CHAPTER I. A ROUT.

THE day at length arrived of which the evening and the entrance of com⯑pany were, for the firſt time, as eagerly wiſhed by Cecilia as by her diſſi⯑pated hoſt and hoſteſs. No expence and no pains had been ſpared to render this long projected entertainment ſplendid and ele⯑gant; it was to begin with a concert, which was to be followed by a ball, and ſucceeded by a ſupper.

Cecilia, though unuſually anxious about her own affairs, was not ſo engroſſed by them as to behold with indifference a ſcene of ſuch unjuſtifiable extravagance; it con⯑tributed to render her thoughtful and uneaſy, [4] and to deprive her of all mental power of participating in the gaiety of the aſſembly. Mr. Arnott was yet more deeply affected by the mad folly of the ſcheme, and re⯑ceived from the whole evening no other ſa⯑tisfaction than that which a look of ſympa⯑thetic concern from Cecilia occaſionally af⯑forded him.

Till nine o'clock no company appeared, except Sir Robert Floyer, who ſtayed from dinner time, and Mr. Morrice, who having received an invitation for the evening, was ſo much delighted with the permiſſion to again enter the houſe, that he made uſe of it between ſix and ſeven o'clock, and before the family had left the dining parlour. He apologized with the utmoſt humility to Ce⯑cilia for the unfortunate accident at the Pantheon; but as to her it had been pro⯑ductive of nothing but pleaſure, by exciting in young Delvile the moſt flattering alarm for her ſafety, ſhe found no great difficulty in according him her pardon.

Among thoſe who came in the firſt crowd was Mr. Monckton, who, had he been equally unconſcious of ſiniſter views, would in following his own inclination, have been as early in his attendance as Mr. Morrice; but who, to obviate all ſuſpicious remarks, conformed to the faſhionable tardineſs of the times.

[5] Cecilia's chief apprehenſion for the even⯑ing was that Sir Robert Floyer would aſk her to dance with him, which ſhe could not refuſe without ſitting ſtill during the ball, nor accept, after the reports ſhe knew to be ſpread, without ſeeming to give a public ſanction to them. To Mr. Monckton therefore, innocently conſidering him as a married man and her old friend, ſhe frank⯑ly told her diſtreſs, adding, by way of ex⯑cuſe for the hint, that the partners were to be changed every two dances.

Mr. Monckton, though his principal ſtudy was carefully to avoid all public gal⯑lantry or aſſiduity towards Cecilia, had not the forbearance to reſiſt this intimation, and therefore ſhe had the pleaſure of telling Sir Robert, when he aſked the honour of her hand for the two firſt dances, that ſhe was already engaged.

She then expected that he would imme⯑diately ſecure her for the two following; but, to her great joy, he was ſo much piqued by the evident pleaſure with which ſhe an⯑nounced her engagement, that he proudly walked away without adding another word.

Much ſatisfied with this arrangement, and not without hopes that, if ſhe was at li⯑berty when he arrived, ſhe might be appli⯑ed to by young Delvile, ſhe now endea⯑voured [6] to procure herſelf a place in the muſic room.

This, with ſome difficulty, ſhe effected; but though there was an excellent concert, in which ſeveral capital performers played and ſung, ſhe found it impoſſible to hear a note, as ſhe chanced to be ſeated juſt by Miſs Leeſon, and two other young ladies, who were paying one another compliments upon their dreſs and their looks, ſettling to dance in the ſame cotillon, gueſſing who would begin the minuets, and wondering there were not more gentlemen. Yet, in the midſt of this unmeaning converſation, of which ſhe remarked that Miſs Leeſon bore the principal part, not one of them failed, from time to time, to exclaim with great rapture ‘"What ſweet muſic!—"’ ‘"Oh how charming!"’ ‘"Did you ever hear any thing ſo delightful?—"’

‘"Ah,"’ ſaid Cecilia to Mr. Goſport, who now approached her, ‘"but for your ex⯑planatory obſervations, how much would the ſudden loquacity of this ſupercilious lady, whom I had imagined all but dumb, have perplext me!"’

‘"Thoſe who are moſt ſilent to ſtran⯑gers,"’ anſwered Mr. Goſport, ‘"commonly talk moſt fluently to their intimates, for they are deeply in arrears, and eager to pay off their debts. Miſs Leeſon now is in her [7] proper ſet, and therefore appears in her natural character: and the poor girl's joy in being able to utter all the nothings ſhe has painfully hoarded while ſeparated from her coterie, gives to her now the wild tranſ⯑port of a bird juſt let looſe from a cage. I rejoice to ſee the little creature at liberty, for what can be ſo melancholy as a forced appearance of thinking, where there are no materials for ſuch an occupation?"’

Soon after, Miſs Larolles, who was laughing immoderately, contrived to crowd herſelf into their party, calling out to them, ‘"O you have had the greateſt loſs in the world! if you had but been in the next room juſt now!—there's the drolleſt figure there you can conceive: enough to frighten one to look at him."’ And preſently ſhe added ‘"O Lord, if you ſtoop a little this way, you may ſee him!"’

Then followed a general tittering, accom⯑panied with exclamations of ‘"Lord, what a fright!"’ ‘"It's enough to kill one with laughing to look at him!"’ ‘"Did you ever ſee ſuch a horrid creature in your life?"’ And ſoon after, one of them ſcreamed out ‘"O Lord, ſee!—he's grinning at Miſs Beverley!"’

Cecilia then turned her head towards the door, and there, to her own as well as her [8] neighbours amazement, ſhe perceived Mr. Briggs! who, in order to look about him at his eaſe, was ſtanding upon a chair, from which, having ſingled her out, he was re⯑garding her with a facetious ſmirk, which, when it caught her eye, was converted into a familiar nod.

She returned his ſalutation, but was not much charmed to obſerve, that preſently deſcending from his exalted poſt, which had moved the wonder and riſibility of all the company, he made a motion to approach her; for which purpoſe, regardleſs of either ladies or gentlemen in his way, he ſturdily puſhed forward, with the ſame unconcerned hardineſs he would have forced himſelf through a crowd in the ſtreet; and taking not the ſmalleſt notice of their frowns, ſup⯑plications that he would ſtand ſtill, and ex⯑clamations of ‘"Pray, Sir!"—’ ‘"Lord, how troubleſome!"’ and ‘"Sir, I do aſſure you here's no room!"’ he fairly and adroitly el⯑bowed them from him till he reached her ſeat: and then, with a waggiſh grin, he looked round, to ſhew he had got the bet⯑ter, and to ſee whom he had diſcompoſed.

When he had enjoyed this triumph, he turned to Cecilia, and chucking her under the chin, ſaid ‘"Well, my little duck, how goes it? got to you at laſt; ſqueezed my way; would not be nicked; warrant I'll [9] mob with the beſt of them! Look here! all in a heat!—hot as the dog-days."’

And then, to the utter conſternation of the company, he took off his wig to wipe his head! which occaſioned ſuch univerſal horrour, that all who were near the door eſcaped into other apartments, while thoſe who were too much encloſed for flight, with one accord turned away their heads.

Captain Areſby, being applied to by ſome of the ladies to remonſtrate upon this unexampled behaviour, advanced to him, and ſaid, ‘"I am quite abimé, Sir, to incom⯑mode you, but the commands of the ladies are inſuperable. Give me leave, Sir, to en⯑treat that you would put on your wig."’

‘"My wig?"’ cried he, ‘"ay, ay, ſhall in a moment, only want to wipe my head firſt."’

‘"I am quite aſſommé, Sir,"’ returned the Captain, ‘"to diſturb you, but I muſt really hint you don't comprehend me: the ladies are extremely inconvenienced by theſe ſort of ſights, and we make it a principle they ſhould never be accablées with them."’

‘"Anan!"’ cried Mr. Briggs, ſtaring.

‘"I ſay, Sir,"’ replied the Captain, ‘"the ladies are quite au deſeſpoir that you will not cover your head."’

‘"What for?"’ cried he, ‘"what's the matter with my head? ne'er a man here got [10] a better! very good ſtuff in it: won't change it with ne'er a one of you!"’

And then, half unconſcious of the offence he had given, and half angry at the rebuke he had received, he leiſurely compleated his deſign, and again put on his wig, ſettling it to his face with as much compoſure as if he had performed the operation in his own dreſſing-room.

The Captain, having gained his point, walked away, making, however, various grimaces of diſguſt, and whiſpering from ſide to ſide ‘"he's the moſt petrifying fel⯑low I ever was obſedé by!"’

Mr. Briggs then, with much deriſion, and ſundry diſtortions of countenance, liſtened to an Italian ſong; after which, he buſtled back to the outer apartment, in ſearch of Cecilia, who, aſhamed of ſeeming a party in the diſturbance he had excited, had taken the opportunity of his diſpute with the Captain, to run into the next room; where, however, he preſently found her, while ſhe was giving an account to Mr. Goſport of her connexion with him, to which Morrice, ever curious and eager to know what was going forward, was alſo liſtening.

‘"Ah, little chick!"’ cried he, ‘"got to you again! ſoon out-joſtle thoſe jemmy ſparks! But where's the ſupper? ſee no⯑thing [11] of the ſupper! Time to go to bed,—ſuppoſe there is none; all a take-in; no⯑thing but a little piping."’

‘"Supper, Sir?"’ cried Cecilia; ‘"the Concert is not over yet. Was ſupper men⯑tioned in your card of invitation?"’

‘"Ay, to be ſure, ſhould not have come elſe. Don't viſit often; always coſts mo⯑ney. Wiſh I had not come now; wore a hole in my ſhoe; hardly a crack in it be⯑fore."’

‘"Why you did not walk, Sir?"’

‘"Did, did; why not? Might as well have ſtayed away though; daubed my beſt coat, like to have ſpoilt it."’

‘"So much the better for the taylors, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, pertly, ‘"for then you muſt have another."’

‘"Another! what for? ha'n't had this ſeven years; juſt as good as new."’

‘"I hope,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"you had not another fall?"’

‘"Worſe, worſe; like to have loſt my bundle."’

‘"What bundle, Sir?"’

‘"Beſt coat and waiſtcoat; brought 'em in my handkerchief, purpoſe to ſave them. When will Maſter Harrel do as much?"’

‘"But had you no apprehenſions, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport drily, ‘"that the handker⯑chief [12] would be the ſooner worn out for hav⯑ing a knot tied in it?"’

‘"Took care of that, tied it ſlack. Met an unlucky boy; little dog gave it a pluck; knot ſlipt; coat and waiſtcoat popt out."’

‘"But what became of the boy, Sir?"’ cried Morrice, ‘"I hope he got off?"’

‘"Could not run for laughing; caught him in a minute; gave him ſomething to laugh for; drubbed him ſoundly."’

‘"O poor fellow!"’ cried Morrice with a loud hallow, ‘"I am really ſorry for him. But pray, Sir, what became of your beſt coat and waiſtcoat while you gave him this drubbing? did you leave them in the dirt?"’

‘"No, Mr. Nincompoop,"’ anſwered Briggs angrily, ‘"I put them on a ſtall."’

‘"That was a perilous expedient, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, ‘"and I ſhould fear might be attended with ill conſequences, for the owner of the ſtall would be apt to expect ſome little douçeur. How did you manage, Sir?"’

‘"Bought a halfpenny worth of apples. Serve for ſupper to-morrow night."’

‘"But how, Sir, did you get your cloaths dried, or cleaned?"’

‘"Went to an alehouſe; coſt me half a pint."’

‘"And pray, Sir,"’ cried Morrice, ‘"where, at laſt, did you make your toilette?"’

[13] ‘"Sha'n't tell, ſha'n't tell; aſk no more queſtions. What ſignifies where a man ſlips on a coat and waiſtcoat?"’

‘"Why, Sir, this will prove an expenſive expedition to you,"’ ſaid Mr. Goſport, very gravely; ‘"Have you caſt up what it may coſt you?"’

‘"More than it's worth, more than it's worth,"’ anſwered he pettiſhly; ‘"ha'n't laid out ſo much in pleaſure theſe five years."’

‘"Ha! ha!"’ cried Morrice, hallowing aloud, ‘why it can't be more than ſixpence in all!"’

‘"Sixpence?"’ repeated he ſcornfully, ‘"if you don't know the value of ſixpence, you'll never be worth fivepence three farthings. How do think got rich, hay?—by wearing fine coats, and frizzling my pate? No, no; Maſter Harrel for that! aſk him if he'll caſt an account with me!—never knew a man worth a penny with ſuch a coat as that on."’

Morrice again laughed, and again Mr. Briggs reproved him; and Cecilia, taking advantage of the ſquabble, ſtole back to the muſic-room.

Here, in a few minutes, Mrs. Panton, a lady who frequently viſited at the houſe, approached Cecilia, followed by a gentle⯑man, whom ſhe had never before ſeen, but [14] who was ſo evidently charmed with her, that he had looked at no other object ſince his entrance into the houſe.

Mrs. Panton, preſenting him to her by the name of Mr. Marriot, told her he had begged her interceſſion for the honour of her hand in the two firſt dances: and the mo⯑ment ſhe anſwered that ſhe was already en⯑gaged, the ſame requeſt was made for the two following. Cecilia had then no excuſe, and was therefore obliged to accept him.

The hope ſhe had entertained in the early part of the evening, was already almoſt wholly extinguiſhed; Delvile appeared not! though her eye watched the entrance of every new viſitor, and her vexation made her believe that he alone, of all the town, was abſent.

When the Concert was over, the com⯑pany joined promiſcuouſly for chat and re⯑freſhments before the ball; and Mr. Goſ⯑port advanced to Cecilia, to relate a ridicu⯑lous diſpute which had juſt paſſed between Mr. Briggs and Morrice.

‘"You, Mr. Goſport,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"who ſeem to make the minutiae of abſurd characters your ſtudy, can explain to me, perhaps, why Mr. Briggs ſeems to have as much pleaſure in proclaiming his meanneſs, as in boaſting his wealth?"’

‘"Becauſe,"’ anſwered Mr. Goſport, ‘"he [15] knows them, in his own affairs, to be ſo nearly allied, that but for practiſing the one, he had never poſſeſſed the other; ignorant, therefore, of all diſcrimination,—except, indeed, of pounds, ſhillings and pence!—he ſuppoſes them neceſſarily inſeparable, becauſe with him they were united. What you, however, call meanneſs, he thinks wiſ⯑dom, and recollects, therefore, not with ſhame but with triumph, the various little arts and ſubterfuges by which his coffers have been filled."’

Here Lord Ernolf, concluding Cecilia ſtill diſengaged from ſeeing her only diſ⯑courſe with Mr. Goſport and Mr. Monck⯑ton, one of whom was old enough to be her father, and the other was a married man, ad⯑vanced, and preſenting to her Lord Der⯑ford, his ſon, a youth not yet of age, ſoli⯑cited for him the honour of her hand as his partner.

Cecilia, having a double excuſe, eaſily declined this propoſal; Lord Ernolf, how⯑ever, was too earneſt to be repulſed, and told her he ſhould again try his intereſt when her two preſent engagements were ful⯑filled. Hopeleſs, now, of young Delvile, ſhe heard this intimation with indifference; and was accompanying Mr. Monckton into the ball-room, when Miſs Larolles, flying towards her with an air of infinite eagerneſs, [16] caught her hand, and ſaid in a whiſper ‘"pray let me wiſh you joy!"’

‘"Certainly!"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"but pray let me aſk you of what?"’

‘"O Lord, now,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"I am ſure you know what I mean; but you muſt know I have a prodigious monſtrous great favour to beg of you: now pray don't re⯑fuſe me; I aſſure you if you do, I ſhall be ſo mortified you've no notion."’

‘"Well, what is it?"’

‘"Nothing but to let me be one of your bride maids. I aſſure you I ſhall take it as the greateſt favour in the world."’

‘"My bride maid!"’ cried Cecilia; ‘"but do you not think the bridegroom himſelf will be rather offended to find a bridemaid appointed, before he is even thought of?"’

‘"O pray, now,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"don't be ill-natured, for if you are, you've no idea how I ſhall be diſappointed. Only conceive what happened to me three weeks ago! you muſt know I was invited to Miſs Clinton's wedding, and ſo I made up a new dreſs on purpoſe, in a very particular ſort of ſhape, quite of my own invention, and it had the ſweeteſt effect you can conceive; well, and when the time came, do you know her mo⯑ther happened to die! Never any thing was ſo exceſſive unlucky, for now ſhe won't be married this half year, and my dreſs will be [17] quite old and yellow; for its all white, and the moſt beautiful thing you ever ſaw in your life."’

‘"Upon my word you are very oblig⯑ing!"’ cried Cecilia laughing; ‘"and pray do you make intereſt regularly round with all your female acquaintance to be married upon this occaſion, or am I the only one you think this diſtreſs will work upon?"’

‘"Now how exceſſive teazing!"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"when you know ſo well what I mean, and when all the town knows as well as myſelf."’

Cecilia then ſeriouſly enquired whether ſhe had really any meaning at all.

‘"Lord yes,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"you know I mean about Sir Robert Floyer: for I'm told you've quite refuſed Lord Derford."’

‘"And are you alſo told that I have ac⯑cepted Sir Robert Floyer?"’

‘"O dear yes!—the jewels are bought, and the equipages are built; it's quite a ſettled thing, I know very well."’

Cecilia then very gravely began an at⯑tempt to undeceive her; but the dancing beginning alſo at the ſame time, ſhe ſtayed not to hear her, hurrying, with a beating heart, to the place of action. Mr. Monck⯑ton and his fair partner then followed, mu⯑tually exclaiming againſt Mr. Harrel's im⯑penetrable conduct; of which Cecilia, how⯑ever, [18] in a ſhort time ceaſed wholly to think, for as ſoon as the firſt cotillon was over, ſhe perceived young Delvile juſt walking into the room.

Surpriſe, pleaſure and confuſion aſſailed her all at once; ſhe had entirely given up her expectation of ſeeing him, and an ab⯑ſence ſo determined had led her to conclude he had purſuits which ought to make her join in wiſhing it lengthened; but now he appeared, that concluſion, with the fears that gave riſe to it, vaniſhed; and ſhe re⯑gretted nothing but the unfortunate ſucceſ⯑ſion of engagements which would prevent her dancing with him at all, and probably keep off all converſation with him till ſup⯑per time.

She ſoon, however, perceived a change in his air and behaviour that extremely aſtoniſhed her: he looked grave and thought⯑ful, ſaluted her at a diſtance, ſhewed no ſign of any intention to approach her, re⯑garded the dancing and dancers as a public ſpectacle in which he had no chance of per⯑ſonal intereſt, and ſeemed wholly altered, not merely with reſpect to her, but to him⯑ſelf, as his former eagerneſs for her ſociety was not more abated than her former gene⯑ral gaiety.

She had no time, however, for comments, as ſhe was preſently called to the ſecond co⯑tillon; [19] but the confuſed and unpleaſant ideas which, without waiting for time or reflection, crowded upon her imagination on obſerving his behaviour, were not more depreſſing to herſelf, than obvious to her partner; Mr. Monckton by the change in her countenance firſt perceived the entrance of young Delvile, and by her apparent emo⯑tion and uneaſineſs, readily penetrated into the ſtate of her mind; he was confirmed that her affections were engaged; he ſaw, too, that ſhe was doubtful with what re⯑turn.

The grief with which he made the firſt diſcovery, was ſomewhat leſſened by the hopes he conceived from the ſecond; yet the evening was to him as painful as to Cecilia, ſince he now knew that whatever proſperity might ultimately attend his addreſs and aſ⯑ſiduity, her heart was not her own to be⯑ſtow; and that even were he ſure of young Delvile's indifference, and actually at liberty to make propoſals for himſelf, the time of being firſt in her eſteem was at an end, and the long earned good opinion which he had hoped would have ripened into affection, might now be wholly undermined by the ſudden impreſſion of a lively ſtranger, with⯑out trouble to himſelf, and perhaps without pleaſure!

[20] Reflections ſuch as theſe wholly embit⯑tered the delight he had promiſed himſelf from dancing with her, and took from him all power to combat the anxiety with which ſhe was ſeized; when the ſecond cotillon, therefore, was over, inſtead of following her to a ſeat, or taking the privilege of his preſent ſituation to converſe with her, the jealouſy riſing in his breaſt robbed him of all ſatisfaction, and gave to him no other deſire than to judge its juſtice by watching her motions at a diſtance.

Mean while Cecilia, inattentive whether he accompanied or quitted her, proceeded to the firſt vacant ſeat. Young Delvile was ſtanding near it, and, in a ſhort time, but rather as if he could not avoid than as if he wiſhed it, he came to enquire how ſhe did.

The ſimpleſt queſtion, in the then ſitua⯑tion of her mind, was ſufficient to confuſe her, and though ſhe anſwered, ſhe hardly knew what he had aſked. A minute's re⯑collection, however, reſtored an apparent compoſure, and ſhe talked to him of Mrs. Delvile, with her uſual partial regard for that lady, and with an earneſt endeavour to ſeem unconſcious of any alteration in his behaviour.

Yet, to him, even this trifling and ge⯑neral converſation was evidently painful, [21] and he looked relieved by the approach of Sir Robert Floyer, who ſoon after joined them.

At this time a young lady who was ſitting by Cecilia, called to a ſervant who was paſ⯑ſing, for a glaſs of lemonade: Cecilia de⯑ſired he would bring her one alſo; but Delvile, not ſorry to break off the diſcourſe, ſaid he would himſelf be her cup-bearer, and for that purpoſe went away.

A moment after, the ſervant returned with ſome lemonade to Cecilia's neighbour, and Sir Robert, taking a glaſs from him, brought it to Cecilia at the very inſtant young Delvile came with another.

‘"I think I am before-hand with you, Sir,"’ ſaid the inſolent Baronet.

‘"No, Sir,"’ anſwered young Delvile, ‘"I think we were both in together: Miſs Be⯑verley, however, is ſteward of the race, and we muſt ſubmit to her deciſion."’

‘"Well, madam,"’ cried Sir Robert, ‘"here we ſtand, waiting your pleaſure. Which is to be the happy man!"’

‘"Each, I hope,"’ anſwered Cecilia, with admirable preſence of mind, ‘"ſince I ex⯑pect no leſs than that you will both do me the honour of drinking my health."’

This little contrivance, which ſaved her alike from ſhewing favour or giving offence, could not but be applauded by both par⯑ties: [22] and while they obeyed her orders, ſhe took a third glaſs herſelf from the ſervant.

While this was paſſing, Mr. Briggs, again perceiving her, ſtumpt haſtily towards her, calling out ‘"Ah ha! my duck! what's that? got ſomething nice? Come here, my lad, taſte it myſelf."’

He then took a glaſs, but having only put it to his mouth, made a wry face, and returned it, ſaying ‘"Bad! bad! poor punch indeed!—not a drop of rum in it!"’

‘"So much the better, Sir,"’ cried Mor⯑rice, who diverted himſelf by following him, ‘"for then you ſee the maſter of the houſe ſpares in ſomething, and you ſaid he ſpared in nothing."’

‘"Don't ſpare in fools!"’ returned Mr. Briggs, ‘"keeps them in plenty."’

‘"No, Sir, nor in any out of the way characters,"’ anſwered Morrice.

‘"So much the worſe,"’ cried Briggs, ‘"ſo much the worſe! Eat him out of houſe and home; won't leave him a rag to his back, nor a penny in his pocket. Never mind 'em, my little duck; mind none of your guardians but me: t'other two a'n't worth a ruſh."’

Cecilia, ſomewhat aſhamed of this ſpeech, looked towards young Delvile, in whom it occaſioned the firſt ſmile ſhe had ſeen that evening.

[23] ‘"Been looking about for you!"’ conti⯑nued Briggs, nodding ſagaciouſly; ‘"be⯑lieve I've found one will do. Gueſs what I mean;—100,000l.—hay?—what ſay to that? any thing better at the weſt end of the town?"’

‘"100,000l.!"’ cried Morrice, ‘"and pray, Sir, who may this be?"’

‘"Not you, Mr. jackanapes! ſure of that. An't quite poſitive he'll have you, neither. Think he will, though."’

‘"Pray, Sir, what age is he?"’ cried the never daunted Morrice.

‘"Why about—let's ſee—don't know, never heard,—what ſignifies?"’

‘"But, Sir, he's an old man, I ſuppoſe, by being ſo rich?"’

‘"Old? no, no ſuch thing; about my own ſtanding."’

‘"What, Sir, and do you propoſe him for an huſband to Miſs Beverley?"’

‘"Why not? know ever a one warmer? think Maſter Harrel will get her a better? or t'other old Don, in the grand ſquare?"’

‘"If you pleaſe, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia haſ⯑tily, ‘"we will talk of this matter another time."’

‘"No, pray,"’ cried young Delvile, who could not forbear laughing, ‘"let it be diſ⯑cuſſed now."’

‘"Hate 'em,"’ continued Mr. Briggs, [24] ‘"hate 'em both! one ſpending more than he's worth, cheated and over-reached by fools, running into gaol to pleaſe a parcel of knaves: t'other counting nothing but uncles and grandfathers, dealing out fine names inſtead of caſh, caſting up more cou⯑ſins than guineas—"’

Again Cecilia endeavoured to ſilence him, but, only chucking her under the chin, he went on, ‘"Ay, ay, my little duck, never mind 'em; one of 'em i'n't worth a penny, and t'other has nothing in his pockets but liſts of the defunct. What good will come of that? would not give twopence a dozen for 'em! A poor ſet of grandees, with no⯑thing but a tie-wig for their portions!"’

Cecilia, unable to bear this harangue in the preſence of young Delvile, who, how⯑ever, laughed it off with a very good grace, aroſe with an intention to retreat, which be⯑ing perceived by Sir Robert Floyer, who had attended to this dialogue with haughty contempt, he came forward, and ſaid ‘"now then, madam, may I have the honour of your hand?"’

‘"No, Sir,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"I am engaged."’

‘"Engaged again?"’ cried he, with the air of a man who thought himſelf much in⯑jured.

‘"Glad of it, glad of it!"’ ſaid Mr. [25] Brigg; ‘"ſerved very right! have nothing to ſay to him, my chick!"’

‘"Why not, Sir?"’ cried Sir Robert, with an imperious look.

‘"Sha'n't have her, ſha'n't have her! can tell you that; won't conſent; know you of old."’

‘"And what do you know of me, pray Sir?"’

‘"No good, no good; nothing to ſay to you; found fault with my noſe! ha'n't for⯑got it."’

At this moment Mr. Marriot came to claim his partner, who very willing to quit this ſcene of wrangling and vulgarity, im⯑mediately attended him.

Miſs Larolles, again flying up to her, ſaid ‘"O my dear, we are all expiring to know who that creature is! I never ſaw ſuch a horrid fright in my life!"’

Cecilia was beginning to ſatisfy her, but ſome more young ladies coming up to join in the requeſt, ſhe endeavoured to paſs on; ‘"O but,’ cried Miſs Larolles, detaining her, ‘do pray ſtop, for I've ſomething to tell you that's ſo monſtrous you've no idea. Do you know Mr. Meadows has not danced at all! and he's been ſtanding with Mr. Saw⯑yer, and looking on all the time, and whiſ⯑pering and laughing ſo you've no notion. However, I aſſure you, I'm exceſſive glad [26] he did not aſk me, for all I have been ſit⯑ting ſtill all this time, for I had a great deal rather ſit ſtill, I aſſure you: only I'm ſorry I put on this dreſs, for any thing would have done juſt to look on in that ſtupid manner."’

Here Mr. Meadows ſauntered towards them; and all the young ladies began play⯑ing with their fans, and turning their heads another way, to diſguiſe the expectations which his approach awakened; and Miſs Larolles, in a haſty whiſper to Cecilia, cri⯑ed, ‘"Pray don't take any notice of what I ſaid, for if he ſhould happen to aſk me, I can't well refuſe him, you know, for if I do, he'll be ſo exceſſive affronted you can't think."’

Mr. Meadows then, mixing in the little group, began, with ſundry grimaces, to ex⯑claim ‘"how intollerably hot it is! there's no ſuch thing as breathing. How can any body think of dancing! I am amazed Mr. Harrel has not a ventilator in this room. Don't you think it would be a great im⯑provement?"’

This ſpeech, though particularly addreſ⯑ſed to no one, received immediately an aſ⯑ſenting anſwer from all the young ladies.

Then, turning to Miſs Larolles, ‘"Don't you dance?"’ he ſaid.

‘"Me?"’ cried ſhe, embarraſſed, ‘"yes, I [27] believe ſo,—really I don't know,—I a'n't quite determined."’

‘"O, do dance!"’ cried he, ſtretching himſelf and yawning, ‘"it always gives me ſpirits to ſee you."’

Then, turning ſuddenly to Cecilia, with⯑out any previous ceremony of renewing his acquaintance, either by ſpeaking or bow⯑ing, he abruptly ſaid ‘"Do you love danc⯑ing, ma'am?"’

‘"Yes, Sir, extremely well."’

‘"I am very glad to hear it. You have one thing, then, to ſoften exiſtence."’

‘"Do you diſlike it yourſelf?"’

‘"What dancing? Oh dreadful! how it was ever adopted in a civilized country I cannot find out; 'tis certainly a Barbarian exerciſe, and of ſavage origin. Don't you think ſo, Miſs Larolles?"’

‘"Lord no,"’ cried Miſs Larolles, ‘"I aſſure you I like it better than any thing; I know nothing ſo delightful, I declare I dare ſay I could not live without it; I ſhould be ſo ſtupid you can't conceive."’

‘"Why I remember,"’ ſaid Mr. Marriot, ‘"when Mr. Meadows was always dancing himſelf. Have you forgot, Sir, when you uſed to wiſh the night would laſt for ever, that you might dance without ceaſing?"’

Mr. Meadows, who was now intently ſur⯑veying a painting that was over the chim⯑ney-piece, [28] ſeemed not to hear this queſtion, but preſently called out ‘"I am amazed Mr. Harrel can ſuffer ſuch a picture as this to be in his houſe. I hate a portrait, 'tis ſo wea⯑riſome looking at a thing that is doing no⯑thing!"’

‘"Do you like hiſtorical pictures, Sir, any better?"’

‘"O no, I deteſt them! views of battles, murders, and death! Shocking! ſhocking!—I ſhrink from them with horror!"’

‘"Perhaps you are fond of landſcapes?"’

‘"By no means! Green trees and fat cows! what do they tell one? I hate every thing that is inſipid."’

‘"Your toleration, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"will not be very extenſive."’

‘"No,"’ ſaid he, yawning, ‘"one can to⯑lerate nothing! one's patience is wholly ex⯑hauſted by the total tediouſneſs of every thing one ſees, and every body one talks with. Don't you find it ſo, ma'am?"’

‘"Sometimes!"’ ſaid Cecilia, rather archly.

‘"You are right, ma'am, extremely right; one does not know what in the world to do with one's ſelf. At home, one is killed with meditation, abroad, one is overpowered by ceremony; no poſſibility of finding eaſe or comfort. You never go into public, I think, ma'am?"’

‘"Why not to be much marked, I find!"’ ſaid Cecilia, laughing.

[29] ‘"O, I beg your pardon! I believe I ſaw you one evening at Almack's: I really beg your pardon, but I had quite forgot it."’

‘"Lord, Mr. Meadows,"’ ſaid Miſs La⯑rolles, ‘"don't you know you are meaning the Pantheon? only conceive how you forget things!"’

‘"The Pantheon, was it? I never know one of thoſe places from another. I heartily wiſh they were all aboliſhed; I hate public places. 'Tis terrible to be under the ſame roof with a ſet of people who would care no⯑thing if they ſaw one expiring!"’

‘"You are, at leaſt, then, fond of the ſociety of your friends?"’

‘"O no! to be worn out by ſeeing always the ſame faces!—one is ſick to death of friends; nothing makes one ſo melan⯑choly."’

Cecilia now went to join the dancers, and Mr. Meadows, turning to Miſs La⯑rolles, ſaid ‘"Pray don't let me keep you from dancing; I am afraid you'll loſe your place."’

‘"No,"’ cried ſhe, bridling, ‘"I ſha'n't dance at all."’

‘"How cruel!"’ cried he, yawning, ‘"when you know how it exhilarates me to ſee you! Don't you think this room is very cloſe? I muſt go and try another atmo⯑ſphere,[30] —But I hope you will relent, and dance?"’

And then, ſtretching his arms as if half aſleep, he ſauntered into the next room, where he flung himſelf upon a ſofa till the ball was over.

The new partner of Cecilia, who was a wealthy, but very ſimple young man, uſed his utmoſt efforts to entertain and oblige her, and, flattered by the warmth of his own deſire, he fancied that he ſucceeded; though, in a ſtate of ſuch ſuſpence and anxie⯑ty, a man of brighter talents had failed.

At the end of the two dances, Lord Er⯑nolf again attempted to engage her for his ſon, but ſhe now excuſed herſelf from danc⯑ing any more, and ſat quietly as a ſpecta⯑treſs till the reſt of the company gave over. Mr. Marriot, however, would not quit her, and ſhe was compelled to ſupport with him a trifling converſation, which, though irk⯑ſome to herſelf, to him, who had not ſeen her in her happier hour, was delightful.

She expected every inſtant to be again joined by young Delvile, but the expecta⯑tion was diſappointed; he came not; ſhe concluded he was in another apartment; the company was ſummoned to ſupper, ſhe then thought it impoſſible to miſs him; but, after waiting and looking for him in [31] vain, ſhe found he had already left the houſe.

The reſt of the evening ſhe ſcarce knew what paſſed, for ſhe attended to nothing; Mr. Monckton might watch, and Mr. Briggs might exhort her, Sir Robert might diſplay his inſolence, or Mr. Marriot his gallantry,—all was equally indifferent, and equally unheeded, and before half the com⯑pany left the houſe, ſhe retired to her own room.

She ſpent the night in the utmoſt diſtur⯑bance; the occurrences of the evening with reſpect to young Delvile ſhe looked upon as deciſive: if his abſence had chagrined her, his preſence had ſtill more ſhocked her, ſince, while ſhe was left to conjecture, though ſhe had fears ſhe had hopes, and though all ſhe ſaw was gloomy, all ſhe ex⯑pected was pleaſant; but they had now met, and thoſe expectations proved fallacious. She knew not, indeed, how to account for the ſtrangeneſs of his conduct; but in ſee⯑ing it was ſtrange, ſhe was convinced it was unfavourable: he had evidently avoided her while it was in his power, and when, at laſt, he was obliged to meet her, he was formal, diſtant, and reſerved.

The more ſhe recollected and dwelt upon the difference of his behaviour in their pre⯑ceding meeting, the more angry as well as [32] amazed ſhe became at the change, and tho' ſhe ſtill concluded the purſuit of ſome other object occaſioned it, ſhe could find no ex⯑cuſe for his fickleneſs if that purſuit was recent, nor for his caprice if it was ante⯑rior.

