his own way, he at length said if she would consent to receive a letter from him, he would endeavour to commit what he had to communicate to paper, since their mutual agitation made him unable to explain himself with clearness, and rather hurt his cause than assisted it, by leaving all his arguments unfinished and obscure.
Another dispute now arose; Cecilia protesting she would receive no letter, and hear nothing upon the subject; and Delvile impetuously declaring he would submit to no award without being first heard. At length he conquered, and at length he departed.
Cecilia then felt her whole heart sink within her at the unhappiness of her situation. She considered herself now condemned to refuse Delvile herself, as the only condition upon which he even solicited her favour, neither the strictness of her principles, nor the delicacy of her mind, would suffer her to accept. Her displeasure at the proposal had been wholly unaffected, and she regarded it as an injury to her character ever to have received it; yet that Delvile’s pride of heart should give way to his passion, that he should love her with so much fondness as to relinquish for her the ambitious schemes of his family, and even that darling name which so lately seemed annexed to his existence, were circumstances to which she was not insensible, and proofs of tenderness and regard which she had thought incompatible with the general spirit of his disposition. Yet however by these she was gratified, she resolved never to comply with so humiliating a measure, but to wait the consent of his friends, or renounce him for ever.
CHAPTER v.
A LETTER.
As soon as Mrs Charlton was acquainted with the departure of young Delvile, she returned to Cecilia, impatient to be informed what had passed. The narration she heard both hurt and astonished her; that Cecilia, the Heiress of such a fortune, the possessor of so much beauty, descended of a worthy family, and formed and educated to grace a noble one, should be rejected by people to whom her wealth would be most useful, and only in secret have their alliance proposed to her, she deemed an indignity that called for nothing but resentment, and approved and enforced the resolution of her young friend to resist all solicitations which Mr and Mrs Delvile did not second themselves.
About, two hours after Delvile was gone, his letter arrived. Cecilia opened it with trepidation, and read as follows.
_To Miss Beverley.
September_ 20, 1779.
What could be the apprehensions, the suspicions of Miss Beverley when so earnestly she prohibited my writing? From a temper so unguarded as mine could she fear any subtlety of doctrine? Is my character so little known to her that she can think me capable of craft or duplicity? Had I even the desire, I have neither the address nor the patience to practice them; no, loveliest Miss Beverley, though sometimes by vehemence I may incautiously offend, by sophistry, believe me, I never shall injure: my ambition, as I have told you, is to convince, not beguile, and my arguments shall be simple as my professions shall be sincere.
Yet how again may I venture to mention a proposal which so lately almost before you had heard you rejected? Suffer me, however, to assure you it resulted neither from insensibility to your delicacy, nor to my own duty; I made it, on the contrary, with that reluctance and timidity which were given me by an apprehension that both seemed to be offended by it:–but alas! already I have said what with grief I must repeat, I have no resource, no alternative, between receiving the honour of your hand in secret or foregoing you for ever.
You will wonder, you may well wonder at such a declaration; and again that severe renunciation with which you wounded me, will tremble on your lips,–Oh there let it stop! nor let the air again be agitated with sounds so discordant!
In that cruel and heart-breaking moment when I tore myself from you at Delvile Castle, I confessed to you the reason of my flight, and I determined to see you no more. I named not to you, then, my family, the potency of my own objections against daring to solicit your favour rendering theirs immaterial: my own are now wholly removed, but theirs remain in full force.
My father, descended of a race which though decaying in wealth, is unsubdued in pride, considers himself as the guardian of the honour of his house, to which he holds the name of his ancestors inseparably annexed my mother, born of the same family, and bred to the same ideas, has strengthened this opinion by giving it the sanction of her own.
Such being their sentiments; you will not, madam, be surprised that their only son, the sole inheritor of their fortune, and sole object of their expectations, should early have admitted the same. Indeed almost the first lesson I was taught was that of reverencing the family from which I am descended, and the name to which I am born. I was bid consider myself as its only remaining support, and sedulously instructed neither to act nor think but with a view to its aggrandizement and dignity.
Thus, unchecked by ourselves, and uncontrouled by the world, this haughty self-importance acquired by time a strength, and by mutual encouragement a firmness, which Miss Beverley alone could possibly, I believe, have shaken! What, therefore, was my secret alarm, when first I was conscious of the force of her attractions, and found my mind wholly occupied with admiration of her excellencies! All that pride could demand, and all to which ambition could aspire, all that happiness could covet, or the most scrupulous delicacy exact, in her I found united; and while my heart was enslaved by her charms, my understanding exulted in its fetters. Yet to forfeit my name, to give up for-ever a family which upon me rested its latest expectations,– Honour, I thought forbad it, propriety and manly spirit revolted at the sacrifice. The renunciation of my birth-right seemed a desertion of the post in which I was stationed: I forbore, therefore, even in my wishes, to solicit your favour, and vigorously determined to fly you as dangerous to my peace, because unattainable without dishonour.
Such was the intended regulation of my conduct at the time I received Biddulph’s letter; in three days I was to leave England; my father, with much persuasion, had consented to my departure; my mother, who penetrated into my motives, had never opposed it: but how great was the change wrought upon my mind by reading that letter! my steadiness forsook me, my resolution wavered; yet I thought him deceived, and attributed his suspicions to jealousy: but still, Fidel I knew was missing–and to hear he was your darling companion–was it possible to quit England in a state of such uncertainty? to be harassed in distant climates with conjectures I might then never satisfy? No; I told my friends I must visit Biddulph before I left the kingdom, and promising to return to them in three or four days, I hastily set out for Suffolk, and rested not till I arrived at Mrs Charlton’s.
What a scene there awaited me! to behold the loved mistress of my heart, the opposed, yet resistless object of my fondest admiration, caressing an animal she knew to be mine, mourning over him his master’s ill health, and sweetly recommending to him fidelity,–Ah! forgive the retrospection, I will dwell on it no longer. Little, indeed, had I imagined with what softness the dignity of Miss Beverley was blended, though always conscious that her virtues, her attractions, and her excellencies, would reflect lustre upon the highest station to which human grandeur could raise her, and would still be more exalted than her rank, though that were the most eminent upon earth.–And had there been a thousand, and ten thousand obstacles to oppose my addressing her, vigorously and undauntedly would I have combated with them all, in preference to yielding to this single objection!
Let not the frankness of this declaration irritate you, but rather let it serve to convince you of the sincerity of what follows: various as are the calamities of life which may render me miserable, YOU only, among even its chosen felicities, have power to make me happy. Fame, honours, wealth, ambition, were insufficient without you; all chance of internal peace, and every softer hope is now centered in your favour, and to lose you, from whatever cause, ensures me wretchedness unmitigated. With respect therefore to myself, the die is finally cast, and the conflict between bosom felicity and family pride is deliberately over. This name which so vainly I have cherished and so painfully supported, I now find inadequate to recompense me for the sacrifice which its preservation requires. I part with it, I own, with regret that the surrender is necessary; yet is it rather an imaginary than an actual evil, and though a deep wound to pride, no offence to morality.
Thus have I laid open to you my whole heart, confessed my perplexities, acknowledged my vain-glory, and exposed with equal sincerity the sources of my doubts, and the motives of my decision: but now, indeed, how to proceed I know not; the difficulties which are yet to encounter I fear to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge I have scarce courage to mention.
My family, mistaking ambition for honour, and rank for dignity, have long planned a splendid connection for me, to which though my invariable repugnance has stopt any advances, their wishes and their views immovably adhere. I am but too certain they will now listen to no other. I dread, therefore, to make a trial where I despair of success, I know not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me by a command.
In a situation so desperate, what then remains? Must I make an application with a certainty of rejection, and then mock all authority by acting in defiance of it? Or, harder task yet! relinquish my dearest hopes when no longer persuaded of their impropriety? Ah! sweetest Miss Beverley, end the struggle at once! My happiness, my peace, are wholly in your power, for the moment of our union secures them for life.
It may seem to you strange that I should thus purpose to brave the friends whom I venture not to entreat; but from my knowledge of their characters and sentiments I am certain I have no other resource. Their favourite principles were too early imbibed to be now at this late season eradicated. Slaves that we all are to habits, and dupes to appearances, jealous guardians of our pride, to which our comfort is sacrificed, and even our virtue made subservient, what conviction can be offered by reason, to notions that exist but by prejudice? They have been cherished too long for rhetorick to remove them, they can only be expelled by all-powerful Necessity. Life is, indeed, too brief, and success too precarious, to trust, in any case where happiness is concerned, the extirpation of deep-rooted and darling opinions, to the slow-working influence of argument and disquisition.
Yet bigotted as they are to rank and family, they adore Miss Beverley, and though their consent to the forfeiture of their name might forever be denied, when once they beheld her the head and ornament of their house, her elegance and accomplishments joined to the splendour of her fortune, would speedily make them forget the plans which now wholly absorb them. Their sense of honour is in nothing inferior to their sense of high birth; your condescension, therefore, would be felt by them in its fullest force, and though, during their first surprize, they might be irritated against their son, they would make it the study of their lives that the lady who for him had done so much, should never, through their means, repine for herself.
With regard to settlements, the privacy of our union would not affect them: one Confident we must unavoidably trust, and I would deposit in the hands of whatever person you would name, a bond by which I would engage myself to settle both your fortune and my own, according to the arbitration of our mutual friends. The time for secrecy though painful would be short, and even from the altar, if you desired it, I would hasten to Delvile Castle. Not one Of my friends should you see till they waited upon you themselves to solicit your presence at their house, till our residence elsewhere was fixed.
Oh loveliest Cecilia, from a dream Of happiness so sweet awaken me not! from a plan Of felicity so attractive turn not away! If one part of it is unpleasant, reject not therefore all; and since without some drawback no earthly bliss is attainable, do not, by a refinement too scrupulous for the short period of our existence, deny yourself that delight which your benevolence will afford you, in snatching from the pangs of unavailing regret and misery, the gratefullest of men in the humblest and most devoted of your servants, MORTIMER DELVILE.
