Neither his
dignity nor his displeasure had been able to repress remorse, a feeling
to which, with all his foibles, he had not been accustomed. The view of
her distraction had dwelt upon his imagination, the despondency of his
son had struck him with fear and horror. He had been haunted by self
reproach, and pursued by vain regret; and those concessions he had
refused to tenderness and entreaty, he now willingly accorded to change
repentance for tranquility. He sent instantly for his son, whom even
with tears he embraced, and felt his own peace restored as he pronounced
his forgiveness.
New, however, to kindness, he retained it not long, and a stranger to
generosity, he knew not how to make her welcome: the extinction of his
remorse abated his compassion for Cecilia, and when solicited to receive
her, he revived the charges of Mr Monckton.
Cecilia, informed of this, determined to write to that gentleman
herself, whose long and painful illness, joined to his irrecoverable
loss of her, she now hoped might prevail with him to make reparation for
the injuries he had done her.
_To Mr Monckton_.
I write not, Sir, to upbraid you; the woes which have followed your ill
offices, and which you may some time hear, will render my reproaches
superfluous. I write but to beseech that what is past may content you;
and that, however, while I was single, you chose to misrepresent me to
the Delvile family, you will have so much honour, since I am now become
one of it, as to acknowledge my innocence of the crimes laid to my
charge.
In remembrance of my former long friendship, I send you my good wishes;
and in consideration of my hopes from your recantation, I send you, Sir,
if you think it worth acceptance, my forgiveness.
CECILIA DELVILE.
Mr Monckton, after many long and painful struggles between useless rage,
and involuntary remorse, at length sent the following answer.
_To Mrs Mortimer Delvile_.
Those who could ever believe you guilty, must have been eager to think
you so. I meant but your welfare at all times, and to have saved you
from a connection I never thought equal to your merit. I am grieved,
but not surprised, to hear of your injuries; from the alliance you
have formed, nothing else could be expected: if my testimony to your
innocence can, however, serve to mitigate them, I scruple not to declare
I believe it without taint.
* * * * *
Delvile sent by Dr Lyster this letter to his father, whose rage at the
detection of the perfidy which had deceived him, was yet inferior to
what he felt that his family was mentioned so injuriously.
His conference with Dr Lyster was long and painful, but decisive: that
sagacious and friendly man knew well how to work upon, his passions,
and so effectually awakened them by representing the disgrace of his own
family from the present situation of Cecilia, that before he quitted his
house he was authorised to invite her to remove to it.
When he returned from his embassy, he found Delvile in her room, and
each waiting with impatience the event of his negociation.
The Doctor with much alacrity gave Cecilia the invitation with which he
had been charged; but Delvile, jealous for her dignity, was angry and
dissatisfied his father brought it not himself, and exclaimed with much
mortification, “Is this all the grace accorded me?”
“Patience, patience, Sir,” answered the Doctor; “when you have thwarted
any body in their first hope and ambition, do you expect they will send
you their compliments and many thanks for the disappointment? Pray let
the good gentleman have his way in some little matters, since you have
taken such effectual care to put out of his reach the power of having it
in greater.”
“O far from starting obstacles,” cried Cecilia, “let us solicit a
reconciliation with whatever concessions he may require. The misery of
DISOBEDIENCE we have but too fatally experienced; and thinking as we
think of filial ties and parental claims, how can we ever hope happiness
till forgiven and taken into favour?”
“True, my Cecilia,” answered Delvile, “and generous and condescending
as true; and if _you_ can thus sweetly comply, I will gratefully forbear
making any opposition. Too much already have you suffered from the
impetuosity of my temper, but I will try to curb it in future by the
remembrance of your injuries.”