CHAP. II. A BROAD HINT.

THE next day Cecilia, to drive Delvile a little from her thoughts, which ſhe now no longer wiſhed him to occupy, again made a viſit to Miſs Belfield, whoſe ſociety afforded her more conſolation than any other ſhe could procure.

She found her employed in packing up, and preparing to remove to another lodg⯑ing, for her brother, ſhe ſaid, was ſo much better, that he did not think it right to continue in ſo diſgraceful a ſituation.

She talked with her accuſtomed openneſs of her affairs, and the intereſt which Cecilia involuntarily took in them, contributed to leſſen her vexation in thinking of her own. ‘"The generous friend of my brother,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"who, though but a new acquain⯑tance to him, has courted him in all his ſorrows, when every body elſe forſook him, has brought him at laſt into a better way of thinking. He ſays there is a gentleman whoſe ſon is ſoon going abroad, who he is almoſt ſure will like my brother vaſtly, and [34] in another week, he is to be introduced to him. And ſo, if my mother can but recon⯑cile herſelf to parting with him, perhaps we may all do well again."’

‘"Your mother,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"when he is gone, will better know the value of the bleſſing ſhe has left in her daughter."’

‘"O no, madam, no; ſhe is wrapt up in him, and cares nothing for all the world be⯑ſides. It was always ſo, and we have all of us been uſed to it. But we have had a ſad ſcene ſince you were ſo kind as to come laſt; for when ſhe told him what you had done, he was almoſt out of his ſenſes with anger that we had acquainted you with his diſ⯑treſs, and he ſaid it was publiſhing his mi⯑ſery, and undoing whatever his friend or himſelf could do, for it was making him aſhamed to appear in the world, even when his affairs might be better. But I told him again and again that you had as much ſweet⯑neſs as goodneſs, and inſtead of hurting his reputation, would do him nothing but cre⯑dit."’

‘"I am ſorry,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"Mrs. Bel⯑field mentioned the circumſtance at all; it would have been better, for many reaſons, that he ſhould not have heard of it."’

‘"She hoped it would pleaſe him,"’ an⯑ſwered Miſs Belfield, ‘"however, he made us both promiſe we would take no ſuch ſtep [35] in future, for he ſaid we were not reduced to ſo much indigence, whatever he was: and that as to our accepting money from other people, that we might ſave up our own for him, it would be anſwering no pur⯑poſe, for he ſhould think himſelf a monſter to make uſe of it."’

‘"And what ſaid your mother?"’

‘"Why ſhe gave him a great many pro⯑miſes that ſhe would never vex him about it again; and indeed, much as I know we are obliged to you, madam, and gratefully as I am ſure I would lay down my life to ſerve you, I am very glad in this caſe that my brother has found it out. For though I ſo much wiſh him to do ſomething for him⯑ſelf, and not to be ſo proud, and live in a manner he has no right to do, I think, for all that, that it is a great diſgrace to my poor father's honeſt memory, to have us turn beggars after his death, when he left us all ſo well provided for, if we had but known how to be ſatisfied."’

‘"There is a natural rectitude in your heart,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"that the ableſt ca⯑ſuiſts could not mend."’

She then enquired whither they were re⯑moving, and Miſs Belfield told her to Port⯑land-ſtreet, Oxford Road, where they were to have two apartments up two pair of ſtairs, and the uſe of a very good parlour, [36] in which her brother might ſee his friends. ‘"And this,"’ added ſhe, ‘"is a luxury for which nobody can blame him, becauſe if he has not the appearance of a decent home, no gentleman will employ him."’

The Padington houſe, ſhe ſaid, was al⯑ready let, and her mother was determined not to hire another, but ſtill to live as pe⯑nuriouſly as poſſible, in order, notwith⯑ſtanding his remonſtrances, to ſave all ſhe could of her income for her ſon.

Here the converſation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Belfield, who very fa⯑miliarily ſaid ſhe came to tell Cecilia they were all in the wrong box in letting her ſon know of the 10l. Bank note, ‘"for,"’ con⯑tinued ſhe, ‘"he has a pride that would grace a duke, and he thinks nothing of his hardſhips, ſo long as nobody knows of them. So another time we muſt manage things better, and when we do him any good, not let him know a word of the matter. We'll ſettle it all among ourſelves, and one day or other he'll be glad enough to thank us."’

Cecilia, who ſaw Miſs Belfield colour with ſhame at the freedom of this hint, now aroſe to depart: but Mrs. Belfield begged her not to go ſo ſoon, and preſſed her with ſuch urgency to again ſit down, that ſhe was ob⯑liged to comply.

She then began a warm commendation [37] of her ſon, laviſhly praiſing all his good qualities, and exalting even his defects, concluding with ſaying ‘"But, ma'am, for all he's ſuch a complete gentleman, and for all he's made ſo much of, he was ſo dif⯑fident, I could not get him to call and thank you for the preſent you made him, though, when he went his laſt airing, I almoſt knelt to him to do it. But, with all his merit, he wants as much encouragement as a lady, for I can tell you it is not a little will do for him."’

Cecilia, amazed at this extraordinary ſpeech, looked from the mother to the daughter in order to diſcover it's meaning, which, however, was ſoon rendered plainer by what followed.

‘"But pray now, ma'am, don't think him the more ungrateful for his ſhyneſs, for young ladies ſo high in the world as you are, muſt go pretty good lengths before a young man will get courage to ſpeak to them. And though I have told my ſon over and over that the ladies never like a man the worſe for being a little bold, he's ſo much down in the mouth that it has no effect upon him. But it all comes of his being brought up at the univerſity, for that makes him think he knows better than I can tell him. And ſo, to be ſure, he does. However, for all that, it is a hard thing [38] upon a mother to find all ſhe ſays goes juſt for nothing. But I hope you'll excuſe him, ma'am, for it's nothing in the world but his over-modeſty."’

Cecilia now ſtared with a look of ſo much aſtoniſhment and diſpleaſure, that Mrs. Belfield, ſuſpecting ſhe had gone rather too far, added ‘"I beg you won't take what I've ſaid amiſs, ma'am, for we mothers of fami⯑lies are more uſed to ſpeak out than maiden ladies. And I ſhould not have ſaid ſo much, but only I was afraid you would miſcon⯑ſtrue my ſon's backwardneſs, and ſo that he might be flung out of your favour at laſt, and all for nothing but having too much reſpect for you."’

‘"O dear mother!"’ cried Miſs Belfield, whoſe face was the colour of ſcarlet, ‘"pray!"—’

‘"What's the matter now?"’ cried Mrs. Belfield; ‘"you are as ſhy as your brother; and if we are all to be ſo, when are we to come to an underſtanding?"’

‘"Not immediately, I believe indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, riſing, ‘"but that we may not plunge deeper in our miſtakes, I will for the preſent take my leave."’

‘"No, ma'am,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ſtop⯑ping her, ‘"pray don't go yet, for I've got a great many things I want to talk to you about. In the firſt place, ma'am, pray what [39] is your opinion of this ſcheme for ſending my ſon abroad into foreign parts? I don't know what you may think of it, but as to me, it half drives me out of my ſenſes to have him taken away from me at laſt in that unnatural manner. And I'm ſure, ma'am, if you would only put in a word againſt it, I dare ſay he would give it up without a demur."’

‘"Me?"’ cried Cecilia, diſengaging her⯑ſelf from her hold, ‘"No, madam, you muſt apply to thoſe friends who better under⯑ſtand his affairs, and who would have a deeper intereſt in detaining him."’

‘"Lack a day!"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, with ſcarcely ſmothered vexation, ‘"how hard it is to make theſe grand young ladies come to reaſon! As to my ſon's other friends, what good will it do for him to mind what they ſay? who can expect him to give up his journey, without knowing what amends he ſhall get for it?"’

‘"You muſt ſettle this matter with him at your leiſure,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I cannot now ſtay another moment."’

Mrs. Belfield, again finding ſhe had been too precipitate, tried to draw back, ſaying ‘"Pray, ma'am, don't let what I have men⯑tioned go againſt my ſon in your good opi⯑nion, for he knows no more of it than the furtheſt perſon in the world, as my daugh⯑ter [40] can teſtify: for as to ſhyneſs, he's juſt as ſhy as a lady himſelf; ſo what good he ever got at the Univerſity, as to the matter of making his fortune, it's what I never could diſcover. However, I dare ſay he knows beſt; though when all comes to all, if I was to ſpeak my mind, I think he's made but a poor hand of it."’

Cecilia, who only through compaſſion to the bluſhing Henrietta forbore repreſſing this forwardneſs more ſeriouſly, merely an⯑ſwered Mrs. Belfield by wiſhing her good morning: but, while ſhe was taking a kind⯑er leave of her timid daughter, the mother added ‘"As to the preſent, ma'am, you was ſo kind to make us, Henny can witneſs for me every penny of it ſhall go to my ſon."’

‘"I rather meant it,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"for your daughter; but if it is of uſe to any body, my purpoſe is ſufficiently anſwered."’

Mrs. Belfield again preſſed her to ſit down, but ſhe would not again liſten to her, coldly ſaying ‘"I am ſorry you trou⯑bled Mr. Belfield with any mention of what paſſed between his ſiſter and me, but ſhould you ſpeak of it again, I beg you will ex⯑plain to him that he had no concern in that little tranſaction, which belonged wholly to ourſelves."’

She then haſtened down ſtairs, followed, however, by Mrs. Belfield, making awk⯑ward [41] excuſes for what ſhe had ſaid, inter⯑mixed with frequent hints that ſhe knew all the time ſhe was in the right.

This little incident, which convinced Ce⯑cilia Mrs. Belfield was firmly perſuaded ſhe was in love with her ſon, gave her much uneaſineſs; ſhe feared the ſon himſelf might entertain the ſame notion, and thought it moſt probable the daughter alſo had imbib⯑ed it, though but for the forward vulgarity of the ſanguine mother, their opinions might long have remained concealed. Her bene⯑volence towards them, notwithſtanding its purity, muſt now therefore ceaſe to be ex⯑erted: nor could ſhe even viſit Miſs Bel⯑field, ſince prudence, and a regard for her own character, ſeemed immediately to pro⯑hibit all commerce with the family.

‘"And thus difficult,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"is the blameleſs uſe of riches, though all who want them, think nothing ſo eaſy as their diſpoſal! This family I have ſo much wiſh⯑ed to ſerve, I may at laſt only have injured, ſince the diſappointment of their higher ex⯑pectations, may render all ſmaller benefits contemptible. And thus this unfortunate miſconſtruction of my good offices, robs them of a uſeful aſſiſtant, and deprives me at the ſame time of an amiable companion."’

As ſoon as ſhe returned home, ſhe had a letter put into her hand which came from [42] Mr. Marriot, whoſe ſervant had twice cal⯑led for an anſwer in the ſhort time ſhe had been abſent.

This letter contained a moſt paſſionate avowal of the impreſſion ſhe had made on his heart the preceding evening, and an angry complaint that Mr. Harrel had re⯑fuſed to hear his propoſals. He entreated her permiſſion to wait upon her for only five minutes, and concluded with the moſt fervent profeſſions of reſpect and admira⯑tion.

The precipitancy of this declaration ſerv⯑ed merely to confirm the opinion ſhe had al⯑ready conceived of the weakneſs of his un⯑derſtanding: but the obſtinacy of Mr. Har⯑rel irritated and diſtreſſed her, though weary of expoſtulating with ſo hopeleſs a ſubject, whom neither reaſon nor gratitude could turn from his own purpoſes, ſhe was oblig⯑ed to ſubmit to his management, and was well content, in the preſent inſtance, to affirm his decree. She therefore wrote a conciſe anſwer to her new admirer, in the uſual form of civil rejection.

CHAP. III. AN ACCOMMODATION.

CECILIA was informed the next morning that a young woman begged to ſpeak with her, and upon ſending for her up ſtairs, ſhe ſaw, to her great ſurpriſe, Miſs Belfield.

She came in fear and trembling, ſent, ſhe ſaid, by her mother, to entreat her pardon for what had paſſed the preceding day; ‘"But I know, madam,"’ ſhe added, ‘"you cannot pardon it, and therefore all that I mean to do is to clear my brother from any ſhare in what was ſaid, for indeed he has too much ſenſe to harbour any ſuch preſump⯑tion; and to thank you with a moſt grateful heart for all the goodneſs you have ſhewn us."’

And then, modeſtly courtſying, ſhe would have returned home; but Cecilia, much touched by her gentleneſs, took her hand, and kindly reviving her by aſſurances of eſteem, entreated that ſhe would lengthen her ſtay.

‘"How good is this, madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"after having ſo much reaſon to think ſo ill of me and of all of us! I tried all in my [44] power to undeceive my mother, or at leaſt to keep her quiet; but ſhe was ſo much perſuaded ſhe was right, that ſhe never would liſten to me, and always ſaid, did I ſuppoſe it was for me you condeſcended to come ſo often?"’

‘"Yes,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"moſt un⯑doubtedly; had I not known you, how⯑ever well I might have wiſhed your brother, I ſhould certainly not have viſited at his houſe. But I am very happy to hear the miſtake had ſpread no further."’

‘"No indeed, madam, I never once thought of it; and as to my brother, when my mother only hinted it to him, he was quite angry. But though I don't mean to vindicate what has happened, you will not, I hope, be diſpleaſed if I ſay my mother is much more pardonable than ſhe ſeems to be, for the ſame miſtake ſhe made with you, ſhe would have been as apt to have made with a princeſs; it was not, therefore, from any want of reſpect, but merely from thinking my brother might marry as high as he pleaſed, and believing no lady would refuſe him, if he would but have the courage to ſpeak."’

Cecilia aſſured her ſhe would think no more of the error, but told her that to avoid its renewal, ſhe muſt decline calling upon her again till her brother was gone. She begged therefore to ſee her in Portman-ſquare [45] whenever ſhe had leiſure, repeatedly aſſuring her of her good opinion and regard, and of the pleaſure with which ſhe ſhould ſeize every opportunity of ſhewing them.

Delighted by a reception ſo kind, Miſs Belfield remained with her all the morning; and when at laſt ſhe was obliged to leave her, ſhe was but too happy in being ſoli⯑cited to repeat her viſit.

She ſuffered one day only to elapſe be⯑fore ſhe ſhewed her readineſs to accept the friendſhip that was offered her; and Ceci⯑lia, much pleaſed by this eagerneſs, redoub⯑led her efforts to oblige and to ſerve her.

From this time, hardly a day paſſed in which ſhe did not call in Portman-ſquare, where nothing in her reception was omitted that could contribute to her contentment. Cecilia was glad to employ her mind in any way that related not to Delvile, whom ſhe now earneſtly endeavoured to think of no more, denying herſelf even the pleaſure of talking of him with Miſs Belfield, by the name of her brother's noble friend.

During this time ſhe deviſed various me⯑thods, all too delicate to give even the ſha⯑dow of offence, for making both uſeful and ornamental preſents to her new favourite, with whom ſhe grew daily more ſatisfied, and to whom ſhe purpoſed hereafter offering a reſidence in her own houſe.

[46] The trial of intimacy, ſo difficult to the ableſt to ſtand, and from which even the moſt faultleſs are ſo rarely acquitted, Miſs Belfield ſuſtained with honour. Cecilia found her artleſs, ingenuous, and affection⯑ate; her underſtanding was good, though no pains had been taken to improve it; her diſpoſition though ardent was ſoft, and her mind ſeemed informed by intuitive inte⯑grity.

She communicated to Cecilia all the af⯑fairs of her family, diſguiſing from her nei⯑ther diſtreſs nor meanneſs, and ſeeking to palliate nothing but the groſſer parts of the character of her mother. She ſeemed equal⯑ly ready to make known to her even the moſt choſen ſecrets of her own boſom, for that ſuch ſhe had was evident, from a fre⯑quent appearance of abſence and uneaſineſs which ſhe took but little trouble to conceal. Cecilia, however, truſted not herſelf, in the preſent critical ſituation of her own mind, with any enquiries that might lead to a ſub⯑ject ſhe was conſcious ſhe ought not to dwell upon: a ſhort time, ſhe hoped, would to⯑tally remove her ſuſpence; but as ſhe had much leſs reaſon to expect good than evil, ſhe made it her immediate ſtudy to prepare for the worſt, and therefore carefully avoid⯑ed all diſcourſe that by nouriſhing her ten⯑derneſs, might weaken her reſolution.

[47] While thus, in friendly converſation and virtuous forbearance, paſſed gravely, but not unhappily, the time of Cecilia, the reſt of the houſe was very differently employed: feaſting, revelling, amuſements of all ſorts were purſued with more eagerneſs than ever, and the alarm which ſo lately threatened their deſtruction, ſeemed now merely to heighten the avidity with which they were ſought. Yet never was the diſunion of happineſs and diverſion more ſtriking and obvious; Mr. Harrel, in ſpite of his natu⯑ral levity, was ſeized from time to time with fits of horror that embittered his gayeſt mo⯑ments, and caſt a cloud upon all his enjoy⯑ments. Always an enemy to ſolitude, he now found it wholly inſupportable, and ran into company of any ſort, leſs from a hope of finding entertainment, than from a dread of ſpending half an hour by himſelf.

Cecilia, who ſaw that his rapacity for pleaſure encreaſed with his uneaſineſs, once more ventured to ſpeak with his lady upon the ſubject of reformation; counſelling her to take advantage of his preſent apparent diſcontent, which ſhewed at leaſt ſome ſen⯑ſibility of his ſituation, in order to point out to him the neceſſity of an immediate inſpection into his affairs, which, with a to⯑tal change in his way of life, was her only [48] chance for ſnatching him from the diſmal deſpondency into which he was ſinking.

Mrs. Harrel declared herſelf unequal to following this advice, and ſaid that her whole ſtudy was to find Mr. Harrel amuſe⯑ment, for he was grown ſo ill-humoured and petulant ſhe quite feared being alone with him.

The houſe therefore now was more crowd⯑ed than ever, and nothing but diſſipation was thought of. Among thoſe who upon this plan were courted to it, the foremoſt was Mr. Morrice, who, from a peculiar ta⯑lent of uniting ſervility of conduct with gaiety of ſpeech, made himſelf at once ſo agreeable and uſeful in the family, that in a ſhort time they fancied it impoſſible to live without him. And Morrice, though his firſt view in obtaining admittance had been the cultivation of his acquaintance with Cecilia, was perfectly ſatisfied with the turn that matters had taken, ſince his utmoſt vanity had never led him to entertain any matrimonial hopes with her, and he thought his fortune as likely to profit from the ci⯑vility of her friends as of herſelf. For Morrice, however flighty and wild, had al⯑ways at heart the ſtudy of his own intereſt; and though from a giddy forwardneſs of diſpoſition he often gave offence, his mean⯑ing [49] and his ſerious attention was not the leſs directed to the advancement of his own affairs: he formed no connection from which he hoped not ſome benefit, and he conſider⯑ed the acquaintance and friendſhip of his ſuperiors in no other light than that of pro⯑curing him ſooner or later recommendations to new clients.

Sir Robert Floyer alſo was more frequent than ever in his viſits, and Mr. Harrel, notwithſtanding the remonſtrances of Ceci⯑lia, contrived every poſſible opportunity of giving him acceſs to her. Mrs. Harrel herſelf, though hitherto neutral, now plead⯑ed his cauſe with earneſtneſs; and Mr. Ar⯑nott, who had been her former refuge from this perſecution, grew ſo ſerious and ſo ten⯑der in his devoirs, that unable any longer to doubt the ſentiments ſhe had inſpired, ſhe was compelled even with him to be guard⯑ed and diſtant.

She now with daily concern looked back to the ſacrifice ſhe had made to the worth⯑leſs and ungrateful Mr. Harrel, and was ſometimes tempted to immediately chuſe another guardian, and leave his houſe for ever: yet the delicacy of her diſpoſition was averſe to any ſtep that might publicly expoſe him, and her early regard for his wife would not ſuffer her to put it in execution.

Theſe circumſtances contributed ſtrongly [50] to encreaſe her intimacy with Miſs Belfield; ſhe now never ſaw Mrs. Delvile, whom alone ſhe preferred to her, and from the trouble⯑ſome aſſiduity of Sir Robert, ſcarce ever met Mr. Monckton but in his preſence: ſhe found, therefore, no reſource againſt teazing and vexation, but what was afforded her by the converſation of the amiable Henrietta.

CHAP. IV. A DETECTION.

A Fortnight had now elapſed in which Cecilia had had no ſort of communica⯑tion with the Delviles, whom equally from pride and from prudence ſhe forbore to ſeek herſelf, when one morning, while ſhe was ſitting with Miſs Belfield, her maid told her that young Mr. Delvile was in the drawing⯑room, and begged the honour of ſeeing her for a few moments.

Cecilia, though ſhe ſtarted and changed colour with ſurprize at this meſſage, was unconſcious ſhe did either, from the yet greater ſurprize ſhe received by the beha⯑viour of Miſs Belfield, who haſtily ariſing, exclaimed ‘"Good God, Mr. Delvile!—do you know Mr. Delvile, madam?—does Mr. Delvile viſit at this houſe?"’

‘"Sometimes; not often,"’ anſwered Ce⯑cilia; ‘"but why?"’

‘"I don't know,—nothing, madam,—I only aſked by accident, I believe,—but it's very—it's extremely—I did not know—"’ and colouring violently, ſhe again ſat down.

[52] An apprehenſion the moſt painful now took poſſeſſion of Cecilia, and abſorbed in thought, ſhe continued for ſome minutes ſilent and immovable.

From this ſtate ſhe was awakened by her maid, who aſked if ſhe choſe to have her gloves.

Cecilia, taking them from her without ſpeaking, left the room, and not daring to ſtop for enquiry or conſideration, haſtened down ſtairs; but when ſhe entered the apartment where young Delvile was waiting for her, all utterance ſeemed denied her, and ſhe courtſied without ſaying a word.

Struck with the look and uncommon manner of her entrance, he became in a mo⯑ment as much diſturbed as herſelf, pouring forth a thouſand unneceſſary and embarraſ⯑ſed apologies for his viſit, and ſo totally forgetting even the reaſon why he made it, that he had taken his leave and was depart⯑ing before he recollected it. He then turn⯑ed back, forcing a laugh at his own abſence of mind, and told her he had only called to acquaint her, that the commands with which ſhe had honoured him were now obeyed, and, he hoped, to her ſatisfaction.

Cecilia, who knew not ſhe had ever given him any, waited his further explanation; and he then informed her he had that very morning introduced Mr. Belfield to the Earl [53] of Vannelt, who had already heard him very advantageouſly ſpoken of by ſome gentle⯑men to whom he had been known at the Univerſity, and who was ſo much pleaſed with him upon this firſt interview, that he meant, after a few enquiries, which could not but turn out to his credit, to commit his eldeſt ſon to his truſt in making the tour of Europe.

Cecilia thanked him for her ſhare in the trouble he had taken in this tranſaction; and then aſked if Mrs. Delvile continued well.

‘"Yes,"’ anſwered he, with a ſmile half reproachful, ‘"as well as one who having ever hoped your favour, can eaſily be after finding that hope diſappointed. But much as ſhe has taught her ſon, there is one leſſon ſhe might perhaps learn from him;—to fly, not ſeek, thoſe dangerous indulgen⯑ces of which the deprivation is the loſs of peace!"’

He then bowed, and made his exit.

This unexpected reproof, and the yet more unexpected compliment that accompanied it, in both which more ſeemed meant than met the ear, encreaſed the perturbation into which Cecilia had already been thrown. It occurred to her that under the ſanction of his mother's name, he had taken an opportu⯑nity of making an apology for his own [54] conduct; yet why avoiding her ſociety, if to that he alluded, ſhould be flying a dange⯑rous indulgence, ſhe could not underſtand, ſince he had ſo little reaſon to fear any re⯑pulſe in continuing to ſeek it.

Sorry, however, for the abrupt manner in which ſhe had left Miſs Belfield, ſhe loſt not a moment in haſtening back to her; but when ſhe came into the room, ſhe found her employed in looking out of the window, her eye following ſome object with ſuch ear⯑neſtneſs of attention, that ſhe perceived not her return.

Cecilia, who could not doubt the motive of her curioſity, had no great difficulty in forbearing to offer her any interruption. She drew her head back in a few minutes, and caſting it upwards, with her hands claſped, ſoftly whiſpered, ‘"Heaven ever ſhield and bleſs him! and O may he never feel ſuch pain as I do!"’

She then again looked out, but ſoon drawing herſelf in, ſaid, in the ſame ſoft ac⯑cents, ‘"Oh why art thou gone! ſweeteſt and nobleſt of men! why might I not ſee thee longer, when, under heaven, there is no other bleſſing I wiſh for!"’

A ſigh which at theſe words eſcaped Ce⯑cilia made her ſtart and turn towards the door; the deepeſt bluſhes overſpread the cheeks of both as their eyes met each other, [55] and while Miſs Belfield trembled in every limb at the diſcovery ſhe had made, Ceci⯑lia herſelf was hardly able to ſtand.

A painful and moſt embarraſſed ſilence ſucceeded, which was only broken by Miſs Belfield's burſting into tears.

Cecilia, extremely moved, forgot for a moment her own intereſt in what was paſ⯑ſing, and tenderly approaching, embraced her with the utmoſt kindneſs: but ſtill ſhe ſpoke not, fearing to make any enquiry, from dreading to hear any explanation.

Miſs Belfield, ſoothed by her ſoftneſs, clung about her, and hiding her face in her arms, ſobbed out ‘"Ah madam! who ought to be unhappy if befriended by you! if I could help it, I would love nobody elſe in almoſt the whole world. But you muſt let me leave you now, and to-morrow I will tell you every thing."’

Cecilia, who had no wiſh for making any oppoſition, embraced her again, and ſuffer⯑ed her quietly to depart.

Her own mind was now in a ſtate of the utmoſt confuſion. The rectitude of her heart and the ſoundneſs of her judgment had hi⯑therto guarded her both from error and blame, and, except during her recent ſuſ⯑pence, had preſerved her tranquility invio⯑late: but her commerce with the world had been ſmall and confined, and her actions [56] had had little reference but to herſelf. The caſe was now altered; and ſhe was ſuddenly in a conjuncture of all others the moſt de⯑licate, that of accidentally diſcovering a rival in a favourite friend.

The fondneſs ſhe had conceived for Miſs Belfield, and the ſincerity of her intentions as well as promiſes to ſerve her, made the detection of this ſecret peculiarly cruel: ſhe had lately felt no pleaſure but in her ſocie⯑ty, and looked forward to much future com⯑fort from the continuance of her regard, and from their conſtantly living together: but now this was no longer even to be de⯑ſired, ſince the utter annihilation of the wiſhes of both, by young Delvile's being diſpoſed of to a third perſon, could alone render eli⯑gible their dwelling under the ſame roof.

Her pity, however, for Miſs Belfield was almoſt wholly unallayed by jealouſy; ſhe harboured not any ſuſpicion that ſhe was loved by young Delvile, whoſe aſpiring ſpi⯑rit led her infinitely more to fear ſome high⯑er rival, than to believe he beſtowed even a thought upon the poor Henrietta: but ſtill ſhe wiſhed with the utmoſt ardour to know the length of their acquaintance, how often they had met, when they had converſed, what notice he had taken of her, and how ſo dangerous a preference had invaded her heart.

[57] But though this curioſity was both natu⯑ral and powerful, her principal concern was the arrangement of her own conduct: the next day Miſs Belfield was to tell her every thing by a voluntary promiſe; but ſhe doubted if ſhe had any right to accept ſuch a confidence. Miſs Belfield, ſhe was ſure, knew not ſhe was intereſted in the tale, ſince ſhe had not even imagined that Delvile was known to her. She might hope, therefore, not only for advice but aſſiſtance, and fancy that while ſhe repoſed her ſecret in the bo⯑ſom of a friend, ſhe ſecured herſelf her beſt offices and beſt wiſhes for ever.

Would ſhe obtain them? no; the moſt romantic generoſity would revolt from ſuch a demand, for however precarious was her own chance with young Delvile, Miſs Bel⯑field ſhe was ſure could not have any: nei⯑ther her birth nor education fitted her for his rank in life, and even were both unex⯑ceptionable, the ſmallneſs of her fortune, as Mr. Monckton had inſtructed her, would be an obſtacle inſurmountable.

Would it not be a kind of treachery to gather from her every thing, yet aid her in nothing? to take advantage of her unſuſ⯑picious openneſs in order to learn all that related to one whom ſhe yet hoped would belong ultimately to herſelf, and gratify an intereſted curioſity at the expence of a can⯑dour [58] not more ſimple than amiable? ‘"No,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"arts that I could never for⯑give, I never will practice; this ſweet, but unhappy girl ſhall tell me nothing: betray⯑ed already by the tenderneſs of her own heart, ſhe ſhall at leaſt ſuffer no further from any duplicity in mine. If, indeed, Mr. Delvile, as I ſuſpect, is engaged elſewhere, I will make this gentle Henrietta the object of my future ſolicitude: the ſympathy of our ſituations will not then divide but unite us, and I will take her to my boſom, hear all her ſorrows, and calm her troubled ſpi⯑rit by participating in her ſenſibility. But if, on the contrary, this myſtery ends more happily for myſelf, if Mr. Delvile has now no other engagement, and hereafter clears his conduct to my ſatisfaction, I will not be aeceſſory to loading her future recollection with the ſhame of a confidence ſhe then can⯑not but repent, nor with an injury to her delicacy that may wound it for ever."’

She determined, therefore, carefully to avoid the ſubject for the preſent, ſince ſhe could offer no advice for which ſhe might not, hereafter, be ſuſpected of ſelfiſh mo⯑tives; but yet, from a real regard to the tender-hearted girl, to give all the tacit diſ⯑couragement that was in her power, to a paſſion which ſhe firmly believed would be productive of nothing but miſery.

[59] Once, from the frankneſs natural to her diſpoſition, ſhe thought not merely of re⯑ceiving but returning her confidence: her better judgment, however, ſoon led her from ſo hazardous a plan, which could only have expoſed them both to a romantic hu⯑miliation, by which, in the end, their mu⯑tual expectations might prove ſources of mutual diſtruſt.

When Miſs Belfield, therefore, the next morning, her air unuſually timid, and her whole face covered with bluſhes, made her viſit, Cecilia, not ſeeming to notice her confuſion, told her ſhe was very ſorry ſhe was obliged to go out herſelf, and contriv⯑ed, under various pretences, to keep her maid in the room. Miſs Belfield, ſuppoſ⯑ing this to be accidental, rejoiced in her imaginary reprieve, and ſoon recovered her uſual chearfulneſs: and Cecilia, who really meant to call upon Mrs. Delvile, borrowed Mrs. Harrel's carriage, and ſet down her artleſs young friend at her new lodgings in Portland-ſtreet, before ſhe proceeded to St. James's-ſquare, talking the whole time upon matters of utter indifference.

CHAP. V. A SARCASM.

THE reproach which Cecilia had re⯑ceived from young Delvile in the name of his mother, determined her upon making this viſit; for though, in her preſent un⯑certainty, ſhe wiſhed only to ſee that family when ſought by themſelves, ſhe was yet de⯑ſirous to avoid all appearance of ſingulari⯑ty, leſt any ſuſpicions ſhould be raiſed of her ſentiments.

Mrs. Delvile received her with a cold ci⯑vility that chilled and afflicted her: ſhe found her ſeriouſly offended by her long ab⯑ſence, and now for the firſt time perceived that haughtineſs of character which hither⯑to ſhe had thought only given to her by the calumny of envy; for though her diſplea⯑ſure was undiſguiſed, ſhe deigned not to make any reproaches, evidently ſhewing that her diſappointment in the loſs of her ſociety, was embittered by a proud regret for the kindneſs ſhe believed ſhe had thrown away. But though ſhe ſcrupulouſly forbore the ſmalleſt complaint, ſhe failed not from time to time to caſt out reflections upon [61] fickleneſs and caprice the moſt ſatirical and pointed.

Cecilia, who could not poſſibly avow the motives of her behaviour, ventured not to offer any apology for her apparent negli⯑gence; but, hitherto accuſtomed to the moſt diſtinguiſhed kindneſs, a change to ſo much bitterneſs ſhocked and overpowered her, and ſhe ſat almoſt wholly ſilent, and hardly able to look up.

Lady Honoria Pemberton, a daughter of the Duke of Derwent, now came into the room, and afforded her ſome relief by the ſprightlineſs of her converſation. This young lady, who was a relation of the Del⯑viles, and of a character the moſt airy and unthinking, ran on during her whole viſit in a vein of faſhionable ſcandal, with a levity that the cenſures of Mrs. Delvile, though by no means ſpared, had no power to con⯑troll: and, after having completely ran⯑ſacked the topics of the day, ſhe turned ſuddenly to Cecilia, with whom during her reſidence in St. James's-ſquare ſhe had made ſome acquaintance, and ſaid, ‘"So I hear, Miſs Beverley, that after half the town has given you to Sir Robert Floyer, and the other half to my Lord Derford, you intend, without regarding one ſide or the other, to diſappoint them both, and give yourſelf to Mr. Marriot."’

[62] ‘"Me? no, indeed,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"your ladyſhip has been much miſinform⯑ed."’

‘"I hope ſo,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"for Mr. Marriot, by all I ever heard of him, ſeems to have but one recommendation, and that the laſt Miſs Beverley ought to value, a good eſtate."’

Cecilia, ſecretly delighted by a ſpeech which ſhe could not reſiſt flattering herſelf had reference to her ſon, now a little reviv⯑ed, and endeavoured to bear ſome part in the converſation.

‘"Every body one meets,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"diſpoſes of Miſs Beverley to ſome new perſon; yet the common opinion is that Sir Robert Floyer will be the man. But upon my word, for my own part, I cannot conjecture how ſhe will manage among them, for Mr. Marriot declares he's determined he won't be refuſed, and Sir Robert vows that he'll never give her up. So we none of us know how it will end: but I am vaſtly glad ſhe keeps them ſo long in ſuſpence."’

‘"If there is any ſuſpence,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I am at leaſt ſure it muſt be wilful. But why ſhould your ladyſhip rejoice in it?"’

‘"O, becauſe it helps to torment them, and keeps ſomething going forward. Be⯑ſides, we are all looking in the news-pa⯑pers [63] every day, to ſee when they'll fight another duel for you."’

‘"Another?"’ cried Cecilia; ‘"indeed they have never yet fought any for me."’

‘"O, I beg your pardon,"’ anſwered her ladyſhip, ‘"Sir Robert, you know, fought one for you in the beginning of the winter, with that Iriſh fortune-hunter who affront⯑ed you at the Opera."’

‘"Iriſh fortune-hunter?"’ repeated Ceci⯑lia, ‘"how ſtrangely has that quarrel been miſrepreſented! In the firſt place, I never was affronted at the Opera at all, and in the ſecond, if your Ladyſhip means Mr. Bel⯑field, I queſtion if he ever was in Ireland in his life."’