Cecilia read and re-read this letter, but with a perturbation of mind that made her little able to weigh its contents. Paragraph by paragraph her sentiments varied, and her determination was changed: the earnestness of his supplication now softened her into compliance, the acknowledged pride of his family now irritated her into resentment, and the confession of his own regret now sickened her into despondence. She meant in an immediate answer, to have written a final dismission; but though proof against his entreaties, because not convinced by his arguments, there was something in the conclusion of his letter that staggered her resolution.
Those scruples and that refinement against which he warned her, she herself thought might be overstrained, and to gratify unnecessary punctilio, the short period of existence be rendered causelessly unhappy. He had truly said that their union would be no offence to morality, and with respect merely to pride, why should that be spared? He knew he possessed her heart, she had long been certain of his, her character had early gained the affection of his mother, and the essential service which an income such as hers must do the family, would soon be felt too powerfully to make her connection with it regretted.
These reflections were so pleasant she knew not how to discard them; and the consciousness that her secret was betrayed not only to himself, but to Mr Biddulph, Lord Ernolf, Lady Honoria Pemberton, and Mrs Delvile, gave them additional force, by making it probable she was yet more widely suspected. But still her delicacy and her principles revolted against a conduct of which the secrecy seemed to imply the impropriety. “How shall I meet Mrs Delvile,” cried she, “after an action so clandestine? How, after praise such as she has bestowed upon me, bear the severity of her eye, when she thinks I have seduced from her the obedience of her son! A son who is the sole solace and first hope of her existence, whose virtues make all her happiness, and whose filial piety is her only glory!–And well may she glory in a son such as Delvile! Nobly has he exerted himself in situations the most difficult, his family and his ideas of honour he has preferred to his peace and health, he has fulfilled with spirit and integrity the various, the conflicting duties of life. Even now, perhaps, in his present application, he may merely think himself bound by knowing me no longer free, and his generous sensibility to the weakness he has discovered, without any of the conviction to which he pretends, may have occasioned this proposal!”
A suggestion so mortifying again changed her determination; and the tears of Henrietta Belfield, with the letter which she had surprized in her hand recurring to her memory, all her thoughts turned once more upon rejecting him for-ever.
In this fluctuating state of mind she found writing impracticable; while uncertain what to wish, to decide was impossible. She disdained coquetry, she was superior to trifling, the candour and openness of Delvile had merited all her sincerity, and therefore while any doubt remained, with herself, she held it unworthy her character to tell him she had none.
Mrs Charlton, upon reading the letter, became again the advocate of Delvile; the frankness with which he had stated his difficulties assured her of his probity, and by explaining his former conduct, satisfied her with the rectitude of his future intentions. “Do not, therefore, my dear child,” cried she, “become the parent of your own misery by refusing him; he deserves you alike from his principles and his affection, and the task would both be long and melancholy to disengage him from your heart. I see not, however, the least occasion for the disgrace of a private marriage; I know not any family to which you would not be an honour, and those who feel not your merit, are little worth pleasing. Let Mr Delvile, therefore, apply openly to his friends, and if they refuse their consent, be their prejudices their reward. You are freed from all obligations where caprice only can raise objections, and you may then, in the face of the world, vindicate your choice.”
The wishes of Cecilia accorded with this advice, though the general tenour of Delvile’s letter gave her little reason to expect he would follow it.
CHAPTER vi.
A DISCUSSION.
The day past away, and Cecilia had yet written no answer; the evening came, and her resolution was still unfixed. Delvile, at length, was again announced; and though she dreaded trusting herself to his entreaties, the necessity of hastening some decision deterred her from refusing to see him.
Mrs Charlton was with her when he entered the room; he attempted at first some general conversation, though the anxiety of his mind was strongly pictured upon his face. Cecilia endeavoured also to talk upon common topics, though her evident embarrassment spoke the absence of her thoughts.
Delvile at length, unable any longer to bear suspence, turned to Mrs Charlton, and said, “You are probably acquainted, madam, with the purport of the letter I had the honour of sending to Miss Beverley this morning?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered the old lady, “and you need desire little more than that her opinion of it may be as favourable as mine.”
Delvile bowed and thanked her; and looking at Cecilia, to whom he ventured not to speak, he perceived in her countenance a mixture of dejection and confusion, that told him whatever might be her opinion, it had by no means encreased her happiness.
“But why, Sir,” said Mrs Charlton, “should you be thus sure of the disapprobation of your friends? had you not better hear what they have to say?”
“I _know_, madam, what they have to say,” returned he; “for their language and their principles have been invariable from my birth: to apply to them, therefore, for a concession which I am certain they will not grant, were only a cruel device to lay all my misery to their account.”
“And if they are so perverse, they deserve from you nothing better,” said Mrs Charlton; “speak to them, however; you will then have done your duty; and if they are obstinately unjust, you will have acquired a right to act for yourself.”
“To mock their authority,” answered Delvile, “would be more offensive than to oppose it: to solicit their approbation, and then act in defiance of it, might justly provoke their indignation.–No; if at last I am reduced to appeal to them, by their decision I must abide.”
To this Mrs Charlton could make no answer, and in a few minutes she left the room.
“And is such, also,” said Delvile, “the opinion of Miss Beverley? has she doomed me to be wretched, and does she wish that doom to be signed by my nearest friends!”
“If your friends, Sir,” said Cecilia, “are so undoubtedly inflexible, it were madness, upon any plan, to risk their displeasure.”
“To entreaty,” he answered, “they will be inflexible, but not to forgiveness. My father, though haughty, dearly, even passionately loves me; my mother, though high-spirited, is just, noble, and generous. She is, indeed, the most exalted of women, and her power over my mind I am unaccustomed to resist. Miss Beverley alone seems born to be her daughter–“
“No, no,” interrupted Cecilia, “as her daughter she rejects me!”
“She loves, she adores you!” cried he warmly; and were I not certain she feels your excellencies as they ought to be felt, my veneration for you _both_ should even yet spare you my present supplication. But you would become, I am certain, the first blessing of her life; in you she would behold all the felicity of her son,–his restoration to health, to his country, to his friends!”
“O Sir,” cried Cecilia, with emotion, “how deep a trench of real misery do you sink, in order to raise this pile of fancied happiness! But I will not be responsible for your offending such a mother; scarcely can you honour her yourself more than I do; and I here declare most solemnly–“
“O stop!” interrupted Delvile, “and resolve not till you have heard me. Would you, were she no more, were my father also no more, would you yet persist in refusing me?”
“Why should you ask me?” said Cecilia, blushing; “you would then be your own agent, and perhaps–“
She hesitated, and Delvile vehemently exclaimed, “Oh make me not a monster! force me not to desire the death of the very beings by whom I live! weaken not the bonds of affection by which they are endeared to me, and compel me not to wish them no more as the sole barriers to my happiness!”
“Heaven forbid!” cried Cecilia, “could I believe you so impious, I should suffer little indeed in desiring your eternal absence.”
“Why then only upon their extinction must I rest my hope of your favour?”
Cecilia, staggered and distressed by this question, could make no answer. Delvile, perceiving her embarrassment, redoubled his urgency; and before she had power to recollect herself, she had almost consented to his plan, when Henrietta Belfield rushing into her memory, she hastily exclaimed, “One doubt there is, which I know not how to mention, but ought to have cleared up;–you are acquainted with–you remember Miss Belfield?”
“Certainly; but what of Miss Belfield that can raise a doubt in the mind of Miss Beverley?”
Cecilia coloured, and was silent.
“Is it possible,” continued he, “you could ever for an instant suppose–but I cannot even name a supposition so foreign to all possibility.”
“She is surely very amiable?”
“Yes,” answered he, “she is innocent, gentle, and engaging; and I heartily wish she were in a better situation.”
“Did you ever occasionally, or by any accident, correspond with her?”
“Never in my life.”
“And were not your visits to the brother _sometimes_–“
“Have a care,” interrupted he, laughing, “lest I reverse the question, and ask if your visits to the sister were not _sometimes_ for the brother! But what does this mean? Could Miss Beverley imagine that _after_ knowing her, the charms of Miss Belfield could put me in any danger?”
Cecilia, bound in delicacy and friendship not to betray the tender and trusting Henrietta, and internally satisfied of his innocence by his frankness, evaded any answer; and would now have done with the subject; but Delvile, eager wholly to exculpate himself, though by no means displeased at an enquiry which shewed so much interest in his affections, continued his explanation.
“Miss Belfield has, I grant, an attraction in the simplicity of her manners which charms by its singularity: her heart, too, seems all purity, and her temper all softness. I have not, you find, been blind to her merit; on the contrary, I have both admired and pitied her. But far indeed is she removed from all chance of rivalry in my heart! A character such as hers for a while is irresistibly alluring; but when its novelty is over, simplicity uninformed becomes wearisome, and softness without dignity is too indiscriminate to give delight. We sigh for entertainment, when cloyed by mere sweetness; and heavily drags on the load of life when the companion of our social hours wants spirit, intelligence, and cultivation. With Miss Beverley all these–“
“Talk not of all these,” cried Cecilia, “when one single obstacle has power to render them valueless.”
“But now,” cried he, “that obstacle is surmounted.”
“Surmounted only for a moment! for even in your letter this morning you confess the regret with which it fills you.”
“And why should I deceive you? Why pretend to think with pleasure, or even with indifference, of an obstacle which has had thus long the power to make me miserable? But where is happiness without allay? Is perfect bliss the condition of humanity? Oh if we refuse to taste it till in its last state of refinement, how shall the cup of evil be ever from our lips?”
“How indeed!” said Cecilia, with a sigh; “the regret, I believe, will remain eternally upon your mind, and she, perhaps, who should cause, might soon be taught to partake of it.”
“O Miss Beverley! how have I merited this severity? Did I make my proposals lightly? Did I suffer my eagerness to conquer my reason? Have I not, on the contrary, been steady and considerate? neither biassed by passion nor betrayed by tenderness?”
“And yet in what,” said Cecilia, “consists this boasted steadiness? I perceived it indeed, at Delvile Castle, but here–“
“The pride of heart which supported me there,” cried he, “will support me no longer; what sustained my firmness, but your apparent seventy? What enabled me to fly you, but your invariable coldness? The rigour with which I trampled upon my feelings I thought fortitude and spirit,–but I knew not then the pitying sympathy of Cecilia!”