“The whole of this unfortunate business,” said Dr Lyster, “has been the
result of PRIDE and PREJUDICE. Your uncle, the Dean, began it, by his
arbitrary will, as if an ordinance of his own could arrest the course of
nature! and as if _he_ had power to keep alive, by the loan of a name,
a family in the male branch already extinct. Your father, Mr Mortimer,
continued it with the same self-partiality, preferring the wretched
gratification of tickling his ear with a favourite sound, to the solid
happiness of his son with a rich and deserving wife. Yet this,
however, remember; if to PRIDE and PREJUDICE you owe your miseries, so
wonderfully is good and evil balanced, that to PRIDE and PREJUDICE you
will also owe their termination: for all that I could say to Mr Delvile,
either of reasoning or entreaty,--and I said all I could suggest, and I
suggested all a man need wish to hear,--was totally thrown away, till
I pointed out to him his _own_ disgrace, in having a _daughter-in-law_
immured in these mean lodgings!
“Thus, my dear young lady, the terror which drove you to this house, and
the sufferings which have confined you in it, will prove, in the event,
the source of your future peace: for when all my best rhetorick failed
to melt Mr Delvile, I instantly brought him to terms by coupling his
name with a pawnbroker's! And he could not with more disgust hear his
son called Mr Beverley, than think of his son's wife when he hears of
the _Three Blue Balls_! Thus the same passions, taking but different
directions, _do_ mischief and _cure_ it alternately.
“Such, my good young friends, is the MORAL of your calamities. You have
all, in my opinion, been strangely at cross purposes, and trifled, no
one knows why, with the first blessings of life. My only hope is that
now, having among you thrown away its luxuries, you will have known
enough of misery to be glad to keep its necessaries.”
This excellent man was yet prevailed upon by Delvile to stay and assist
in removing the feeble Cecilia to St James's-square.
Henrietta, for whom Mr Arnott's equipage and servants had still remained
in town, was then, though with much difficulty, persuaded to go back to
Suffolk: but Cecilia, however fond of her society, was too sensible of
the danger and impropriety of her present situation, to receive from it
any pleasure.
Mr Delvile's reception of Cecilia was formal and cold: yet, as she now
appeared publicly in the character of his son's wife, the best
apartment in his house had been prepared for her use, his domestics were
instructed to wait upon her with the utmost respect, and Lady Honoria
Pemberton, who was accidentally in town, offered from curiosity, what
Mr Delvile accepted from parade, to be herself in St James's-square, in
order to do honour to his daughter-in-law's first entrance.
When Cecilia was a little recovered from the shock of the first
interview, and the fatigue of her removal, the anxious Mortimer would
instantly have had her conveyed to her own apartment; but, willing to
exert herself, and hoping to oblige Mr Delvile, she declared she was
well able to remain some time longer in the drawing-room.
“My good friends,” said Dr Lyster, “in the course of my long practice,
I have found it impossible to study the human frame, without a little
studying the human mind; and from all that I have yet been able to make
out, either by observation, reflection, or comparison, it appears to me
at this moment, that Mr Mortimer Delvile has got the best wife, and that
you, Sir, have here the most faultless daughter-in-law, that any husband
or any father in the three kingdoms belonging to his Majesty can either
have or desire.”
Cecilia smiled; Mortimer looked his delighted concurrence; Mr Delvile
forced himself to make a stiff inclination of the head; and Lady Honoria
gaily exclaimed, “Dr Lyster, when you say the _best_ and the most
_faultless_, you should always add the rest of the company excepted.”
“Upon my word,” cried the Doctor, “I beg your ladyship's pardon; but
there is a certain unguarded warmth comes across a man now and then,
that drives _etiquette_ out of his head, and makes him speak truth
before he well knows where he is.”
“O terrible!” cried she, “this is sinking deeper and deeper. I had hoped
the town air would have taught you better things; but I find you have
visited at Delvile Castle till you are fit for no other place.”
“Whoever, Lady Honoria,” said Mr Delvile, much offended, “is fit for
Delvile Castle, must be fit for every other place; though every other
place may by no means be fit for him.”
“O yes, Sir,” cried she, giddily, “every possible place will be fit for
him, if he can once bear with that. Don't you think so, Dr Lyster?”