‘"Well,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"he might come from Scotland, for ought I know, but ſomewhere he certainly came from; and they tell me he is wounded ter⯑ribly, and Sir Robert has had all his things packed up this month, that in caſe he ſhould die, he may go abroad in a mo⯑ment.’

‘"And pray where, Lady Honoria,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"do you contrive to pick up all this rattle?"’

‘"O, I don't know; every body tells me ſomething, ſo I put it all together as well as I can. But I could acquaint you with a [64] ſtranger piece of news than any you have heard yet."’

‘"And what is that?"’

‘"O, if I let you know it, you'll tell your ſon."’

‘"No indeed,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile laugh⯑ing, ‘"I ſhall probably forget it myſelf."’

She then made ſome further difficulty, and Cecilia, uncertain if ſhe was meant to be a party in the communication, ſtrolled to a window; where, however, as Lady Honoria did not lower her voice, ſhe heard her ſay ‘"Why you muſt know I am told he keeps a miſtreſs ſomewhere in Oxford⯑Road. They ſay ſhe's mighty pretty; I ſhould like vaſtly to ſee her."’

The conſternation of Cecilia at this in⯑telligence would certainly have betrayed all ſhe ſo much wiſhed to conceal, had not her fortunate removal to the window guarded her from obſervation. She kept her poſt, fearing to look round, but was much pleaſ⯑ed when Mrs. Delvile, with great indigna⯑tion anſwered ‘"I am ſorry, Lady Hono⯑ria, you can find any amuſement in liſten⯑ing to ſuch idle ſcandal, which thoſe who tell will never reſpect you for hearing. In times leſs daring in ſlander, the character of Mortimer would have proved to him a ſhield from all injurious aſperſions; yet who ſhall [65] wonder he could not eſcape, and who ſhall contemn the inventors of calumny, if Lady Honoria Pemberton condeſcends to be en⯑tertained with it?"’

‘"Dear Mrs. Delvile,"’ cried Lady Ho⯑noria, giddily, ‘"you take me too ſe⯑riouſly."’

‘"And dear Lady Honoria,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"I would it were poſſible to make you take yourſelf ſeriouſly; for could you once ſee with clearneſs and preciſion how much you lower your own dignity, while you ſtoop to depreciate that of others, the very ſubjects that now make your diver⯑ſion, would then, far more properly, move your reſentment."’

‘"Ay but, dear madam,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"if that were the caſe, I ſhould be quite perfect, and then you and I ſhould never quarrel, and I don't know what we ſhould do for converſation."’

And with theſe words, haſtily ſhaking hands with her, ſhe took leave.

‘"Such converſation,"’ ſaid Mrs. Del⯑vile when ſhe was gone, ‘"as reſults from the mixture of fruitleſs admonition with incorrigible levity, would be indeed more honoured in the breach than the obſervance. But levity is ſo much the faſhionable characte⯑riſtic of the preſent age, that a gay young girl who, like Lady Honoria Pemberton, [66] rules the friends by whom ſhe ought to be ruled, had little chance of eſcaping it."’

‘"She ſeems ſo open, however, to re⯑proof,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"that I ſhould hope in a ſhort time ſhe may alſo be open to con⯑viction."’

‘"No,"’ anſwered Mrs. Delvile, ‘"I have no hope of her at all. I once took much pains with her; but I ſoon found that the eaſineſs with which ſhe hears of her faults, is only another effect of the levity with which ſhe commits them. But if the young are never tired of erring in conduct, nei⯑ther are the older in erring in judgment; the fallibility of mine I have indeed very lately experienced."’

Cecilia, who ſtrongly felt the poignancy of this ſarcaſm, and whoſe conſtant and unaffected value of Mrs. Delvile by no means deſerved it, was again ſilenced, and again moſt cruelly depreſſed: nor could ſhe ſecretly forbear repining that at the very moment ſhe found herſelf threatened with a neceſſity of foregoing the ſociety of her new favourite, Miſs Belfield, the woman in the whole world whom ſhe moſt wiſhed to have for her friend, from an unhappy miſtake was ready to relinquiſh her. Grieved to be thus fallen in her eſteem, and ſhocked that ſhe could offer no juſtification, after a ſhort and thoughtful pauſe, ſhe gravely aroſe to take leave.

[67] Mrs. Delvile then told her that if ſhe had any buſineſs to tranſact with Mr. Del⯑vile, ſhe adviſed her to acquaint him with it ſoon, as the whole family left town in a few days.

This was a new and ſevere blow to Ceci⯑lia, who ſorrowfully repeated ‘"In a few days, madam?"’

‘"Yes,"’ anſwered Mrs. Delvile, ‘"I hope you intend to be much concerned?"’

‘"Ah madam!"’ cried Cecilia, who could no longer preſerve her quietneſs, ‘"if you knew but half the reſpect I bear you, but half the ſincerity with which I value and re⯑vere you, all proteſtations would be uſe⯑leſs, for all accuſations would be over!"’

Mrs. Delvile, at once ſurpriſed and ſof⯑tened by the warmth of this declaration, in⯑ſtantly took her hand, and ſaid ‘"They ſhall now, and for every be over, if it pains you to hear them. I concluded that what I ſaid would be a matter of indifference to you, or all my diſpleaſure would immedi⯑ately have been ſatisfied, when once I had intimated that your abſence had excited it."’

‘"That I have excited it at all,"’ an⯑ſwered Cecilia, ‘"gives me indeed the ſevereſt uneaſineſs; but believe me, madam, how⯑ever unfortunately appearances may be againſt me, I have always had the higheſt ſenſe of the kindneſs with which you have honoured me, and never has there been the [68] ſmalleſt abatement in the veneration, grati⯑tude and affection I have inviolably borne you."’

‘"You ſee, then,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile with a ſmile, ‘"that where reproof takes any effect, it is not received with that eaſineſs you were juſt now admiring: on the con⯑trary, where a conceſſion is made without pain, it is alſo made without meaning, for it is not in human nature to project any amendment without a ſecret repugnance. That here, however, you ſhould differ from Lady Honoria Pemberton, who can wonder, when you are ſuperior to all com⯑pariſon with her in every thing?"’

‘"Will you then,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ac⯑cept my apology, and forgive me?"’

‘"I will do more,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile laughing, ‘"I will forgive you without an apology; for the truth is I have heard none! But come,"’ continued ſhe, perceiving Ce⯑cilia much abaſhed by this comment, ‘"I will enquire no more about the matter; I am glad to receive my young friend again, and even half aſhamed, deſerving as ſhe is, to ſay how glad!"’

She then embraced her affectionately, and owned ſhe had been more mortified by her fancied deſertion than ſhe had been willing to own even to herſelf, repeatedly aſſuring her that for many years ſhe had not made any aquaintance ſhe ſo much wiſhed to cul⯑tivate, [69] nor enjoyed any ſociety from which ſhe had derived ſo much pleaſure.

Cecilia, whoſe eyes gliſtened with modeſt joy, while her heart beat quick with reviv⯑ed expectation, in liſtening to an effuſion of praiſe ſo infinitely grateful to her, found little difficulty in returning her friendly profeſſions, and, in a few minutes, was not merely reconciled, but more firmly united with her than ever.

Mrs. Delvile inſiſted upon keeping her to dinner, and Cecilia, but too happy in her earneſtneſs, readily agreed to ſend Mrs. Harrel an excuſe.

Neither of the Mr. Delviles ſpent the day at home, and nothing, therefore, diſ⯑turbed or interrupted thoſe glowing and de⯑lightful ſenſations which ſpring from a cor⯑dial renewal of friendſhip and kindneſs. The report, indeed, of Lady Honoria Pem⯑berton gave her ſome uneaſineſs, yet the flighty character of that lady, and Mrs. Delvile's reply to it, ſoon made her drive it from her mind.

She returned home early in the evening, as other company was expected, and ſhe had not changed her dreſs ſince the morning; but ſhe firſt made a promiſe to ſee Mrs. Delvile ſome part of every day during the ſhort time that ſhe meant to remain in town.

CHAP. VI. A SURMISE.

THE next morning opened with ano⯑ther ſcene; Mrs. Harrel ran into Ce⯑cilia's room before breakfaſt, and acquaint⯑ed her that Mr. Harrel had not been at home all night.

The conſternation with which ſhe heard this account ſhe inſtantly endeavoured to diſſipate, in order to ſoften the apprehenſi⯑on with which it was communicated: Mrs. Harrel, however, was extremely uneaſy, and ſent all the town over to make enquiries, but without receiving any intelligence.

Cecilia, unwilling to leave her in a ſtate of ſuch alarm, wrote an excuſe to Mrs. Del⯑vile, that ſhe might continue with her till ſome information was procured. A ſubject alſo of ſuch immediate concern, was ſuffi⯑cient apology for avoiding any particular converſation with Miſs Belfield, who called as uſual, about noon, and whoſe ſuſceptible heart was much affected by the evident diſ⯑turbance in which ſhe found Cecilia.

The whole day paſſed, and no news ar⯑rived: [71] but, greatly to her aſtoniſhment, Mrs. Harrel in the evening prepared for going to an aſſembly! yet declaring at the ſame time it was extremely diſagreeable to her, only ſhe was afraid, if ſhe ſtayed away, every body would ſuppoſe ſomething was the matter.

‘"Who then at laſt, thought Cecilia, are half ſo much the ſlaves of the world as the gay and the diſſipated? Thoſe who work for hire, have at leaſt their hours of reſt, thoſe who labour for ſubſiſtence, are at li⯑berty when ſubſiſtence is procured; but thoſe who toil to pleaſe the vain and the idle, undertake a taſk which can never be finiſhed, however ſcrupulouſly all private peace, and all internal comfort, may be ſa⯑crificed in reality to the folly of ſaving ap⯑pearances!"’

Loſing, however, the motive for which ſhe had given up her own engagement, ſhe now ſent for her chair, in order to ſpend an hour or two with Mrs. Delvile.

The ſervants, as they conducted her up ſtairs, ſaid they would call their lady; and in entering the drawing-room ſhe ſaw, read⯑ing and alone, young Delvile.

He ſeemed much ſurpriſed, but received her with the utmoſt reſpect, apologizing for the abſence of his mother, whom he ſaid had underſtood ſhe was not to ſee her till [72] the next day, and had left him to write letters now, that ſhe might then be at li⯑berty.

Cecilia in return made excuſes for her ſeeming inconſiſtency; after which, for ſome time, all converſation dropt.

The ſilence was at length broken by young Delvile's ſaying ‘"Mr. Belfield's me⯑rit has not been thrown away upon Lord Vannelt; he has heard an excellent cha⯑racter of him from all his former acquain⯑tance, and is now fitting up an apartment for him in his own houſe till his ſon begins his tour."’

Cecilia ſaid ſhe was very happy in hearing ſuch intelligence; and then again they were both ſilent.

‘"You have ſeen,"’ ſaid young Delvile, after this ſecond pauſe, ‘"Mr. Belfield's ſiſter?"’

Cecilia, not without changing colour, an⯑ſwered ‘"Yes, Sir."’

‘She is very amiable,"’ he continued, ‘"too amiable, indeed, for her ſituation, ſince her relations, her brother alone excepted, are all utterly unworthy of her."’

He ſtopt; but Cecilia made no anſwer, and he preſently added ‘"Perhaps you do not think her amiable?—you may have ſeen more of her, and know ſomething to her diſadvantage?"’

[73] ‘"O no!"’ cried Cecilia, with a forced alacrity, ‘"but only I was thinking that—did you ſay you knew all her rela⯑tions?"’

‘"No,"’ he anſwered, ‘"but when I have been with Mr. Belfield, ſome of them have called upon him."’

Again they were both ſilent; and then Cecilia, aſhamed of her apparent backward⯑neſs to give praiſe, compelled herſelf to ſay, ‘"Miſs Belfield is indeed a very ſweet girl, and I wiſh—"’ ſhe ſtopt, not well knowing herſelf what ſhe meant to add.

‘"I have been greatly pleaſed,"’ ſaid he, after waiting ſome time to hear if ſhe would finiſh her ſpeech, ‘"by being informed of your goodneſs to her, and I think ſhe ſeems equally to require and to deſerve it. I doubt not you will extend it to her when ſhe is deprived of her brother, for then will be the time that by doing her moſt ſervice, it will reflect on yourſelf moſt ho⯑nour."’

Cecilia, confounded by this recommen⯑dation, faintly anſwered ‘"Certainly,—whatever is in my power,—I ſhall be very glad—"’

And juſt then Mrs. Delvile made her ap⯑pearance, and during the mutual apologies that followed, her ſon left the room. Ce⯑cilia, glad of any pretence to leave it alſo, [74] inſiſted upon giving no interruption to Mrs▪ Delvile's letter writing, and having pro⯑miſed to ſpend all the next day with her▪ hurried back to her chair.

The reflections that followed her thithe [...] were by no means the moſt ſoothing: ſhe began now to apprehend that the pity ſhe had beſtowed upon Miſs Belfield, Miſ [...] Belfield in a ſhort time might beſtow upon her: at any other time, his recommen⯑dation would merely have ſerved to con⯑firm her opinion of his benevolence, bu [...] in her preſent ſtate of anxiety and uncer⯑tainty, every thing gave birth to conjec⯑ture, and had power to alarm her. He had behaved to her of late with the ſtrange [...] ▪ coldneſs and diſtance,—his praiſe o [...] Henrietta had been ready and animated,—Henrietta ſhe knew adored him, and ſhe knew not with what reaſon,—but an invo⯑luntary ſuſpicion aroſe in her mind, that the partiality ſhe had herſelf once excited, wa [...] now transferred to that little dreaded, bu [...] not leſs dangerous rival.

Yet, if ſuch was the caſe, what was to become either of the pride or the intereſ [...] of his family? Would his relations eve [...] pardon an alliance ſtimulated neither by rank nor riches? would Mr. Delvile, who hardly ever ſpoke but to the high-born▪ without ſeeming to think his dignity ſome⯑what [75] injured, deign to receive for a daugh⯑ter in law the child of a citizen and tradeſ⯑man? would Mrs. Delvile herſelf, little leſs elevated in her notions, though infinite⯑ly ſofter in her manners, ever condeſcend to acknowledge her? Cecilia's own birth and connections, ſuperior as they were to thoſe of Miſs Belfield, were even openly diſdained by Mr. Delvile, and all her ex⯑pectations of being received into his family were founded upon the largeneſs of her for⯑tune, in favour of which the brevity of her genealogy might perhaps paſs unnoticed. But what was the chance of Miſs Belfield, who neither had anceſtors to boaſt, nor wealth to allure?

This thought, however, awakened all the generoſity of her ſoul; ‘"If, cried ſhe, the advantages I poſſeſs are merely thoſe of riches, how little ſhould I be flattered by any appearance of preference! and how ill can I judge with what ſincerity it may be offered! happier in that caſe is the lowly Henrietta, who to poverty may attribute neglect, but who can only be ſought and careſſed from motives of pureſt regard. She loves Mr. Delvile, loves him with the moſt artleſs affection;—perhaps, too, he loves her in return,—why elſe his ſolicitude to know my opinion of her, and why ſo ſud⯑den his alarm when he thought it unfavour⯑able? [76] Perhaps he means to marry her, and to ſacrifice to her innocence and her attrac⯑tions all plans of ambition, and all views of aggrandizement:—thrice happy Henrietta, if ſuch is thy proſpect of felicity! to have inſpired a paſſion ſo diſintereſted, may humble the moſt inſolent of thy ſupe⯑riors, and teach even the wealthieſt to envy thee!"’

CHAP. VII. A BOLD STROKE.

WHEN Cecilia returned home, ſhe heard with much concern that no tidings of Mr. Harrel had yet been obtain⯑ed. His lady, who did not ſtay out late, was now very ſeriouſly frightened, and en⯑treated Cecilia to ſit up with her till ſome news could be procured: ſhe ſent alſo for her brother, and they all three, in tremb⯑ling expectation of what was to enſue, paſ⯑ſed the whole night in watching.

At ſix o'clock in the morning, Mr. Ar⯑nott beſought his ſiſter and Cecilia to take ſome reſt, promiſing to go out himſelf to every place where Mr. Harrel was known to reſort, and not to return without bring⯑ing ſome account of him.

Mrs. Harrel, whoſe feelings were not very acute, finding the perſuaſions of her brother were ſeconded by her own fatigue, conſented to follow his advice, and deſired him to begin his ſearch immediately.

A few moments after he was gone, while Mrs. Harrel and Cecilia were upon the ſtairs, [78] they were ſtartled by a violent knocking at the door: Cecilia, prepared for ſome cala⯑mity, hurried her friend back to the draw⯑ing room, and then flying out of it again to enquire who entered, ſaw to her equal ſur⯑prize and relief, Mr. Harrel himſelf.

She ran back with the welcome informa⯑tion, and he inſtantly followed her: Mrs. Harrel eagerly told him of her fright, and Cecilia expreſſed her pleaſure at his return: but the ſatisfaction of neither was of long duration.

He came into the room with a look of fierceneſs the moſt terrifying, his hat on, and his arms folded. He made no anſwer to what they ſaid, but puſhed back the door with his foot, and flung himſelf upon a ſofa.

Cecilia would now have withdrawn, but Mrs. Harrel caught her hand to prevent her. They continued ſome minutes in this ſituation, and then Mr. Harrel, ſuddenly riſing, called out ‘"Have you any thing to pack up?"’

‘"Pack up?"’ repeated Mrs. Harrel, ‘"Lord bleſs me, for what?’

‘"I am going abroad;"’ he anſwered, ‘"I ſhall ſet off to-morrow."’

‘"Abroad?"’ cried ſhe, burſting into tears, ‘"I am ſure I hope not!"’

‘"Hope nothing!"’ returned he, in a [79] voice of rage; and then, with a dreadful oath, he ordered her to leave him and pack up.

Mrs. Harrel, wholly unuſed to ſuch treatment, was frightened into violent hy⯑ſterics; of which, however, he took no no⯑tice, but ſwearing at her for a fool who had been the cauſe of his ruin, he left the room.

Cecilia, though ſhe inſtantly rang the bell, and haſtened to her aſſiſtance, was ſo much ſhocked by this unexpected brutality, that ſhe ſcarcely knew how to act, or what to order. Mrs. Harrel, however, ſoon re⯑covered, and Cecilia accompanied her to her own apartment, where ſhe ſtayed, and endeavoured to ſooth her till Mr. Arnott re⯑turned.

The terrible ſtate in which Mr. Harrel had at laſt come home was immediately communicated to him, and his ſiſter en⯑treated him to uſe all his influence that the ſcheme for going abroad might be deferred, at leaſt, if not wholly given up.

Fearfully he went on the embaſſy, but ſpeedily, and with a look wholly diſmayed, he returned. Mr. Harrel, he ſaid, told him that he had contracted a larger debt of ho⯑nour than he had any means to raiſe, and as he could not appear till it was paid, he was obliged to quit the kingdom without delay.

[80] ‘"Oh brother!"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"and can you ſuffer us to go?"’

‘"Alas, my dear ſiſter,"’ anſwered he, ‘"what can I do to prevent it? and who, if I too am ruined, will in future help you?"’

Mrs. Harrel then wept bitterly, nor could the gentle Mr. Arnott, forbear, while he tried to comfort her, mixing his own tears with thoſe of his beloved ſiſter; but Ceci⯑lia, whoſe reaſon was ſtronger, and whoſe juſtice was offended, felt other ſenſations: and leaving Mrs. Harrel to the care of her brother, whoſe tenderneſs ſhe infinitely compaſſionated, ſhe retreated into her own room. Not, however, to reſt; the dread⯑ful ſituation of the family made her forget ſhe wanted it, but to deliberate upon what courſe ſhe ought herſelf to purſue.

She determined without any heſitation againſt accompanying them in their flight, as the irreparable injury ſhe was convinced ſhe had already done her fortune, was more than ſuffiicient to ſatisfy the moſt romantic ideas of friendſhip and humanity: but her own place of abode muſt now immediately be changed, and her choice reſted only be⯑tween Mr. Delvile and Mr. Briggs.

Important as were the obſtacles which oppoſed her reſidence at Mr. Delvile's, all that belonged to inclination and to happi⯑neſs [81] encouraged it: while with reſpect to Mr. Briggs, though the objections were lighter, there was not a ſingle allurement. Yet whenever the ſuſpicion recurred to her that Miſs Belfield was beloved by young Delvile, ſhe reſolved at all events to avoid him: but when better hopes intervened, and repreſented that his enquiries were pro⯑bably accidental, the wiſh of being finally acquainted with his ſentiments, made no⯑thing ſo deſirable as an intercourſe more frequent.

Such ſtill was her irreſolution, when ſhe received a meſſage from Mr. Arnott to en⯑treat the honour of ſeeing her. She imme⯑diately went down ſtairs, and found him in the utmoſt diſtreſs, ‘"O Miſs Beverley,"’ he cried, ‘"what can I do for my ſiſter! what can I poſſibly deviſe to relieve her af⯑fliction!"’

‘"Indeed I know not!"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"but the utter impracticability of prepar⯑ing her for this blow, obviouſly as it has long been impending, makes it now fall ſo heavily I wiſh much to aſſiſt her,—but a debt ſo unjuſtifiably contracted—"’

‘"O madam,"’ interrupted he, ‘"ima⯑gine not I ſent to you with ſo treacherous a view as to involve you in our miſery; far too unworthily has your generoſity already [82] been abuſed. I only wiſh to conſult with you what I can do for my ſiſter."’

Cecilia, after ſome little conſideration, propoſed that Mrs. Harrel ſhould ſtill be left in England, and under their joint care.

‘"Alas!"’ cried he, ‘"I have already made that propoſal, but Mr. Harrel will not go without her, though his whole be⯑haviour is ſo totally altered, that I fear to truſt her with him."’

‘"Who is there, then, that has more weight with him?"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſhall we ſend for Sir Robert Floyer to ſecond our requeſt?"’

"To this Mr. Arnott aſſented, forget⯑ting in his apprehenſion of loſing his ſiſter, the pain he ſhould ſuffer from the interfe⯑rence of his rival.

The Baronet preſently arrived, and Ceci⯑lia, not chuſing to apply to him herſelf, left him with Mr. Arnott, and waited for intelligence in the library.

In about an hour after, Mrs. Harrel ran into the room, her tears dried up, and out of breath with joy, and called out ‘"My deareſt friend, my fate is now all in your hands, and I am ſure you will not refuſe to make me happy."’

‘"What is it I can do for you?"’ cried Cecilia, dreading ſome impracticable pro⯑poſal; [83] ‘"aſk me not, I beſeech you, what I cannot perform!"’

‘"No, no,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"what I aſk requires nothing but good nature; Sir Ro⯑bert Floyer has been begging Mr. Harrel to leave me behind, and he has promiſed to comply, upon condition you will haſten your marriage, and take me into your own houſe."’

‘"My marriage!"’ cried the aſtoniſhed Cecilia.

Here they were joined by Mr. Harrel himſelf, who repeated the ſame offer.

‘"You both amaze and ſhock me!"’ cri⯑ed Cecilia, ‘"what is it you mean, and why do you talk to me ſo wildly?"’

‘"Miſs Beverley,"’ cried Mr. Harrel, ‘"it is high time now to give up this reſerve, and trifle no longer with a gentleman ſo un⯑exceptionable as Sir Robert Floyer. The whole town has long acknowledged him as your huſband, and you are every where re⯑garded as his bride, a little frankneſs, there⯑fore, in accepting him, will not only bind him to you for ever, but do credit to the generoſity of your character."’

At that moment Sir Robert himſelf burſt into the room, and ſeizing one of her hands, while both of them were uplifted in mute amazement, he preſſed it to his lips, poured forth a volley of ſuch compliments as he had [84] never before prevailed with himſelf to ut⯑ter, and confidently entreated her to com⯑plete his long-attended happineſs without the cruelty of further delay.

Cecilia, almoſt petrified by the exceſs of her ſurpriſe, at an attack ſo violent, ſo bold, and apparently ſo ſanguine, was for ſome time ſcarce able to ſpeak or to defend her⯑ſelf; but when Sir Robert, preſuming on her ſilence, ſaid ſhe had made him the hap⯑pieſt of men, ſhe indignantly drew back her hand, and with a look of diſpleaſure that required little explanation, would have walked out of the room: when Mr. Har⯑rel, in a tone of bitterneſs and diſappoint⯑ment, called out ‘"Is this lady-like tyranny then never to end?"’ And Sir Robert, im⯑patiently following her, ſaid ‘"And is my ſuſpence to endure for ever? After ſo many months attendance—"’

‘"This, indeed, is ſomething too much,"’ ſaid Cecilia, turning back, ‘"You have been kept, Sir, in no ſuſpence; the whole tenor of my conduct has uniformly declar⯑ed the ſame diſapprobation I at preſent avow, and which my letter, at leaſt, muſt have put beyond all doubt."’

‘"Harrel,"’ exclaimed Sir Robert, ‘"did not you tell me—"’

‘"Pho, pho,"’ cried Harrel, ‘"what ſig⯑nifies calling upon me? I never ſaw in Miſs [85] Beverley any diſapprobation beyond what it is cuſtomary for young ladies of a ſentimen⯑tal turn to ſhew; and every body knows that where a gentleman is allowed to pay his devoirs for any length of time, no lady intends to uſe him very ſeverely."’

‘"And can you, Mr. Harrel,"’ ſaid Ceci⯑lia, ‘"after ſuch converſations as have paſ⯑ſed between us, perſevere in this wilful miſapprehenſion? But it is vain to debate where all reaſoning is diſregarded, or to make any proteſtations where even rejection is received as a favour."’

And then, with an air of diſdain, ſhe in⯑ſiſted upon paſſing them, and went to her own room.

Mrs. Harrel, however, ſtill followed, and clinging round her, ſtill ſupplicated her pity and compliance.

‘"What infatuation is this!"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, ‘"is it poſſible that you, too, can ſup⯑poſe I ever mean to accept Sir Robert?"’

‘"To be ſure I do,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"for Mr. Harrel has told me a thouſand times, that however you played the prude, you would be his at laſt."’

Cecilia, though doubly irritated againſt Mr. Harrel, was now appeaſed with his lady, whoſe miſtake, however ill-founded, offered an excuſe for her behaviour: but ſhe aſſured her in the ſtrongeſt terms that [86] her repugnance to the Baronet was unalter⯑able, yet told her ſhe might claim from her every good office that was not wholly un⯑reaſonable.

Theſe were words of ſlender comfort to Mrs. Harrel, who well knew that her wiſhes and reaſon had but little affinity, and ſhe ſoon, therefore, left the room.

Cecilia then reſolved to go inſtantly to Mrs. Delvile, acquaint her with the neceſſi⯑ty of her removal, and make her deciſion whither, according to the manner in which her intelligence ſhould be received.

She ſent, therefore, to order a chair, and was already in the hall, when ſhe was ſtopt by the entrance of Mr. Monckton, who, addreſſing her with a look of haſte and ear⯑neſtneſs, ſaid, ‘"I will not aſk whither you are going ſo early, or upon what errand, for I muſt beg a moment's audience, be your buſineſs what it may."’

Cecilia then accompanied him to the de⯑ſerted breakfaſt-room, which none but the ſervants had this morning entered, and there, graſping her hand, he ſaid ‘"Miſs Beverley, you muſt fly this houſe directly! it is the region of diſorder and licentiouſ⯑neſs, and unfit to contain you."’

She aſſured him ſhe was that moment pre⯑paring to quit it, but begged he would ex⯑plain himſelf.

[87] ‘"I have taken care,"’ he anſwered, ‘"for ſome time paſt, to be well informed of all the proceedings of Mr. Harrel; and the in⯑telligence I procured this morning is of the moſt alarming nature. I find he ſpent the night before the laſt entirely at a gaming table, where, intoxicated by a run of good luck, he paſſed the whole of the next day in rioting with his profligate intimates, and laſt night, returning again to his favourite amuſement, he not only loſt all he had gained, but much more than he could pay. Doubt not, therefore, but you will be cal⯑led upon to aſſiſt him: he ſtill conſiders you as his reſource in times of danger, and while he knows you are under his roof, he will always believe himſelf ſecure."’

‘"Every thing indeed conſpires,"’ ſaid Cecilia, more ſhocked than ſurpriſed at this account, ‘"to make it neceſſary I ſhould quit his houſe: yet I do not think he has at preſent any further expectations from me, as he came into the room this morning not merely without ſpeaking to me, but behav⯑ed with a brutality to Mrs. Harrel that he muſt be certain would give me diſguſt. It ſhewed me, indeed, a new part of his cha⯑racter, for ill as I have long thought of him, I did not ſuſpect he could be guilty of ſuch unmanly cruelty."’

‘"The character of a gameſter,"’ ſaid Mr. [88] Monckton, ‘"depends ſolely upon his luck; his diſpoſition varies with every throw of the dice, and he is airy, gay and good hu⯑moured, or ſour, moroſe and ſavage, nei⯑ther from nature nor from principle, but wholly by the caprice of chance."’

Cecilia then related to him the ſcene in which ſhe had juſt been engaged with Sir Robert Floyer.

‘"This,"’ cried he, ‘is a manoeuvre I have been ſome time expecting: but Mr. Harrel, though artful and ſelfiſh, is by no means deep. The plan he had formed would have ſucceeded with ſome women, and he therefore concluded it would with all. So many of your ſex have been ſubdued by perſeverance, and ſo many have been con⯑quered by boldneſs, that he ſuppoſed when he united two ſuch powerful beſiegers in the perſon of a Baronet, he ſhould vanquiſh all obſtacles. By aſſuring you that the world thought the marriage already ſettled, he hoped to ſurpriſe you into believing there was no help for it, and by the ſudden⯑neſs and vehemence of the attack, to fright⯑en and hurry you into compliance. His own wife, he knew, might have been ma⯑naged thus with eaſe, and ſo, probably, might his ſiſter, and his mother, and his couſin, for in love matters, or what are ſo called, women in general are readily duped. [89] He diſcerned not the ſuperiority of your un⯑derſtanding to tricks ſo ſhallow and imper⯑tinent, nor the firmneſs of your mind in maintaining its own independence. No doubt but he was amply to have been re⯑warded for his aſſiſtance, and probably had you this morning been propitious, the Ba⯑ronet in return was to have cleared him from his preſent difficulty."’

‘"Even in my own mind,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I can no longer deſend him, for he could never have been ſo eager to promote the in⯑tereſt of Sir Robert, in the preſent terrible ſituation of his own affairs, had he not been ſtimulated by ſome ſecret motives. His ſchemes and his artifices, however, will now be utterly loſt upon me, ſince your warning and advice, aided by my own ſuffering ex⯑perience of the inutility of all I can do for him, will effectually guard me from all his future attempts.’

‘"Reſt no ſecurity upon yourſelf,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, ‘"ſince you have no know⯑ledge of the many tricks and inventions by which you may yet be plundered. Perhaps he may beg permiſſion to reſide in your houſe in Suffolk, or deſire an annuity for his wife, or chuſe to receive your firſt rents when you come of age; and whatever he may fix upon, his dagger and his bowl will not fail to procure him. A heart ſo liberal [90] as yours can only be guarded by [...]ight. You were going, you ſaid, when I came,—and whither?"’

‘"To—to St. James's-ſquare,"’ anſwered ſhe, with a deep bluſh.

‘"Indeed!—is young Delvile, then, go⯑ing abroad?"’

‘"Abroad?—no,—I believe not."’

‘"Nay, I only imagined it from your chuſing to reſide in his houſe."’

‘"I do not chuſe it,"’ cried Cecilia, with quickneſs, ‘"but is not any thing prefer⯑able to dwelling with Mr. Briggs?"’

‘"Certainly,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton cool⯑ly, ‘"nor ſhould I have ſuppoſed he had any chance with you, had I not hitherto obſerved that your convenience has always been ſacrificed to your ſenſe of propriety."’

Cecilia, touched by praiſe ſo full of cen⯑ſure, and earneſt to vindicate her delica⯑cy, after an internal ſtruggle, which Mr. Monckton was too ſubtle to interrupt, pro⯑teſted ſhe would go inſtantly to Mr. Briggs, and ſee if it were poſſible to be ſettled in his houſe, before ſhe made any attempt to fix herſelf elſewhere.

‘"And when?"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton.

‘"I don't know,"’ anſwered ſhe, with ſome heſitation, ‘"perhaps this afternoon."’

‘"Why not this morning?"’

‘"I can go out no where this morning; I muſt ſtay with Mrs. Harrel."’

[91] ‘"You thought otherwiſe when I came, you were then content to leave her."’

Cecilia's alacrity, however, for changing her abode, was now at an end, and ſhe would fain have been left quietly to re-con⯑ſider her plans: but Mr. Monckton urged ſo ſtrongly the danger of her lengthened ſtay in the houſe of ſo deſigning a man as Mr. Harrel, that he prevailed with her to quit it without delay, and had himſelf the ſatis⯑faction of handing her to her chair.

CHAP. VIII. A MISER'S MANSION.

MR. BRIGGS was at home, and Ce⯑cilia inſtantly and briefly informed him that it was inconvenient for her to live any longer at Mr. Harrel's, and that if ſhe could be accommodated at his houſe, ſhe ſhould be glad to reſide with him during the reſt of her minority.

‘"Shall, ſhall,"’ cried he, extremely pleaſed, ‘"take you with all my heart. Warrant maſter Harrel's made a good pen⯑ny of you. Not a bit the better for dreſ⯑ſing ſo fine; many a rogue in a gold lace hat."’

Cecilia begged to know what apartments he could ſpare for her.

‘"Take you up ſtairs,"’ cried he, ‘"ſhew you a place for a queen."’

He then led her up ſtairs, and took her to a room entirely dark, and ſo cloſe for want of air that ſhe could hardly breathe in it. She retreated to the landing-place till he had opened the ſhutters, and then ſaw an apartment the moſt forlorn ſhe had ever beheld, containing no other furniture than [93] a ragged ſtuff bed, two worn-out ruſh-bot⯑tomed chairs, an old wooden box, and a bit of broken glaſs which was faſtened to the wall by two bent nails.

‘"See here, my little chick,"’ cried he, ‘"every thing ready! and a box for your gimcracks into the bargain."’

‘"You don't mean this place for me, Sir!"’ cried Cecilia, ſtaring.

‘"Do, do; ‘"cried he,"’ a deal nicer by and by. Only wants a little furbiſhing: ſoon put to rights. Never ſweep a room out of uſe; only wears out brooms for no⯑thing."’

‘"But, Sir, can I not have an apartment on the firſt floor?"’

‘"No, no, ſomething elſe to do with it; belongs to the club; ſecrets in all things! Make this do well enough. Come again next week; wear quite a new face. No⯑thing wanting but a table; pick you up one at a broker's."’

‘"But I am obliged, Sir, to leave Mr. Harrel's houſe directly."’