“O that you knew it not yet!” cried she, blushing; “before that fatal accident you thought of me, I believe, in a manner far more honourable.”
“Impossible! differently, I thought of you, but never, better, never so well as now. I then represented you all lovely in beauty, all perfect in goodness and virtue; but it was virtue in its highest majesty, not, as now, blended with the softest sensibility.”
“Alas!” said Cecilia, “how the portrait is faded!”
“No, it is but more from the life: it is the sublimity of an angel, mingled with all that is attractive in woman. But who is the friend we may venture to trust? To whom may I give my bond? And from whom may I receive a treasure which for the rest of my life will constitute all its felicity?”
“Where can _I_,” cried Cecilia, “find a friend, who, in this critical moment will instruct me how to act!”
“You will find one,” answered he, “in your own bosom: ask but yourself this plain question; will any virtue be offended by your honouring me with your hand?”
“Yes; duty will be offended, since it is contrary to the will of your parents.”
“But is there no time for emancipation? Am not I of an age to chuse for myself the partner of my life? Will not you in a few days be the uncontrolled mistress of your actions? Are we not both independent? Your ample fortune all your own, and the estates of my father so entailed they must unavoidably be mine?”
“And are these,” said Cecilia, “considerations to set us free from our duty?”
“No, but they are circumstances to relieve us from slavery. Let me not offend you if I am still more explicit. When no law, human or divine, can be injured by our union, when one motive of pride is all that can be opposed to a thousand motives of convenience and happiness, why should we _both_ be made unhappy, merely lest that pride should lose its gratification?”
This question, which so often and so angrily she had revolved in her own mind, again silenced her; and Delvile, with the eagerness of approaching success, redoubled his solicitations.
“Be mine,” he cried, “sweetest Cecilia, and all will go well. To refer me to my friends is, effectually, to banish me for ever. Spare me, then, the unavailing task; and save me from the resistless entreaties of a mother, whose every desire I have held sacred, whose wish has been my law, and whose commands I have implicitly, invariably obeyed! Oh generously save me from the dreadful alternative of wounding her maternal heart by a peremptory refusal, or of torturing my own with pangs to which it is unequal by an extorted obedience!”
“Alas!” cried Cecilia, “how utterly impossible I can relieve you!”
“And why? once mine, irrevocably mine—.”
“No, that would but irritate,–and irritate past hope of pardon.”
“Indeed you are mistaken: to your merit they are far from insensible, and your fortune is just what they wish. Trust me, therefore, when I assure you that their displeasure, which both respect and justice will guard them from ever shewing _you_, will soon die wholly away. I speak not merely from my hopes; in judging my own friends, I consider human nature in general. Inevitable evils are ever best supported. It is suspence, it is hope that make the food of misery; certainty is always endured, because known to be past amendment, and felt to give defiance to struggling.”
“And can you,” cried Cecilia, “with reasoning so desperate be satisfied?
“In a situation so extraordinary as ours,” answered he, “there is no other. The voice of the world at large will be all in our favour. Our union neither injures our fortunes, nor taints our morality: with the character of each the other is satisfied, and both must be alike exculpated from mercenary views of interest, or romantic contempt of poverty; what right have we, then, to repine at an objection which, however potent, is single? Surely none. Oh if wholly unchecked were the happiness I now have in view, if no foul storm sometimes lowered over the prospect, and for the moment obscured its brightness, how could my heart find room for joy so superlative? The whole world might rise against me as the first man in it who had nothing left to wish!”
Cecilia, whose own hopes aided this reasoning, found not much to oppose to it; and with little more of entreaty, and still less of argument, Delvile at length obtained her consent to his plan. Fearfully, indeed, and with unfeigned reluctance she gave it, but it was the only alternative with a separation for-ever, to which she held not the necessity adequate to the pain.
The thanks of Delvile were as vehement as had been his entreaties, which yet, however, were not at an end; the concession she had made was imperfect, unless its performance were immediate, and he now endeavoured to prevail with her to be his before the expiration of a week.
Here, however, his task ceased to be difficult; Cecilia, as ingenuous by nature as she was honourable from principle, having once brought her mind to consent to his proposal, sought not by studied difficulties to enhance the value of her compliance: the great point resolved upon, she held all else of too little importance for a contest.
Mrs Charlton was now called in, and acquainted with the result of their conference. Her approbation by no means followed the scheme of privacy; yet she was too much rejoiced in seeing her young friend near the period of her long suspence and uneasiness, to oppose any plan which might forward their termination.
Delvile then again begged to know what male confidant might be entrusted with their project.
Mr Monckton immediately occurred to Cecilia, though the certainty of his ill-will to the cause made all application to him disagreeable: but his long and steady friendship for her, his readiness to counsel and assist her, and the promises she had occasionally made, not to act without his advice, all concurred to persuade her that in a matter of such importance, she owed to him her confidence, and should be culpable to proceed without it. Upon him, therefore, she fixed; yet finding in herself a repugnance insuperable to acquainting him with her situation, she agreed that Delvile, who instantly proposed to be her messenger, should open to him the affair, and prepare him for their meeting.
Delvile then, rapid in thought and fertile in expedients, with a celerity and vigour which bore down all objections, arranged the whole conduct of the business. To avoid suspicion, he determined instantly to quit her, and, as soon as he had executed his commission with Mr Monckton, to hasten to London, that the necessary preparations for their marriage might be made with dispatch and secrecy. He purposed, also, to find out Mr Belfield; that he might draw up the bond with which he meant to entrust Mr Monckton. This measure Cecilia would have opposed, but he refused to listen to her. Mrs Charlton herself, though her age and infirmities had long confined her to her own house, gratified Cecilia upon this critical occasion with consenting to accompany her to the altar. Mr Monckton was depended upon for giving her away, and a church in London was the place appointed for the performance of the ceremony. In three days the principal difficulties to the union would be removed by Cecilia’s coming of age, and in five days it was agreed that they should actually meet in town. The moment they were married Delvile promised to set off for the castle, while in another chaise, Cecilia returned to Mrs Charlton’s. This settled, he conjured her to be punctual, and earnestly recommending himself to her fidelity and affection, he bid her adieu.
CHAPTER vii.
A RETROSPECTION.
Left now to herself, sensations unfelt before filled the heart of Cecilia. All that had passed for a while appeared a dream; her ideas were indistinct, her memory was confused, her faculties seemed all out of order, and she had but an imperfect consciousness either of the transaction in which she had just been engaged, or of the promise she had bound herself to fulfil: even truth from imagination she scarcely could separate; all was darkness and doubt, inquietude and disorder!
But when at length her recollection more clearly returned, and her situation appeared to her such as it really was, divested alike of false terrors or delusive expectations, she found herself still further removed from tranquility.
Hitherto, though no stranger to sorrow, which the sickness and early loss of her friends had first taught her to feel, and which the subsequent anxiety of her own heart had since instructed her to bear, she had yet invariably possessed the consolation of self-approving reflections: but the step she was now about to take, all her principles opposed; it terrified her as undutiful, it shocked her as clandestine, and scarce was Delvile out of sight, before she regretted her consent to it as the loss of her self-esteem, and believed, even if a reconciliation took place, the remembrance of a wilful fault would still follow her, blemish in her own eyes the character she had hoped to support, and be a constant allay to her happiness, by telling her how unworthily she had obtained it.
Where frailty has never been voluntary, nor error stubborn, where the pride of early integrity is unsubdued, and the first purity of innocence is inviolate, how fearfully delicate, how “tremblingly alive,” is the conscience of man! strange, that what in its first state is so tender, can in its last become so callous!
Compared with the general lot of human misery, Cecilia had suffered nothing; but compared with the exaltation of ideal happiness, she had suffered much; willingly, however, would she again have borne all that had distressed her, experienced the same painful suspence, endured the same melancholy parting, and gone through the same cruel task of combating inclination with reason, to have relieved her virtuous mind from the new-born and intolerable terror of conscientious reproaches.
The equity of her notions permitted her not from the earnestness of Delvile’s entreaties to draw any palliation for her consent to his proposal; she was conscious that but for her own too great facility those entreaties would have been ineffectual, since she well knew how little from any other of her admirers they would have availed.
But chiefly her affliction and repentance hung upon Mrs Delvile, whom she loved, reverenced and honoured, whom she dreaded to offend, and whom she well knew expected from her even exemplary virtue. Her praises, her partiality, her confidence in her character, which hitherto had been her pride, she now only recollected with shame and with sadness. The terror of the first interview never ceased to be present to her; she shrunk even in imagination from her wrath-darting eye, she felt stung by pointed satire, and subdued by cold contempt.
Yet to disappoint Delvile so late, by forfeiting a promise so positively accorded; to trifle with a man who to her had been uniformly candid, to waver when her word was engaged, and retract when he thought himself secure,–honour, justice and shame told her the time was now past.
“And yet is not this,” cried she, “placing nominal before actual evil? Is it not studying appearance at the expence of reality? If agreeing to wrong is criminal, is not performing it worse? If repentance for ill actions calls for mercy, has not repentance for ill intentions a yet higher claim?–And what reproaches from Delvile can be so bitter as my own? What separation, what sorrow, what possible calamity can hang upon my mind with such heaviness, as the sense of committing voluntary evil?”
This thought so much affected her, that, conquering all regret either for Delvile or herself, she resolved to write to him instantly, and acquaint him of the alteration in her sentiments.
This, however, after having so deeply engaged herself, was by no means easy; and many letters were begun, but not one of them was finished, when a sudden recollection obliged her to give over the attempt,–for she knew not whither to direct to him.
In the haste with which their plan had been formed and settled, it had never once occurred to them that any, occasion for writing was likely to happen. Delvile, indeed, knew that her address would still be the same; and with regard to his own, as his journey to London was to be secret, he purposed not having any fixed habitation. On the day of their marriage, and not before, they had appointed to meet at the house of Mrs Roberts, in Fetter-Lane, whence they were instantly to proceed to the church.