“Why, when a man has the honour to see your ladyship,” answered he,
good-humouredly, “he is apt to think too much of the person, to care
about the place.”
“Come, I begin to have some hopes of you,” cried she, “for I see, for a
Doctor, you have really a very pretty notion of a compliment: only you
have one great fault still; you look the whole time as if you said it
for a joke.”
“Why, in fact, madam, when a man has been a plain dealer both in
word and look for upwards of fifty years, 'tis expecting too quick a
reformation to demand ductility of voice and eye from him at a blow.
However, give me but a little time and a little encouragement, and, with
such a tutress, 'twill be hard if I do not, in a very few lessons,
learn the right method of seasoning a simper, and the newest fashion of
twisting words from meaning.”
“But pray,” cried she, “upon those occasions, always remember to look
serious. Nothing sets off a compliment so much as a long face. If you
are tempted to an unseasonable laugh, think of Delvile Castle; 'tis an
expedient I commonly make use of myself when I am afraid of being too
frisky: and it always succeeds, for the very recollection of it gives me
the head-ache in a moment. Upon my word, Mr Delvile, you must have the
constitution of five men, to have kept such good health, after living so
long at that horrible place. You can't imagine how you've surprised me,
for I have regularly expected to hear of your death at the end of every
summer: and, I assure you, once, I was very near buying mourning.”
“The estate which descends to a man from his own ancestors, Lady
Honoria,” answered Mr Delvile, “will seldom be apt to injure his health,
if he is conscious of committing no misdemeanour which has degraded
their memory.”
“How vastly odious this new father of yours is!” said Lady Honoria, in a
whisper to Cecilia; “what could ever induce you to give up your charming
estate for the sake of coming into this fusty old family! I would really
advise you to have your marriage annulled. You have only, you know, to
take an oath that you were forcibly run away with; and as you are
an Heiress, and the Delviles are all so violent, it will easily be
credited. And then, as soon as you are at liberty, I would advise you to
marry my little Lord Derford.”
“Would you only, then,” said Cecilia, “have me regain my freedom in
order to part with it?”
“Certainly,” answered Lady Honoria, “for you can do nothing at all
without being married; a single woman is a thousand times more shackled
than a wife; for she is accountable to every body; and a wife, you know,
has nothing to do but just to manage her husband.”
“And that,” said Cecilia, smiling, “you consider as a trifle?”
“Yes, if you do but marry a man you don't care for.”
“You are right, then, indeed, to recommend to me my Lord Derford!”
“O yes, he will make the prettiest husband in the world; you may fly
about yourself as wild as a lark, and keep him the whole time as tame as
a jack-daw: and though he may complain of you to your friends, he will
never have the courage to find fault to your face. But as to Mortimer,
you will not be able to govern him as long as you live; for the moment
you have put him upon the fret, you'll fall into the dumps yourself,
hold out your hand to him, and, losing the opportunity of gaining some
material point, make up at the first soft word.”
“You think, then, the quarrel more amusing than the reconciliation?”
“O, a thousand times! for while you are quarrelling, you may say any
thing, and demand any thing, but when you are reconciled, you ought to
behave pretty, and seem contented.”
“Those who presume to have any pretensions to your ladyship,” said
Cecilia, “would be made happy indeed should they hear your principles!”
“O, it would not signify at all,” answered she, “for one's fathers, and
uncles, and those sort of people, always make connexions for one, and
not a creature thinks of our principles, till they find them out by our
conduct: and nobody can possibly do that till we are married, for they
give us no power beforehand. The men know nothing of us in the world
while we are single, but how we can dance a minuet, or play a lesson
upon the harpsichord.”
“And what else,” said Mr Delvile, who advanced, and heard this last
speech, “need a young lady of rank desire to be known for? your ladyship
surely would not have her degrade herself by studying like an artist or
professor?”
“O no, Sir, I would not have her study at all; it's mighty well for
children, but really after sixteen, and when one is come out, one
has quite fatigue enough in dressing, and going to public places,
and ordering new things, without all that torment of first and second
position, and E upon the first line, and F upon the first, space!”