‘"Well, well, make ſhift without a table at firſt; no great matter if you ha'n't one at all, nothing particular to do with it. Want another blanket, though. Know where to get one; a very good broker hard by. Underſtand how to deal with him! A cloſe dog, but warm."’

[94] ‘"I have alſo two ſervants, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia.

‘"Won't have 'em! Sha'n't come! Eat me out of houſe and home."’

‘"Whatever they eat, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"will be wholly at my expence, as will every thing elſe that belongs to them."’

‘"Better get rid of them: hate ſervants; all a pack of rogues: think of nothing but ſtuffing and guttling."’

Then opening another door, ‘"ſee here,"’ he cried, ‘"my own room juſt by; ſnug as a church!"’

Cecilia, following him into it, loſt a great part of her ſurpriſe at the praiſe he had la⯑viſhed upon that which he deſtined for her⯑ſelf, by perceiving that his own was yet more ſcantily furniſhed, having nothing in it but a miſerable bed without any curtains, and a large cheſt, which, while it contain⯑ed his clothes, ſufficed both for table and chair.

‘"What are doing here?"’ cried he ang⯑rily, to a maid who was making the bed, ‘"can't you take more care? beat out all the feathers, ſee! two on the ground; no⯑thing but waſte and extravagance! never mind how ſoon a man's ruined. Come to want, you ſlut, ſee that, come to want!"’

‘"I can never want more than I do here,"’ ſaid the girl, ‘"ſo that's one comfort."’

[95] Cecilia now began to repent ſhe had made known the purport of her viſit, for ſhe found it would be utterly impoſſible to ac⯑commodate either her mind or her perſon to a reſidence ſuch as was here to be ob⯑tained: and ſhe only wiſhed Mr. Monck⯑ton had been preſent, that he might himſelf be convinced of the impracticability of his ſcheme. Her whole buſineſs, therefore, now, was to retract her offer, and eſcape from the houſe.

‘"I ſee, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, when he turned from his ſervant, ‘"that I cannot be receiv⯑ed here without inconvenience, and there⯑fore I will make ſome new arrangement in my plan."’

‘"No, no,"’ cried he, ‘"like to have you, 'tis but fair, all in our turn; won't be chouſed; Maſter Harrel's had his ſhare. Sorry could not get you that ſweet-heart! would not bite; ſoon find out another; never fret."’

‘"But there are ſo many things with which I cannot poſſibly diſpenſe,"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, ‘"that I am certain my removing hither would occaſion you far more trouble than you at preſent forefee."’

‘"No, no; get all in order ſoon: go about myſelf; know how to bid; under⯑ſtand trap; always go ſhabby; no making a bargain in a good coat. Look ſharp at [96] the goods; ſay they won't do; come away; ſend ſomebody elſe for 'em. Never go twice myſelf; nothing got cheap if one ſeems to have a hankering."’

‘"But I am ſure it is not poſſible,"’ ſaid Cecilia, hurrying down ſtairs, ‘"that my room, and one for each of my ſervants, ſhould be ready in time."’

‘"Yes, yes,"’ cried he, following her, ‘"ready in a trice. Make a little ſhift at firſt; double the blanket till we get ano⯑ther; lie with the maid a night or two; never ſtand for a trifle."’

And, when ſhe was ſeated in her chair, the whole time diſclaiming her intention of returning, he only pinched her cheek with a facetious ſmirk, and ſaid ‘"By, by, little duck; come again ſoon. Warrant I'll have the room ready. Sha'n't half know it again; make it as ſmart as a carrot."’

And then ſhe left the houſe; fully ſatis⯑fied that no one could blame her refuſing to inhabit it, and much leſs chagrined than ſhe was willing to ſuppoſe herſelf, in find⯑ing ſhe had now no reſource but in the Del⯑viles.

Yet, in her ſerious reflections, ſhe could not but think herſelf ſtrangely unfortunate that the guardian with whom alone it ſeem⯑ed proper for her to reſide, ſhould by parſi⯑mony, vulgarity, and meanneſs, render riches [97] contemptible, proſperity unavailing, and oeconomy odious: and that the choice of her uncle ſhould thus unhappily have fallen upon the loweſt and moſt wretched of miſers, in a city abounding with opulence, hoſpitality, and ſplendour, and of which the principal inhabitants, long eminent for their wealth and their probity, were now almoſt univerſally riſing in elegance and libera⯑lity.

CHAP. IX. A DECLARATION.

CECILIA's next progreſs, therefore, was to St. James's-ſquare, whither ſhe went in the utmoſt anxiety, from her un⯑certainty of the reception with which her propoſal would meet.

The ſervants informed her that Mr. and Mrs. Delvile were at breakfaſt, and that the Duke of Derwent and his two daughters were with them.

Before ſuch witneſſes to relate the rea⯑ſons of her leaving the Harrels was impoſ⯑ſible; and from ſuch a party to ſend for Mrs. Delvile, would, by her ſtately guar⯑dian, be deemed an indecorum unpardon⯑able. She was obliged, therefore, to return to Portman-ſquare, in order to open her cauſe in a letter to Mrs. Delvile.

Mr. Arnott, flying inſtantly to meet her, called out ‘"O madam, what alarm has your abſence occaſioned! My ſiſter believed ſhe ſhould ſee you no more, Mr. Harrel feared a premature diſcovery of his purpoſed re⯑treat, and we have all been under the cru⯑eleſt apprehenſions leſt you meant not to come back."’

[99] ‘"I am ſorry I ſpoke not with you before I went out,"’ ſaid Cecilia, accompanying him to the library, ‘"but I thought you were all too much occupied to miſs me. I have been, indeed, preparing for a removal, but I meant not to leave your ſiſter without bidding her adieu, nor, indeed, to quit any part of the family with ſo little ceremony. Is Mr. Harrel ſtill firm to his laſt plan?"’

‘"I fear ſo! I have tried what is poſſible to diſſuade him, and my poor ſiſter has wept without ceaſing. Indeed, if ſhe will take no conſolation, I believe I ſhall do what ſhe pleaſes, for I cannot bear the ſight of her in ſuch diſtreſs."’

‘"You are too generous, and too good!"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"and I know not how, while flying from danger myſelf, to forbear coun⯑ſelling you to avoid it alſo."’

‘"Ah madam!"’ cried he, ‘"the greateſt danger for me is what I have now no power to run from!"’

Cecilia, though ſhe could not but un⯑derſtand him, felt not the leſs his friend for knowing him the humbleſt of her admirers; and as ſhe ſaw the threatening ruin to which his too great tenderneſs expoſed him, ſhe kindly ſaid ‘"Mr. Arnott, I will ſpeak to you without reſerve. It is not difficult to ſee that the deſtruction which awaits Mr. Harrel, is ready alſo to enſnare his brother-in-law: [100] but let not that blindneſs to the future which we have ſo often lamented for him, hereafter be lamented for yourſelf. Till his preſent connexions are broken, and his way of living is changed, nothing can be done for him, and whatever you were to advance, would merely be ſunk at the gam⯑ing table. Reſerve, therefore, your libera⯑lity till it may indeed be of ſervice to him, for believe me, at preſent, his mind is as much injured as his fortune."’

‘"And is it poſſible, madam,"’ ſaid Mr. Arnott, in an accent of ſurprize and de⯑light, ‘"that you can deign to be intereſted in what may become of me! and that my ſharing or eſcaping the ruin of this houſe is not wholly indifferent to you?"’

‘"Certainly not,"’ anſwered Cecilia; ‘"as the brother of my earlieſt friend, I can ne⯑ver be inſenſible to your welfare."’

‘"Ah madam!"’ cried he, ‘"as her bro⯑ther!—Oh that there were any other tie!—"’

‘"Think a little,"’ ſaid Cecilia, prepar⯑ing to quit the room, ‘"of what I have mentioned, and, for your ſiſter's ſake, be firm now, if you would be kind hereafter."’

‘"I will be any and every thing,"’ cried he, ‘"that Miſs Beverley will command."’

Cecilia, fearful of any miſinterpretation, then came back, and gravely ſaid, ‘"No, [101] Sir, be ruled only by your own judgment: or, ſhould my advice have any weight with you, remember it is given from the moſt diſintereſted motives, and with no other view than that of ſecuring your power to be of ſervice to your ſiſter."’

‘"For that ſiſter's ſake, then, have the goodneſs to hear my ſituation, and honour me with further directions."’

‘"You will make me fear to ſpeak,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"if you give ſo much conſequence to my opinion. I have ſeen, however, no⯑thing in your conduct I have ever wiſhed changed, except too little attention to your own intereſt and affairs."’

‘"Ah!"’ cried he, ‘"with what rapture ſhould I hear thoſe words, could I but ima⯑gine—"’

‘"Come, come,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſmiling, ‘"no digreſſion! You called me back to talk of your ſiſter; if you change your ſub⯑ject, perhaps you may loſe your auditor."’

‘"I would not, madam, for the world encroach upon your goodneſs; the favour I have found has indeed always exceeded my expectations, as it has always ſurpaſſed my deſert: yet has it never blinded me to my own unworthineſs. Do not, then, fear to indulge me with your converſation; I ſhall draw from it no inference but of pity, and though pity from Miſs Beverley is the [102] ſweeteſt balm to my heart, it ſhall never ſe⯑duce me to the encouragement of higher hopes."’

Cecilia had long had reaſon to expect ſuch a declaration, yet ſhe heard it with un⯑affected concern, and looking at him with the utmoſt gentleneſs, ſaid ‘"Mr. Arnott, your regard does me honour, and, were it ſomewhat more rational, would give me pleaſure; take, then, from it what is more than I wiſh or merit, and, while you pre⯑ſerve the reſt, be aſſured it will be faith⯑fully returned."’

‘"Your rejection is ſo mild,"’ cried he, ‘"that I, who had no hope of acceptance, find relief in having at laſt told my ſuffer⯑ings. Could I but continue to ſee you every day, and to be bleſt with your converſation, I think I ſhould be happy, and I am ſure I ſhould be grateful."’

‘"You are already,"’ anſwered ſhe, ſhak⯑ing her head, and moving towards the door, ‘"infringing the conditions upon which our friendſhip is to be founded."’

‘"Do not go, madam,"’ he cried, ‘"till I have done what you have juſt promiſed to permit, acquainted you with my ſituation, and been honoured with your advice. I muſt own to you, then, that 5000l. which I had in the ſtocks, as well as a conſiderable ſum in a banker's hands, I have parted with, [103] as I now find for ever: but I have no heart for refuſal, nor would my ſiſter at this mo⯑ment be thus diſtreſſed, but that I have no⯑thing more to give without I cut down my trees, or ſell ſome farm, ſince all I was worth, except my landed property, is al⯑ready gone. What, therefore, I can now do to ſave Mr. Harrel from this deſperate expedition I know not."’

‘"I am ſorry,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"to ſpeak with ſeverity of one ſo nearly connected with you, yet, ſuffer me to aſk, why ſhould he be ſaved from it at all? and what is there he can at preſent do better? Has not he long been threatened with every evil that is now arrived? have we not both warned him, and have not the clamours of his cre⯑ditors aſſailed him? yet what has been the conſequence? he has not ſubmitted to the ſmalleſt change in his way of life, he has not denied himſelf a ſingle indulgence, nor ſpared any expence, nor thought of any re⯑formation. Luxury has followed luxury, and he has only grown fonder of extrava⯑gance, as extravagance has become more dangerous. Till the preſent ſtorm, there⯑fore, blows over, leave him to his fate, and when a calm ſucceeds, I will myſelf, for the ſake of Priſcilla, aid you to ſave what is poſſible of the wreck."’

‘"All you ſay, madam, is as wiſe as it [104] is good, and now I am acquainted with your opinion, I will wholly new model my⯑ſelf upon it, and grow as ſteady againſt all attacks as hitherto I have been yielding."’

Cecilia was then retiring; but again de⯑taining her, he ſaid ‘"You ſpoke, madam, of a removal, and indeed it is high time you ſhould quit this ſcene: yet I hope you in⯑tend not to go till to-morrow, as Mr. Har⯑rel has declared your leaving him ſooner will be his deſtruction."’

‘"Heaven forbid,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"for I mean to be gone with all the ſpeed in my power."’

‘"Mr. Harrel,"’ anſwered he, ‘"did not explain himſelf; but I believe he appre⯑hends your deſerting his houſe at this criti⯑cal time, will raiſe a ſuſpicion of his own deſign of going abroad, and make his cre⯑ditors interfere to prevent him."’

‘"To what a wretched ſtate,"’ cried Ce⯑cilia, ‘"has he reduced himſelf! I will not, however, be the voluntary inſtrument of his diſgrace; and if you think my ſtay is ſo material to his ſecurity, I will continue here till to-morrow morning."’

Mr. Arnott almoſt wept his thanks for this conceſſion, and Cecilia, happy in mak⯑ing it to him inſtead of Mr. Harrel, then went to her own room, and wrote the fol⯑lowing letter to Mrs. Delvile.

She would not have been thus conciſe, had not the caution of Mr. Arnott made her fear, in the preſent perilous ſituation of [106] affairs, to truſt the ſecret of Mr. Harrel to paper.

The following anſwer was returned her from Mrs. Delvile.

Cecilia, charmed with this note, could now no longer forbear looking forward to brighter proſpects, ſlattering herſelf that once under the roof of Mrs. Delvile, ſhe muſt neceſſarily be happy, let the engage⯑ments or behaviour of her ſon be what they might.

CHAP. X. A GAMESTER'S CONSCIENCE.

FROM this ſoothing proſpect, Cecilia was preſently diſturbed by Mrs. Har⯑rel's maid, who came to entreat ſhe would haſten to her lady, whom ſhe feared was going into fits.

Cecilia flew to her immediately, and found her in the moſt violent affliction. She uſed every kind effort in her power to quiet and conſole her, but it was not without the utmoſt difficulty ſhe could ſob out the cauſe of this freſh ſorrow, which indeed was not trifling. Mr. Harrel, ſhe ſaid, had told her he could not poſſibly raiſe money even for his travelling expenses, without riſking a diſcovery of his project, and being ſeized by his creditors: he had therefore charged her, through her brother or her friend, to pro⯑cure for him 3000l. as leſs would not ſuf⯑fice to maintain them while abroad, and he knew no method by which he could have any remittances without danger. And, when ſhe heſitated in her compliance, he ſuriouſly accuſed her of having brought on [108] all this diſtreſs by her negligence and want of management, and declared that if ſhe did not get the money, ſhe would only be ſerv⯑ed as ſhe merited by ſtarving in a foreign gaol, which he ſwore would be the fate of them both.

The horror and indignation with which Cecilia heard this account were unſpeak⯑able. She ſaw evidently that ſhe was again to be played upon by terror and diſtreſs, and the cautions and opinions of Mr. Monckton no longer appeared overſtrained; one year's income was already demanded, the annuity and the country houſe might next be required: ſhe rejoiced, however, that thus wiſely forwarned, ſhe was not liable to ſurpriſe, and ſhe determined, be their en⯑treaties or repreſentations what they might, to be immovably ſteady in her purpoſe of leaving them the next morning.

Yet ſhe could not but grieve at ſuffering the whole burthen of this clamorous impo⯑ſition to fall upon the ſoft-hearted Mr. Ar⯑nott, whoſe inability to reſiſt ſolicitation made him ſo unequal to ſuſtaining its weight: but when Mrs. Harrel was again able to go on with her account, ſhe heard, to her infinite ſurpriſe, that all application to her brother had proved fruitleſs. ‘"He will not hear me,"’ continued Mrs. Harrel, ‘"and he never was deaf to me before! ſo [109] now I have loſt my only and laſt reſource, my brother himſelf gives me up, and there is no one elſe upon earth who will aſſiſt me!"’

‘"With pleaſure, with readineſs, with joy,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"ſhould you find aſ⯑ſiſtance from me, were it to you alone it were given; but to ſupply fewel for the very fire that is conſuming you—no, no, my whole heart is hardened againſt gaming and gameſters, and neither now or ever will I ſuffer any conſideration to ſoften me in their favour."’

Mrs. Harrel only anſwered by tears and lamentations; and Cecilia, whoſe juſtice ſhut not out compaſſion, having now de⯑clared her purpoſed firmneſs, again attempt⯑ed to ſooth her, entreating her not to give way to ſuch immoderate grief, ſince better proſpects might ariſe from the very gloom now before her, and a ſhort time ſpent in ſolitude and oeconomy, might enable her to return to her native land with recovered happineſs.

‘"No, I ſhall never return!"’ cried ſhe, weeping, ‘"I ſhall die, I ſhall break my heart before I have been baniſhed a month! Oh Miſs Beverley, how happy are you! able to ſtay where you pleaſe,—rich,—rol⯑ling in wealth which you do not want,—of which had we but one year's income only, [110] all this miſery would be over, and we might ſtay in our dear, dear country!"’

Cecilia, ſtruck by a hint that ſo nearly bordered upon reproach, and offended by ſeeing the impoſſibility of ever doing enough, while any thing remained to be done, forbore not without difficulty en⯑quiring what next was expected from her, and whether any part of her fortune might be guarded, without giving room for ſome cenſure! but the deep affliction of Mrs. Harrel ſoon removed her reſentment, and ſcarcely thinking her, while in a ſtate of ſuch wretchedneſs, anſwerable for what ſhe ſaid, after a little recollection, ſhe mildly replied ‘"As affluence is all comparative, you may at preſent think I have more than my ſhare: but the time is only this moment paſt, when your own ſituation ſeemed as ſubject to the envy of others as mine may be now. My future deſtiny is yet unde⯑termined, and the occaſion I may have for my fortune is unknown to myſelf; but whether I poſſeſs it in peace or in turbul⯑ence, whether it proves to me a bleſſing or an injury, ſo long as I can call it my own, I ſhall always remember with alacrity the claim upon that and upon me which early friendſhip has ſo juſtly given Mrs. Harrel. Yet permit me, at the ſame time, to add, that I do not hold myſelf ſo entirely inde⯑pendent [111] as you may probably ſuppoſe me. I have not, it is true, any Relations to call me to account, but reſpect for their memo⯑ry ſupplies the place of their authority, and I cannot, in the diſtribution of the fortune which has devolved to me, forbear ſome⯑times conſidering how they would have wiſhed it ſhould be ſpent, and always re⯑membering that what was acquired by in⯑duſtry and labour, ſhould never be diſſipat⯑ed in idleneſs and vanity. Forgive me for thus ſpeaking to the point; you will not find me leſs friendly to yourſelf, for this frankneſs with reſpect to your ſituation."’

Tears were again the only anſwer of Mrs. Harrel; yet Cecilia, who pitied the weak⯑neſs of her mind, ſtayed by her with the moſt patient kindneſs till the ſervants an⯑nounced dinner. She then declared ſhe would not go down ſtairs: but Cecilia ſo ſtrongly repreſented the danger of awaken⯑ing ſuſpicion in the ſervants, that ſhe at laſt prevailed with her to make her appearance.

Mr. Harrel was already in the parlour, and enquiring for Mr. Arnott, but was told by the ſervants he had ſent word he had another engagement. Sir Robert Floyer alſo kept away, and, for the firſt time ſince her arrival in town, Cecilia dined with no other company than the maſter and miſtreſs of the houſe.

[112] Mrs. Harrel could eat nothing; Cecilia, merely to avoid creating ſurpriſe in the ſer⯑vants, forbore following her example; but Mr. Harrel eat much as uſual, talked all dinner-time, was extremely civil to Cecilia, and diſcovered not by his manners the leaſt alteration in his affairs.

When the ſervants were gone, he deſired his wife to ſtep for a moment with him into the library. They ſoon returned, and then Mr. Harrel, after walking in a diſordered manner about the room, rang the bell, and ordered his hat and cane, and as he took them, ſaid ‘"If this fails—"’ and, ſtopping ſhort, without ſpeaking to his wife, or even bowing to Cecilia, he haſtily went out of the houſe.

Mrs. Harrel told Cecilia that he had merely called her to know the event of her two petitions, and had heard her double failure in total ſilence. Whither he was now gone it was not eaſy to conjecture, nor what was the new reſource which he ſtill ſeemed to think worth trying; but the manner of his quitting the houſe, and the threat implied by if this fails, contributed not to leſſen the grief of Mrs. Harrel, and gave to Cecilia herſelf the utmoſt alarm.

They continued together till tea-time, the ſervants having been ordered to admit no company. Mr. Harrel himſelf then re⯑turned, [113] and returned, to the amazement of Cecilia, accompanied by Mr. Marriot.

He preſented that young man to both the ladies as a gentleman whoſe acquaintance and friendſhip he was very deſirous to cul⯑tivate. Mrs. Harrel, too much abſorbed in her own affairs to care about any other, ſaw his entrance with a momentary ſurpriſe, and then thought of it no more: but it was not ſo with Cecilia, whoſe better under⯑ſtanding led her to deeper reflection.

Even the viſits of Mr. Marriot but a few weeks ſince Mr. Harrel had prohibited, yet he now introduced him into his houſe with particular diſtinction; he came back too himſelf in admirable ſpirits, enlivened in his countenance, and reſtored to his good humour. A change ſo extraordinary both in conduct and diſpoſition, convinced her that ſome change no leſs extraordinary of circumſtance muſt previouſly have happen⯑ed: what that might be it was not poſſible for her to divine, but the leſſons ſhe had re⯑ceived from Mr. Monckton led her to ſuſ⯑picions of the darkeſt kind.

Every part of his behaviour ſerved ſtill further to confirm them; he was civil even to exceſs to Mr. Marriot; he gave orders aloud not to be at home to Sir Robert Floy⯑er; he made his court to Cecilia with unu⯑ſual aſſiduity, and he took every method in [114] his power to procure opportunity to her ad⯑mirer of addreſſing and approaching her.

The young man, who ſeemed enamoured even to madneſs, could ſcarce refrain not merely from proſtration to the object of his paſſion, but to Mr. Harrel himſelf for per⯑mitting him to ſee her. Cecilia, who not without ſome concern perceived a fondneſs ſo fruitleſs, and who knew not by what arts or with what views Mr. Harrel might think proper to encourage it, determined to take all the means that were in her own power towards giving it immediate control. She behaved, therefore, with the utmoſt reſerve, and the moment tea was over, though ear⯑neſtly entreated to remain with them, ſhe re⯑tired to her own room, without making any other apology than coldly ſaying ſhe could not ſtay.

In about an hour Mrs. Harrel ran up ſtairs to her.

‘"Oh Miſs Beverley,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"a little reſpite is now granted me! Mr. Harrel ſays he ſhall ſtay another day; he ſays, too, one ſingle thouſand pound would now make him a new man."’

Cecilia returned no anſwer; ſhe conjec⯑tured ſome new deceit was in agitation to raiſe money, and ſhe feared Mr. Marriot was the next dupe to be played upon.

Mrs. Harrel, therefore, with a look of [115] the utmoſt diſappointment, left her, ſaying ſhe would ſend for her brother, and once more try if he had yet any remaining regard for her.

Cecilia reſted quiet till eleven o'clock, when ſhe was ſummoned to ſupper: ſhe found Mr. Marriot ſtill the only gueſt, and that Mr. Arnott made not his appearance.

She now reſolved to publiſh her reſolu⯑tion of going the next morning to St. James's-ſquare. As ſoon, therefore, as the ſervants withdrew, ſhe enquired of Mr. Harrel if he had any commands with Mr. or Mrs. Delvile, as ſhe ſhould ſee them the next morning, and purpoſed to ſpend ſome time with them.

Mr. Harrel, with a look of much alarm, aſked if ſhe meant the whole day.

Many days, ſhe anſwered, and probably ſome months.

Mrs. Harrel exclaimed her ſurpriſe aloud, and Mr. Harrel looked aghaſt: while his new young friend caſt upon him a glance of reproach and reſentment, which fully con⯑vinced Cecilia he imagined he had procur⯑ed himſelf a title to an eaſineſs of inter⯑courſe and frequency of meeting which this intelligence deſtroyed.

Cecilia, thinking after all that had paſſed, no other ceremony on her part was neceſ⯑ſary but that of ſimply ſpeaking her inten⯑tion, [116] then aroſe and returned to her own room.

She acquainted her maid that ſhe was go⯑ing to make a viſit to Mrs. Delvile, and gave her directions about packing up her clothes, and ſending for a man in the morn⯑ing to take care of her books.

This employment was ſoon interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Harrel, who deſir⯑ing to ſpeak with her alone, when the maid was gone, ſaid ‘"O Miſs Beverley, can you indeed be ſo barbarous as to leave me?"’

‘"I entreat you, Mrs. Harrel,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"to ſave both yourſelf and me any further diſcuſſions. I have delayed this removal very long, and I can now delay it no longer."’

Mrs. Harrel then flung herſelf upon a chair in the bittereſt ſorrow, declaring ſhe was utterly undone; that Mr. Harrel had declared he could not ſtay even an hour in England if ſhe was not in his houſe; that he had already had a violent quarrel with Mr. Marriot upon the ſubject; and that her brother, though ſhe had ſent him the moſt earneſt entreaties, would not come near her.

Cecilia, tired of vain attempts to offer comfort, now urged the warmeſt expoſtula⯑tions againſt her oppoſition, ſtrongly repre⯑ſenting the real neceſſity of her going abroad, and the unpardonable weakneſs of wiſhing [117] to continue ſuch a life as ſhe now led, ad⯑ding debt to debt, and hoarding diſtreſs upon diſtreſs.

Mrs. Harrel then, though rather from compulſion than conviction, declared ſhe would agree to go, if ſhe had not a dread of ill uſage; but Mr. Harrel, ſhe ſaid, had behaved to her with the utmoſt brutality, calling her the cauſe of his ruin, and threat⯑ening that if ſhe procured not this thouſand pound before the enſuing evening, ſhe ſhould be treated as ſhe deſerved for her extrava⯑gance and folly.

‘"Does he think, then,"’ ſaid Cecilia with the utmoſt indignation, ‘"that I am to be frightened through your fears into what compliances he pleaſes?"’

‘"O no,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"no; his expectations are all from my brother. He ſurely thought that when I ſupplicated and pleaded to him, he would do what I wiſh⯑ed, for ſo he always did formerly, and ſo once again I am ſure he would do now, could I but make him come to me, and tell him how I am uſed, and tell him that if Mr. Harrel takes me abroad in this humour, I verily think in his rage he will half mur⯑der me."’

Cecilia, who well knew ſhe was herſelf the real cauſe of Mr. Arnott's reſiſtance, now felt her reſolution waver, internally re⯑proaching [118] herſelf with the ſufferings of his ſiſter; alarmed, however, for her own con⯑ſtancy, ſhe earneſtly beſought Mrs. Harrel to go and compoſe herſelf for the night, and promiſed to deliberate what could be done for her before morning.

Mrs. Harrel complied; but ſcarce was her own reſt more broken than that of Ce⯑cilia, who, though extremely fatigued with a whole night's watching, was ſo perturbed in her mind ſhe could not cloſe her eyes. Mrs. Harrel was her earlieſt, and had once been her deareſt friend; ſhe had deprived her by her own advice of her cuſtomary re⯑fuge in her brother; to refuſe, therefore, aſſiſtance to her ſeemed cruelty, though to deny it to Mr. Harrel was juſtice: ſhe en⯑deavoured, therefore, to make a compromiſe between her judgment and compaſſion, by reſolving that though ſhe would grant no⯑thing further to Mr. Harrel while he re⯑mained in London, ſhe would contribute from time to time both to his neceſſities and comfort, when once he was eſtabliſhed elſewhere upon ſome plan of prudence and oeconomy.

CHAP. XI. A PERSECUTION.

THE next morning by five o'clock Mrs. Harrel came into Cecilia's room to know the reſult of her deliberation; and Cecilia, with that graceful readineſs which accompanied all her kind offices, inſtantly aſſured her the thouſand pound ſhould be her own, if ſhe would conſent to ſeek ſome quiet retreat, and receive it in ſmall ſums, of fifty or one hundred pounds at a time, which ſhould be carefully tranſmitted, and which, by being delivered to herſelf, might ſecure better treatment from Mr. Harrel, and be a motive to revive his care and af⯑fection.

She flew, much delighted, with this pro⯑poſal to her huſband; but preſently, and with a dejected look, returning, ſaid Mr. Harrel proteſted he could not poſſibly ſet out without firſt receiving the money. ‘"I ſhall go myſelf, therefore,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"to my brother after breakfaſt, for he will not, I ſee, unkind as he is grown, come to me; and if I do not ſucceed with him, I believe I ſhall never come back!"’

[120] To this Cecilia, offended and diſappoint⯑ed, anſwered ‘"I am ſorry for Mr. Arnott, but for myſelf I have done!"’

Mrs. Harrel then left her, and ſhe aroſe to make immediate preparations for her re⯑moval to St. James's-ſquare, whither, with all the ſpeed in her power, ſhe ſent her books, her trunks, and all that belonged to her.

When ſhe was ſummoned down ſtairs, ſhe found, for the firſt time, Mr. Harrel breakfaſting at the ſame table with his wife: they ſeemed mutually out of hu⯑mour and comfortleſs, nothing hardly was ſpoken, and little was ſwallowed: Mr. Harrel, however, was civil, but his wife was totally ſilent, and Cecilia the whole time was planning how to take her leave.

When the tea things were removed, Mr. Harrel ſaid ‘"You have not, I hope, Miſs Beverley, quite determined upon this ſtrange ſcheme?"’

‘"Indeed I have, Sir,"’ ſhe anſwered, ‘"and already I have ſent my clothes."’

At this information he ſeemed thunder⯑ſtruck; but, after ſomewhat recovering, ſaid with much bitterneſs ‘"Well, madam, at leaſt may I requeſt you will ſtay here till the evening?"’

‘"No, Sir,"’ anſwered ſhe coolly, ‘"I am going inſtantly."’

[121] ‘"And will you not,"’ ſaid he, with yet greater aſperity, ‘"amuſe yourſelf firſt with ſeeing bailiffs take poſſeſſion of my houſe, and your friend Priſcilla follow me to Jail?"’

‘"Good God, Mr. Harrel!"’ exclaimed Cecilia, with uplifted hands, ‘"is this a queſtion, is this behaviour I have me⯑rited!"’

‘"O no,!"’ cried he with quickneſs, ‘"ſhould I once think that way—"’ then riſing and ſtriking his forehead, he walked about the room.

Mrs. Harrel aroſe too, and weeping vio⯑lently went away.

‘"Will you at leaſt,"’ ſaid Cecilia, when ſhe was gone, ‘"till your affairs are ſettled, leave Priſcilla with me? When I go into my own houſe, ſhe ſhall accompany me, and mean time Mr. Arnott's I am ſure will gladly be open to her."’

‘"No, no,"’ anſwered he, ‘"ſhe deſerves no ſuch indulgence; ſhe has not any rea⯑ſon to complain, ſhe has been as negligent, as profuſe, as expenſive as myſelf; ſhe has practiſed neither oeconomy nor ſelf-denial, ſhe has neither thought of me nor my af⯑fairs, nor is ſhe now afflicted at any thing but the loſs of that affluence ſhe has done her beſt towards diminiſhing."’

‘"All recrimination,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"were [122] vain, or what might not Mrs. Harrel urge in return! but let us not enlarge upon ſo ungrateful a ſubject, the wiſeſt and the happieſt ſcheme now were mutually and kindly to conſole each other."’

‘"Conſolation and kindneſs,"’ cried he, with abruptneſs, ‘"are out of the queſ⯑tion. I have ordered a poſt chaiſe to be here at night, and if till then you will ſtay, I will promiſe to releaſe you without further petition: if not, eternal deſtruction be my portion if I live to ſee the ſcene which your removal will occaſion!"’

‘"My removal!"’ cried Cecilia, ſhudder⯑ing, ‘"good heaven, and how can my remo⯑val be of ſuch dreadful conſequence?’

‘"Aſk me not,"’ cried he, fiercely, ‘"queſ⯑tions or reaſons [...]ow; the criſis is at hand, and you will ſoon, happen what may, know all: mean time what I have ſaid is a fact, and immutable: and you muſt haſten my end, or give me a chance for avoiding it, as you think fit. I ſcarce care at this inſtant which way you decide: remember, however, all I aſk of you is to defer your departure; what elſe I have to hope is from Mr. Arnott."’

He then left the room.

Cecilia now was again a coward! In vain ſhe called to her ſupport the advice, the propheſies, the cautions of Mr. Monkton, [123] in vain ſhe recollected the impoſitions ſhe had already ſeen practiſed, for neither the warnings of her counſellor, nor the leſ⯑ſons of her own experience, were proofs a⯑gainſt the terrors which threats ſo deſperate inſpired: and though more than once ſhe determined to fly at all events from a ty⯑ranny he had ſo little right to uſurp, the mere remembrance of the words if you ſtay not till night I will not live, robbed her of all courage; and however long ſhe had prepared herſelf for this very attack, when the moment arrived, its power over her mind was too ſtrong for reſiſtance.

While this conflict between fear and reſolution was ſtill undecided, her ſervant brought her the following letter from Mr. Arnott.

In the midſt of her apprehenſions for herſelf and her own intereſt, Cecilia could not forbear rejoicing that Mr. Arnott, at leaſt, had eſcaped the preſent ſtorm: yet ſhe was certain it would fall the more heavily upon herſelf, and dreaded the ſight of Mrs. Harrel after the ſhock which this flight would occaſion.

Her expectations were but too quickly fulfilled: Mrs. Harrel in a ſhort time after ruſhed wildly into the room, calling out ‘"My brother is gone! he has left me for ever! Oh ſave me, Miſs Beverley, ſave me from abuſe and inſult!"’ And ſhe wept with ſo much violence ſhe could utter nothing more.

Cecilia, quite tortured by this perſecu⯑tion, faintly aſked what ſhe could do for her?

‘"Send,"’ cried ſhe ‘"to my brother, and beſeech him not to abandon me! ſend to him, and conjure him to advance this thou⯑ſand pound!—the chaiſe is already order⯑ed, [125] —Mr. Harrel is fixed upon going,—yet he ſays without that money we muſt both ſtarve in a ſtrange land,—O ſend to my cruel brother! he has left word that nothing muſt follow him that does not come from you."’

‘"For the world, then,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"would I not baffle his diſcretion! indeed you muſt ſubmit to your fate, indeed Mrs. Harrel you muſt endeavour to bear it better."’

Mrs. Harrel, ſhedding a flood of tears, declared ſhe would try to follow her advice, but again beſought her in the utmoſt agony to ſend after her brother, proteſting ſhe did not think even her life would be ſafe in making ſo long a journey with Mr. Harrel in his preſent ſtate of mind: his character, ſhe ſaid, was totally changed, his gaiety, good humour and ſprightlineſs were turned into roughneſs and moroſeneſs, and, ſince his great loſſes at play, he was grown ſo fierce and furious, that to oppoſe him even in a trifle, rendered him quite out⯑rageous in paſſion

Cecilia, though truly concerned, and al⯑moſt melted, yet refuſed to interfere with Mr. Arnott, and even thought it but juſtice to acknowledge ſhe had adviſed his retreat.