She might still, indeed, enclose a letter for him in one to Mrs Hill, to be delivered to him on the destined morning when he called to claim her; but to fail him at the last moment, when Mr Belfield would have drawn up the bond, when a licence was procured, the clergyman waiting to perform the ceremony, and Delvile without a suspicion but that the next moment would unite them for ever, seemed extending prudence into treachery, and power into tyranny. Delvile had done nothing to merit such treatment, he had practised no deceit, he had been guilty of no perfidy, he had opened to her his whole heart, and after shewing it without any disguise, the option had been all her own to accept or refuse him.
A ray of joy now broke its way through the gloom of her apprehensions. “Ah!” cried she, “I have not, then, any means to recede! an unprovoked breach of promise at the very moment destined for its performance, would but vary the mode of acting wrong, without approaching nearer to acting right!”
This idea for a while not merely calmed but delighted her; to be the wife of Delvile seemed now a matter of necessity, and she soothed herself with believing that to struggle against it were vain.
The next morning during breakfast Mr Monckton arrived.
Not greater, though winged with joy, had been the expedition of Delvile to open to him his plan, than was his own, though only goaded by desperation, to make some effort with Cecilia for rendering it abortive. Nor could all his self-denial, the command which he held over his passions, nor the rigour with which his feelings were made subservient to his interest, in this sudden hour of trial, avail to preserve his equanimity. The refinements of hypocrisy, and the arts of insinuation, offered advantages too distant, and exacted attentions too subtle, for a moment so alarming; those arts and those attentions he had already for many years practised, with an address the most masterly, and a diligence the most indefatigable: success had of late seemed to follow his toils; the encreasing infirmities of his wife, the disappointment and retirement of Cecilia, uniting to promise him a conclusion equally speedy and happy; when now, by a sudden and unexpected stroke, the sweet solace of his future cares, the long- projected recompence of his past sufferings, was to be snatched from him for ever, and by one who, compared with himself, was but the acquaintance of a day.
Almost wholly off his guard from the surprise and horror of this apprehension, he entered the room with such an air of haste and perturbation, that Mrs Charlton and her grand-daughters demanded what was the matter.
“I am come,” he answered abruptly, yet endeavouring to recollect himself, “to speak with Miss Beverley upon business of some importance.”
“My dear, then,” said Mrs Charlton, “you had better go with Mr Monckton into your dressing-room.”
Cecilia, deeply blushing, arose and led the way: slowly, however, she proceeded, though urged by Mr Monckton to make speed. Certain of his disapprobation, and but doubtfully relieved from her own, she dreaded a conference which on his side, she foresaw, would be all exhortation and reproof, and on hers all timidity and shame.
“Good God,” cried he, “Miss Beverley, what is this you have done? bound yourself to marry a man who despises, who scorns, who refuses to own you!”
Shocked by this opening, she started, but could make no answer.
“See you not,” he continued, “the indignity which is offered you? Does the loose, the flimsy veil with which it is covered, hide it from your understanding, or disguise it from your delicacy?”
“I thought not,–I meant not,” said she, more and more confounded, “to submit to any indignity, though my pride, in an exigence so peculiar, may give way, for a while, to convenience.”
“To convenience?” repeated he, “to contempt, to derision, to insolence!”–
“O Mr Monckton!” interrupted Cecilia, “make not use of such expressions! they are too cruel for me to hear, and if I thought they were just, would make me miserable for life!”
“You are deceived, grossly deceived,” replied he, “if you doubt their truth for a moment: they are not, indeed, even decently concealed from you; they are glaring as the day, and wilful blindness can alone obscure them.”
“I am sorry, Sir,” said Cecilia, whose confusion, at a charge so rough, began now to give way to anger, “if this is your opinion; and I am sorry, too, for the liberty I have taken in troubling you upon such a subject.”
An apology so full of displeasure instantly taught Mr Monckton the error he was committing, and checking, therefore, the violence of those emotions to which his sudden and desperate disappointment gave rise, and which betrayed him into reproaches so unskilful, he endeavoured to recover his accustomed equanimity, and assuming an air of friendly openness, said, “Let me not offend you, my dear Miss Beverley, by a freedom which results merely from a solicitude to serve you, and which the length and intimacy of our acquaintance had, I hoped, long since authorised. I know not how to see you on the brink of destruction without speaking, yet, if you are averse to my sincerity, I will curb it, and have done.”
“No, do not have done,” cried she, much softened; “your sincerity does me nothing but honour, and hitherto, I am sure, it has done me nothing but good. Perhaps I deserve your utmost censure; I feared it, indeed, before you came, and ought, therefore, to have better prepared myself for meeting with it.”
This speech completed Mr Monckton’s self-victory; it skewed him not only the impropriety of his turbulence, but gave him room to hope that a mildness more crafty would have better success.
“You cannot but be certain,” he answered, “that my zeal proceeds wholly from a desire to be of use to you: my knowledge of the world might possibly, I thought, assist your inexperience, and the disinterestedness of my regard, might enable me to see and to point out the dangers to which you are exposed, from artifice and duplicity in those who have other purposes to answer than what simply belong to your welfare.”
“Neither artifice nor duplicity,” cried Cecilia, jealous for the honour of Delvile, “have been practised against me. Argument, and not persuasion, determined me, and if I have done wrong–those who prompted me have erred as unwittingly as myself.”
“You are too generous to perceive the difference, or you would find nothing less alike. If, however, my plainness will not offend you, before it is quite too late, I will point out to you a few of the evils,–for there are some I cannot even mention, which at this instant do not merely threaten, but await you.”
Cecilia started at this terrifying offer, and afraid to accept, yet ashamed to refuse, hung back irresolute.
“I see,” said Mr Monckton, after a pause of some continuance, “your determination admits no appeal. The consequence must, indeed, be all your own, but I am greatly grieved to find how little you are aware of its seriousness. Hereafter you will wish, perhaps, that the friend of your earliest youth had been permitted to advise you; at present you only think him officious and impertinent, and therefore he can do nothing you will be so likely to approve as quitting you. I wish you, then, greater happiness than seems prepared to follow you, and a counsellor more prosperous in offering his assistance.”
He would then have taken his leave: but Cecilia called out, “Oh, Mr Monckton! do you then give me up?”
“Not unless you wish it.”
“Alas, I know not what to wish! except, indeed, the restoration of that security from self-blame, which till yesterday, even in the midst of disappointment, quieted and consoled me.”
“Are you, then, sensible you have gone wrong, yet resolute not to turn back?” “Could I tell, could I see,” cried she, with energy, “which way I _ought_ to turn, not a moment would I hesitate how to act! my heart should have no power, my happiness no choice,–I would recover my own esteem by any sacrifice that could be made!”
“What, then, can possibly be your doubt? To be as you were yesterday what is wanting but your own inclination?”
“Every thing is wanting; right, honour, firmness, all by which the just are bound, and all which the conscientious hold sacred!” “These scruples are merely romantic; your own good sense, had it fairer play, would contemn them; but it is warped at present by prejudice and prepossession.”
“No, indeed!” cried she, colouring at the charge, “I may have entered too precipitately into an engagement I ought to have avoided, but it is weakness of judgment, not of heart, that disables me from retrieving my error.”
“Yet you will neither hear whither it may lead you, nor which way you may escape from it?”
“Yes, Sir,” cried she, trembling, “I am now ready to hear both.”
“Briefly, then, I will tell you. It will lead you into a family of which every individual will disdain you; it will make you inmate of a house of which no other inmate will associate with you; you will be insulted as an inferior, and reproached as an intruder; your birth will be a subject of ridicule, and your whole race only named with derision: and while the elders of the proud castle treat you with open contempt, the man for whom you suffer will not dare to support you.”
“Impossible! impossible!” cried Cecilia, with the most angry emotion; “this whole representation is exaggerated, and the latter part is utterly without foundation.”
“The latter part,” said Mr Monckton, “is of all other least disputable: the man who now dares not own, will then never venture to defend you. On the contrary, to make peace for himself, he will be the first to neglect you. The ruined estates of his ancestors will be repaired by your fortune, while the name which you carry into his family will be constantly resented as an injury: you will thus be plundered though you are scorned, and told to consider yourself honoured that they condescend to make use of you! nor here rests the evil of a forced connection with so much arrogance,–even your children, should you have any, will be educated to despise you!”
“Dreadful and horrible!” cried Cecilia;–“I can hear no more,–Oh, Mr Monckton, what a prospect have you opened to my view!”
“Fly from it, then, while it is yet in your power,–when two paths are before you, chuse not that which leads to destruction; send instantly after Delvile, and tell him you have recovered your senses.”
“I would long since have sent,–I wanted not a representation such as this,–but I know not how to direct to him, nor whither he is gone.”
“All art and baseness to prevent your recantation!”
“No, Sir, no,” cried she, with quickness; “whatever may be the truth of your painting in general, all that concerns–“
Ashamed of the vindication she intended, which yet in her own mind was firm and animated, she stopt, and left the sentence unfinished.
“In what place were you to meet?” said Mr Monckton; “you can at least send to him there.”
“We were only to have met,” answered she, in much confusion, “at the last moment,–and that would be too late–it would be too–I could not, without some previous notice, break a promise which I gave without any restriction.”
“Is this your only objection?”
“It is: but it is one which I cannot conquer.”
“Then you would give up this ill-boding connection, but from notions of delicacy with regard to the time?”
“Indeed I meant it, before you came.”
“_I_, then, will obviate this objection: give me but the commission, either verbally or in writing, and I will undertake to find him out, and deliver it before night.”
Cecilia, little expecting this offer, turned extremely pale, and after pausing some moments, said in a faultering voice, “What, then, Sir, is your advice, in what manner–“
“I will say to him all that is necessary; trust the matter with me.”
“No,–he deserves, at least, an apology from myself,–though how to make it–“
She stopt, she hesitated, she went out of the room for pen and ink, she returned without them, and the agitation of her mind every instant encreasing, she begged him, in a faint voice, to excuse her while she consulted with Mrs Charlton, and promising to wait upon him again, was hurrying away.
Mr Monckton, however, saw too great danger in so much emotion to trust her out of his sight: he told her, therefore, that she would only encrease her perplexity, without reaping any advantage, by an application to Mrs Charlton, and that if she was really sincere in wishing to recede, there was not a moment to be lost, and Delvile should immediately be pursued.