“Your ladyship must, however, pardon me for hinting,” said Mr Delvile,
“that a young lady of condition, who has a proper sense of her dignity,
cannot be seen too rarely, or known too little.”
“O but I hate dignity!” cried she carelessly, “for it's the dullest
thing in the world. I always thought it was owing to that you were so
little amusing;--really I beg your pardon, Sir, I meant to say so little
talkative.”
“I can easily credit that your ladyship spoke hastily,” answered he,
highly piqued, “for I believe, indeed, a person of a family such as
mine, will hardly be supposed to have come into the world for the office
of amusing it!”
“O no, Sir,” cried she, with pretended innocence, “nobody, I am sure,
ever saw you with such a thought.” Then, turning to Cecilia, she added
in a whisper, “You cannot imagine, my dear Mrs Mortimer, how I detest
this old cousin of mine! Now pray tell me honestly if you don't hate him
yourself?”
“I hope,” said Cecilia, “to have no reason.”
“Lord, how you are always upon your guard! If I were half as cautious,
I should die of the vapours in a month; the only thing that keeps me
at all alive, is now and then making people angry; for the folks at our
house let me go out so seldom, and then send me with such stupid
old chaperons, that giving them a little torment is really the only
entertainment I can procure myself. O--but I had almost forgot to tell
you a most delightful thing!”
“What is it?”
“Why you must know I have the greatest hopes in the world that my father
will quarrel with old Mr Delvile!”
“And is that such a delightful thing!”
“O yes; I have lived upon the very idea this fortnight; for then, you
know, they'll both be in a passion, and I shall see which of them looks
frightfullest.”
“When Lady Honoria whispers,” cried Mortimer, “I always suspect some
mischief.”
“No indeed,” answered her ladyship, “I was merely congratulating Mrs
Mortimer about her marriage. Though really, upon second thoughts, I
don't know whether I should not rather condole with her, for I have long
been convinced she has a prodigious antipathy to you. I saw it the whole
time I was at Delvile Castle, where she used to change colour at the
very sound of your name; a symptom I never perceived when I talked to
her of my Lord Derford, who would certainly have made her a thousand
times a better husband.”
“If you mean on account of his title, Lady Honoria,” said Mr Delvile;
“your ladyship must be strangely forgetful of the connections of your
family, not to remember that Mortimer, after the death of his uncle
and myself, must inevitably inherit one far more honourable than a
new-sprung-up family, like my Lord Ernolf's, could offer.”
“Yes, Sir; but then, you know, she would have kept her estate, which
would have been a vastly better thing than an old pedigree of new
relations. Besides, I don't find that any body cares for the noble blood
of the Delviles but themselves; and if she had kept her fortune, every
body, I fancy, would have cared for _that_.”
“Every body, then,” said Mr Delvile, “must be highly mercenary and
ignoble, or the blood of an ancient and honourable house, would
be thought contaminated by the most distant hint of so degrading a
comparison.”
“Dear Sir, what should we all do with birth if it was not for wealth?
it would neither take us to Ranelagh nor the Opera; nor buy us caps nor
wigs, nor supply us with dinners nor bouquets.”
“Caps and wigs, dinners and bouquets!” interrupted Mr Delvile; “your
ladyship's estimate of wealth is really extremely minute.”
“Why, you know, Sir, as to caps and wigs, they are very serious things,
for we should look mighty droll figures to go about bare-headed; and
as to dinners, how would the Delviles have lasted all these thousand
centuries if they had disdained eating them?”
“Whatever may be your ladyship's satisfaction,” said Mr Delvile,
angrily, “in depreciating a house that has the honour of being nearly
allied with your own, you will not, I hope at least, instruct this
lady,” turning to Cecilia, “to adopt a similar contempt of its antiquity
and dignity.”
“This lady,” cried Mortimer, “will at least, by condescending to become
one of it, secure us from any danger that such contempt may spread
further.”