‘"And can you have been ſo cruel?"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, with ſtill encreaſing vio⯑lence [126] of ſorrow, ‘"to rob me of my only friend, to deprive me of my Brother's affec⯑tion, at the very time I am forced out of the kingdom, with a huſband who is ready to murder me, and who ſays he hates the ſight of me, and all becauſe I cannot get him this fatal, fatal money!—O Miſs Be⯑verley, how could I have thought to have had ſuch an office from you?"’

Cecilia was beginning a juſtification, when a meſſage came from Mr. Harrel, deſiring to ſee his wife immediately.

Mrs. Harrel, in great terror, caſt her⯑ſelf at Cecilia's feet, and clinging to her knees, called out ‘"I dare not go to him! I dare not go to him! he wants to know my ſucceſs, and when he hears my brother is run away, I am ſure he will kill me!—Oh Miſs Beverley, how could you ſend him away? how could you be ſo inhuman as to leave me to the rage of Mr. Harrel?"’

Cecilia, diſtreſſed and trembling herſelf, conjured her to riſe and be conſoled; but Mrs. Harrel, weak and frightened, could only weep and ſupplicate; ‘"I don't aſk you,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"to give the money your⯑ſelf, but only to ſend for my brother, that he may protect me, and beg Mr Harrel not to treat me ſo cruelly,—conſider but what a long, long journey I am going to make! conſider how often you uſed to ſay you [127] would love me for ever! conſider you have robbed me of the tendereſt brother in the world!—Oh Miſs Beverley, ſend for him back, or be a ſiſter to me yourſelf, and let not your poor Priſcilla leave her native land without help or pity?"’

Cecilia, wholly overcome, now knelt too, and embracing her with tears, ſaid ‘"Oh Priſcilla, plead and reproach no more! what you wiſh ſhall be yours,—I will ſend for your brother,—I will do what you pleaſe!"’

‘"Now you are my friend indeed!"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"let me but ſee my brother, and his heart will yield to my diſtreſs, and he will ſoften Mr. Harrel by giving his un⯑happy ſiſter this parting bounty."’

Cecilia then took a pen in her hand to write to Mr. Arnott; but ſtruck almoſt in the ſame moment with a notion of treachery in calling him from a retreat which her own counſel had made him ſeek, profeſſed⯑ly to expoſe him to a ſupplication which from his preſent ſituation might lead him to ruin, ſhe haſtily flung it from her, and exclaimed ‘"No, excellent Mr. Arnott, I will not ſo unworthily betray you!"’

‘"And can you, Miſs Beverley, can you [...]t laſt,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"be ſo barba⯑ [...]ous as to retract?"’

[128] ‘"No, my poor Priſcilla,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"I cannot ſo cruelly diſappoint you; my pity ſhall however make no ſufferer but myſelf,—I cannot ſend for Mr. Arnott,—from me you muſt have the money, and may it anſwer the purpoſe for which it is given, and reſtore to you the tenderneſs of your huſband, and the peace of your own heart!"’

Priſcilla, ſcarce waiting to thank her, flew with this intelligence to Mr. Harrel; who with the ſame impetuoſity, ſcarce waiting to ſay he was glad of it, ran himſelf to bring the Jew from whom the money was to be procured. Every thing was ſoon ſettled, Cecilia had no time for retracting, and re⯑pentance they had not the delicacy to regard: again, therefore, ſhe ſigned her name for paying the principal and intereſt of another 1000l. within ten days after ſhe was of age: and having taken the money, ſhe accom⯑panied Mr. and Mrs. Harrel into another room. Preſenting it then with an affecting ſolemnity to Mrs. Harrel, ‘"accept, Priſcil⯑la,"’ ſhe cried, ‘this irrefragable mark of the ſincerity of my friendſhip: but ſuffer me at the ſame time to tell you, it is the laſt to ſo conſiderable an amount I ever mean to offer; receive it, therefore, with kindneſs, but uſe it with diſcretion."’

She then embraced her, and eager now [129] to avoid acknowledgement, as before ſhe had been to eſcape importunities, ſhe left them together.

The ſoothing recompenſe of ſuccouring benevolence, followed not this gift, nor made amends for this loſs: perplexity and uneaſineſs, regret and reſentment, accompa⯑nied the donation, and reſted upon her mind; ſhe feared ſhe had done wrong; ſhe was certain Mr. Monkton would blame her; he knew not the perſecution ſhe ſuffered, nor would he make any allowance for the threats which alarmed, or the intreaties which melted her.

Far other had been her feelings at the generoſity ſhe exerted for the Hills; no doubts then tormented her, and no repent⯑ance embittered her beneficence. Their worth was without ſuſpicion, and their miſ⯑fortunes were not of their own ſeeking; the poſt in which they had been ſtationed they had never deſerted, and the poverty into which they had ſunk was accidental and unavoidable.

But here, every evil had been wantonly incurred by vanity and licentiouſneſs, and ſhameleſsly followed by injuſtice and fraud: the diſturbance of her mind only increaſed by reflection, for when the rights of the creditors with their injuries occurred to her, ſhe enquired of herſelf by what title [130] or equity, ſhe had ſo liberally aſſiſted Mr. Harrel in eluding their claims, and fly⯑ing the puniſhment which the law would inflict.

Startled by this conſideration, ſhe moſt ſeverely reproached herſelf for a compliance of which ſhe had ſo lightly weighed the conſequences, and thought with the utmoſt diſmay, that while ſhe had flattered herſelf ſhe was merely indulging the dictates of humanity, ſhe might perhaps be accuſed by the world as an abettor of guile and in⯑juſtice.

‘"And yet,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"whom can I eſſentially have injured but myſelf? would his creditors have been benefitted by my refuſal? had I braved the execution of his dreadful threat, and quitted his houſe before I was wrought upon to aſſiſt him, would his ſuicide have leſſened their loſſes, or ſecured their demands? even if he had no intention but to intimidate me, who will be wronged by my enabling him to go abroad, or who would be better paid were he ſeized and confined? All that remains of his ſhat⯑tered fortune may ſtill be claimed, though I have ſaved him from a lingering impri⯑ſonment, deſperate for himſelf and his wife, and uſeleſs for thoſe he has plundered."’

And thus, now ſoothed by the purity of her intentions, and now uneaſy from the [131] rectitude of her principles, ſhe alternately rejoiced and repined at what ſhe had done.

At dinner Mr. Harrel was all civility and good humour. He warmly thanked Cecilia for the kindneſs ſhe had ſhewn him, and gaily added, ‘"You ſhould be abſolved from all the miſchief you may do for a twelvemonth to come, in reward for the pre⯑ſervation from miſchief which you have this day effected."’

‘"The preſervation,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"will I hope be for many days. But tell me, ſir, exactly, at what time I may acquaint Mrs. Delvile I ſhall wait upon her?"’

‘"Perhaps,"’ he anſwered, ‘"by eight o'⯑clock; perhaps by nine; you will not mind half an hour?"’

‘"Certainly not;"’ ſhe anſwered, unwil⯑ling by diſputing about a trifle to diminiſh his ſatisfaction in her aſſiſtance. She wrote, therefore, another note to Mrs. Delvile, deſiring ſhe would not expect her till near ten o'clock, and promiſing to account and apologize for theſe ſeeming caprices when ſhe had the honour of ſeeing her.

The reſt of the afternoon ſhe ſpent wholly in exhorting Mrs. Harrel to ſhew more fortitude, and conjuring her to ſtudy no⯑thing while abroad but oeconomy, prudence and houſewifry: a leſſon how hard for the thoughtleſs and negligent Priſcilla! ſhe [132] heard the advice with repugnance, and only anſwered it with helpleſs complaints that ſhe knew not how to ſpend leſs money than ſhe had always done.

After tea, Mr. Harrel, ſtill in high ſpirits, went out, entreating Cecilia to ſtay with Priſcilla till his return, which he promiſed ſhould be early.

Nine o'clock, however, came, and he did not appear; Cecilia then grew anxious to keep her appointment with Mrs. Delvile; but ten o'clock alſo came, and ſtill Mr. Harrel was abſent.

She then determined to wait no longer, and rang her bell for her ſervant and chair: but when Mrs. Harrel deſired to be infor⯑med the moment that Mr. Harrel returned, the man ſaid he had been come home more than half an hour.

Much ſurpriſed, ſhe enquired where he was.

‘"In his own room, madam, and gave orders not to be diſturbed."’

Cecilia, who was not much pleaſed at this account, was eaſily perſuaded to ſtay a few minutes longer; and, fearing ſome new evil, ſhe was going to ſend him a meſſage, by way of knowing how he was employed, when he came himſelf into the room.

‘"Well, ladies,"’ he cried in a hurrying manner, ‘"who is for Vauxhall?"’

[133] ‘"Vauxhall!"’ repeated Mrs. Harrel, while Cecilia, ſtaring, perceived in his face a look of perturbation that extremely alar⯑med her.

‘"Come, come,"’ he cried, ‘"we have no time to loſe. A hackney coach will ſerve us; we won't wait for our own."’

‘"Have you then given up going abroad?"’ ſaid Mrs. Harrel.

‘"No, no; where can we go from half ſo well? let us live while we live! I have ordered a chaiſe to be in waiting there. Come, let's be gone."’

‘"Firſt,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"let me wiſh you both good night."’

‘"Will you not go with me?’ "cried Mrs Harrel, ‘"how can I go to Vauxhall alone?"’

‘"You are not alone,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"but if I go, how am I to return?’

‘"She ſhall return with you,"’ cried Mr. Harrel, ‘if you deſire it; you ſhall return together."’

Mrs. Harrel, ſtarting up in rapture, called out ‘"Oh Mr. Harrel, will you indeed leave me in England?"’

‘"Yes,"’ anſwered he reproachfully, ‘"if you will make a better friend than you have made a wife, and if Miſs Beverley is content to take charge of you."’

‘"What can all this mean?"’ exclaimed Ce⯑cilia, [134] ‘"is it poſſible you can be ſerious? Are you really going yourſelf, and will you ſuffer Mrs. Harrel to remain?"’

‘"I am,"’ he anſwered, ‘"and I will."’

Then ringing the bell, he ordered a hackney coach.

Mrs Harrel was ſcarce able to breathe for extacy, nor Cecilia for amazement: while Mr. Harrel, attending to neither of them, walked for ſome time ſilently about the room.

‘"But how,"’ cried Cecilia at laſt, ‘"can I poſſibly go? Mrs. Delvile muſt already be aſtoniſhed at my delay, and if I diſap⯑point her again ſhe will hardly receive me."’

‘"O make not any difficulties,’ cried Mrs. Harrel in an agony; ‘"if Mr. Harrel will let me ſtay, ſure you will not be ſo cruel as to oppoſe him?"’

‘But why,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"ſhould either of us go to Vauxhall? ſurely that is no place for a parting ſo melancholy."’

A ſervant then came in, and ſaid the hackney coach was at the door.

Mr. Harrel, ſtarting at the ſound, called out, ‘"come, what do we wait for? if we go not immediately, we may be prevented."’

Cecilia then again wiſhed them good night, proteſting ſhe could fail Mrs. Delvile no longer.

Mrs. Harrel, half wild at this refuſal, [135] conjured her in the moſt frantic manner, to give way, exclaiming, ‘"Oh cruel! cruel! to deny me this laſt requeſt! I will kneel to you day and night,"’ ſinking upon the ground before her, ‘"and I will ſerve you as the humbleſt of your ſlaves, if you will but be kind in this laſt inſtance, and ſave me from baniſhment and miſery!"’

‘"Oh riſe, Mrs. Harrel,"’ cried Cecilia, aſhamed of her proſtration, and ſhocked by her vehemence, ‘"riſe and let me reſt!—it is painful to me to refuſe, but to comply for ever in defiance of my judgment—Oh Mrs. Harrel, I know no longer what is kind or what is cruel, nor have I known for ſome time paſt right from wrong, nor good from evil!"’

‘"Come,"’ cried Mr. Harrel impetuouſly, ‘"I wait not another minute!"’

‘"Leave her then with me!"’ ſaid Ce⯑cilia, ‘"I will perform my promiſe, Mr. Arnott will I am ſure hold his to be ſacred, ſhe ſhall now go with him, ſhe ſhall here⯑after come to me,—leave her but behind, and depend upon our care."’

‘"No, no,"’ cried he, with quickneſs, ‘"I muſt take care of her myſelf. I ſhall not carry her abroad with me, but the only legacy I can leave her, is a warning which I hope ſhe will remember for ever. You, how⯑ever, need not go."’

[136] ‘"What,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘leave me at Vauxhall, and yet leave me alone?"’

‘"What of that?"’ cried he with fierce⯑neſs, ‘"do you not deſire to be left? have you any regard for me? or for any thing upon earth but yourſelf! ceaſe theſe vain clamours, and come, I inſiſt upon it, this moment."’

And then, with a violent oath, he de⯑clared he would be detained no longer, and approached in great rage to ſeize her; Mrs. Harrel ſhrieked aloud, and the terrified Cecilia exclaimed, ‘"If indeed you are to part to night, part not thus dreadfully!—riſe, Mrs. Harrel, and comply!—be recon⯑ciled, be kind to her, Mr. Harrel!—and I will go with her myſelf,—we will all go together!"’

‘"And why,"’ cried Mr. Harrel, more gently yet with the utmoſt emotion, ‘"why ſhould you go!—you want no warning! you need no terror!—better far had you fly us, and my wife when I am ſet out may find you."’

Mrs. Harrel, however, ſuffered her not to recede; and Cecilia, though half diſ⯑tracted by the ſcenes of horror and per⯑plexity in which ſhe was perpetually en⯑gaged, ordered her ſervant to acquaint Mrs. Delvile ſhe was again compelled to defer waiting upon her.

[137] Mr. Harrel then hurried them both into the coach, which he directed to Vauxhall.

‘"Pray write to me when you are landed,"’ ſaid Mrs. Harrel, who now releaſed from her perſonal apprehenſions, began to feel ſome for her huſband.

He made not any anſwer. She then aſked to what part of France he meant to go: but ſtill he did not reply: and when ſhe urged him by a third queſtion, he told her in a rage to torment him no more.

During the reſt of the ride not another word was ſaid; Mrs. Harrel wept, her huſband guarded a gloomy ſilence, and Cecilia moſt unpleaſantly paſſed her time between anxious ſuſpicions of ſome new ſcheme, and a terrified wonder in what all theſe tranſactions would terminate.

CHAP. XII. A MAN OF BUSINESS.

WHEN they entered Vauxhall, Mr. Harrel endeavoured to diſmiſs his moroſeneſs, and affecting his uſual gaiety, ſtruggled to recover his ſpirits; but the effort was vain, he could neither talk nor look like himſelf, and though from time to time he reſumed his air of wonted levity, he could not ſupport it, but drooped and hung his head in evident deſpondency.

He made them take ſeveral turns in the midſt of the company, and walked ſo faſt that they could hardly keep pace with him, as if he hoped by exerciſe to reſtore his vivacity; but every attempt failed, he ſunk and grew ſadder, and muttering between his teeth ‘"this is not to be borne!"’ he haſtily called to a waiter to bring him a bottle of champagne.

Of this he drank glaſs after glaſs, not⯑withſtanding Cecilia, as Mrs. Harrel had not courage to ſpeak, entreated him to forbear. He ſeemed, however, not to hear her; but when he had drunk what he thought neceſſary to revive him, he con⯑veyed [139] them into an unfrequented part of the garden, and as ſoon as they were out of ſight of all but a few ſtragglers, he ſud⯑denly ſtopt, and, in great agitation, ſaid, ‘"my chaiſe will ſoon be ready, and I ſhall take of you a long farewell!—all my affairs are unpropitious to my ſpeedy return—the wine is now mounting into my head, and perhaps I may not be able to ſay much by and by. I fear I have been cruel to you, Priſcilla, and I begin to wiſh I had ſpared you this parting ſcene; yet let it not be baniſhed your remembrance, but think of it when you are tempted to ſuch mad folly as has ruined us."’

Mrs. Harrel wept too much to make any anſwer; and turning from her to Ce⯑cilia, ‘"Oh Madam,"’ he cried, ‘"to you, indeed, I dare not ſpeak! I have uſed you moſt unworthily, but I pay for it all! I I aſk you not to pity or forgive me, I know it is impoſſible you ſhould do either."’

‘"No,"’ cried the ſoftened Cecilia, ‘"it is not impoſſible, I do both at this mo⯑ment, and I hope—"’

‘"Do not hope,"’ interrupted he, ‘"be not ſo angelic, for I cannot bear it! bene⯑volence like yours ſhould have fallen into worthier hands. But come, let us return to the company. My head grows giddy, [140] but my heart is ſtill heavy; I muſt make them more fit companions for each other."’

He would then have hurried them back; but Cecilia, endeavouring to ſtop him, ſaid ‘"You do not mean, I hope, to call for more wine?"’

‘"Why not?"’ cried he, with affected ſpirit, ‘"what, ſhall we not be merry be⯑fore we part? Yes, we will all be merry, for if we are not, how ſhall we part at all?—Oh not without a ſtruggle!—"’ Then, ſtopping, he pauſed a moment, and caſting off the maſk of levity, ſaid in accents the moſt ſolemn ‘"I commit this packet to you,"’ giving a ſealed parcel to Cecilia; ‘"had I written it later, its contents had been kinder to my wife, for now the hour of ſe⯑paration approaches, ill will and reſentment ſubſide. Poor Priſcilla!—I am ſorry—but you will ſuccour her, I am ſure you will,—Oh had I known you myſelf before this in⯑fatuation—bright pattern of all goodneſs!—but I was devoted,—a ruined wretch be⯑fore ever you entered my houſe; unworthy to be ſaved, unworthy that virtues ſuch as yours ſhould dwell under the ſame roof with me! But come,—come now, or my reſolu⯑tion will waver, and I ſhall not go at laſt."’

‘"But what is this packet?"’ cried Ceci⯑lia, ‘"and why do you give it to me?"’

[141] ‘"No matter, no matter, you will know by and by;—the chaiſe waits, and I muſt gather courage to be gone."’

He then preſſed forward, anſwering nei⯑ther to remonſtrance nor intreaty from his frightened companions.

The moment they returned to the cover⯑ed walk, they were met by Mr. Marriot; Mr. Harrel, ſtarting, endeavoured to paſs him; but when he approached, and ſaid ‘"you have ſent, Sir, no anſwer to my let⯑ter!"’ he ſtopt, and in a tone of forced po⯑liteneſs, ſaid, ‘"No, Sir, but I ſhall anſwer it to-morrow, and to-night I hope you will do me the honour of ſupping with me."’

Mr. Marriot, looking openly at Cecilia as his inducement, though evidently re⯑garding himſelf as an injured man, heſitated a moment, yet accepted the invitation.

‘"To ſupper?"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"what here?"’

‘"To ſupper?"’ repeated Cecilia, ‘"and how are we to get home?’

‘"Think not of that theſe two hours,"’ anſwered he; ‘"come, let us look for a box."’

Cecilia then grew quite urgent with him to give up a ſcheme which muſt keep them ſo late, and Mrs. Harrel repeatedly exclaim⯑ed ‘"Indeed people will think it very odd to ſee us here without any party:"’ but he heeded them not, and perceiving at ſome [142] diſtance Mr. Morrice, he called out to him to find them a box; for the evening was very pleaſant, and the gardens were ſo much crowded that no accommodation was un⯑ſeized.

‘"Sir,"’ cried Morrice, with his uſual readineſs, ‘"I'll get you one if I turn out ten old Aldermen ſucking cuſtards."’

Juſt after he was gone, a fat, ſleek, vul⯑gar-looking man, dreſſed in a bright purple coat, with a deep red waiſtcoat, and a wig bulging far from his head with ſmall round curls, while his plump face and perſon an⯑nounced plenty and good living, and an air of defiance ſpoke the fullneſs of his purſe, ſtrutted boldly up to Mr. Harrel, and ac⯑coſting him in a manner that ſhewed ſome diffidence of his reception, but none of his right, ſaid ‘"Sir your humble ſervant."’ And made a bow firſt to him, and then to the ladies.

‘"Sir yours,"’ replied Mr. Harrel ſcorn⯑fully, and without touching his hat he walk⯑ed quick on.

His fat acquaintance, who ſeemed but little diſpoſed to be o [...]ended with impunity, inſtantly replaced his hat on his head, and with a look that implied I ll fit you for this! put his hands to his ſides, and following him, ſaid ‘"Sir, I muſt make bold to beg the favour of exchanging a few words with you."’

[143] ‘"Ay, Sir,"’ anſwered Mr. Harrel, ‘"come to me to-morrow, and you ſhall exchange as many as you pleaſe."’

‘"Nothing like the time preſent, Sir,"’ anſwered the man; ‘"as for to-morrow, I believe it intends to come no more; for I have heard of it any time theſe three years. I mean no reflections, Sir, but let every man have his right. That's what I ſay, and that's my notion of things."’

Mr. Harrel, with a violent execration, aſked what he meant by dunning him at ſuch a place as Vauxhall?

‘"One place, Sir,"’ he replied, ‘"is as good as another place; for ſo as what one does is good, 'tis no matter for where it may be. A man of buſineſs never wants a counter if he can meet with a joint-ſtool. For my part, I'm all for a clear conſcience, and no bills without receipts to them."’

‘"And if you were all for broken bones,"’ cried Mr. Harrel, angrily, ‘"I would oblige you with them without delay."’

‘"Sir,"’ cried the man, equally provok⯑ed, ‘"this is talking quite out of character, for as to broken bones, there's ne'er a per⯑ſon in all England, gentle nor ſimple, can ſay he's a right to break mine, for I'm not a perſon of that ſort, but a man of as good property as another man; and there's ne'er [144] a cuſtomer I have in the world that's more his own man than myſelf."’

‘"Lord bleſs me, Mr. Hobſon,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"don't follow us in this manner! If we meet any of our acquain⯑tance they'll think us half crazy."’

‘"Ma'am,"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, again taking off his hat, ‘"if I'm treated with proper reſpect, no man will behave more generous than myſelf; but if I'm affronted, all I can ſay is, it may go harder with ſome folks than they think for."’

Here a little mean-looking man, very thin, and almoſt bent double with perpe⯑tual cringing, came up to Mr. Hobſon, and pulling him by the ſleeve, whiſpered, yet loud enough to be heard, ‘"It's ſurprize⯑able to me, Mr. Hobſon, you can behave ſo out of the way! For my part, perhaps I've as much my due as another perſon, but I dares to ſay I ſhall have it when it's con⯑venient, and I'd ſcorn for to miſleſt a gen⯑tleman when he's taking his pleaſure."’

‘"Lord bleſs me,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, ‘"what ſhall we do now? here's all Mr. Harrel's creditors coming upon us!"’

‘"Do?"’ cried Mr. Harrel, re-aſſuming an air of gaiety, ‘"why give them all a ſupper, to be ſure. Come, gentlemen, will you favour me with your company to ſup⯑per?"’

[145] ‘"Sir,"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, ſomewhat ſoftened by this unexpected invitation, ‘"I've ſupped this hour and more, and had my glaſs too, for I'm as willing to ſpend my money as another man; only what I ſay is this, I don't chuſe to be cheated, for that's loſing one's ſubſtance, and getting no credit; however, as to drinking another glaſs, or ſuch a matter as that, I'll do it with all the pleaſure in life."’

‘"And as to me,"’ ſaid the other man, whoſe name was Simkins, and whoſe head almoſt touched the ground by the pro⯑foundneſs of his reverence, ‘I can't upon no account think of taking the liberty; but if I may juſt ſtand without, I'll make bold to go ſo far as juſt for to drink my humble duty to the ladies in a cup of cyder."’

‘"Are you mad, Mr. Harrel, are you mad!"’ cried his wife, ‘"to think of aſking ſuch people as theſe to ſupper? what will every body ſay? ſuppoſe any of our ac⯑quaintance ſhould ſee us? I am ſure I ſhall die with ſhame."’

‘"Mad!"’ repeated he, ‘"no, not mad but merry. O ho, Mr. Morrice, why have you been ſo long? what have you done for us?"’

‘"Why Sir,"’ anſwered Morrice, return⯑ing with a look ſomewhat leſs elated than he had ſet out, ‘"the gardens are ſo full, there is not a box to be had: but I hope we ſhall [146] get one for all that; for I obſerved one of the beſt boxes in the garden, juſt to the right there, with nobody in it but that gen⯑tleman who made me ſpill the tea-pot at the Pantheon. So I made an apology, and told him the caſe; but he only ſaid humph? and hay? ſo then I told it all over again, but he ſerved me juſt the ſame, for he never ſeems to hear what one ſays till one's juſt done, and then he begins to recollect one's ſpeak⯑ing to him; however, though I repeated it all over and over again, I could get nothing from him but juſt that humph? and hay? but he is ſo remarkably abſent, that I dare ſay if we all go and ſit down round him, he won't know a word of the matter."’

‘"Won't he?"’ cried Mr. Harrel, ‘"have at him, then!"’

And he followed Mr. Morrice, though Cecilia, who now half ſuſpected that all was to end in a mere idle frolic, warmly joined her remonſtrances to thoſe of Mrs. Harrel, which were made with the utmoſt, but with fruitleſs earneſtneſs.

Mr. Meadows, who was ſeated in the middle of the box, was lolloping upon the table with his cuſtomary eaſe, and picking his teeth with his uſual inattention to all about him. The intruſion, however, of ſo large a party, ſeemed to threaten his inſenſibility with unavoidable diſturbance; though ima⯑gining they meant but to look in at the [147] box, and paſs on, he made not at their firſt approach any alteration in his attitude or employment.

‘"See, ladies,"’ cried the officious Mor⯑rice, ‘"I told you there was room; and I am ſure this gentleman will be very happy to make way for you, if it's only out of good-nature to the waiters, as he is neither eating nor drinking, nor doing any thing at all. So if you two ladies will go in at that ſide, Mr. Harrel and that other gentleman,"’ pointing to Mr. Marriot, ‘"may go to the other, and then I'll ſit by the ladies here, and thoſe other two gentlemen—"’

Here Mr. Meadows, raiſing himſelf from his reclining poſture, and ſtaring Morrice in the face, gravely ſaid, ‘"What's all this, Sir!"’

Morrice, who expected to have arranged the whole party without a queſtion, and who underſtood ſo little of modiſh airs as to ſuſpect neither affectation nor trick in the abſence of mind and indolence of manners which he obſerved in Mr. Meadows, was utterly amazed by this interrogatory, and ſtaring himſelf in return, ſaid, ‘"Sir, you ſeemed ſo thoughtful—I did not think—I did not ſuppoſe you would have taken any notice of juſt a perſon or two coming into the box."’

‘"Did not you, Sir?"’ ſaid Mr. Meadows [148] very coldly, ‘"why then now you do, per⯑haps you'll be ſo obliging as to let me have my own box to myſelf."’

And then again he returned to his favou⯑rite poſition.

‘"Certainly, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, bowing; ‘"I am ſure I did not mean to diſturb you: for you ſeemed ſo loſt in thought, that I'm ſure I did not much believe you would have ſeen us."’

‘"Why Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ſtrutting forward, ‘"if I may ſpeak my opinion, I ſhould think, as you happen to be quite alone, a little agreeable company would be no ſuch bad thing. At leaſt that's my notion."’

‘"And if I might take the liberty,"’ ſaid the ſmooth tongued Mr. Simkins, ‘"for to put in a word, I ſhould think the beſt way would be, if the gentleman has no petick⯑lar objection, for me juſt to ſtand ſome⯑where hereabouts, and ſo, when he's had what he's a mind to, be ready for to pop in at one ſide, as he comes out at the t'other; for if one does not look pretty 'cute ſuch a full night as this, a box is whipt away be⯑fore one knows where one is."’

‘"No, no, no,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel impa⯑tiently, ‘"let us neither ſup in this box nor in any other; let us go away entirely."’

‘"Indeed we muſt! indeed we ought!"’ [149] cried Cecilia; ‘"it is utterly improper we ſhould ſtay; pray let us be gone immedi⯑ately."’

Mr. Harrel paid not the leaſt regard to theſe requeſts; but Mr. Meadows, who could no longer ſeem unconſcious of what paſſed, did himſelf ſo much violence as to ariſe, and aſk if the ladies would be ſeated.

‘"I ſaid ſo!"’ cried Morrice triumph⯑antly, ‘"I was ſure there was no gentleman but would be happy to accommodate two ſuch ladies!"’

The ladies, however, far from happy in being ſo accommodated, again tried their utmoſt influence in perſuading Mr. Harrel to give up this ſcheme; but he would not hear them, he inſiſted upon their going into the box, and, extending the privilege which Mr. Meadows had given, he invited with⯑out ceremony the whole party to follow.

Mr. Meadows, though he ſeemed to think this a very extraordinary encroachment, had already made ſuch an effort from his ge⯑neral languor in the repulſe he had given to Morrice, that he could exert himſelf no fur⯑ther; but after looking around him with mingled vacancy and contempt, he again ſeated himſelf, and ſuffered Morrice to do the honours without more oppoſition.

Morrice, but too happy in the office, placed Cecilia next to Mr. Meadows, and [150] would have made Mr. Marriot her other neighbour, but ſhe inſiſted upon not being parted from Mrs. Harrel, and therefore, as he choſe to ſit alſo by that lady himſelf, Mr. Marriot was obliged to follow Mr. Harrel to the other ſide of the box: Mr. Hobſon, without further invitation, placed himſelf comfortably in one of the corners, and Mr. Simkins, who ſtood modeſtly for ſome time in another, finding the further encouragement for which he waited was not likely to arrive, dropt quietly into his ſeat without it.

Supper was now ordered, and while it was preparing Mr. Harrel ſat totally ſilent; but Mr. Meadows thought proper to force himſelf to talk with Cecilia, though ſhe could well have diſpenſed with ſuch an ex⯑ertion of his politeneſs.

‘"Do you like this place, ma'am?"’

‘"Indeed I hardly know,—I never was here before."’

‘"No wonder! the only ſurpriſe is that any body can come to it at all. To ſee a ſet of people walking after nothing! ſtrol⯑ling about without view or object! 'tis ſtrange! don't you think ſo, ma'am?"’

‘"Yes,—I believe ſo,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſcarce hearing him.

‘"O it gives me the vapours, the hor⯑rors,"’ cried he, ‘"to ſee what poor creatures [151] we all are! taking pleaſure even from the privation of it! forcing ourſelves into ex⯑erciſe and toil, when we might at leaſt have the indulgence of ſitting ſtill and repo⯑ſing!"’

‘"Lord, Sir,"’ cried Morrice, ‘"don't you like walking?"’

‘"Walking?"’ cried he, ‘"I know no⯑thing ſo humiliating: to ſee a rational be⯑ing in ſuch mechanical motion! with no knowledge upon what principles he pro⯑ceeds, but plodding on, one foot before another, without even any conſciouſneſs which is firſt, or how either—"’

‘"Sir,"’ interrupted Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I hope you won't take it amiſs if I make bold to tell my opinion, for my way is this, let every man ſpeak his maxim! But what I ſay as to this matter, is this, if a man muſt always be ſtopping to conſider what foot he is ſtanding upon, he had need have little to do, being the right does as well as the left, and the left as well as the right. And that, Sir, I think is a fair argument."’

Mr. Meadows deigned no other anſwer to this ſpeech than a look of contempt.

‘"I fancy, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"you are fond of riding, for all your good horſemen like nothing elſe."’

‘"Riding!"’ exclaimed Mr. Meadows, ‘"Oh barbarous! Wreſtling and boxing [152] are polite arts to it! truſting to the diſcre⯑tion of an animal leſs intellectual than our⯑ſelves! a ſudden ſpring may break all our limbs, a ſtumble may fracture our ſculls! And what is the inducement? to get melt⯑ed with heat, killed with fatigue, and co⯑vered with duſt! miſerable infatuation!—Do you love riding, ma'am?"’

‘"Yes, very well, Sir."’

‘"I am glad to hear it,"’ cried he, with a vacant ſmile; ‘"you are quite right; I am entirely of your opinion."’

"Mr. Simkins now, with a look of much perplexity, yet riſing and bowing, ſaid ‘"I don't mean, Sir, to be ſo rude as to put in my oar, but if I did not take you wrong, I'm ſure juſt now I thought you ſeemed for to make no great 'count of rid⯑ing, and yet now, all of the ſudden, one would think you was a ſpeaking up for it!"’

‘"Why Sir,"’ cried Morrice, ‘"if you neither like riding nor walking, you can have no pleaſure at all but only in ſitting."’

‘"Sitting!"’ repeated Mr. Meadows, with a yawn, ‘"O worſe and worſe! it diſ⯑pirits me to death! it robs me of all fire and life! it weakens circulation, and de⯑ſtroys elaſticity."’

‘"Pray then, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"do you like any better to ſtand?"’

‘"To ſtand? O intolerable! the moſt [153] unmeaning thing in the world! one had bet⯑ter be made a mummy!"’

‘"Why then, pray Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Hob⯑ſon, ‘"let me aſk the favour of you to tell us what it is you do like?"’

Mr. Meadows, though he ſtared him full in the face, began picking his teeth without making any anſwer.

‘"You ſee, Mr. Hobſon,"’ ſaid Mr. Sim⯑kins, ‘"the gentleman has no mind for to tell you; but if I may take the liberty juſt to put in, I think if he neither likes walk⯑ing, nor riding, nor ſitting, nor ſtanding, I take it he likes nothing."’

‘"Well, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"but here comes ſupper, and I hope you will like that. Pray Sir, may I help you to a bit of this ham?"’

Mr. Meadows, not ſeeming to hear him, ſuddenly, and with an air of extreme weari⯑neſs, aroſe, and without ſpeaking to any body, abruptly made his way out of the box.

Mr. Harrel now, ſtarting from the gloomy reverie into which he had ſunk, un⯑dertook to do the honours of the table, in⯑ſiſting with much violence upon helping every body, calling for more proviſions, and ſtruggling to appear in high ſpirits and good humour.

In a few minutes Captain Areſby, who [154] was paſſing by the box, ſtopt to make his compliments to Mrs Harrel and Cecilia.

‘"What a concourſe!"’ he cried, caſting up his eyes with an expreſſion of half-dying fatigue, ‘"are you not accablé? for my part, I hardly reſpire. I have really hardly ever had the honour of being ſo obſedé before."’

‘"We can make very good room, Sir,"’ ſaid Morrice, ‘"if you chuſe to come in."’

‘"Yes,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, obſequiouſ⯑ly ſtanding up, ‘"I am ſure the gentleman will be very welcome to take my place, for I did not mean for to ſit down, only juſt to look agreeable."’