Cecilia, sensible of the truth of this speech, and once more recollecting the unaffected earnestness with which but an hour or two before, she had herself desired to renounce this engagement, now summoned her utmost courage to her aid, and, after a short, but painful struggle, determined to act consistently with her professions and her character, and, by one great and final effort, to conclude all her doubts, and try to silence even her regret, by completing the triumph of fortitude over inclination.
She called, therefore, for pen and ink, and without venturing herself from the room, wrote the following letter.
_To Mortimer Delvile, Esq._
Accuse me not of caprice, and pardon my irresolution, when you find me shrinking with terror from the promise I have made, and no longer either able or willing to perform it. The reproaches of your family I should very ill endure; but the reproaches of my own heart for an action I can neither approve nor defend, would be still more oppressive. With such a weight upon the mind length of life would be burthensome; with a sensation of guilt early death would be terrific! These being my notions of the engagement into which we have entered, you cannot wonder, and you have still less reason to repine, that I dare not fulfil it. Alas! where would be your chance of happiness with one who in the very act of becoming yours would forfeit her own!
I blush at this tardy recantation, and I grieve at the disappointment it may occasion you: but I have yielded to the exhortations of an inward monitor, who is never to be neglected with impunity. Consult him yourself, and I shall need no other advocate. Adieu, and may all felicity attend you! if to hear of the almost total privation of mine, will mitigate the resentment with which you will probably read this letter, it may be mitigated but too easily! Yet my consent to a clandestine action shall never be repeated; and though I confess to you I am not happy, I solemnly declare my resolution is unalterable. A little reflection will tell you I am right, though a great deal of lenity may scarce suffice to make you pardon my being right no sooner. C. B.
This letter, which with trembling haste, resulting from a fear of her own steadiness, she folded and sealed, Mr Monckton, from the same apprehension yet more eagerly received, and scarce waiting to bid her good morning, mounted his horse, and pursued his way to London.
Cecilia returned to Mrs Charlton to acquaint her with what had passed: and notwithstanding the sorrow she felt in apparently injuring the man whom, in the whole world she most wished to oblige, she yet found a satisfaction in the sacrifice she had made, that recompensed her for much of her sufferings, and soothed her into something like tranquility; the true power of virtue she had scarce experienced before, for she found it a resource against the cruellest dejection, and a supporter in the bitterest disappointment.
CHAPTER viii.
AN EMBARRASSMENT.
The day passed on without any intelligence; the next day, also, passed in the same manner, and on the third, which was her birthday, Cecilia became of age.
The preparations which had long been making among her tenants to celebrate this event, Cecilia appeared to take some share, and endeavoured to find some pleasure in. She gave a public dinner to all who were willing to partake of it, she promised redress to those who complained of hard usage, she pardoned many debts, and distributed money, food, and clothing to the poor. These benevolent occupations made time seem less heavy, and while they freed her from solitude, diverted her suspense. She still, however, continued at the house of Mrs Charlton, the workmen having disappointed her in finishing her own.
But, in defiance of her utmost exertion, towards the evening of this day the uneasiness of her uncertainty grew almost intolerable. The next morning she had promised Delvile to set out for London, and he expected the morning after to claim her for his wife; yet Mr Monckton neither sent nor came, and she knew not if her letter was delivered, or if still he was unprepared for the disappointment by which he was awaited. A secret regret for the unhappiness she must occasion him, which silently yet powerfully reproached her, stole fast upon her mind, and poisoned its tranquility; for though her opinion was invariable in holding his proposal to be wrong, she thought too highly of his character to believe he would have made it but from a mistaken notion it was right. She painted him, therefore, to herself, as glowing with indignation, accusing her of inconsistency, and perhaps suspecting her of coquetry, and imputing her change of conduct to motives the most trifling and narrow, till with resentment and disdain, he drove her wholly from his thoughts.
In a few minutes, however, the picture was reversed; Delvile no more appeared storming nor unreasonable; his face wore an aspect of sorrow, and his brow was clouded with disappointment: he forbore to reproach her, but the look which her imagination delineated was more piercing than words of severest import.
These images pursued and tormented her, drew tears from her eyes, and loaded her heart with anguish. Yet, when she recollected that her conduct had had in view an higher motive than pleasing Delvile, she felt that it ought to offer her an higher satisfaction: she tried, therefore, to revive her spirits, by reflecting upon her integrity, and refused all indulgence to this enervating sadness, beyond what the weakness of human nature demands, as some relief to its sufferings upon every fresh attack of misery.
A conduct such as this was the best antidote against affliction, whose arrows are never with so little difficulty repelled, as when they light upon a conscience which no self-reproach has laid bare to their malignancy.
Before six o’clock the next morning, her maid came to her bedside with the following letter, which she told; her had been brought by an express.
_To Miss Beverley_.
May this letter, with one only from Delvile Castle, be the last that _Miss Beverley_ may ever receive!
Yet sweet to me as is that hope, I write in the utmost uneasiness; I have just heard that a gentleman, whom, by the description that is given of him, I imagine is Mr Monckton, has been in search of me with a letter which he was anxious to deliver immediately.
Perhaps this letter is from Miss Beverley, perhaps it contains directions which ought instantly to be followed: could I divine what they are, with what eagerness would I study to anticipate their execution! It will not, I hope, be too late to receive them on Saturday, when her power over my actions will be confirmed, and when every wish she will communicate, shall be gratefully, joyfully, and with delight fulfilled.
I have sought Belfield in vain; he has left Lord Vannelt, and no one knows whither he is gone. I have been obliged, therefore, to trust a stranger to draw up the bond; but he is a man of good character, and the time of secrecy will be too short to put his discretion in much danger. To-morrow, Friday, I shall spend solely in endeavouring to discover. Mr Monckton; I have leisure sufficient for the search, since so prosperous has been my diligence, that _every thing is prepared_!
I have seen some lodgings in Pall-Mall, which I think are commodious and will suit you: send a servant, therefore, before you to secure them. If upon your arrival I should venture to meet you there, be not, I beseech you, offended or alarmed; I shall take every possible precaution neither to be known nor seen, and I will stay with you only three minutes. The messenger who carries this is ignorant from whom it comes, for I fear his repeating my name among your servants, and he could scarce return to me with an answer before you will yourself be in town. Yes, loveliest Cecilia! at the very moment you receive this letter, the chaise will, I flatter myself, be at the door, which is to bring to me a treasure that will enrich every future hour of my life! And oh as to me it will be exhaustless, may but its sweet dispenser experience some share of the happiness she bestows, and then what, save her own purity, will be so perfect, so unsullied, as the felicity of her!
M.D.
The perturbation of Cecilia upon reading this letter was unspeakable: Mr Monckton, she found, had been wholly unsuccessful, all her heroism had answered no purpose, and the transaction was as backward as before she had exerted it.
She was, now, therefore, called upon to think and act entirely for herself. Her opinion was still the same, nor did her resolution waver, yet how to put it in execution she could not discern. To write to him was impossible, since she was ignorant where he was to be found; to disappoint him at the last moment she could not resolve, since such a conduct appeared to her unfeeling and unjustifiable; for a few instants she thought of having him waited for at night in London, with a letter; but the danger of entrusting any one with such a commission, and the uncertainty of finding him, should he disguise himself, made the success of this scheme too precarious for trial.
One expedient alone occurred to her, which, though she felt to be hazardous, she believed was without an alternative: this was no other than hastening to London herself, consenting to the interview he had proposed in Pall-Mall, and then, by strongly stating her objections, and confessing the grief they occasioned her, to pique at once his generosity and his pride upon releasing her himself from the engagement into which he had entered.
She had no time to deliberate; her plan, therefore, was decided almost as soon as formed, and every moment being precious, she was obliged to awaken Mrs Charlton, and communicate to her at once the letter from Delvile, and the new resolution she had taken.
Mrs Charlton, having no object in view but the happiness of her young friend, with a facility that looked not for objections, and scarce saw them when presented, agreed to the expedition, and kindly consented to accompany her to London; for Cecilia, however concerned to hurry and fatigue her, was too anxious for the sanction of her presence to hesitate in soliciting it.
A chaise, therefore, was ordered; and with posthorses for speed, and two servants on horseback, the moment Mrs Charlton was ready, they set out on their journey.
Scarce had they proceeded two miles on their way, when they were met by Mr Monckton, who was hastening to their house.
Amazed and alarmed at a sight so unexpected, he stopt the chaise to enquire whither they were going.
Cecilia, without answering, asked if her letter had yet been received?
“I could not,” said Mr Monckton, “deliver it to a man who was not to be found: I was at this moment coming to acquaint how vainly I had sought him; but still that your journey is unnecessary unless voluntary, since I have left it at the house where you told me you should meet to-morrow morning, and where he must then unavoidably receive it.”
“Indeed, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “to-morrow morning will be too late,–in conscience, in justice, and even in decency too late! I _must_, therefore, go to town; yet I go not, believe me, in’ opposition to your injunctions, but to enable myself, without treachery or dishonour, to fulfil them.”
Mr Monckton, aghast and confounded, made not any answer, till Cecilia gave orders to the postilion to drive on: he then hastily called to stop him, and began the warmest expostulations; but Cecilia, firm when she believed herself right, though wavering when fearful she was wrong, told him it was now too late to change her plan, and repeating her orders to the postilion, left him to his own reflections: grieved herself to reject his counsel, yet too intently occupied by her own affairs and designs, to think long of any other.
CHAPTER ix.
A TORMENT.
At—-they stopt for dinner; Mrs Charlton being too much fatigued to go on without some rest, though the haste of Cecilia to meet Delvile time enough for new arranging their affairs, made her regret every moment that was spent upon the road.
Their meal was not long, and they were returning to their chaise, when they were suddenly encountered by Mr Morrice, who was just alighted from his horse.
He congratulated himself upon the happiness of meeting them with the air of a man who nothing doubted that happiness being mutual; then hastening to speak of the Grove, “I could hardly,” he cried, “get away; my friend Monckton won’t know what to do without me, for Lady Margaret, poor old soul, is in a shocking bad way indeed; there’s hardly any staying in the room with her; her breathing is just like the grunting of a hog. She can’t possibly last long, for she’s quite upon her last legs, and tumbles about so when she walks alone, one would swear she was drunk.”