“Let me but,” said Cecilia, looking gratefully at him, “be as secure
from exciting as I am from feeling contempt, and what can I have to
wish?”
“Good and excellent young lady!” said Dr Lyster, “the first of blessings
indeed is yours in the temperance of your own mind. When you began your
career in life, you appeared to us short-sighted mortals, to possess
more than your share of the good things of this world; such a union of
riches, beauty, independence, talents, education and virtue, seemed
a monopoly to raise general envy and discontent; but mark with what
scrupulous exactness the good and bad is ever balanced! You have had
a thousand sorrows to which those who have looked up to you have been
strangers, and for which not all the advantages you possess have been
equivalent. There is evidently throughout this world, in things as
well as persons, a levelling principle, at war with pre-eminence, and
destructive of perfection.”
“Ah!” cried Mortimer, in a low voice to Cecilia, “how much higher
must we all rise, or how much lower must you fall, ere any levelling
principle will approximate us with YOU!”
He then entreated her to spare her strength and spirits by returning to
her own apartment, and the conversation was broken up.
“Pray permit me, Mrs Mortimer,” cried Lady Honoria, in taking leave,
“to beg that the first guest you invite to Delvile Castle may be me.
You know my partiality to it already. I shall be particularly happy in
waiting upon you in tempestuous weather! We can all stroll out together,
you know, very sociably; and I sha'n't be much in your way, for if there
should happen to be a storm, you can easily lodge me under some great
tree, and while you amuse yourselves with a _tete-a-tete_, give me the
indulgence of my own reflections. I am vastly fond of thinking, and
being alone, you know,--especially in thunder and lightning!”
She then ran away; and they all separated: Cecilia was conveyed up
stairs, and the worthy Dr Lyster, loaded with acknowledgments of every
kind, set out for the country.
Cecilia, still weak, and much emaciated, for some time lived almost
wholly in her own room, where the grateful and solicitous attendance of
Mortimer, alleviated the pain both of her illness and confinement: but
as soon as her health permitted travelling, he hastened with her abroad.
Here tranquility once more made its abode the heart of Cecilia; that
heart so long torn with anguish, suspense and horrour! Mrs Delvile
received her with the most rapturous fondness, and the impression of her
sorrows gradually wore away, from her kind and maternal cares, and from
the watchful affection and delighted tenderness of her son.
The Egglestons now took entire possession of her estate, and Delvile, at
her entreaty, forbore shewing any personal resentment of their conduct,
and put into the hands of a lawyer the arrangement of the affair.
They continued abroad some months, and the health of Mrs Delvile was
tolerably re-established. They were then summoned home by the death of
Lord Delvile, who bequeathed to his nephew Mortimer his town house, and
whatever of his estate was not annexed to his title, which necessarily
devolved to his brother.
The sister of Mrs Delvile, a woman of high spirit and strong passions,
lived not long after him; but having, in her latter days, intimately
connected herself with Cecilia, she was so much charmed with her
character, and so much dazzled by her admiration of the extraordinary
sacrifice she had made, that, in a fit of sudden enthusiasm, she altered
her will, to leave to her, and to her sole disposal, the fortune which,
almost from his infancy, she had destined for her nephew. Cecilia,
astonished and penetrated, opposed the alteration; but even her sister,
now Lady Delvile, to whom she daily became dearer, earnestly supported
it; while Mortimer, delighted to restore to her through his own family,
any part of that power and independence of which her generous and pure
regard for himself had deprived her, was absolute in refusing that the
deed should be revoked.
Cecilia, from this flattering transaction, received a further conviction
of the malignant falsehood of Mr Monckton, who had always represented
to her the whole of the Delvile family as equally poor in their
circumstances, and illiberal in their minds. The strong spirit of
active benevolence which had ever marked her character, was now again
displayed, though no longer, as hitherto, unbounded. She had learnt
the error of profusion, even in charity and beneficence; and she had a
motive for oeconomy, in her animated affection for Mortimer.