‘"By no means, Sir,"’ anſwered the Cap⯑tain: ‘"I ſhall be quite au deſeſpoir if I de⯑range any body."’

‘"Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I don't offer you my place, becauſe I take it for granted if you had a mind to come in, you would not ſtand upon ceremony; for what I ſay is, let every man ſpeak his mind, and then we ſhall all know how to conduct ourſelves. That's my way, and let any man tell me a better!"’

The Captain, after looking at him with a ſurpriſe not wholly unmixt with horror, turned from him without making any an⯑ſwer, and ſaid to Cecilia, ‘"And how long, ma'am, have you tried this petrifying place"’

[155] ‘"An hour,—two hours, I believe,"’ ſhe anſwered.

‘"Really? and nobody here! aſſez de monde, but nobody here! a blank partout!"’

‘"Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, getting out of the box that he might bow with more faci⯑lity, ‘"I humbly crave pardon for the li⯑berty, but if I underſtood right, you ſaid ſomething of a blank? pray, Sir, if I may be ſo free, has there been any thing of the nature of a lottery, or a raffle, in the gar⯑den? or the like of that?’

‘"Sir!"’ ſaid the Captain, regarding him from head to foot, ‘"I am quite aſſommé that I cannot comprehend your alluſion."’

‘"Sir, I aſk pardon,"’ ſaid the man, bow⯑ing ſtill lower, ‘"I only thought if in caſe it ſhould not be above half a crown, or ſuch a matter as that, I might perhaps ſtretch a point once in a way."’

The Captain, more and more amazed, ſtared at him again, but not thinking it ne⯑ceſſary to take any further notice of him, he enquired of Cecilia if ſhe meant to ſtay late.

‘"I hope not,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"I have al⯑ready ſtayed later than I wiſhed to do."’

‘"Really!"’ ſaid he, with an unmeaning ſmile, ‘"Well, that is as horrid a thing as I have the malheur to know. For my part, I make it a principle not to ſtay long in [156] theſe ſemi-barbarous places, for after a cer⯑tain time, they bore me to that degree I am quite abimé. I ſhall, however, do mon poſ⯑ſible to have the honour of ſeeing you again."’

And then, with a ſmile of yet greater in⯑ſipidity, he proteſted he was reduced to de⯑ſpair in leaving her, and walked on.

‘"Pray, ma'am, if I may be ſo bold,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"what countryman may that gentleman be?"’

‘"An Engliſhman, I ſuppoſe, Sir,’ "ſaid Cecilia.

‘"An Engliſhman, ma'am!"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"why I could not underſtand one word in ten that came out of his mouth."’

‘"Why indeed,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, ‘"he has a mighty peticklar way of ſpeaking, for I'm ſure I thought I could have ſworn he ſaid ſomething of a blank, or to that amount, but I could make nothing of it when I come to aſk him about it."’

‘"Let every man ſpeak to be under⯑ſtood,"’ cried Mr. Hobſon, ‘"that's my notion of things: for as to all thoſe fine words that nobody can make out, I hold them to be of no uſe. Suppoſe a man was to talk in that manner when he's doing bu⯑ſineſs, what would be the upſhot? who'd underſtand what he meant? Well, that's the proof; what i'n't fit for buſineſs, i'n't of no value: that's my way of judging, and that's what I go upon."’

[157] ‘"He ſaid ſome other things,"’ rejoined Mr. Simkins, ‘"that I could not make out very clear, only I had no mind to aſk any more queſtions, for fear of his anſwering me ſomething I ſhould not underſtand: but as well as I could make it out, I thought I heard him ſay there was nobody here! what he could mean by that, I can't pre⯑tend for to gueſs, for I'm ſure the garden is ſo ſtock full, that if there was to come many more, I don't know where they could cram 'em."’

‘"I took notice of it at the time,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"for it i'n't many things are loſt upon me; and, to tell you the truth, I thought he had been making pretty free with his bottle, by his ſeeing no better."’

‘"Bottle!"’ cried Mr. Harrel, ‘"a moſt excellent hint, Mr. Hobſon! come! let us all make free with the bottle!’

He then called for more wine, and in⯑ſiſted that every body ſhould pledge him. Mr. Marriot and Mr. Morrice made not any objection, and Mr. Hobſon and Mr. Simkins conſented with much delight.

Mr. Harrel now grew extremely unruly, the wine he had already drunk being thus powerfully aided; and his next project was to make his wife and Cecilia follow his ex⯑ample. Cecilia, more incenſed than ever to ſee no preparation made for his depar⯑ture, [158] and all poſſible pains taken to unfit him for ſetting out, refuſed him with equal firmneſs and diſpleaſure, and lamented, with the bittereſt ſelf-reproaches, the con⯑ſent which had been forced from her to be preſent at a ſcene of ſuch diſorder: but Mrs. Harrel would have oppoſed him in vain, had not his attention been called off to another object. This was Sir Robert Floyer, who perceiving the party at ſome diſtance, no ſooner obſerved Mr. Marriot in ſuch company, than advancing to the box with an air of rage and defiance, he told Mr. Harrel he had ſomething to ſay to him.

‘"Ay,"’ cried Harrel, ‘"ſay to me? and ſo have I to ſay to you! Come amongſt us and be merry! Here, make room, make way! Sit cloſe, my friends!"’

Sir Robert, who now ſaw he was in no ſituation to be reaſoned with, ſtood for a moment ſilent; and then, looking round the box, and obſerving Meſſrs. Hobſon and Simkins, he exclaimed aloud ‘"Why what queer party have you got into? who the d—l have you picked up here?"’

Mr. Hobſon, who, to the importance of lately acquired wealth, now added the cou⯑rage of newly drunk Champaigne, ſtoutly kept his ground, without ſeeming at all conſcious he was included in this interro⯑gation; but Mr. Simkins, who had ſtill his [159] way to make in the world, and whoſe habi⯑tual ſervility would have reſiſted a larger draught, was eaſily intimidated; he again, therefore ſtood up, and with the moſt cring⯑ing reſpect offered the Baronet his place: who, taking neither of the offer nor offerer the ſmalleſt notice, ſtill ſtood oppoſite to Mr. Harrel, waiting for ſome explanation.

Mr. Harrel, however, who now grew really incapable of giving any, only repeat⯑ed his invitation that he would make one among them.

‘"One among you?"’ cried he, angrily, and pointing to Mr. Hobſon, ‘"why you don't fancy I'll ſit down with a bricklayer?"’

‘"A bricklayer?"’ ſaid Mr. Harrel, ‘"ay, ſure, and a hoſier too; ſit down, Mr. Simkins, keep your place, man!"’

Mr. Simkins moſt thankfully bowed; but Mr. Hobſon, who could no longer avoid feeling the perſonality of this reflec⯑tion, boldly anſwered, ‘"Sir, you may ſit down with a worſe man any day in the week! I have done nothing I'm aſhamed of, and no man can ſay to me why did you ſo? I don't tell you, Sir, what I'm worth; no one has a right to aſk; I only ſay three times five is fifteen! that's all."’

‘"Why what the d—l, you impudent fellow,"’ cried the haughty Baronet, ‘"you don't preſume to mutter, do you?"’

[160] ‘"Sir,"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, very hot⯑ly, ‘"I ſha'n't put up with abuſe from no man! I've got a fair character in the world, and wherewithal to live by my own liking. And what I have is my own, and all I ſay is, let every one ſay the ſame, for that's the way to fear no man, and face the d—l."’

‘"What do you mean by that, fellow?"’ cried Sir Robert.

‘"Fellow, Sir! this is talking no how. Do you think a man of ſubſtance, that's got above the world, is to be treated like a little ſcrubby apprentice? Let every man have his own, that's always my way of thinking; and this I can ſay for myſelf, I have as good a right to ſhew my head where I pleaſe as ever a member of parliament in all England: and I wiſh every body here could ſay as much."’

Sir Robert, fury ſtarting into his eyes, was beginning an anſwer; but Mrs. Harrel with terror, and Cecilia with dignity, cal⯑ling upon them both to forbear, the Baro⯑not deſired Morrice to relinquiſh his place to him, and ſeating himſelf next to Mrs. Harrel, gave over the conteſt.

Mean-while Mr. Simkins, hoping to in⯑gratiate himſelf with the company, advanc⯑ed to Mr. Hobſon, already cooled by find⯑ing himſelf unanſwered, and reproachfully ſaid ‘"Mr. Hobſon, if I may make ſo free, [161] I muſt needs be bold to ſay I am quite aſhamed of you! a perſon of your ſtanding and credit for to talk ſo diſreſpectful! as if a gentleman had not a right to take a little pleaſure, becauſe he juſt happens to owe you a little matters of money: fie, fie, Mr. Hobſon! I did not expect you to behave ſo deſpiſeable!"’

‘"Deſpiſeable!"’ anſwered Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I'd ſcorn as much to do any thing deſ⯑piſeable as yourſelf, or any thing miſbecom⯑ing of a gentleman; and as to coming to ſuch a place as this may be, why I have no objection to it. All I ſtand to is this, let every man have his due; for as to taking a little pleaſure, here I am, as one may ſay, doing the ſame myſelf; but where's the harm of that? who's a right to call a man to account that's clear of the world? Not that I mean to boaſt, nor nothing like it, but, as I ſaid before, five times five is fifteen;—that's my cal⯑culation."’

Mr. Harrel, who, during this debate, had ſtill continued drinking, regardleſs of all oppoſition from his wife and Cecilia, now grew more and more turbulent: he inſiſted that Mr. Simkins ſhould return to his ſeat, ordered him another bumper of champagne, and ſaying he had not half [162] company enough to raiſe his ſpirits, deſired Morrice to go and invite more.

Morrice, always ready to promote a fro⯑lic, moſt chearfully conſented; but when Cecilia, in a low voice, ſupplicated him to bring no one back, with ſtill more readineſs he made ſigns that he underſtood and would obey her.

Mr. Harrel then began to ſing, and in ſo noiſy and riotous a manner, that nobody approached the box without ſtopping to ſtare at him; and thoſe who were new to ſuch ſcenes, not contented with merely looking in, ſtationed themſelves at ſome diſtance before it, to obſerve what was paſſing, and to contemplate with envy and admiration an appearance of mirth and enjoyment which they attributed to happi⯑neſs and pleaſure!

Mrs. Harrel, ſhocked to be ſeen in ſuch mixed company, grew every inſtant more reſtleſs and miſerable; and Cecilia, half diſtracted to think how they were to get home, had paſſed all her time in making ſecret vows that if once again ſhe was deli⯑vered from Mr. Harrel ſhe would never ſee him more.

Sir Robert Floyer perceiving their mu⯑tual uneaſineſs, propoſed to eſcort them home himſelf; and Cecilia, notwithſtanding [163] her averſion to him, was liſtening to the ſcheme, when Mr. Marriot, who had been evidently provoked and diſconcerted ſince the junction of the Baronet, ſuſpecting what was paſſing, offered his ſervices alſo, and in a tone of voice that did not promiſe a very quiet acquieſcence in a refuſal.

Cecilia, who, too eaſily, in their looks, ſaw all the eagerneſs of rivalry, now dreaded the conſequence of her deciſion, and there⯑fore declined the aſſiſtance of either: but her diſtreſs was unſpeakable, as there was not one perſon in the party to whoſe care ſhe could commit herſelf, though the beha⯑viour of Mr. Harrel, which every moment grew more diſorderly, rendered the neceſ⯑ſity of quitting him urgent and uncontroul⯑able.

When Morrice returned, ſtopping in the midſt of his loud and violent ſinging, he vehemently demanded what company he had brought him?

‘"None at all, Sir,"’ anſwered Morrice, looking ſignificantly at Cecilia; ‘"I have really been ſo unlucky as not to meet with any body who had a mind to come."’

‘"Why then,"’ anſwered he, ſtarting up, ‘"I will ſeek ſome for myſelf."’ ‘"O no, pray, Mr. Harrel, bring nobody elſe,"’ cried his wife. ‘"Hear us in pity,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"and diſtreſs us no further."’ [164] ‘"Diſtreſs you?"’ cried he, with quickneſs, ‘"what ſhall I not bring you thoſe pretty girls? Yes, one more glaſs, and I will teach you to welcome them."’

And he poured out another bumper.

‘"This is ſo inſupportable!"’ cried Cecilia, riſing, ‘"and I can remain here no longer."’

‘"This is cruel indeed,"’ cried Mrs. Harrel, burſting into tears; ‘did you only bring me here to inſult me?"’

‘"No!"’ cried he, ſuddenly embracing her, ‘"by this parting kiſs!"’ then wildly jumping upon his ſeat, he leapt over the table, and was out of ſight in an inſtant.

Amazement ſeized all who remained; Mrs. Harrel and Cecilia, indeed, doubted not but he was actually gone to the chaiſe he had ordered; but the manner of his departure affrighted them, and his preced⯑ing behaviour had made them ceaſe to ex⯑pect it: Mrs Harrel, leaning upon Cecilia, continued to weep, while ſhe, confounded and alarmed, ſcarce knew whether ſhe ſhould ſtay and conſole her, or fly after Mr. Har⯑rel, whom ſhe feared had incapacitated himſelf from finding his chaiſe, by the very method he had taken to gather courage for ſeeking it.

This however, was but the apprehenſion of a moment; another and a far more hor⯑rible one drove it from her imagination: [165] for ſcarcely had Mr. Harrel quitted the box and their ſight, before their ears were ſuddenly ſtruck with the report of a piſtol.

Mrs. Harrel gave a loud ſcream, which was involuntarily echoed by Cecilia: every body aroſe, ſome with officious zeal to ſerve the ladies, and others to haſten to the ſpot whence the dreadful ſound proceeded.

Sir Robert Floyer again offered his ſer⯑vices in conducting them home; but they could liſten to no ſuch propoſal: Cecilia, with difficulty refrained from ruſhing out herſelf to diſcover what was paſſing; but her dread of being followed by Mrs. Har⯑rel prevented her; they both, therefore, waited, expecting every inſtant ſome intel⯑ligence, as all but the Baronet and Mr. Marriot were now gone to ſeek it.

Nobody, however, returned; and their terrors encreaſed every moment: Mrs. Harrel wanted to run out herſelf, but Ce⯑cilia, conjuring her to keep ſtill, begged Mr. Marriot to bring them ſome account. Mr. Marriot, like the meſſengers who had preceded him, came not back: an inſtant ſeemed an age, and Sir Robert Floyer was alſo entreated to procure information.

Mrs. Harrel and Cecilia were now left to themſelves, and their horror was too great for ſpeech or motion: they ſtood cloſe to each other, liſtening to every ſound [166] and receiving every poſſible addition to their alarm, by the general confuſion which they obſerved in the gardens, in which, though both gentlemen and waiters were running to and fro, not a creature was walking, and all amuſement ſeemed forgotten.

From this dreadful ſtate they were at length removed, though not relieved, by the ſight of a waiter, who, as he was paſ⯑ſing ſhewed himſelf almoſt covered with blood! Mrs. Harrel vehemently called after him, demanding whence it came? ‘"From the gentleman, ma'am,"’ anſwered he in haſte, ‘"that has ſhot himſelf,"’ and then ran on.

Mrs. Harrel uttered a piercing ſcream, and ſunk on the ground; for Cecilia, ſhuddering with horror, loſt all her own ſtrength, and could no longer lend her any ſupport.

So great at this time was the general con⯑fuſion of the place, that for ſome minutes their particular diſtreſs was unknown, and their ſituation unnoticed; till at length an elderly gentleman came up to the box, and humanely offered his aſſiſtance.

Cecilia, pointing to her unfortunate friend, who had not fallen into a fainting fit, but merely from weakneſs and terror, accepted his help in raiſing her. She was lifted up, however, without the ſmalleſt [167] effort on her own part, and was only kept upon her ſeat by being held there by the ſtranger, for Cecilia, whoſe whole frame was ſhaking, tried in vain to ſuſtain her.

This gentleman, from the violence of their diſtreſs, began now to ſuſpect its mo⯑tive, and addreſſing himſelf to Cecilia, ſaid, ‘"I am afraid, madam, this unfortunate gentleman was ſome Relation to you?"’

Neither of them ſpoke, but their ſilence was ſufficiently expreſſive.

‘"It is pity, madam,’ "he continued, ‘"that ſome friend can't order him out of the crowd, and have him kept quiet till a ſurgeon can be brought."’

‘"A ſurgeon!"’ exclaimed Cecilia, reco⯑vering from one ſurprize by the effect of another, ‘"is it then poſſible he may be ſaved?"’

And without waiting to have her queſtion anſwered, ſhe ran out of the box herſelf, flying wildly about the garden, and calling for help as ſhe flew, till ſhe found the houſe by the entrance; and then, going up to the bar, ‘"Is a ſurgeon ſent for?"’ ſhe ex⯑claimed, ‘"let a ſurgeon be fetched inſtant⯑ly!"’ ‘A ſurgeon, ma'am,"’ ſhe was anſwered, ‘"is not the gentleman dead?"’ ‘"No, no, no!"’ ſhe cried; ‘"he muſt be brought in; let ſome careful people go and bring him in."’ Nor would ſhe quit the bar, till two or three [168] waiters were called, and received her or⯑ders. And then, eager to ſee them executed herſelf, ſhe ran, fearleſs of being alone, and without thought of being loſt, towards the fatal ſpot whither the crowd guided her. She could not, indeed, have been more ſecure from inſult or moleſtation if ſur⯑rounded by twenty guards; for the ſcene of deſperation and horror which many had witneſſed, and of which all had heard the ſig⯑nal, engroſſed the univerſal attention, and took, even from the moſt idle and licen⯑tious, all ſpirit for gallantry and amuſe⯑ment.

Here, while making vain attempts to penetrate through the multitude, that ſhe might ſee and herſelf judge the actual ſitu⯑ation of Mr. Harrel, and give, if yet there was room for hope, ſuch orders as would beſt conduce to his ſafety and recovery, ſhe was met by Mr. Marriot, who entreated her not to preſs forward to a ſight which he had found too ſhocking for himſelf, and inſiſted upon protecting her through the crowd.

‘"If he is alive,"’ cried ſhe, refuſing his aid, ‘"and if there is any chance he may be ſaved, no ſight ſhall be too ſhocking to deter me from ſeeing him properly at⯑tended."’

‘"All attendance,"’ anſwered he, ‘"will [169] be in vain: he is not indeed, yet dead, but his recovery is impoſſible. There is a ſurgeon with him already; one who hap⯑pened to be in the gardens, and he told me himſelf that the wound was inevitably mortal."’

Cecilia, though greatly diſappointed, ſtill determined to make way to him, that ſhe might herſelf enquire if, in his laſt moments, there was any thing he wiſhed to communicate, or deſired to have done: but, as ſhe ſtruggled to proceed, ſhe was next met and ſtopt by Sir Robert Floyer, who, forcing her back, acquainted her that all was over!

The ſhock with which ſhe received this account, though unmixed with any ten⯑derneſs of regret, and reſulting merely from general humanity, was yet ſo violent as almoſt to overpower her. Mr. Harrel, indeed, had forfeited all right to her eſteem, and the unfeeling ſelfiſhneſs of his whole behaviour had long provoked her reſent⯑ment and excited her diſguſt; yet a cataſ⯑trophe ſo dreadful, and from which ſhe had herſelf made ſuch efforts to reſcue him, filled her with ſo much horror, that, turn⯑ing extremely ſick, ſhe was obliged to be ſupported to the neareſt box, and ſtop there for hartſhorn and water.

A few minutes, however, ſufficed to di⯑veſt [170] her of all care for herſelf, in the con⯑cern with which ſhe recollected the ſituation of Mrs. Harrel; ſhe haſtened, therefore, back to her, attended by the Baronet and Mr. Marriot, and found her ſtill leaning upon the ſtranger, and weeping aloud.

The fatal news had already reached her; and though all affection between Mr. Har⯑rel and herſelf had mutually ſubſided from the firſt two or three months of their mar⯑riage, a concluſion ſo horrible to all con⯑nection between them could not be heard without ſorrow and diſtreſs. Her temper, too, naturally ſoft, retained not reſentment, and Mr. Harrel, now ſeparated from her for ever, was only remembered as the Mr. Harrel who firſt won her heart.

Neither pains nor tenderneſs were ſpared on the part of Cecilia to conſole her; who finding her utterly incapable either of acting or directing for herſelf, and knowing her at all times to be extremely helpleſs, now ſummoned to her own aid all the ſtrength of mind ſhe poſſeſſed, and deter⯑mined upon this melancholy occaſion, both to think and act for her widowed friend to the utmoſt ſtretch of her abilities and power.

As ſoon, therefore, as the firſt effuſions of her grief were over, ſhe prevailed with [171] her to go to the houſe, where ſhe was hu⯑manely offered the uſe of a quiet room till ſhe ſhould be be better able to ſet off for town.

Cecilia, having ſeen her thus ſafely lodged, begged Mr. Marriot to ſtay with her, and then, accompanied by the Baronet, returned herſelf to the bar, and deſiring the footman who had attended them to be cal⯑led, ſent him inſtantly to his late maſter, and proceeded next with great preſence of mind, to inquire further into the particulars of what had paſſed, and to conſult upon what was immediately to be done with the deceaſed: for ſhe thought it neither decent nor right to leave to chance or to ſtran⯑gers the laſt duties which could be paid him.

He had lingered, ſhe found, about a quarter of an hour, but in a condition too dreadful for deſcription, quite ſpeechleſs, and, by all that could be judged, out of his ſenſes; yet ſo diſtorted with pain, and wounded ſo deſperately beyond any power of relief, that the ſurgeon, who every in⯑ſtant expected his death, ſaid it would not be merely uſeleſs but inhuman, to remove him till he had breathed his laſt. He died, therefore, in the arms of this gen⯑tleman and a waiter.

[172] ‘"A waiter!"’ cried Cecilia, reproachfully looking at Sir Robert, ‘"and was there no friend who for the few poor moments that remained had patience to ſupport him!"’

‘"Where would be the good,"’ ſaid Sir Robert, ‘"of ſupporting a man in his laſt agonies.?"’

This unfeeling ſpeech ſhe attempted not to anſwer, but, ſuffering neither her diſ⯑like to him, nor her ſcruples for herſelf, to interfere with the preſent occaſion, ſhe deſired to have his advice what was now beſt to be done."

Undertaker's men muſt immediately, he ſaid, be ſent for, to remove the body.

She then gave orders for that purpoſe, which were inſtantly executed.

Whither the body was to go was the next queſtion: Cecilia wiſhed the removal to be directly to the town-houſe, but Sir Robert told her it muſt be carried to the neareſt undertaker's, and kept there till it could be conveyed to town in a coffin.

For this, alſo, in the name of Mrs. Har⯑rel, ſhe gave directions. And then addreſ⯑ſing herſelf to Sir Robert, ‘"You will now Sir, I hope, ſhe ſaid, return to the fatal ſpot, and watch by your late unfortunate friend till the proper people arrive to take charge of him?"’

[173] ‘"And what good will that do?"’ cried he; ‘"had I not better watch by you?"’

‘"It will do good,"’ anſwered ſhe, with fome ſeverity, ‘"to decency and to humanity; and ſurely you cannot refuſe to ſee who is with him, and in what ſituation he lies, and whether he has met, from the ſtrangers with whom he was left, the tenderneſs and care which his friends ought to have paid him."’

‘"Will you promiſe, then,"’ he anſwered, ‘"not to go away till I come back? for I have no great ambition to ſacrifice the liv⯑ing for the dead."’

‘"I will promiſe nothing, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ſhocked at his callous inſenſibility; ‘"but if you refuſe this laſt poor office, I muſt apply elſewhere; and firmly I believe there is no other I can aſk who will a moment heſitate in complying."’

She then went back to Mrs. Harrel, leav⯑ing, however, an impreſſion upon the mind of Sir Robert, that made him no longer dare diſpute her commands.

Her next ſolicitude was how they ſhould return to town; they had no equipage of their own, and the only ſervant who came with them was employed in performing the laſt duties for his deceaſed maſter. Her firſt intention was to order a hackney coach, but the deplorable ſtate of Mrs. Harrel [174] made it almoſt impoſſible ſhe could take the ſole care of her, and the lateneſs of the night, and their diſtance from home, gave her a dread invincible to going ſo far without ſome guard or aſſiſtant. Mr. Mar⯑riot earneſtly deſired to have the honour of conveying them to Portman-ſquare in his own carriage, and notwithſtanding there were many objections to ſuch a propoſal, the humanity of his behaviour upon the preſent occaſion, and the evident veneration which accompanied his paſſion, joined to her encreaſing averſion to the Baronet, from whom ſhe could not endure to receive the ſmalleſt obligation, determined her, after much perplexity and heſitation, to accept his offer.

She begged him, therefore, to immediate⯑ly order his coach, and, happy to obey her, he went out with that deſign; but, inſtantly coming back, told her, in a low voice, that they muſt wait ſome time long⯑er, as the Undertaker's people were then entering the garden, and if they ſtayed not till the removal had taken place, Mrs. Harrel might be ſhocked with the ſight of ſome of the men, or perhaps even meet the dead body.

Cecilia, thanking him for this con⯑ſiderate precaution, readily agreed to defer ſetting out; devoting, mean time, all [175] her attention to Mrs. Harrel, whoſe ſorrow, though violent, forbad not conſolation. But before the garden was cleared, and the carriage ordered, Sir Robert returned; ſaying to Cecilia, with an air of parading obedience which ſeemed to claim ſome ap⯑plauſe, ‘"Miſs Beverley, your commands have been executed."’

Cecilia made not any anſwer, and he preſently added ‘"Whenever you chuſe to go I will order up my coach."’

‘"My coach, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Marriot, ‘"will be ordered when the ladies are ready, and I hope to have the honour myſelf of conducting them to town."’

‘"No, Sir,"’ cried the Baronet, ‘"that can never be; my long acquaintance with Mrs. Harrel gives me a prior right to at⯑tend her, and I can by no means ſuffer any other perſon to rob me of it."’

‘"I have nothing,"’ ſaid Mr. Marriot, ‘"to ſay to that, Sir, but Miſs Beverley herſelf has done me the honour to conſent to make uſe of my carriage."’

‘"Miſs Beverley, I think,"’ ſaid Sir Robert, extremely piqued, ‘"can never have ſent me out of the way in order to execute her own commands, merely to deprive me of the pleaſure of attending her and Mrs. Harrel home."’

Cecilia, ſomewhat alarmed, now ſought [176] to leſſen the favour of her deciſion, though ſhe adhered to it without wavering.

‘"My intention,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"was not to confer, but to receive an obligation; and I had hoped, while Mr. Marriot aſſiſted us, Sir Robert would be far more humanely em⯑ployed in taking charge of what we cannot ſuperintend, and yet are infinitely more an⯑xious ſhould not be neglected."’

‘"That,"’ ſaid Sir Robert, ‘"is all done; and I hope, therefore, after ſending me upon ſuch an errand, you don't mean to refuſe me the pleaſure of ſeeing you to town?’

‘"Sir Robert,"’ ſaid Cecilia, greatly diſ⯑pleaſed, ‘"I cannot argue with you now; I have already ſettled my plan, and I am not at leiſure to re-conſider it,"’

Sir Robert bit his lips for a moment in angry ſilence; but not enduring to loſe the victory to a young rival he deſpiſed, he preſently ſaid, ‘"If I muſt talk no more about it to you, madam, I muſt at leaſt beg leave to talk of it to this gentleman, and take the liberty to repreſent to him—"’

Cecilia now, dreading how his ſpeech might be anſwered, prevented its being fi⯑niſhed, and with an air of the moſt ſpirited dignity, ſaid, ‘"Is it poſſible, ſir, that at a time ſuch as this, you ſhould not be wholly indifferent to a ma [...]er ſo frivolous? little indeed will be the pleaſure which our ſoci⯑ety [177] can afford! your diſpute however, has given it ſome importance, and therefore Mr. Marriot muſt accept my thanks for his civility, and excuſe me for retracting my conſent."’

Supplications and remonſtrances were, however, ſtill poured upon her from both, and the danger, the impoſſibility that two ladies could go to town alone, in a hack⯑ney coach, and without even a ſervant, at near four o'clock in the morning, they mutually urged, vehemently entreating that ſhe would run no ſuch hazard.

Cecilia was far other than inſenſible to theſe repreſentations: the danger, indeed, appeared to her ſo formidable, that her inclination the whole time oppoſed her re⯑fuſal; yet her repugnance to giving way to the overbearing Baronet, and her fear of his reſentment if ſhe liſtened to Mr. Mar⯑riot, forced her to be ſteady, ſince ſhe ſaw that her preference would prove the ſignal of a quarrel.

Innattentive, therefore, to their joint perſecution, ſhe again deliberated by what poſſible method ſhe could get home in ſafety; but unable to deviſe any, ſhe at laſt reſol⯑ved to make enquiries of the people in the bar, who had been extremely humane and civil, whether they could aſſiſt or [178] counſel her. She therefore deſired the two gentlemen to take care of Mrs. Harrel, to which neither dared diſſent, as both could not refuſe, and haſtily ariſing, went out of the room: but great indeed was her ſurprize when, as ſhe was walking up to the bar, ſhe was addreſſed by young Delvile!

Approaching her with that air of gravi⯑ty and diſtance which of late he had aſſumed in her preſence, he was beginning ſome ſpeech about his mother; but the inſtant the ſound of his voice reached Cecilia, ſhe joyfully claſped her hands, and eagerly exclaimed, ‘"Mr. Delvile!—O now we are ſafe!—this is fortunate indeed!"’

‘"Safe, Madam,"’ cried he aſtoniſhed, ‘"yes I hope ſo!—has any thing endangered your ſafety?"’

‘"O no matter for danger,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"we will now truſt ourſelves with you, and I am ſure you will protect us."’

Protect you! repeated he again, and with warmth, ‘"yes, while I live!—but what is the matter?—why are you ſo pale?—are you ill?—are you frightened?—what is the matter?"’

And loſing all coldneſs and reſerve, with the utmoſt earneſtneſs he begged her to explain herſelf.

[179] ‘"Do you not know,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"what has happened? can you be here and not have heard it?"’

‘"Heard what?"’ cried he, ‘"I am but this moment arrived: my mother grew un⯑eaſy that ſhe did not ſee you, ſhe ſent to your houſe, and was told that you were not returned from Vauxhall; ſome other cir⯑cumſtances alſo alarmed her, and therefore, late as it was, I came hither myſelf. The inſtant I entered this place, I ſaw you here. This is all my hiſtory; tell me now yours. Where is your party? where are Mr. and Mrs. Harrel?—Why are you alone?"’

‘"O aſk not!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I cannot tell you!—take us but under your care, and you will ſoon know all."’

She then hurried from him, and returning to Mrs. Harrel, ſaid ſhe had now a convey⯑ance at once ſafe and proper, and begged her to riſe and come away.

The gentlemen, however, roſe firſt, each of them declaring he would himſelf attend them.

‘"No,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſteadily, ‘"that trouble will now be ſuperfluous: Mrs. Delvile herſelf has ſent for me, and her ſon is now waiting till we join him."’

Amazement and diſappointment at this intelligence were viſible in the faces of them both: Cecilia waited not a ſingle queſtion, but finding ſhe was unable to ſupport Mrs. [180] Harrel, who rather ſuffered herſelf to be carried than led, ſhe entruſted her between them, and ran forward to enquire of Del⯑vile if his carriage was ready.

She found him with a look of horror that told the tale he had been hearing, liſ⯑tening to one of the waiters: the moment ſhe appeared, he flew to her, and with the utmoſt emotion exclaimed, ‘"Amiable Miſs Beverley! what a dreadful ſcene have you witneſſed! what a cruel taſk have you nobly performed! ſuch ſpirit with ſuch ſoftneſs! ſo much preſence of mind with ſuch feel⯑ing!—but you are all excellence! human nature can riſe no higher! I believe indeed you are its moſt perfect ornament!"’

Praiſe ſuch as this, ſo unexpected, and delivered with ſuch energy, Cecilia heard not without pleaſure, even at a moment when her whole mind was occupied by matters foreign to its peculiar intereſts. She made, however, her enquiry about the carriage, and he told her that he had come in a hackney coach, which was waiting for him at the door.

Mrs. Harrel was now brought in, and little was the recompence her aſſiſtants re⯑ceived for their aid, when they ſaw Cecilia ſo contentedly engaged with young Delvile, whoſe eyes were rivetted on her face, with an expreſſion of the moſt lively admiration: [181] Each, however, then quitted the other, and haſtened to the fair mourner; no time was now loſt, Mrs. Harrel was ſupported to the coach, Cecilia followed her, and Del⯑vile, jumping in after them, ordered the man to drive to Portman-ſquare.

Sir Robert and Mr. Marriot, confounded though enraged, ſaw their departure in paſ⯑ſive ſilence: the right of attendance they had ſo tenaciouſly denied to each other, here admitted not of diſpute: Delvile upon this occaſion, appeared as the repreſenta⯑tive of his father, and his authority ſeemed the authority of a guardian. Their only conſolation was that neither had yielded to the other, and all ſpirit of altercation or revenge was ſunk in their mutual mortifi⯑cation. At the petition of the waiters, from ſullen but proud emulation, they paid the expences of the night, and then throwing themſelves into their carriages, returned to their reſpective houſes.

CHAP. XIII. A SOLUTION.

DURING the ride to town, not mere⯑ly Cecilia, but Delvile himſelf attend⯑ed wholly to Mrs. Harrel, whoſe grief as it became leſs violent, was more eaſy to be ſoothed.

The diſtreſs of this eventful night was however not yet over; when they came to Portman-ſquare, Delvile eagerly called to the coachman not to drive up to the houſe, and anxiouſly begged Cecilia and Mrs. Harrel to ſit ſtill, while he went out himſelf to make ſome enquiries. They were ſur⯑priſed at the requeſt, yet immediately con⯑ſented; but before he had quitted them, Daviſon, who was watching their return, came up to them with information that an execution was then in the houſe.

Freſh miſery was now opened for Mrs. Harrel, and freſh horror and perplexity for Cecilia: ſhe had no longer, however, the whole weight either of thought or of con⯑duct upon herſelf; Delvile in her cares took the moſt animated intereſt, and beſeeching [183] her to wait a moment and appeaſe her friend, he went himſelf into the houſe to learn the ſtate of the affair.

He returned in a few minutes, and ſeem⯑ed in no haſte to communicate what he had heard, but entreated them both to go im⯑mediately to St. James's-ſquare.

Cecilia felt extremely fearful of offend⯑ing his father by the introduction of Mrs. Harrel: yet ſhe had nothing better to pro⯑poſe, and therefore, after a ſhort and diſ⯑ſtreſſed argument, ſhe complied.

Delvile then told her that the alarm of his mother, at which he had already hinted, proceeded from a rumour of this very mis⯑fortune, to which, though they knew not whether they might give credit, was owing the anxiety which at ſo late an hour, had induced him to go to Vauxhall in ſearch of her.