“If you take infirmity,” said Mrs Charlton, who was now helped into the chaise, “for intoxication, you must suppose no old person sober.”
“Vastly well said, ma’am,” cried he; “I really forgot your being an old lady yourself, or I should not have made the observation. However, as to poor Lady Margaret, she may do as well as ever by and bye, for she has an excellent constitution, and I suppose she has been hardly any better than she is now these forty years, for I remember when I was quite a boy hearing her called a limping old puddle.”
“Well, we’ll discuss this matter, if you please,” said Cecilia, “some other time.” And ordered the postilion to drive on. But before they came to their next stage, Morrice having changed his horse, joined them, and rode on by their side, begging them to observe what haste he had made on purpose to have the pleasure of escorting, them.
This forwardness was very offensive to Mrs Charlton, whose years and character had long procured her more deference and respect: but Cecilia, anxious only to hasten her journey, was indifferent to every thing, save what retarded it.
At the same Inn they both again changed horses, and he still continued riding with them, and occasionally talking, till they were within twenty miles of London, when a disturbance upon the road exciting his curiosity, he hastily rode away from them to enquire into its cause.
Upon coming up to the place whence it proceeded, they saw a party of gentlemen on horseback surrounding a chaise which had been just overturned; and while the confusion in the road obliged the postilion to stop Cecilia heard a lady’s voice exclaiming, “I declare I dare say I am killed!” and instantly recollecting Miss Larolles, the fear of discovery and delay made her desire the man to drive on with all speed. He was preparing to obey her, but Morrice, gallopping after them, called out, “Miss Beverley, one of the ladies that has been overturned, is an acquaintance of yours. I used to see her with you at Mrs Harrel’s.”
“Did you?” said Cecilia, much disconcerted, “I hope she is not hurt?’
“No, not at all; but the lady with her is bruised to death; won’t you come and see her?”
“I am too much in haste at present,–and I can do them no good; but Mrs Charlton I am sure will spare her servant, if he can be of any use.”
“O but the young lady wants to speak to you; she is coming up to the chaise as fast as ever she can.”
“And how should she know me?” cried Cecilia, with much surprise; “I am sure she could not see me.”
“O, I told her,”, answered Morrice, with a nod of self-approbation for what he had done, “I told her it was you, for I knew I could soon overtake you.”
Displeasure at this officiousness was unavailing, for looking out of the window, she perceived Miss Larolles, followed by half her party, not three paces from the chaise.
“O my dear creature,” she called out, “what a terrible accident! I assure you I am so monstrously frightened you’ve no idea. It’s the luckiest thing in the world that you were going this way. Never any thing happened so excessively provoking; you’ve no notion what a fall we’ve had. It’s horrid shocking, I assure you. How have you been all this time? You can’t conceive how glad I am to see you.”
“And to which will Miss Beverley answer first,” cried a voice which announced Mr Gosport, “the joy or the sorrow? For so adroitly are they blended, that a common auditor could with difficulty decide, whether condolence, or congratulation should have the precedency.”
“How can you be so excessive horrid,” cried Miss Larolles, “to talk of congratulation, when one’s in such a shocking panic that one does not know if one’s dead or alive!”
“Dead, then, for any wager,” returned he, “if we may judge by your stillness.”
“I desire, now, you won’t begin joking,” cried she, “for I assure you it’s an excessive serious affair. I was never so rejoiced in my life as when I found I was not killed. I’ve been so squeezed you’ve no notion. I thought for a full hour I had broke both my arms.”
“And my heart at the same time,” said Mr Gosport; “I hope you did not imagine that the least fragile of the three?”
“All our hearts, give me leave to add,” said Captain Aresby–just then advancing, “all our hearts must have been _abimés_, by the indisposition of Miss Larolles, had not their doom been fortunately revoked by the sight of Miss Beverley.”
“Well, this is excessive odd,”, cried Miss Larolles, “that every body should run away so from poor Mrs Mears; she’ll be so affronted you’ve no idea. I thought, Captain Aresby, you would have stayed to take care of her.”
“I’ll run and see how she is myself,” cried Morrice, and away he gallopped.
“Really, ma’am,” said the Captain, “I am quite _au desespoir_ to have failed in any of my devoirs; but I make it a principle to be a mere looker on upon these occasions, lest I should be so unhappy as to commit any _faux pas_ by too much _empressement_.”
“An admirable caution!” said Mr Gosport, “and, to so ardent a temper, a, necessary check!”
Cecilia, whom the surprise and vexation of so unseasonable a meeting, when she particularly wished to have escaped all notice, had hitherto kept in painful silence, began now to recover some presence of mind; and making her compliments to Miss Larolles and Mr Gosport, with a slight bow to the Captain, she apologized for hurrying away, but told them she had an engagement in London which could not be deferred, and was then giving orders to the postilion to drive on, when Morrice returning full speed, called out “The poor lady’s so bad she is not able to stir a step; she can’t put a foot to the ground, and she says she’s quite black and blue; so I told her I was sure Miss Beverley would not refuse to make room for her in her chaise, till the other can be put to rights; and she says she shall take it as a great favour. Here, postilion, a little more to the right! come, ladies and gentlemen, get out of the way.” This impertinence, however extraordinary, Cecilia could not oppose; for Mrs Charlton, ever compassionate and complying where there was any appearance of distress, instantly seconded the proposal: the chaise, therefore, was turned back, and she was obliged to offer a place in it to Mrs Mears, who, though more frightened than hurt, readily accepted it, notwithstanding, to make way for her without incommoding Mrs Charlton, she was forced to get out herself.
She failed not, however, to desire that all possible expedition might be used in refitting the other chaise for their reception; and all the gentlemen but one, dismounted their horses, in order to assist, or seem to assist in getting it ready.
This only unconcerned spectator in the midst of the apparent general bustle, was Mr Meadows; who viewed all that passed without troubling himself to interfere, and with an air of the most evident carelessness whether matters went well or went ill.
Miss Larolles, now returning to the scene of action, suddenly screamed out, “O dear, where’s my little dog! I never thought of him, I declare! I love him better than any thing in the world. I would not have him hurt for a hundred thousand pounds. Lord, where is he?”
“Crushed or suffocated in the overturn, no doubt,” said Mr Gosport; “but as you must have been his executioner, what softer death could he die? If you will yourself inflict the punishment, I will submit to the same fate.”
“Lord, how you love to plague one!” cried she and then enquired among the servants what was become of her dog. The poor little animal, forgotten by its mistress, and disregarded by all others, was now discovered by its yelping; and soon found to have been the most material sufferer by the overturn, one of its fore legs being broken.
Could screams or lamentations, reproaches to the servants, or complaints against the Destinies, have abated his pain, or made a callus of the fracture, but short would have been the duration of his misery; for neither words were saved, nor lungs were spared, the very air was rent with cries, and all present were upbraided as if accomplices in the disaster.
The postilion, at length, interrupted this vociferation with news that the chaise was again fit for use; and Cecilia, eager to be gone, finding him little regarded, repeated what he said to Miss Larolles.
“The chaise?” cried she, “why you don’t suppose I’ll ever get into that horrid chaise any more? I do assure you I would not upon any account.”
“Not get into it?” said Cecilia, “for what purpose, then, have we all waited till it was ready?”
“O, I declare I would not go in it for forty thousand worlds. I would rather walk to an inn, if it’s a hundred and fifty miles off.”
“But as it happens,” said Mr Gosport, “to be only seven miles, I fancy you will condescend to ride.”
“Seven miles! Lord, how shocking! you frighten me so you have no idea. Poor Mrs Mears! She’ll have to go quite alone. I dare say the chaise will be down fifty times by the way. Ten to one but she breaks her neck! only conceive how horrid! I assure you I am excessive glad I am out of it.”
“Very friendly, indeed!” said Mr Gosport. “Mrs Mears, then, may break her bones at her leisure!”
Mrs Mears, however, when applied to, professed an equal aversion to the carriage in which she had been so unfortunate, and declared she would rather walk than return to it, though one of her ancles was already so swelled that she could hardly stand.
“Why then the best way, ladies,” cried Morrice, with the look of a man happy in vanquishing all difficulties, “will be for Mrs Charlton, and that poor lady with the bruises, to go together in that sound chaise, and then for us gentlemen to escort this young lady and Miss Beverley on foot, till we all come to the next inn. Miss Beverley, I know, is an excellent walker, for I have heard Mr Monckton say so.”
Cecilia, though in the utmost consternation at a proposal, which must so long retard a journey she had so many reasons to wish hastened, knew not how either in decency or humanity to oppose it: and the fear of raising suspicion, from a consciousness how much there was to suspect, forced her to curb her impatience, and reduced her even to repeat the offer which Morrice had made, though she could scarce look at him for anger at his unseasonable forwardness.
No voice dissenting, the troop began to be formed. The foot consisted of the two young ladies, and Mr Gosport, who alighted to walk with Cecilia; the cavalry, of Mr Meadows, the Captain, and Morrice, who walked their horses a foot pace, while the rest of the party rode on with the chaise, as attendants upon Mrs Mears.
Just before they set off, Mr Meadows, riding negligently up to the carriage, exerted himself so far as to say to Mrs Mears, “Are you hurt, ma’am?” and, at the same instant, seeming to recollect Cecilia, he turned about, and yawning while he touched his hat, said, “O, how d’ye do, ma’am?” and then, without waiting an answer to either of his questions, flapped it over his eyes, and joined the cavalcade, though without appearing to have any consciousness that he belonged to it.
Cecilia would most gladly have used the rejected chaise herself, but could not make such a proposal to Mrs Charlton, who was past the age and the courage for even any appearance of enterprize. Upon enquiry, however, she had the satisfaction to hear that the distance to the next stage was but two miles, though multiplied to seven by the malice of Mr Gosport.
Miss Larolles carried her little dog in her arms, declaring she would never more trust him a moment away from her. She acquainted Cecilia that she had been for some time upon a visit to Mrs Mears, who, with the rest of the party, had taken her to see–house and gardens, where they had made an early dinner, from which they were just returning home when the chaise broke down.