She soon sent for Albany, whose surprise that she still existed, and
whose rapture at her recovered prosperity, now threatened his senses
from the tumult of his joy, with nearly the same danger they had lately
been menaced by terror. But though her donations were circumscribed by
prudence, and their objects were selected with discrimination, she
gave to herself all her former benevolent pleasure, in solacing his
afflictions, while she softened his asperity, by restoring to him his
favourite office of being her almoner and monitor.
She next sent to her own pensioners, relieved those distresses which her
sudden absence had occasioned, and renewed and continued the salaries
she had allowed them. All who had nourished reasonable expectations from
her bounty she remembered, though she raised no new claimants but with
oeconomy and circumspection. But neither Albany nor the old pensioners
felt the satisfaction of Mortimer, who saw with new wonder the virtues
of her mind, and whose admiration of her excellencies, made his
gratitude perpetual for the happiness of his lot.
The tender-hearted Henrietta, in returning to her new friends, gave way,
with artless openness, to the violence of untamed grief; but finding Mr
Arnott as wretched as herself, the sympathy Cecilia had foreseen soon
endeared them to each other, while the little interest taken in either
by Mrs Harrel, made them almost inseparable companions.
Mrs Harrel, wearied by their melancholy, and sick of retirement, took
the earliest opportunity that was offered her of changing her situation;
she married very soon a man of fortune in the neighbourhood, and,
quickly forgetting all the past, thoughtlessly began the world again,
with new hopes, new connections,--new equipages and new engagements!
Henrietta was then obliged to go again to her mother, where, though
deprived of all the indulgencies to which she was now become familiar,
she was not more hurt by the separation than Mr Arnott. So sad and so
solitary his house seemed in her absence, that he soon followed her to
town, and returned not till he carried her back its mistress. And there
the gentle gratitude of her soft and feeling heart, engaged from the
worthy Mr Arnott the tenderest affection, and, in time, healed the wound
of his early and hopeless passion.
The injudicious, the volatile, yet noble-minded Belfield, to whose
mutable and enterprising disposition life seemed always rather beginning
than progressive, roved from employment to employment, and from public
life to retirement, soured with the world, and discontented with
himself, till vanquished, at length, by the constant friendship of
Delvile, he consented to accept his good offices in again entering the
army; and, being fortunately ordered out upon foreign service, his hopes
were revived by ambition, and his prospects were brightened by a view of
future honour.
The wretched Monckton, dupe of his own cunning and artifices, still
lived in lingering misery, doubtful which was most acute, the pain of
his wound and confinement, or of his defeat and disappointment. Led on
by a vain belief that he had parts to conquer all difficulties, he had
indulged without restraint a passion in which interest was seconded by
inclination. Allured by such fascinating powers, he shortly suffered
nothing to stop his course; and though when he began his career he would
have started at the mention of actual dishonour, long before it was
concluded, neither treachery nor perjury were regarded by him as
stumbling blocks.
All fear of failing was lost in vanity, all sense of probity was sunk in
interest, all scruples of conscience were left behind by the heat of the
chace. Yet the unforeseen and melancholy catastrophe of his long arts,
illustrated in his despite what his principles had obscured, that
even in worldly pursuits where fraud out-runs integrity, failure joins
dishonour to loss, and disappointment excites triumph instead of pity.
The upright mind of Cecilia, her purity, her virtue, and the moderation
of her wishes, gave to her in the warm affection of Lady Delvile, and
the unremitting fondness of Mortimer, all the happiness human life seems
capable of receiving:--yet human it was, and as such imperfect! she knew
that, at times, the whole family must murmur at her loss of fortune, and
at times she murmured herself to be thus portionless, tho' an HEIRESS.
Rationally, however, she surveyed the world at large, and finding that
of the few who had any happiness, there were none without some misery,
she checked the rising sigh of repining mortality, and, grateful with
general felicity, bore partial evil with chearfullest resignation.