They gained admittance without any diſ⯑turbance, as the ſervant of young Delvile had been ordered to ſit up for his maſter. Cecilia much diſliked thus taking poſſeſſion of the houſe in the night-time, though Del⯑vile, ſolicitous to relieve her, deſired ſhe would not waſte a thought upon the ſub⯑ject, and making his ſervant ſhew her the room which had been prepared for her re⯑ception, he begged her to compoſe her ſpi⯑rits, and to comfort her friend, and pro⯑miſed [184] to acquaint his father and mother when they aroſe with what had happened, that ſhe might be ſaved all pain from ſur⯑priſe or curioſity when they met.

This ſervice ſhe thankfully accepted, for ſhe dreaded, after the liberty ſhe had taken, to encounter the pride of Mr. Delvile with⯑out ſome previous apology, and ſhe feared ſtill more to ſee his lady without the ſame preparation, as her frequent breach of ap⯑pointment might reaſonably have offended her, and as her diſpleaſure would affect her more deeply.

It was now near ſix o'clock, yet the hours ſeemed as long as they were melancholy till the family aroſe. They ſettled to remain quiet till ſome meſſage was ſent to them, but before any arrived, Mrs. Harrel, who was ſeated upon the bed, wearied by fatigue and ſorrow, cried herſelf to ſleep like a child.

Cecilia rejoiced in ſeeing this reprieve from affliction, though her keener ſenſations unfitted her from partaking of it; much indeed was the uneaſineſs which kept her awake; the care of Mrs. Harrel ſeemed to devolve upon herſelf, the reception ſhe might meet from the Delviles was uncer⯑tain, and the horrible adventures of the night, refuſed for a moment to quit her re⯑membrance.

At ten o'clock, a meſſage was brought [185] from Mrs. Delvile, to know whether they were ready for breakfaſt.

Mrs. Harrel was ſtill aſleep, but Cecilia carried her own anſwer by haſtening down ſtairs.

In her way ſhe was met by young Del⯑vile, whoſe air upon firſt approaching her ſpoke him again prepared to addreſs her with the moſt diſtant gravity: but almoſt the moment he looked at her, he forgot his purpoſe; her paleneſs, the heavineſs of her eyes, and the fatigue of long watching be⯑trayed by her whole face, again ſurpriſed him into all the tenderneſs of anxiety, and he enquired after her health not as a com⯑pliment of civility, but as a queſtion in which his whole heart was moſt deeply in⯑tereſted.

Cecilia thanked him for his attention to her friend the night before, and then pro⯑ceeded to his mother.

Mrs. Delvile, coming forward to meet her, removed at once all her fears of diſ⯑pleaſure, and baniſhed all neceſſity of apo⯑logy, by inſtantly embracing her, and warm⯑ly exclaiming ‘"Charming Miſs Beverley! how ſhall I ever tell you half the admira⯑tion with which I have heard of your con⯑duct! The exertion of ſo much fortitude at a juncture when a weaker mind would have [186] been overpowered by terror, and a heart leſs under the dominion of well-regulated prin⯑ciples, would have ſought only its own re⯑lief by flying from diſtreſs and confuſion, ſhews ſuch propriety of mind as can only re⯑ſult from the union of good ſenſe with vir⯑tue. You are indeed a noble creature! I thought ſo from the moment I beheld you; I ſhall think ſo, I hope, to the laſt that I live!"’

Cecilia, penetrated with joy and grati⯑tude, felt in that inſtant the ampleſt recom⯑penſe for all that ſhe had ſuffered, and for all that ſhe had loſt. Such praiſe from Mrs. Delvile was alone ſufficient to make her happy; but when ſhe conſidered whence it ſprung, and that the circumſtances with which ſhe was ſo much ſtruck, muſt have been related to her by her ſon, her delight was augmented to an emotion the moſt pleaſing ſhe could experience, from ſeeing how high ſhe was held in the eſteem of thoſe who were higheſt in her own.

Mrs. Delvile then, with the utmoſt cor⯑diality, began to talk of her affairs, ſaving her the pain of propoſing the change of ha⯑bitation that now ſeemed unavoidable, by an immediate invitation to her houſe, which ſhe made with as much delicacy as if Mr. Harrel's had ſtill been open to her, and choice, not neceſſity, had directed her re⯑moval. [187] The whole family, ſhe told her, went into the country in two days, and ſhe hoped that a new ſcene, with quietneſs and early hours, would reſtore both the bloom and ſprightlineſs which her late cares and reſtleſsneſs had injured. And though ſhe very ſeriouſly lamented the raſh action of Mr. Harrel, ſhe much rejoiced in the acqui⯑ſition which her own houſe and happineſs would receive from her ſociety.

She next diſcuſſed the ſituation of her widowed friend, and Cecilia produced the packet which had been entruſted to her by her late huſband. Mrs. Delvile adviſed her to open it in the preſence of Mr. Arnott, and begged her to ſend for any other of her friends ſhe might wiſh to ſee or conſult, and to claim freely from herſelf whatever advice or aſſiſtance ſhe could beſtow.

And then, without waiting for Mr. Del⯑vile, ſhe ſuffered her to ſwallow a haſty breakfaſt, and return to Mrs. Harrel, whom ſhe had deſired the ſervants to attend, as ſhe concluded that in her preſent ſituation ſhe would not chuſe to make her appear⯑ance.

Cecilia, lightened now from all her own cares, more pleaſed than ever with Mrs. Delvile, and enchanted that at laſt ſhe was ſettled under her roof, went back with as [188] much ability as inclination to give comfort to Mrs. Harrel. She found her but juſt awaking, and ſcarce yet conſcious where ſhe was, or why not in her own houſe.

As her powers of recollection returned, ſhe was ſoothed with the ſofteſt compaſſion by Cecilia, who in purſuance of Mrs. Del⯑vile's advice, ſent her ſervant in ſearch of Mr. Arnott, and in conſequence of her per⯑miſſion, wrote a note of invitation to Mr. Monckton.

Mr. Arnott, who was already in town, ſoon arrived: his own man, whom he had left to watch the motions of Mr. Harrel, having early in the morning rode to the place of his retreat, with the melancholy tidings of the ſuicide and execution.

Cecilia inſtantly went down ſtairs to him. The meeting was extremely painful to them both. Mr. Arnott ſeverely blamed him⯑ſelf for his flight, believing it had haſtened the fatal blow, which ſome further ſacri⯑fices might perhaps have eluded: and Ce⯑cilia half repented the advice ſhe had given him, though the failure of her own efforts proved the ſituation of Mr. Harrel too deſ⯑perate for remedy.

He then made the tendereſt enquiries about his ſiſter, and entreated her to com⯑municate to him the minuteſt particulars of the dreadful tranſaction: after which, ſhe [189] produced the packet, but neither of them had the courage to break the ſeal; and concluding the contents would be no leſs than his laſt will, they determined ſome third perſon ſhould be preſent when they opened it. Cecilia wiſhed much for Mr. Monckton, but as his being immediately found was uncertain, and the packet might conſiſt of orders which ought not to be de⯑layed, ſhe propoſed, for the ſake of expe⯑dition, to call in Mr. Delvile.

Mr. Arnott readily agreed, and ſhe ſent to beg a moment's audience with that gen⯑tleman.

She was deſired to walk into the break⯑faſt-room, where he was ſitting with his lady and his ſon.

Not ſuch was now her reception as when ſhe entered that apartment before; Mr. Delvile looked diſpleaſed and out of hu⯑mour, and, making her a ſtiff bow, while his ſon brought her a chair, coldly ſaid, ‘"If you are hurried, Miſs Beverley, I will attend you directly; if not, I will finiſh my breakfaſt, as I ſhall have but little time the reſt of the morning, from the concourſe of people upon buſineſs, who will crowd upon me till dinner, moſt of whom will be extremely diſtreſſed if I leave town without contriving to ſee them."’

[190] ‘"There is not the leaſt occaſion, Sir,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"that I ſhould trouble you to quit the room: I merely came to beg you would have the goodneſs to be preſent while Mr. Arnott opens a ſmall packet which was laſt night put into my hands by Mr. Harrel."’

‘"And has Mr. Arnott,"’ anſwered he, ſomewhat ſternly, ‘"thought proper to ſend me ſuch a requeſt?"’

‘"No, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"the requeſt is mine; and if, as I now fear, it is imperti⯑nent, I muſt entreat you to forget it."’

‘"As ar as relates merely to yourſelf,"’ returned Mr. Delvile, ‘"it is another mat⯑ter; but certainly Mr. Arnott, can have no poſſible claim upon my time or attention; and I think it rather extraordinary, that a young man with whom I have no ſort of connection or commerce, and whoſe very name is almoſt unknown to me, ſhould ſuppoſe a perſon in my ſtile of life ſo little occupied as to be wholly at his command."’

‘"He had no ſuch idea, Sir,"’ ſaid Ceci⯑lia greatly diſconcerted; ‘"the honour of your preſence is merely ſolicited by myſelf, and ſimply from the apprehenſion that ſome directions may be contained in the papers which, perhaps, ought immediately to be executed."’

‘"I am not, I repeat,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, [191] more mildly, ‘"diſpleaſed at your part of this tranſaction; your want of experience and knowledge of the world makes you not at all aware of the conſequences which may follow my compliance: the papers you ſpeak of may perhaps be of great impor⯑tance, and hereafter the firſt witneſſes to their being read may be publickly called upon. You know not the trouble ſuch an affair may occaſion, but Mr. Arnott ought to be better informed."’

Cecilia, making another apology for the error which ſhe had committed, was in no ſmall confuſion, quitting the room; but Mr. Delvile, perfectly appeaſed by ſeeing her diſtreſs, ſtopt her, to ſay, with much graciouſneſs, ‘"For your ſake, Miſs Bever⯑ley, I am ſorry I cannot act in this buſi⯑neſs; but you ſee how I am ſituated! over⯑powered with affairs of my own, and people who can do nothing without my orders. Beſides, ſhould there hereafter be any inveſ⯑tigation into the matter, my name might, perhaps, be mentioned, and it would be ſuperfluous to ſay how ill I ſhould think it uſed by being brought into ſuch com⯑pany."’

"Cecilia then left the room, ſecretly vowing that no poſſible exigence ſhould in future tempt her to apply for aſſiſtance to Mr. Delvile, which, however oſtentatiouſly [192] offered, was conſtantly with-held when claimed.

She was beginning to communicate to Mr. Arnott her ill ſucceſs, when young Delvile, with an air of eagerneſs, followed her into the room. ‘"Pardon me,"’ he cri⯑ed, ‘"for this intruſion,—but, tell me, is it impoſſible that in this affair I can repreſent my father? may not the office you meant for him, devolve upon me? remember how near we are to each other, and honour me for once with ſuppoſing us the ſame!"’

Ah who, or what, thought Cecilia, can be ſo different? She thanked him, with much ſweetneſs, for his offer, but declined ac⯑cepting it, ſaying ‘"I will not, now I know the inconveniencies of my requeſt, be ſo ſel⯑fiſh as even to ſuffer it ſhould be granted."’

‘"You muſt not deny me,"’ cried he; ‘"where is the packet? why ſhould you loſe a moment?"’

‘"Rather aſk,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"why I ſhould permit you to loſe a moment in a matter that does not concern you? and to riſk, perhaps, the loſs of many moments hereafter, from a too incautious politeneſs."’ ‘"And what can I riſk,"’ cried he, ‘"half ſo precious as your ſmalleſt ſatisfaction? do you ſuppoſe I can flatter myſelf with a poſ⯑ſibility of contributing to it, and yet have the reſolution to refuſe myſelf ſo much plea⯑ſure? [193] no, no, the heroic times are over, and ſelf-denial is no longer in faſhion!"’

‘"You are very good,"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"but indeed after what has paſſed—"’

‘"No matter for what has paſſed,"’ inter⯑rupted he, ‘"we are now to think of what is to come. I know you too well to doubt your impatience in the execution of a com⯑miſſion which circumſtances have rendered ſacred; and ſhould any thing either be done or omitted contrary to the directions in your packet, will you not be apt, blameleſs as you are, to diſturb yourſelf with a thouſand fears that you took not proper methods for the diſcharge of your truſt?"’

There was ſomething in this earneſtneſs ſo like his former behaviour, and ſo far re⯑moved from his late reſerve, that Cecilia, who perceived it with a pleaſure ſhe could hardly diſguiſe, now oppoſed him no longer, but took up the packet, and broke the ſeal.

And then, to her no ſmall amazement, inſtead of the expected will, ſhe found a [...]ll of enormous bills, and a collection of letters from various creditors, threatening the3 utmoſt ſeverity of the law if their de⯑mands were longer unanſwered.

Upon a ſlip of paper which held theſe to⯑ [...]ther was written, in Mr. Harrel's hand.‘To be all paid to-night with a BULLET.’

Next appeared two letters of another [194] ſort; the firſt of which was from Sir Ro⯑bert Floyer, and in theſe words:

The other was from Mr. Marriot.

What a ſcene of fraud, double-dealing, and iniquity was here laid open! Cecilia, who at firſt meant to read every thing aloud, [195] found the attempt utterly vain, for ſo much was ſhe ſhocked, that ſhe could hard⯑ly read on to herſelf.

Laſt of all appeared a paper in Mr. Har⯑rel's own hand-writing, containing theſe words.

Wretch as Mr. Harrel appeared, without religion, principle, or honour, this inco⯑herent letter, evidently written in the deſ⯑perate moment of determined ſuicide, very much affected both Cecilia and Mr. Arnott, [197] and in ſpite either of abhorrence or reſent⯑ment, they mutually ſhed tears over the ad⯑dreſs to themſelves.

Delvile, to whom every part of the affair was new, could only conſider theſe papers as ſo many ſpecimens of guilt and infamy; he read them, therefore, with aſtoniſhment and deteſtation, and openly congratulated Ceci⯑lia upon having eſcaped the double ſnares that were ſpread for her.

While this was paſſing, Mr. Monckton arrived; who felt but little ſatisfaction from beholding the lady of his heart in con⯑fidential diſcourſe with two of his rivals, one of whom had long attacked her by the dan⯑gerous flattery of perſeverance, and the other, without any attack, had an influ⯑ence yet more powerful.

Delvile, having performed the office for which he came, concluded, upon the en⯑trance of Mr. Monckton, that Cecilia had nothing further to wiſh from him; for her long acquaintance with that gentleman, his being a married man, and her neighbour in the country, were circumſtances well known to him: he merely, therefore, enquired if ſhe would honour him with any commands, and upon her aſſuring him ſhe had none, he quietly withdrew.

This was no little relief to Mr. Monck⯑ton, into whoſe hands Cecilia then put the [198] fatal packet: and while he was reading it, at the deſire of Mr. Arnott, ſhe went up ſtairs to prepare Mrs. Harrel for his ad⯑miſſion.

Mrs. Harrel, unuſed to ſolitude, and as eager for company when unhappy to con⯑ſole, as when eaſy to divert her, conſented to receive him with pleaſure: they both wept at the meeting, and Cecilia, after ſome words of general comfort, left them toge⯑ther.

She had then a very long and circum⯑ſtantial converſation with Mr. Monckton, who explained whatever had appeared dark in the writings left by Mr. Harrel, and who came to her before he ſaw them, with full knowledge of what they contained.

Mr. Harrel had contracted with Sir Ro⯑bert Floyer a large debt of honour before the arrival in town of Cecilia; and having no power to diſcharge it, he promiſed that the prize he expected in his ward ſhould fall to his ſhare, upon condition that the debt was cancelled.

Nothing was thought more eaſy than to arrange this buſineſs, for the Baronet was always to be in her way, and the report of the intended alliance was to keep off all other pretenders. Several times, however, her coldneſs made him think the matter hopeleſs; and when he received her letter, [199] he would have given up the whole affair: but Mr. Harrel, well knowing his inability to ſatisfy the claims that would follow ſuch a defection, conſtantly perſuaded him the reſerve was affected, and that his own pride and want of aſſiduity occaſioned all her diſ⯑couragement.

But while thus, by amuſing the Baronet with falſe hopes, he kept off his demands, thoſe of others were not leſs clamorous: his debts encreaſed, his power of paying them diminiſhed; he grew ſour and deſpe⯑rate, and in one night loſt 3000l. beyond what he could produce, or offer any ſecu⯑rity for.

This, as he ſaid, was what he wiſhed; and now he was, for the preſent, to extricate himſelf by doubling ſtakes and winning, or to force himſelf into ſuicide by doubling ſuch a loſs. For though, with tolerable eaſe, he could forget accounts innumerable with his tradeſmen, one neglected debt of ho⯑nour rendered his exiſtence inſupportable!

For this laſt great effort, his difficulty was to raiſe the 3000l. already due, without which the propoſal could not be made: and, after various artifices and attempts, he at length contrived a meeting with Mr. Marriot, intreated him to lend him 2000l. for only two days, and offered his warmeſt ſervices in his favour with Cecilia.

[200] The raſh and impaſſioned young man, deceived by his accounts into believing that his ward was wholly at his diſpoſal, readily advanced the money, without any other condition than that of leave to viſit freely at his houſe, to the excluſion of Sir Robert Floyer. ‘"The other 1000l."’ con⯑tinued Mr. Monckton, ‘"I know not how he obtained, but he certainly had three. You, I hope, were not ſo unguarded—"’

‘"Ah, Mr. Monckton,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"blame me not too ſeverely! the attacks that were made,—the neceſſity of otherwiſe betraying the worthy and half ruined Mr. Arnott—"’

‘"O fie!"’ cried he, ‘"to ſuffer your un⯑derſtanding to be lulled aſleep, becauſe the weak-minded Mr. Arnott's could not be kept awake! I thought, after ſuch cautions from me, and ſuch experience of your own, you could not again have been thus duped."’

‘"I thought ſo too,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"but yet when the trial came on,—indeed you know not how I was perſecuted."’

‘"Yet you ſee,"’ returned he, ‘"the utter inutility of the attempt; you ſee, and I told you beforehand, that nothing could ſave him."’

‘"True; but had I been firmer in refu⯑ſal, I might not ſo well have known it; I might then have upbraided myſelf with [201] ſuppoſing that my compliance would have reſcued him."’

‘"You have indeed,"’ cried Mr. Monk⯑ton, ‘"fallen into moſt worthleſs hands, and the Dean was much to blame for nam⯑ing ſo lightly a guardian to a fortune ſuch as yours."’

‘"Pardon me,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"he never entruſted him with my fortune, he commit⯑ted it wholly to Mr. Briggs."’

‘"But if he knew not the various ſubter⯑fuges by which ſuch a caution might be baffled, he ought to have taken advice of thoſe who were better informed. Mr. Briggs, too! what a wretch! mean, low, vulgar, ſordid!—the whole city of Lon⯑don, I believe, could not produce ſuch another! how unaccountable to make you the ward of a man whoſe houſe you cannot enter without diſguſt!"’

‘"His houſe,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"my uncle never wiſhed me to enter; he believed, and he was right, that my fortune would be ſafe in his hands; but for myſelf, he concluded I ſhould always reſide at Mr. Harrel's."’

‘"But does not the city at this time,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, ‘"abound in families where, while your fortune was in ſecurity, you might yourſelf have lived with proprie⯑ty? Nothing requires circumſpection ſo minute as the choice of a guardian to a girl [202] of large fortune, and in general one thing only is attended to, an appearance of pro⯑perty. Morals, integrity, character, are either not thought of, or inveſtigated ſo ſuperficially, that the enquiry were as well wholly omitted."’

He then continued his relation.

Mr. Harrel haſtened with his 3000l. to the gaming table; one throw of the dice ſettled the buſineſs, he loſt, and ought im⯑mediately to have doubled the ſum. That, however, was never more likely to be in his power; he knew it; he knew, too, the joint claims of Cecilia's deceived admirers, and that his houſe was again threatened with executions from various quarters:—he went home, loaded his piſtols, and took the methods already related to work himſelf into courage for the deed.

The means by which Mr. Monckton had procured theſe particulars were many and various, and not all ſuch as he could avow: ſince in the courſe of his reſearches, he had tampered with ſervants and waiters, and ſcrupled at no methods that led but to diſ⯑covery.

Nor did his intelligence ſtop here; he had often, he ſaid, wondered at the patience of Mr. Harrel's creditors, but now even that was cleared up by a freſh proof of in⯑famy: he had been himſelf at the houſe in [203] Portman-ſquare, where he was informed that Mr. Harrel had kept them quiet, by repeated aſſurances that his ward, in a ſhort time, meant to lend him money for diſ⯑charging them all.

Cecilia ſaw now but too clearly the rea⯑ſon her ſtay in his houſe was ſo important to him; and wondered leſs at his vehemence upon that ſubject, though ſhe deteſted it more.

‘"Oh how little,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"are the gay and the diſſipated to be known upon a ſhort acquaintance! expenſive, indeed, and thoughtleſs and luxurious he appeared to me immediately; but fraudulent, baſe, de⯑ſigning, capable of every pernicious art of treachery and duplicity,—ſuch, indeed, I expected not to find him, his very flightineſs and levity ſeemed incompatible with ſuch hypocriſy."’

‘"His flightineſs,"’ ſaid Mr. Monckton, ‘"proceeded not from gaiety of heart, it was merely the effect of effort; and his ſpirits were as mechanical as his taſte for diver⯑ſion. He had not ſtrong parts, nor were his vices the reſult of his paſſions; had oeconomy been as much in faſhion as extra⯑vagance, he would have been equally eager to practice it; he was a mere time-ſerver, he ſtruggled but to be ſomething, and having neither talents nor ſentiment to know what, [204] he looked around him for any purſuit, and ſeeing diſtinction was more eaſily attained in the road to ruin than in any other, he gal⯑lopped along it, thoughtleſs of being thrown when he came to the bottom, and ſufficient⯑ly gratified in ſhewing his horſemanſhip by the way."’

And now, all that he had either to hear or to communicate upon this ſubject being told, he enquired, with a face ſtrongly ex⯑preſſive of his diſapprobation, why he found her at Mr. Delvile's, and what had become of her reſolution to avoid his houſe?

Cecilia, who, in the hurry of her mind and her affairs, had wholly forgotten that ſuch a reſolution had been taken, bluſhed at the queſtion, and could not, at firſt, recol⯑lect what had urged her to break it: but when he proceeded to mention Mr. Briggs, ſhe was no longer diſtreſſed; ſhe gave a cir⯑cumſtantial account of her viſit to him, re⯑lated the mean miſery in which he lived, and told him the impracticability of her re⯑ſiding in ſuch a houſe.

Mr. Monckton could now in decency make no further oppoſition, however painful and reluctant was his acquieſcence: yet be⯑fore he quitted her, he gave himſelf the conſolation of conſiderably obliging her, and ſoftened his chagrin by the ſweetneſs of her acknowledgments.

[205] He enquired how much money in all ſhe had now taken up of the Jew; and hearing it was 9050l. he repreſented to her the ad⯑ditional loſs ſhe muſt ſuffer by paying an exorbitant intereſt for ſo large a ſum, and the almoſt certainty with which ſhe might be aſſured of very groſs impoſition: he ex⯑patiated, alſo, upon the injury which her character might receive in the world, were it known that ſhe uſed ſuch methods to procure money, ſince the circumſtances which had been her inducement would probably either be unnoticed or miſrepre⯑ſented: and when he had awakened in her much uneaſineſs and regret upon this ſub⯑ject, he offered to pay the Jew without de⯑lay, clear her wholly from his power, and quietly receive the money when ſhe came of age from herſelf.

A propoſal ſo truly friendly made her look upon the regard of Mr. Monckton in a higher and nobler point of view than her utmoſt eſteem and reverence had hitherto placed it: yet ſhe declined at firſt accept⯑ing the offer, from an apprehenſion it might occaſion him inconvenience; but when he aſſured her he had a yet larger ſum lying at preſent uſeleſs in a Banker's hands, and pro⯑miſed to receive the ſame intereſt for his money he ſhould be paid from the funds, ſhe joyfully liſtened to him; and it was [206] ſettled that they ſhould ſend for the Jew, take his diſcharge, and utterly diſmiſs him.

Mr. Monckton, however, fearful of ap⯑pearing too officious in her affairs, wiſhed not to have his part in the tranſaction pub⯑liſhed, and adviſed Cecilia not to reveal the matter to the Delviles. But great as was his aſcendant over her mind, her aver⯑ſion to myſtery and hypocriſy were ſtill greater; ſhe would not, therefore, give him this promiſe, though her own deſire to wait ſome ſeaſonable opportunity for diſcloſing it, made her conſent that their meeting with the Jew ſhould be at the houſe of Mrs. Roberts in Fetter-lane, at twelve o'clock the next morning; where ſhe might alſo ſee Mrs. Hill and her children before ſhe left town.

They now parted, Cecilia charmed more than ever with her friend, whoſe kindneſs, as ſhe ſuſpected not his motives, ſeemed to ſpring from the moſt diſintereſted gene⯑roſity.

That, however, was the ſmalleſt feature in the character of Mr. Monckton, who was entirely a man of the world, ſhrewd, penetrating, attentive to his intereſt, and watchful of every advantage to improve it. In the ſervice he now did Cecilia, he was gratified by giving her pleaſure, but that was by no means his only gratification: [207] he ſtill hoped her fortune would one day be his own, he was glad to tranſact any buſi⯑neſs with her, and happy in making her owe to him an obligation: but his princi⯑pal inducement was yet ſtronger: he ſaw with much alarm the facility of her liberali⯑ty; and he feared while ſhe continued in correſpondence with the Jew, that the eaſi⯑neſs with which ſhe could raiſe money would be a motive with her to continue the practice whenever ſhe was ſoftened by diſ⯑treſs, or ſubdued by entreaty: but he hoped, by totally concluding the negociation, the temptation would be removed: and that the hazard and inconvenience of renewing it, would ſtrengthen her averſion to ſuch an expedient, till, between difficulties and diſuſe, that dangerous reſource would be thought of no more.

Cecilia then returned to Mrs. Harrel, whom ſhe found as ſhe had left, weeping in the arms of her brother. They conſult⯑ed upon what was beſt to be done, and agreed that ſhe ought inſtantly to leave town; for which purpoſe a chaiſe was ordered directly. They ſettled alſo that Mr. Arnott, when he had conveyed her to his country houſe, which was in Suffolk, ſhould haſten back to ſuperintend the fu⯑neral, and ſee if any thing could be ſaved from the creditors for his ſiſter.

[208] Yet this plan, till Cecilia was ſummoned to dinner, they had not the reſolution to put in practice. They were then obliged to be gone, and their parting was very melancholy. Mrs. Harrel wept immode⯑rately, and Mr. Arnott felt a concern too tender for avowal, though too ſincere for concealment. Cecilia, however glad to change her ſituation, was extremely depreſ⯑ſed by their ſorrow, and entreated to have frequent accounts of their proceedings, warmly repeating her offers of ſervice, and proteſtations of faithful regard.

She accompanied them to the chaiſe, and then went to the dining parlour, where ſhe found Mr. and Mrs. Delvile, but ſaw nothing more of their ſon the whole day.

The next morning after breakfaſt, Mrs. Delvile ſet out upon ſome leave-taking viſits, and Cecilia went in a chair to Fetter⯑lane: here, already waiting for her, ſhe met the punctual Mr. Monckton, and the diſappointed Jew, who moſt unwillingly was paid off, and relinquiſhed his bonds; and who found in the ſevere and crafty Mr. Monckton, another ſort of man to deal with than the neceſſitous and heedleſs Mr. Harrel.

As ſoon as he was diſmiſſed, other bonds were drawn and ſigned, the old ones were deſtroyed; and Cecilia, to her infinite ſatis⯑faction, [209] had no creditor but Mr. Monckton. Her bookſeller, indeed, was ſtill unpaid, but her debt with him was public, and gave her not any uneaſineſs.

She now, with the warmeſt expreſſions of gratitude, took leave of Mr. Monckton, who ſuffered the moſt painful ſtruggles in repreſſing the various apprehenſions to which the parting, and her eſtabliſhment at the Delviles gave riſe.

She then enquired briefly into the affairs of Mrs. Hill, and having heard a ſatisfac⯑tory account of them, returned to St. James's-ſquare.

CHAP. I. A DEBATE.

IT was ſtill early, and Mrs. Delvile was not expected till late. Cecilia, therefore, determined to make a viſit to Miſs Belfield, to whom ſhe had been denied during the late diſorders at Mr. Harrel's, and whom ſhe could not endure to mortify by quitting town without ſeeing, ſince whatever were her doubts about Delvile, of her ſhe had none.

To Portland-ſtreet, therefore, ſhe ordered her chair, deliberating as ſhe went whether it were better to adhere to the reſerve ſhe had hitherto maintained, or to ſatisfy her perplexity at once by an inveſtigation into the truth. And ſtill were theſe ſcruples undecided, when, looking in at the win⯑dows as ſhe paſſed them to the door of the houſe, ſhe perceived Miſs Belfield ſtanding in the parlour with a letter in her hand which ſhe was fervently preſſing to her lips.

[211] Struck by this ſight, a thouſand painful conjectures occurred to her, all repreſenting that the letter was from Delvile, and all explaining to his diſhonour the myſtery of his late conduct. And far were her ſuſpicions from diminiſhing, when, upo nbeing ſhewn into the parlour, Miſs Belfield, trembling with her eagerneſs to hide it, haſtily forced the letter into her pocket.

Cecilia, ſurpriſed, diſmayed, alarmed, ſtopt involuntary at the door; but Miſs Belfield, having ſecured what was ſo evi⯑dently precious to her, advanced, though not without bluſhing, and taking her hand, ſaid ‘"How good this is of you, madam, to come to me! when I did not know where to find you, and when I was almoſt afraid I ſhould have found you no more!"’

She then told her, that the firſt news ſhe had heard the preceding morning, was the violent death of Mr. Harrel, which had been related to her, with all its circumſtan⯑ces, by the landlord of their lodgings, who was himſelf one of his principal credi⯑tors, and had immediately been at Portman⯑ſquare to put in his claims; where he had learnt that all the family had quitted the houſe, which was entirely occupied by bailiffs. ‘"And I was ſo ſorry,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"that you ſhould meet with any hardſhips, and not know where to go, and have ano⯑ther home to ſeek, when I am ſure the [212] commoneſt beggar would never want an ha⯑bitation, if you had one in your power to give him!—But how ſad and melancholy you look! I am afraid this bad action of Mr. Harrel has made you quite unhappy? Ah madam! you are too good for this guilty world! your own compaſſion and benevolence will not ſuffer you to reſt in it!"’

Cecilia, touched by this tender miſtake of her preſent uneaſineſs, embraced her, and with much kindneſs, anſwered, ‘"No, ſweet Henrietta! it is you who are good, who are innocent, who are guileleſs!—you, too, I hope are happy!"’

‘"And are not you, madam?"’ cried Henrietta, fondly returning her careſſes. ‘"Oh if you are not, who will ever deſerve to be! I think I ſhould rather be unhappy myſelf, than ſee you ſo; at leaſt I am ſure I ought, for the whole world may be the better for your welfare, and as to me,—who would care what became of me!"’

‘"Ah Henrietta!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"do you ſpeak ſincerely? do you indeed think yourſelf ſo little valued?"’

‘"Why I don't ſay,"’ anſwered ſhe, ‘"but that I hope there are ſome who think a litle kindly of me, for if I had not that hope, I ſhould wiſh to break my heart and die! but what is that to the love and reve⯑rence ſo many have for you?"’

‘"Suppoſe,"’ ſaid Cecilia, with a forced [213] ſmile, ‘"I ſhould put your love and reve⯑rence to the proof? do you think they would ſtand it?"’

‘"O yes, indeed I do! and I have wiſhed a thouſand and a thouſand times that I could but ſhew you my affection, and let you ſee that I did not love you becauſe you were a great lady, and high in the world, and full of power to do me ſervice, but becauſe you were ſo good and ſo kind, ſo gentle to the unfortunate, and ſo ſweet to every body!"’

‘"Hold, hold,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"and let me try if indeed, fairly and truly, you will anſwer what I mean to aſk."’

‘"O yes,"’ cried ſhe warmly, ‘"if it is the deareſt ſecret I have in the world! there is nothing I will not tell you; I will open my whole heart to you, and I ſhall be proud to think you will let me truſt you,—for I am ſure if you did not care a little for me, you would not take ſuch a trouble."’

‘"You are indeed a ſweet creature!"’ ſaid Cecilia, heſitating whether or not to take advantage of her frankneſs, ‘"and every time I ſee you, I love you better. For the world would I not injure you,—and per⯑haps your confidence—I know not, indeed, if it is fair or right to exact it—"’ ſhe ſtopt, extremely perplext, and while Henrietta waited her further enquiries, they were [214] interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Bel⯑field.

‘"Sure, Child,"’ cried ſhe, to her daugh⯑ter, ‘"you might have let me know before now who was here, when you knew ſo well how much I wiſhed an opportunity to ſee the young lady myſelf: but here you come down upon pretence to ſee your brother, and then ſtay away all the morning, doing nobody knows what."’

Then, turning to Cecilia, ‘"Ma'am,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"I have been in the great⯑eſt concern in the world for the little accident that happened when I ſaw you before; for to be ſure I thought, and indeed nobody will perſuade me to the contrary, that it was rather an odd thing for ſuch a young lady as you to come ſo often after Henny, without ſo much as thinking of any other reaſon; eſpecially when, to be ſure, there's no more compariſon between her and my ſon, than between any thing in the world; however, if it is ſo, it is ſo, and I mean to ſay no more about it, and to be ſure he's as contented to think ſo as if he was as mere an inſignificant animal as could be."’

‘"This matter, madam,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"has ſo long been ſettled, that I am ſorry you ſhould trouble yourſelf to think of it again."’

[215] ‘"O, ma'am, I only mention it by the way of making the proper apology, for as to taking any other notice of it, I have quite left it off; though to be ſure what I think I think; but as to my ſon, he has ſo got the upper hand of me, that it all goes for nothing, and I might juſt as well ſing to him. Not that I mean to find fault with him neither; ſo pray, ma'am, don't let what I ſay be to his prejudice, for I believe all the time, there's nobody like him, neither at this end of the town nor the other; for as to the other, he has more the look of a lord, by half, than of a ſhop⯑man, and the reaſon's plain, for that's the ſort of company he's always kept, as I dare ſay a lady ſuch as you muſt have ſeen long ago. But for all that, there's ſome little matters that we mothers fancy we can ſee into as well as our children; however, if they don't think ſo, why it anſwers no purpoſe to diſpute; for as to a better ſon, to be ſure there never was one, and that, as I always ſay, is the beſt ſign I know for making a good huſband."’