She then proceeded, with her usual volubility, to relate the little nothings that had passed since the winter, flying from subject to subject, with no meaning but to be heard, and no wish but to talk, ever rapid in speech, though minute in detail. This loquacity met not with any interruption, save now and then a sarcastic remark, from Mr Gosport; for Cecilia was too much occupied by her own affairs, to answer or listen to such uninteresting discourse.
Her silence, however, was at length forcibly broken; Mr Gosport, taking advantage of the first moment Miss Larolles stopt for breath, said, “Pray what carries you to town, Miss Beverley, at this time of the year?”
Cecilia, whose thoughts had been wholly employed upon what would pass at her approaching meeting with Delvile, was so entirely unprepared for this question, that she could make to it no manner of answer, till Mr Gosport, in a tone of some surprise, repeated it, and then, not without hesitation, she said, “I have some business, Sir, in London,– pray how long have you been in the country?”
“Business, have you?” cried he, struck by her evasion; “and pray what can you and business have in common?”
“More than you may imagine,” answered she, with greater steadiness; “and perhaps before long I may even have enough to teach me the enjoyment of leisure.”
“Why you don’t pretend to play my Lady Notable, and become your own steward?”
“And what can I do better?”
“What? Why seek one ready made to take the trouble off your hands. There are such creatures to be found, I promise you: beasts of burthen, who will freely undertake the management of your estate, for no other reward than the trifling one of possessing it. Can you no where meet with such an animal?”
“I don’t know,” answered she, laughing, “I have not been looking out.”
“And have none such made application to you?”
“Why no,–I believe not.”
“Fie, fie! no register-office keeper has been pestered with more claimants. You know they assault you by dozens.”
“You must pardon me, indeed, I know not any such thing.”
“You know, then, why they do not, and that is much the same.”
“I may conjecture why, at least: the place, I suppose, is not worth the service.”
“No, no; the place, they conclude, is already seized, and the fee– simple of the estate is the heart of the owner. Is it not so?”
“The heart of the owner,” answered she, a little confused, “may, indeed, be simple, but not, perhaps, so easily seized as you imagine.”
“Have you, then, wisely saved it from a storm, by a generous surrender? you have been, indeed, in an excellent school for the study both of attack and defence; Delvile-Castle is a fortress which, even in ruins, proves its strength by its antiquity: and it teaches, also, an admirable lesson, by displaying the dangerous, the infallible power of time, which defies all might, and undermines all strength; which breaks down every barrier, and shews nothing endurable but itself.” Then looking at her with an arch earnestness, “I think,” he added, “you made a long visit there; did this observation never occur to you? did you never perceive, never _feel_, rather, the insidious properties of time?”
“Yes, certainly,” answered she, alarmed at the very mention of Delvile Castle, yet affecting to understand literally what was said metaphorically, “the havoc of time upon the place could not fail striking me.”
“And was its havoc,” said he, yet more archly, “merely external? is all within safe? sound and firm? and did the length of your residence shew its power by no new mischief?”
“Doubtless, not,” answered she, with the same pretended ignorance, “the place is not in so desperate a condition as to exhibit any visible marks of decay in the course of three or four months.”
“And, do you not know,” cried he, “that the place to which I allude may receive a mischief in as many minutes which double the number of years cannot rectify? The internal parts of a building are not less vulnerable to accident than its outside; and though the evil may more easily be concealed, it will with greater difficulty be remedied. Many a fair structure have I seen, which, like that now before me” (looking with much significance at Cecilia), “has to the eye seemed perfect in all its parts, and unhurt either by time or casualty, while within, some lurking evil, some latent injury, has secretly worked its way into the very _heart_ of the edifice, where it has consumed its strength, and laid waste its powers, till, sinking deeper and deeper, it has sapped its very foundation, before the superstructure has exhibited any token of danger. Is such an accident among the things you hold to be possible?”
“Your language,” said she, colouring very high, “is so florid, that I must own it renders your meaning rather obscure.”
“Shall I illustrate it by an example? Suppose, during your abode in Delvile Castle,”
“No, no,” interrupted she, with involuntary quickness, “why should I trouble you to make illustrations?”
“O pray, my dear creature,” cried Miss Larolles, “how is Mrs Harrel? I was never so sorry for any body in my life. I quite forgot to ask after her.”
“Ay, poor Harrel!” cried Morrice, “he was a great loss to his friends. I had just begun to have a regard for him: we were growing extremely intimate. Poor fellow! he really gave most excellent dinners.”
“Harrel?” suddenly exclaimed Mr Meadows, who seemed just then to first hear what was going forward, “who was he?”
“O, as good-natured a fellow as ever I knew in my life,” answered Morrice; “he was never out of humour: he was drinking and singing and dancing to the very last moment. Don’t you remember him, Sir, that night at Vauxhall?”
Mr Meadows made not any answer, but rode languidly on.
Morrice, ever more flippant than sagacious, called out, “I really believe the gentleman’s deaf! he won’t so much as say _umph_, and _hay_, now; but I’ll give him such a hallow in his ears, as shall make him hear me, whether he will or no. Sir! I say!” bawling aloud, “have you forgot that night at Vauxhall?”
Mr Meadows, starting at being thus shouted at, looked towards Morrice with some surprise, and said, “Were you so obliging, Sir, as to speak to me?”
“Lord, yes, Sir,” said Morrice, amazed; “I thought you had asked something about Mr Harrel, so I just made an answer to it;–that’s all.”
“Sir, you are very good,” returned he, slightly bowing, and then looking another way, as if thoroughly satisfied with what had passed.
“But I say, Sir,” resumed Morrice, “don’t you remember how Mr Harrel”–
“Mr who, Sir?”
“Mr Harrel, Sir; was not you just now asking me who he was?”
“O, ay, true,” cried Meadows, in a tone of extreme weariness, “I am. much obliged to you. Pray give my respects to him.” And, touching his hat, he was riding away; but the astonished Morrice called out, “Your respects to him? why lord! Sir, don’t you know he’s dead?”
“Dead?–who, Sir?”
“Why Mr Harrel, Sir.”
“Harrel?–O, very true,” cried Meadows, with a face of sudden recollection; “he shot himself, I think, or was knocked down, or something of that sort. I remember it perfectly.”
“O pray,” cried Miss Larolles, “don’t let’s talk about it, it’s the cruellest thing I ever knew in my life. I assure you I was so shocked, I thought I should never have got the better of it. I remember the next night at Ranelagh I could talk of nothing else. I dare say I told it to 500 people. I assure you I was tired to death; only conceive how distressing!”
“An excellent method,” cried Mr Gosport, “to drive it out of your own head, by driving it into the heads of your neighbours! But were you not afraid, by such an ebullition of pathos, to burst as many hearts as you had auditors?”
“O I assure you,” cried she, “every body was so excessive shocked you’ve no notion; one heard of nothing else; all the world was raving mad about it.”
“Really yes,” cried the Captain; “the subject was _obsedé_ upon one _partout_. There was scarce any breathing for it: it poured from all directions; I must confess I was _aneanti_ with it to a degree.”
“But the most shocking thing in nature,” cried Miss Larolles, “was going to the sale. I never missed a single day. One used to meet the whole world there, and every body was so sorry you can’t conceive. It was quite horrid. I assure you I never suffered so much before; it made me so unhappy you can’t imagine.”
“That I am most ready to grant,” said Mr Gosport, “be the powers of imagination ever so eccentric.”
“Sir Robert Floyer and Mr Marriot,” continued Miss Larolles, “have behaved so ill you’ve no idea, for they have done nothing ever since but say how monstrously Mr Harrel had cheated them, and how they lost such immense sums by him;–only conceive how ill-natured!”
“And they complain,” cried Morrice, “that old Mr Delvile used them worse; for that when they had been defrauded of all that money on purpose to pay their addresses to Miss Beverley, he would never let them see her, but all of a sudden took her off into the country, on purpose to marry her to his own son.”
The cheeks of Cecilia now glowed with the deepest blushes; but finding by a general silence that she was expected to make some answer, she said, with what unconcern she could assume, “They were very much mistaken; Mr Delvile had no such view.”
“Indeed?” cried Mr Gosport, again perceiving her change of countenance; “and is it possible you have actually escaped a siege, while every body concluded you taken by assault? Pray where is young Delvile at present?”
“I don’t–I can’t tell, Sir.”
“Is it long since you have seen him?”
“It is two months,” answered she, with yet more hesitation, “since I was at Delvile Castle.”
“O, but,” cried Morrice, “did not you see him while he was in Suffolk? I believe, indeed, he is there now, for it was only yesterday I heard of his coming down, by a gentleman who called upon Lady Margaret, and told us he had seen a stranger, a day or two ago, at Mrs Charlton’s door, and when he asked who he was, they told him his name was Delvile, and said he was on a visit at Mr Biddulph’s.”
Cecilia was quite confounded by this speech; to have it known that Delvile had visited her, was in itself alarming, but to have her own equivocation thus glaringly exposed, was infinitely more dangerous. The just suspicions to which it must give rise filled her with dread, and the palpable evasion in which she had been discovered, overwhelmed, her with confusion.
“So you had forgotten,” said Mr Gosport, looking at her with much archness, “that you had seen him _within_ the two months? but no wonder; for where is the lady who having so many admirers, can be at the trouble to remember which of them she saw last? or who, being so accustomed to adulation, can hold it worth while to enquire whence it comes? A thousand Mr Delviles are to Miss Beverley but as one; used from them all to the same tale, she regards them not individually as lovers, but collectively as men; and to gather, even from herself, which she is most inclined to favour, she must probably desire, like Portia in the Merchant of Venice, that their names may be run over one by one, before she can distinctly tell which is which.”
The gallant gaiety of this speech was some relief to Cecilia, who was beginning a laughing reply, when Morrice called out, “That man looks as if he was upon the scout.” And, raising her eyes, she perceived a man on horseback, who, though much muffled up, his hat flapped, and a handkerchief held to his mouth and chin, she instantly, by his air and figure, recognized to be Delvile.
In much consternation at this sight, she forgot what she meant to say, and dropping her eyes, walked silently on. Mr Gosport, attentive to her motions, looked from her to the horseman, and after a short examination, said, “I think I have seen that man before; have _you_, Miss Beverley?”
“Me?–no,”–answered she, “I believe not,–I hardly indeed, see him now.”
“_I_ have, I am pretty sure,” said Morrice; “and if I could see his face, I dare say I should recollect him.”
“He seems very willing to know if he can recollect any of _us_,” said Mr Gosport, “and, if I am not mistaken, he sees much better than he is seen.”
He was now come up to them, and though a glance sufficed to discover the object of his search, the sight of the party with which she was surrounded made him not dare stop or speak to her, and therefore, clapping spurs to his horse, he galloped past them.
“See,” cried Morrice, looking after him, “how he turns round to examine us! I wonder who he is.”
“Perhaps some highwayman!” cried Miss Larolles; “I assure you I am in a prodigious fright: I should hate to be robbed so you can’t think.”
“I was going to make much the same conjecture,” said Mr Gosport, “and, if I am not greatly deceived, that man is a robber of no common sort. What think you, Miss Beverley, can you discern a thief in disguise?”
“No, indeed; I pretend to no such extraordinary knowledge.”
“That’s true; for all that you pretend to is extraordinary ignorance.”
“I have a good mind,” said Morrice, “to ride after him, and see what he is about.”
“What for?” exclaimed Cecilia, greatly alarmed “there can certainly be no occasion!”
“No, pray don’t,” cried Miss Larolles, “for I assure you if he should come back to rob us, I should die upon the spot. Nothing could be so disagreeable I should scream so, you’ve no idea.”
Morrice then gave up the proposal, and they walked quietly on; but Cecilia was extremely disturbed by this accident; she readily conjectured that, impatient for her arrival, Delvile had ridden that way, to see what had retarded her, and she was sensible that nothing could be so desirable as an immediate explanation of the motive of her journey. Such a meeting, therefore, had she been alone, was just what she could have wished, though, thus unluckily encompassed, it only added to her anxiety.
Involuntarily, however, she quickened her pace, through her eagerness to be relieved from so troublesome a party: but Miss Larolles, who was in no such haste, protested she could not keep up with her; saying, “You don’t consider that I have got this sweet little dog to carry, and he is such a shocking plague to me you’ve no notion. Only conceive what a weight he is!”
“Pray, ma’am,” cried Morrice, “let me take him for you; I’ll be very careful of him, I promise you; and you need not be afraid to trust me, for I understand more about dogs than about any thing.”
Miss Larolles, after many fond caresses, being really weary, consented, and Morrice placed the little animal before him on horseback: but while this matter was adjusting, and Miss Larolles was giving directions how she would have it held, Morrice exclaimed, “Look, look! that man is coming back! He is certainly watching us. There! now he’s going off again!–I suppose he saw me remarking him.”
“I dare say he’s laying in wait to rob us,” said Miss Larolles; “so when we turn off the high road, to go to Mrs Mears, I suppose he’ll come galloping after us. It’s excessive horrid, I assure you.”
“‘Tis a petrifying thing,” said the captain, “that one must always be _degouté_ by some wretched being or other of this sort; but pray be not deranged, I will ride after him, if you please, and do _mon possible_ to get rid of him.”
“Indeed I wish you would,” answered Miss Larolles, “for I assure you he has put such shocking notions into my head, it’s quite disagreeable.”
“I shall make it a principle,” said the captain, “to have the honour of obeying you.” And was riding off, when Cecilia, in great agitation, called out “Why should you go, Sir?–he is not in our way,–pray let him alone,–for what purpose should you pursue him?”
“I hope,” said Mr Gosport, “for the purpose of making him join our company, to some part of which I fancy he would be no very intolerable addition.”
This speech again silenced Cecilia, who perceived, with the utmost confusion, that both Delvile and herself were undoubtedly suspected by Mr Gosport, if not already actually betrayed to him. She was obliged, therefore, to let the matter take its course, though quite sick with apprehension lest a full discovery should follow the projected pursuit.
The Captain, who wanted not courage, however deeply in vanity and affectation he had buried common sense, stood suspended, upon the request of Cecilia, that he would not go, and, with a shrug of distress, said, “Give me leave to own I am _parfaitment_ in a state the most _accablant_ in the world: nothing could give me greater pleasure than to profit of the occasion to accommodate either of these ladies; but as they proceed upon different principles, I am _indecidé_ to a degree which way to turn myself!”
“Put it to the vote, then,” said Morrice; “the two ladies have both spoke; now, then, for the gentlemen. Come, Sir,” to Mr Gosport, “what say you?”
“O, fetch the culprit back, by all means,” answered he; “and then let us all insist upon his opening his cause, by telling us in what he has offended us; for there is no part of his business, I believe, with which we are less acquainted.”
“Well,” said Morrice, “I’m for asking him a few questions too; so is the Captain; so every body has spoke but you, Sir,” addressing himself to Mr Meadows, “So now, Sir, let’s hear your opinion.”
Mr Meadows, appearing wholly inattentive, rode on.
“Why, Sir, I say!” cried Morrice, louder, “we are all waiting for your vote. Pray what is the gentleman’s name? it’s deuced hard to make him hear one.”
“His name is Meadows,” said Miss Larolles, in a low voice, “and I assure you sometimes he won’t hear people by the hour together. He’s so excessive absent you’ve no notion. One day he made me so mad, that I could not help crying; and Mr Sawyer was standing by the whole time! and I assure you I believe he laughed at me. Only conceive how distressing!”
“May be,” said Morrice, “it’s out of bashfulness perhaps he thinks we shall cut him up.”
“Bashfulness,” repeated Miss Larolles; “Lord, you don’t conceive the thing at all. Why he’s at the very head of the _ton_. There’s nothing in the world so fashionable as taking no notice of things, and never seeing people, and saying nothing at all, and never hearing a word, and not knowing one’s own acquaintance. All the _ton_ people do so, and I assure you as to Mr Meadows, he’s so excessively courted by every body, that if he does but say a syllable, he thinks it such an immense favour, you’ve no idea.”
This account, however little alluring in itself, of his celebrity, was yet sufficient to make Morrice covet his further acquaintance: for Morrice was ever attentive to turn his pleasure to his profit, and never negligent of his interest, but when ignorant how to pursue it. He returned, therefore, to the charge, though by no means with the same freedom he had begun it, and lowering his voice to a tone of respect and submission, he said, “Pray, Sir, may we take the liberty to ask your advice, whether we shall go on, or take a turn back?”
Mr Meadows made not any answer; but when Morrice was going to repeat his question, without appearing even to know that he was near him, he abruptly said to Miss Larolles, “Pray what is become of Mrs Mears? I don’t see her amongst us.”
“Lord, Mr Meadows,” exclaimed she, “how can you be so odd? Don’t you remember she went on in a chaise to the inn?”
“O, ay, true,” cried he; “I protest I had quite forgot it; I beg your pardon, indeed. Yes, I recollect now,–she fell off her horse.”
“Her horse? Why you know she was in her chaise.”
“Her chaise, was it?–ay, true, so it was. Poor thing!–I am glad she was not hurt.”
“Not hurt? Why she’s so excessively bruised, she can’t stir a step! Only conceive what a memory you’ve got!”
“I am most extremely sorry for her indeed,” cried he, again stretching himself and yawning; “poor soul!–I hope she won’t die. Do you think she will!”
“Die!” repeated Miss Larolles, with a scream, “Lord, how shocking! You are really enough to frighten one to hear you.”
“But, Sir,” said Morrice, “I wish you would be so kind as to give us your vote; the man will else be gone so far, we sha’n’t be able to overtake him.–Though I do really believe that is the very fellow coming back to peep at us again!”
“I am _ennuyé_ to a degree,” cried the Captain; “he is certainly set upon us as a spy, and I must really beg leave to enquire of him upon what principle he incommodes us.”–And instantly he rode after him.
“And so will I too,” cried Morrice, following.
Miss Larolles screamed after him to give her first her little dog; but with a schoolboy’s eagerness to be foremost, he galloped on without heeding her.
The uneasiness of Cecilia now encreased every moment; the discovery of Delvile seemed unavoidable, and his impatient and indiscreet watchfulness must have rendered the motives of his disguise but too glaring. All she had left to hope was arriving at the inn before the detection was announced, and at least saving herself the cruel mortification of hearing the raillery which would follow it.
Even this, however, was not allowed her; Miss Larolles, whom she had no means to quit, hardly stirred another step, from her anxiety for her dog, and the earnestness of her curiosity about the stranger. She loitered, stopt now to talk, and now to listen, and was scarce moved a yard from the spot where she had been left, when the Captain and Morrice returned.
“We could not for our lives overtake the fellow,” said Morrice; “he was well mounted, I promise you, and I’ll warrant he knows what he’s about, for he turned off so short at a place where there were two narrow lanes, that we could not make out which way he went.”
Cecilia, relieved and delighted by this unexpected escape, now recovered her composure, and was content to saunter on without repining.
“But though we could not seize his person,” said the Captain, “we have debarrassed ourselves _tout à fait_ from his pursuit; I hope, therefore, Miss Larolles will make a revoke of her apprehensions.”
The answer to this was nothing but a loud scream, with an exclamation, “Lord, where’s my dog?”
“Your dog!” cried Morrice, looking aghast, “good stars! I never thought of him!”
“How excessive barbarous!” cried Miss Larolles, “you’ve killed him, I dare say. Only think how shocking! I had rather have seen any body served so in the world. I shall never forgive it, I assure you.”
“Lord, ma’am,” said Morrice, “how can you suppose I’ve killed him? Poor, pretty creature, I’m sure I liked him prodigiously. I can’t think for my life where he can be: but I have a notion he must have dropt down some where while I happened to be on the full gallop. I’ll go look [for] him, however, for we went at such a rate that I never missed him.”
Away again rode Morrice.
“I am _abimé_ to the greatest degree,” said the Captain, “that the poor little sweet fellow should be lost if I had thought him in any danger, I would have made it a principle to have had a regard to his person myself. Will you give me leave, ma’am, to have the honour