During this diſcourſe, Henrietta was in the utmoſt confuſion, dreading leſt the groſſneſs of her mother ſhould again ſend off Cecilia in anger: but Cecilia, who per⯑ceived her uneaſineſs, and who was more charmed with her character than ever, from [216] the ſimplicity of her ſincerity, determined to ſave her that pain, by quietly hearing her ha⯑rangue, and then quietly departing: though ſhe was much provoked to find from the complaining hints every inſtant thrown out, that Mrs. Belfield was ſtill internally con⯑vinced her ſon's obſtinate baſhfulneſs was the only obſtacle to his chuſing whom he pleaſed: and that though ſhe no longer dared ſpeak her opinion with openneſs, ſhe was fully perſuaded Cecilia was at his ſervice.

‘"And for that reaſon,"’ continued Mrs. Belfield, ‘"to be ſure any lady that knew her own true advantage, could do nothing better than to take the recommendation of a mo⯑ther, who muſt naturally know more of her own children's diſpoſition than can be expected from a ſtranger: and as to ſuch a ſon as mine, perhaps there a'n't two ſuch in the world, for he's had a gentleman's education, and turn him which way he will, he'll ſee never a handſomer perſon than his own; though, poor dear love, he was al⯑ways of the thinneſt. But the misfortunes he's had to ſtruggle with would make no⯑body fatter."’

Here ſhe was interrupted, and Cecilia not a little ſurpriſed, by the entrance of Mr. Hobſon and Mr. Simkins.

‘"Ladies,"’ cried Mr. Hobſon, whom ſhe [217] ſoon found was Mrs. Belfield's landlord: ‘"I would not go up ſtairs without juſt ſtopping to let you know a little how the world goes."’

Then perceiving and recollecting Cecilia, he exclaimed ‘"I am proud to ſee you again, ma'am,—Miſs, I believe I ſhould ſay, for I take it you are too young a lady to be entered into matrimony yet."’

‘"Matrimony?"’ cried Mr. Simkins, ‘"no, to be ſure, Mr. Hobſon, how can you be ſo out of the way? the young lady looks more like to a Miſs from a boarding⯑ſchool, if I might take the liberty for to ſay ſo."’

‘"Ay, more's the pity,"’ cried Mrs. Bel⯑field, ‘"for as to young ladies waiting and waiting, I don't ſee the great good of it; eſpecially if a proper match offers; for as to a good huſband, I think no lady ſhould be above accepting him, if he's modeſt and well-behaved, and has been brought up with a genteel education."’

‘"Why as to that, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Sim⯑kins, ‘"its anothergueſs matter, for as to the lady's having a proper ſpouſe, if I may be ſo free, I think as it's no bad thing."’

Cecilia now, taking Henrietta's hand, was wiſhing her good morning; but hear⯑ing Mr. Hobſon ſay he was juſt come from [218] Portman-ſquare, her curioſity was excited, and ſhe ſtayed a little longer.

‘"Sad work, ma'am,’ "ſaid he; ‘"who'd have thought Mr. Harrel aſked us all to ſupper for the mere purpoſe of ſuch a thing as that! juſt to ſerve for a blind, as one may ſay. But when a man's conſcience is foul, what I ſay is it's ten to one but he makes away with himſelf. Let every man keep clear of the world, that's my notion, and then he will be in no ſuch hurry to get out of it."’

‘"Why indeed, ma'am,"’ ſaid Mr. Sim⯑kins, advancing with many bows to Cecilia, ‘"humbly craving pardon for the liberty, I can't pretend for to ſay I think Mr. Harrel did quite the honourable thing by us; for as to his making us drink all that Cham⯑pagne, and the like, it was a ſheer take in, ſo that if I was to ſpeak my mind, I can't ſay as I eſteem it much of a favour."’

‘"Well,"’ ſaid Mrs. Belfield," ‘nothing's to me ſo ſurpriſing as a perſon's being his own executioner, for as to me, if I was to die for it fifty times, I don't think I could do it."’

‘"So here,’ reſumed Mr. Hobſon, ‘"we're all defrauded of our dues! nobody's able to get his own, let him have worked for it ever ſo hard. Sad doings in the ſquare, Miſs! all at ſixes and ſevens; for my part [219] I came off from Vauxhall as ſoon as the thing had happened, hoping to get the ſtart of the others, or elſe I ſhould have been proud to wait upon you, ladies, with the particulars: but a man of buſineſs never ſtands upon ceremony, for when money's at ſtake, that's out of the queſtion. How⯑ever, I was too late, for the houſe was ſeized before ever I could get nigh it."’

‘"I hope, ma'am, if I may be ſo free,"’ ſaid Mr. Simkins, again profoundly bow⯑ing, ‘"that you and the other lady did not take it much amiſs my not coming back to you, for it was not out of no diſreſpect, but only I got ſo ſqueezed in by the ladies and gentlemen that was a looking on, that I could not make my way out, do what I could. But by what I ſee, I muſt needs ſay if one's never in ſuch genteel company, people are always rather of the rudeſt when one's in a crowd, for if one begs and prays never ſo, there's no making 'em conform⯑able."’

‘"Pray,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"is it likely any thing will remain for Mrs. Harrel?"’

‘"Remain, ma'am?"’ repeated Mr. Hob⯑ſon, ‘"yes, a matter of a hundred bills without a receipt to 'em! To be ſure, ma'am, I don't want to affront you, that was his intimate acquaintance, more eſpe⯑cially as you've done nothing diſreſpectful [220] by me, which is more than I can ſay for Mrs. Harrel, who ſeemed downright aſham⯑ed of me, and of Mr. Simkins too, though all things conſidered, 'twould have been as well for her not to have been quite ſo high. But of that in its proper ſeaſon!"’

‘"Fie, Mr. Hobſon fie,"’ cried the ſupple Mr. Simkins, ‘"how can you be ſo hard? for my ſhare, I muſt needs own I think the poor lady's to be pitied; for it muſt have been but a molloncholy ſight to her, to ſee her ſpouſe cut off ſo in the flower of his youth, as one may ſay: and you ought to ſcorn to take exceptions at a lady's proud⯑neſs when ſhe's in ſo much trouble. To be ſure, I can't ſay myſelf as ſhe was over⯑complaiſant to make us welcome; but I hope I am above being ſo unpitiful as for to owe her a grudge for it now ſhe's ſo down in the mouth."’

‘"Let every body be civil!"’ cried Mr. Hobſon, ‘"that's my notion; and then I ſhall be as much above being unpitiful as any body elſe."’

‘"Mrs Harrel,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"was then too unhappy, and is now, ſurely, too un⯑fortunate, to make it poſſible any reſent⯑ment ſhould be harboured againſt her."’

‘"You ſpeak, ma'am, like a lady of ſenſe,"’ returned Mr. Hobſon, ‘"and, indeed, that's the character I hear of you; but for [221] all that, ma'am, every body's willing to ſtand up for their own friends, for which rea⯑ſon, ma'am, to be ſure you'll be making the beſt of it, both for the Relict, and the late gentleman himſelf; but, ma'am, if I was to make bold to ſpeak my mind in a fair manner, what I ſhould ſay would be this: a man here to go ſhooting himſelf with all his debts unpaid, is a mere piece of ſcan⯑dal, ma'am! I beg pardon, but what I ſay is, the truth's the truth, and I can't call it by no other nomination.’

Cecilia now, finding ſhe had not any chance of pacifying him, rang for her ſer⯑vant and chair.

Mr. Simkins then, affecting to lower his voice, ſaid reproachfully to his friend ‘"In⯑deed, Mr. Hobſon, to ſpeak ingenuſly, I muſt needs ſay I don't think it over and above pelite in you to be ſo hard upon the young lady's acquaintance that was, now he's defunct. To be ſure I can't pretend for to deny but he behaved rather comical; for not paying of nobody, nor ſo much as making one a little compliment, or the like, though he made no bones of taking all one's goods, and always chuſed to have the prime of every thing, why it's what I can't pretend to ſtand up for. But that's neither here nor there, for if he had behav⯑ed as bad again, poor Miſs could not tell [222] how to help it; and I dares to ſay ſhe had no more hand in it than nobody at all."’

‘"No, to be ſure,"’ cried Mrs. Belfield, ‘"what ſhould ſhe have to do with it? do you ſuppoſe a young lady of her fortune would want to take advantage of a perſon in trade? I am ſure it would be both a ſhame and a ſin if ſhe did, for if ſhe has not mo⯑ney enough, I wonder who has. And for my part, I think when a young lady has ſuch a fine fortune as that, the only thing ſhe has to do, is to be thinking of making a good uſe of it, by dividing it, as one may ſay, with a good huſband. For as to keep⯑ing it all for herſelf, I dare ſay ſhe's a lady of too much generoſity; and as to only mar⯑rying ſomebody that's got as much of his own, why it is not half ſo much a fa⯑vour: and if the young lady would take my advice, ſhe'd marry for love, for as to lucre, ſhe's enough in all conſcience."’

‘"As to all that,"’ ſaid Mr. Hobſon, ‘"it makes no alteration in my argument; I am ſpeaking to the purpoſe, and not for the matter of complaiſance: and therefore I'm bold to ſay Mr. Harrel's action had nothing of the gentleman in it. A man has a right to his own life, you'll tell me; but what of that? that's no argument at all, for it does not give him a bit the more right to my property; and a man's running in debt, and [223] ſpending other people's ſubſtances, for no reaſon in the world but juſt becauſe he can blow out his own brains when he's done,—though its a thing neither lawful nor reli⯑gious to do,—why it's acting quite out of character, and a great hardſhip to trade into the bargain."’

‘"I heartily wiſh it had been otherwiſe,"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"but I ſtill hope, if any thing can be done for Mrs. Harrel, you will not object to ſuch a propoſal."’

‘"Ma'am, as I ſaid before,"’ returned Mr. Hobſon, ‘"I ſee you're a lady of ſenſe, and for that I honour you: but as to any thing being done, it's what I call a diſtinct thing. What's mine is mine, and what's another man's is his; that's my way of ar⯑guing; but then if he takes what's mine, where's the law to hinder my taking what's his? This is what I call talking to the pur⯑poſe. Now as to a man's cutting his throat, or the like of that, for blowing out his own brains may be called the ſelf-ſame thing, what are his creditors the better for that? nothing at all, but ſo much the worſe: it's a falſe notion to reſpect it, for there's no reſpect in it; it's contrary to law, and a prejudice againſt religion."’

‘"I agree entirely in your opinion,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"but ſtill Mrs. Harrel—"’ ‘"I [224] know your argument, ma'am,"’ interrupted Mr. Hobſon; ‘"Mrs. Harrel i'n't the worſe for her huſband's being ſhot through the head, becauſe ſhe was no acceſſory to the ſame, and for that reaſon, it's a hardſhip ſhe ſhould loſe all her ſubſtance; this, ma'am, is what I ſay, ſpeaking to your ſide of the argument. But now, ma'am, pleaſe to take notice what I argue upon the re⯑ply; what have we creditors to do with a man's family? Suppoſe I am a cabinet⯑maker? When I ſend in my chairs, do I aſk who is to ſit upon them? No; it's all one to me whether it's the gentleman's pro⯑geny or his friends, I muſt be paid for the chairs the ſame, uſe them who may. That's the law, ma'am, and no man need be aſham⯑ed to abide by it."’

The truth of this ſpeech palliating it's ſententious abſurdity, made Cecilia give up her faint attempt to ſoften him; and her chair being ready, ſhe aroſe to take leave.

‘"Lack-a-day, ma'am,"’ cried Mrs. Bel⯑field, ‘"I hope you won't go yet, for I ex⯑pect my ſon home ſoon, and I've a heap of things to talk to you about beſides, only Mr. Hobſon having ſo much to ſay ſtopt my mouth. But I ſhould take it as a great favour, ma'am, if you would come ſome afternoon and drink a diſh of tea with me, [225] for then we ſhould have time to ſay all our ſay. And I'm ſure, ma'am, if you would only let one of your footmen juſt take a run to let me know when you'd come, my ſon would be very proud to give you the meeting; and the ſervants can't have much elſe to do at your houſe, for where there's ſuch a heap of 'em, they commonly think of nothing all day long but ſtanding and gaping at one another."’

‘"I am going out of town to-morrow,"’ ſaid Cecilia, coldly, ‘"and therefore cannot have the pleaſure of calling upon Miſs Bel⯑field again."’

She then ſlightly courtſied, and left the room.

The gentle Henrietta, her eyes ſwimming in tears, followed her to her chair; but ſhe followed her not alone, Mrs. Belfield alſo attended, repining very loudly at the un⯑lucky abſence of her ſon: and the cringing Mr. Simkins, creeping after her and bow⯑ing, ſaid in a low voice, ‘"I humbly crave pardon, ma'am, for the liberty, but I hope you won't think as I have any ſhare in Mr. Hobſon's behaving ſo rude, for I muſt needs ſay, I don't think it over genteel in no ſhape."’ And Mr. Hobſon himſelf, bent upon having one more ſentence heard, cal⯑led out, even after ſhe was ſeated in her chair. ‘"All I ſay ma'am, is this; let every [226] man be honeſt; that's what I argue, and that's my notion of things."’

Cecilia ſtill reached home before Mrs. Delvile; but moſt uneaſy were her ſenſa⯑tions, and moſt unquiet was her heart: the letter ſhe had ſeen in the hands of Henrietta ſeemed to corroborate all her former ſuſpi⯑cions, ſince if it came not from one infinite⯑ly dear to her ſhe would not have ſhewn ſuch fondneſs for it, and if that one was not dear to her in ſecret, ſhe would not have concealed it.

Where then was the hope that any but Delvile could have written it? in ſecret ſhe could not cheriſh two, and that Delvile was cheriſhed moſt fondly, the artleſsneſs of her character unfitted her for diſguiſing.

And why ſhould he write to her? what was his pretence? That he loved her ſhe could now leſs than ever believe, ſince his late conduct to herſelf, though perplexing and inconſiſtent, evinced at leaſt a partiality incompatible with a paſſion for another. What then, could ſhe infer, but that he had ſeduced her affections, and ruined her peace, for the idle and cruel gratification of temporary vanity?

‘"And if ſuch,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"is the de⯑pravity of this accompliſhed hypocrite, if ſuch is the littleneſs of ſoul that a manner ſo noble diſguiſes, ſhall he next, urged, [227] perhaps, rather by prudence than prefer⯑ence, make me the object of his purſuit, and the food of his vain-glory? And ſhall I, warned and inſtructed as I am, be as eaſy a prey, and as wretched a dupe? No, I will be better ſatisfied with his conduct, before I venture to truſt him, and ſince I am richer than Henrietta and leſs likely to be deſert⯑ed, when won, I will be more on my guard to know why I am addreſſed, and vindicate the rights of innocence, if I find ſhe has been thus deluded, by forgetting his talents in his treachery, and renouncing him for ever!"’

Such were the reflections and ſurmiſes that dampt all the long-ſought pleaſure of her change of reſidence, and made her habi⯑tation in St. James's Square no happier than it had been at Mr. Harrel's!

She dined again with only Mr. and Mrs. Delvile, and did not ſee their ſon all day; which, in her preſent uncertainty what to think of him, was an abſence ſhe ſcarcely regretted.

When the ſervants retired, Mr. Delvile told her that he had that morning received two viſits upon her account, both from ad⯑mirers, who each pretended to having had leave to wait upon her from Mr. Harrel.

He then named Sir Robert Floyer and Mr. Marriot.

‘"I believe, indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"that [228] neither of them were treated perfectly well; to me, however, their own behaviour has by no means been ſtrictly honourable. I have always, when referred to, been very ex⯑plicit; and what other methods they were pleaſed to take, I cannot wonder ſhould fail."’

‘"I told them,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ‘"that, ſince you were now under my roof, I could not refuſe to receive their propoſals, eſpe⯑cially as there would be no impropriety in your alliance with either of them: but I told them, at the ſame time, that I could by no means think of preſſing their ſuit, as that was an office which, however well it might do for Mr. Harrel, would be totally impro⯑per and unbecoming for me."’

‘"Certainly;"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"and per⯑mit me, Sir, to entreat that, ſhould they again apply to you, they may be wholly diſcouraged from repeating their viſits, and aſſured that far from having trifled with them hitherto, the reſolutions I have de⯑clared will never be varied."’

‘"I am happy,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"to ſee ſo much ſpirit and diſcernment where arts of all ſorts will be practiſed to enſnare and delude. Fortune and independance were never ſo ſecurely lodged as in Miſs Beverley, and I doubt not but her choice, whenever it is decided, will reflect as much honour upon her heart, as her difficulty in making it does upon her underſtanding."’

[229] Mr. Delvile then enquired whether ſhe had fixed upon any perſon to chuſe as a guardian in the place of Mr. Harrel. No, ſhe ſaid, nor ſhould ſhe, unleſs it were ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary.

‘"I believe, indeed,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"your affairs will not much miſs him! Since I have heard of the exceſs of his ex⯑travagance, I have extremely rejoiced in the uncommon prudence and ſagacity of his fair ward, who, in ſuch dangerous hands, with leſs penetration and ſound ſenſe, might have been drawn into a thou⯑ſand difficulties, and perhaps defrauded of half her fortune."’

Cecilia received but little joy from this moſt unſeaſonable compliment, which, with many of the ſame ſort that were frequently, though accidentally made, intimidated her from the confeſſion ſhe had planned: and finding nothing but cenſure was likely to follow the diſcovery, ſhe at length deter⯑mined to give it up wholly, unleſs any con⯑nection ſhould take place which might ren⯑der neceſſary it's avowal. Yet ſomething ſhe could not but murmur, that an action ſo detrimental to her own intereſt, and which, at the time, appeared indiſpenſable to her benevolence, ſhould now be conſidered as a mark of ſuch folly and imprudence that ſhe did not dare own it.

CHAP. II. A RAILING.

THE next morning the family purpoſed ſetting off as ſoon as breakfaſt was over: young Delvile, however, waited not ſo long; the fineneſs of the weather tempt⯑ed him, he ſaid, to travel on horſeback, and therefore he had riſen very early, and was already gone. Cecilia could not but won⯑der, yet did not repine.

Juſt as breakfaſt was over, and Mr. and Mrs. Delvile and Cecilia were preparing to depart, to their no little ſurpriſe, the door was opened, and, out of breath with haſte and with heat, in ſtumpt Mr. Briggs! ‘"So,"’ cried he, to Cecilia, ‘"what's all this? hay?—where are going?—a coach at the door! horſes to every wheel! Servants fine as lords! what's in the wind now? think to chouſe me out of my belongings?"’

‘"I thought, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, who in⯑ſtantly underſtood him, though Mr. and Mrs. Delvile ſtared at him in utter aſto⯑niſhment, ‘"I had explained before I left you that I ſhould not return."’

[231] ‘"Did n't, did n't!"’ anſwered he, ang⯑rily; ‘"waited for you three days, dreſſed a breaſt o' mutton o' purpoſe; got in a lobſter, and two crabs; all ſpoilt by keep⯑ing; ſtink already; weather quite muggy, forced to ſouſe 'em in vinegar; one expence brings on another; never begin the like agen."’

‘"I am very ſorry, indeed,"’ ſaid Cecilia, much diſconcerted, ‘"if there has been any miſtake through my neglect; but I had hoped I was underſtood, and I have been ſo much occupied—"’

‘"Ay, ay,"’ interrupted he, ‘"fine work! rare doings! a merry Vauxhalling, with piſtols at all your noddles! thought as much! thought he'd tip the perch; ſaw he was n't ſtanch; knew he'd go by his com⯑pany,—a ſet of jackanapes! all black⯑legs! nobody warm among 'em: fellows with a month's good living upon their backs, and not ſixpence for the hangman in their pockets!"’

Mrs. Delvile now, with a look of arch congratulation at Cecilia as the object of this agreeable viſit, finding it not likely to be immediately concluded, returned to her chair: but Mr. Delvile, leaning ſternly upon his cane, moved not from the ſpot where he ſtood at his entrance, but ſurveyed him from head to foot, with the moſt aſto⯑niſhed [232] contempt at his undaunted vulga⯑rity.

‘"Well I'd all your caſh myſelf; ſeized that, elſe!—run out the conſtable for you, next, and made you blow out your brains for company. Mind what I ſay, never give your mind to a gold lace hat! many a-one wears it don't know five farthings from two⯑pence. A good man always wears a bob wig; make that your rule. Ever ſee Maſter Harrel wear ſuch a thing? No, I'll war⯑rant! better if he had; kept his head on his own ſhoulders. And now, pray, how does he cut up? what has he left behind him? a twey-caſe, I ſuppoſe, and a bit of a hat won't go on a man's head!"’

Cecilia, perceiving, with great confuſion, that Mr. Delvile, though evidently provok⯑ed by this intruſion, would not deign to ſpeak, that Mr. Briggs might be regarded as belonging wholly to herſelf, haſtily ſaid ‘"I will not, Sir, as your time is precious, detain you here, but, as ſoon as it is in my power, I will wait upon you in the city."’

Mr. Briggs, however, without liſtening to her, thought proper to continue his ha⯑rangue.

‘"Invited me once to his houſe; ſent me a card, half of it printed like a book! t'other half a ſcrawl could not read; pre⯑tended to give a ſupper; all a mere bam; [233] went without my dinner, and got nothing to eat; all glaſs and ſhew; victuals painted all manner o' colours; lighted up like a paſtry-cook on twelfth-day; wanted ſome⯑thing ſolid, and got a great lump of ſweet⯑meat; found it as cold as a ſtone, all froze in my mouth like ice; made me jump again, and brought the tears in my eyes; forced to ſpit it out; believe it was nothing but a ſnow-ball, juſt ſet up for ſhew, and covered over with a little ſugar. Pretty way to ſpend money! Stuffing, and piping, and hopping! never could reſt till every farthing was gone; nothing left but his own fool's pate, and even that he could not hold together."’

‘"At preſent, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"we are all going out of town; the carriage is waiting at the door, and therefore—"’

‘"No ſuch thing,"’ cried he; ‘"Sha'n't go; come for you myſelf; take you to my own houſe. Got every thing ready, been to the broker's, bought a nice blanket, hardly a brack in it. Pick up a table ſoon; one in my eye."’

‘"I am ſorry you have ſo totally miſtaken me, Sir; for I am now going into the country with Mr. and Mrs. Delvile."’

‘"Won't conſent, won't conſent! what will you go there for? hear of nothing but dead dukes; as well viſit an old tomb."’

[234] Here Mr. Delvile, who felt himſelf in⯑ſulted in a manner he could leaſt ſupport, after looking at him very diſdainfully, turned to Cecilia, and ſaid ‘"Miſs Bever⯑ley, if this perſon wiſhes for a longer con⯑ference with you, I am ſorry you did not appoint a more ſeaſonable hour for your interview."’

‘"Ay, ay,"’ cried the impenetrable Mr. Briggs; ‘"want to hurry her off! ſee that! But 'twon't do; a'n't to be nicked; chuſe to come in for my thirds; won't be gulled, ſhan't have more than your ſhare."’

‘"Sir!"’ cried Mr. Delvile, with a look meant to be nothing leſs than petrific.

‘"What!"’ cried he, with an arch leer; ‘"all above it, hay? warrant your Spaniſh Don never thinks of ſuch a thing! don't believe 'em my duck! great cry and little wool; no more of the ready than other folks; mere puff and go one."’

‘"This is language, Sir,"’ ſaid Mr. Del⯑vile, ‘"ſo utterly incomprehenſible, that I preſume you do not even intend it ſhould be underſtood: otherwiſe, I ſhould very little ſcruple to inform you, that no man of the name of Delvile brooks the ſmalleſt inſinua⯑tion of diſhonour."’

‘"Don't he?"’ returned Mr. Briggs, with a grin; ‘"why how will he help it? will the old grandees jump up out of their graves to frighten us?"’

[235] ‘"What old grandees, Sir? to whom are you pleaſed to allude?"’

‘"Why all them old grandfathers and aunts you brag of; a ſet of poor ſouls you won't let reſt in their coffins; mere clay and dirt! fine things to be proud of! a parcel of old mouldy rubbiſh quite departed this life! raking up bones and duſt, nobody knows for what! ought to be aſhamed; who cares for dead carcaſes? nothing but carion. My little Tom's worth forty of 'em."’

‘"I can ſo ill make out, Miſs Beverley,"’ ſaid the aſtoniſhed Mr. Delvile, ‘"what this perſon is pleaſed to dive at, that I cannot pretend to enter into any ſort of converſa⯑tion with him; you will therefore be ſo good as to let me know when he has finiſhed his diſcourſe, and you are at leiſure to ſet off."’

And then, with a very ſtately air, he was quitting the room; but was ſoon ſtopt, upon Mr. Briggs' calling out ‘"Ay, ay, Don Duke, poke in the old charnel houſes by yourſelf, none of your defunct for me! did n't care if they were all hung in a ſtring. Who's the better for 'em?"’

‘"Pray, Sir,"’ cried Mr. Delvile, turning round, ‘"to whom were you pleaſed to ad⯑dreſs that ſpeech?"’

‘"To one Don Puffendorff,"’ replied [236] Mr. Briggs; ‘"know ever ſuch a perſon, hay?"’

‘"Don who? Sir!"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ſtalking nearer to him, ‘"I muſt trouble you to ſay that name over again."’

‘"Suppoſe don't chuſe it? how then?"’

‘"I am to blame,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ſcornfully waving his hand with a repul⯑ſive motion, ‘"to ſuffer myſelf to be irri⯑tated ſo unworthily; and I am ſorry, in my own houſe, to be compelled to hint that the ſooner I have it to myſelf, the better I ſhall be contented with it."’

‘"Ay, ay, want to get me off; want to have her to yourſelf! won't be ſo ſoon chouſed; who's the better man? hay? which do you think is warmeſt? and all got by myſelf; obliged to never a grandee for a penny; what do you ſay to that? will you caſt an account with me?"’

‘"Very extraordinary this!"’ cried Mr. Delvile; ‘"the moſt extraordinary circum⯑ſtance of the kind I ever met with! a per⯑ſon to enter my houſe in order to talk in this incomprehenſible manner! a perſon, too, I hardly know by ſight!"’

‘"Never mind, old Don,"’ cried Briggs, with a facetious nod, ‘"Know me better another time!"’

‘"Old who, Sir!—what!"’

[237] ‘"Come to a fair reckoning,"’ continued Mr. Briggs; ‘"ſuppoſe you were in my caſe, and had never a farthing but of your own getting; where would you be then? What would become of your fine coach and horſes? you might ſtump your feet off be⯑fore you'd ever get into one. Where would be all this fine crockery work for your breakfaſt? you might pop your head under a pump, or drink out of your own paw; What would you do for that fine jemmy tye? Where would you get a gold head to your ſtick? You might dig long enough in them cold vaults before any of your old grand⯑fathers would pop out to give you one."’

"Mr. Delvile, feeling more enraged than he thought ſuited his dignity, reſtrain⯑ed himſelf from making any further anſwer, but going up to the bell, rang it with great violence.

‘"And as to ringing a bell,"’ continued Mr. Briggs, ‘"you'd never know what it was in your life, unleſs could make intereſt to be a duſt-man."’

‘"A duſt-man!"’—repeated Mr. Del⯑vile, unable to command his ſilence longer, ‘"I proteſt—"’ and biting his lips, he ſtopt ſhort.

‘"Ay, love it, don't you? ſuits your taſte; why not one duſt as well as another? [238] Duſt in a cart good as duſt of a charnel⯑houſe; don't ſmell half ſo bad."’

A ſervant now entering, Mr. Delvile cal⯑led out ‘"Is every thing ready?"’

‘"Yes, Sir."’

He then begged Mrs. Delvile to go into the coach, and telling Cecilia to follow when at leiſure, left the room.

‘"I will come immediately, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"Mr. Briggs, I am ſorry to leave you, and much concerned you have had this trouble; but I can detain Mr. Delvile no longer."’

And then away ſhe ran, notwithſtanding he repeatedly charged her to ſtay. He fol⯑lowed them, however, to the coach, with bitter revilings that every body was to make more of his ward than himſelf, and with the moſt virulent complaints of his loſſes from the blanket, the breaſt of mutton, the crabs and the lobſter!

Nothing, however, more was ſaid to him; Cecilia, as if ſhe had not heard him, only bowed her head, and the coach driving off, they ſoon loſt ſight of him.

This incident by no means rendered the journey pleaſant, or Mr. Delvile gracious: his own dignity, that conſtant object of his thoughts and his cares, had received a wound from this attack which he had not [239] the ſenſe to deſpiſe; and the vulgarity and impudence of Mr. Briggs, which ought to have made his familiarity and boldneſs equally contemptible and ridiculous, ſerved only with a man whoſe pride out-run his underſtanding, to render them doubly morti⯑fying and ſtinging. He could talk, there⯑fore, of nothing the whole way that they went, but the extreme impropriety of which the Dean of — had been guilty, in expoſ⯑ing him to ſcenes and ſituations ſo much beneath his Rank, by leaguing him with a perſon ſo coarſe and diſgraceful.

They ſlept one night upon the road, and arrived the next day at Delvile Caſtle.

CHAP. III. AN ANTIQUE MANSION.

DELVILE Caſtle was ſituated in a large and woody park, and ſurround⯑ed by a moat. A draw-bridge which front⯑ed the entrance was every night, by order of Mr. Delvile, with the ſame care as if ſtill neceſſary for the preſervation of the family, regularly drawn up. Some fortifications ſtill remained entire, and veſtiges were every where to be traced of more; no taſte was ſhewn in the diſpoſition of the grounds, no openings were contrived through the wood for diſtant views or beautiful objects: the manſion-houſe was ancient, large and mag⯑nificent, but conſtructed with as little atten⯑tion to convenience and comfort, as to airi⯑neſs and elegance; it was dark, heavy and monaſtic, equally in want of repair and of improvement. The grandeur of its former inhabitants was every where viſible, but the decay into which it was falling rendered ſuch remains mere objects for meditation and melancholy; while the evident ſtruggle to ſupport ſome appearance of its ancient [241] dignity, made the dwelling and all in it's vicinity wear an aſpect of conſtraint and au⯑ſterity. Feſtivity, joy and pleaſure, ſeemed foreign to the purpoſes of it's conſtruction; ſilence, ſolemnity and contemplation were adapted to it only.

Mrs. Delvile, however, took all poſſible care to make the apartments and ſituation of Cecilia commodious and pleaſant, and to baniſh by her kindneſs and animation the gloom and formality which her manſion inſpired. Nor were her efforts ungratefully received; Cecilia, charmed by every mark of attention from a woman ſhe ſo highly admired, returned her ſolicitude by encreaſ⯑ing affection, and repaid all her care by the revival of her ſpirits. She was happy, in⯑deed, to have quitted the diſorderly houſe of Mr. Harrel, where terror, ſo continually awakened, was only to be lulled by the groſſeſt impoſition; and though her mind, depreſſed by what was paſſed, and in ſuſ⯑pence with what was to come, was by no means in a ſtate for uninterrupted enjoy⯑ment, yet to find herſelf placed, at laſt, without effort or impropriety, in the very manſion ſhe had ſo long conſidered as her road to happineſs, rendered her, notwith⯑ſtanding her remaining ſources of inquie⯑tude, more contented than ſhe had yet felt herſelf ſince her departure from Suffolk.

[242] Even the imperious Mr. Delvile was more ſupportable here than in London: ſecure in his own caſtle, he looked around him with a pride of power and of poſſeſſion which ſoftened while it ſwelled him. His ſuperiority was undiſputed, his will was without controul. He was not, as in the great capital of the kingdom, ſurrounded by competitors; no rivalry diſturbed his peace, no equality mortified his greatneſs; all he ſaw were either vaſſals of his power, or gueſts bending to his pleaſure; he abat⯑ed therefore, conſiderably, the ſtern gloom of his haughtineſs, and ſoothed his proud mind by the courteſy of condeſcenſion.

Little, however, was the opportunity Ce⯑cilia found, for evincing that ſpirit and for⯑bearance ſhe had planned in relation to Del⯑vile; he breakfaſted by himſelf every morn⯑ing, rode or walked out alone till driven home by the heat of the day, and ſpent the reſt of his time till dinner in his own ſtudy. When he then appeared, his converſation was always general, and his attention not more engaged by Cecilia than by his mo⯑ther. Left by them with his father, ſome⯑times he appeared again at tea-time, but more commonly he rode or ſtrolled out to ſome neighbouring family, and it was al⯑ways uncertain whether he was again ſeen before dinner the next day.

[243] By this conduct, reſerve on her part was rendered totally unneceſſary; ſhe could give no diſcouragement where ſhe met with no aſſiduity; ſhe had no occaſion to fly where ſhe was never purſued.

Strange, however, ſhe thought ſuch be⯑haviour, and utterly impoſſible to be the effect of accident; his deſire to avoid her ſeemed ſcrupulous and pointed, and how⯑ever to the world it might wear the ap⯑pearance of chance, to her watchful anxie⯑ty a thouſand circumſtances marked it for deſign. She found that his friends at home had never ſeen ſo little of him, complaints were continually made of his frequent ab⯑ſences, and much ſurpriſe was expreſſed at his new manner of life, and what might be the occupations which ſo ſtrangely engroſ⯑ſed his time.

Had her heart not interfered in this mat⯑ter, ſhe might now have been perfectly at reſt, ſince ſhe was ſpared the renunciation ſhe had projected, and ſince, without either mental exertion or perſonal trouble, the af⯑fair ſeemed totally dropt, and Delvile, far from manifeſting any deſign of conqueſt, ſhunned all occaſions of gallantry, and ſe⯑dulouſly avoided even common converſation with her. If he ſaw her preparing to walk out in an evening, he was certain to ſtay at home; if his mother was with her, and in⯑vited [244] him to join them, he was ſure to be ready with ſome other engagement; and if by accident he met her in the park, he merely ſtopt to ſpeak of the weather, bow⯑ed, and hurried on.

How to reconcile a coldneſs ſo extraor⯑dinary with a fervour ſo animated as that which he had lately ſhewn, was indeed not eaſy; ſometimes ſhe fancied he had entang⯑led not only the poor Henrietta but himſelf, at other times ſhe believed him merely ca⯑pricious; but that he ſtudied to avoid her ſhe was convinced invariably, and ſuch a conviction was alone ſufficient to determine her upon forwarding his purpoſe. And, when her firſt ſurpriſe was over, and firſt chagrin abated, her own pride came to her aid, and ſhe reſolved to uſe every method in her power to conquer a partiality ſo un⯑gratefully beſtowed. She rejoiced that in no inſtance ſhe had ever betrayed it, and ſhe ſaw that his own behaviour prevented all ſuſpicion of it in the family. Yet, in the midſt of her mortification and diſplea⯑ſure, ſhe found ſome conſolation in ſeeing that thoſe mercenary views of which ſhe had once been led to accuſe him, were far⯑theſt from his thoughts, and that whatever was the ſtate of his mind, ſhe had no arti⯑fice to apprehend, nor deſign to guard againſt. All therefore that remained was to [245] imitate his example, be civil and formal, ſhun all interviews that were not public, and decline all diſcourſe but what good breeding occaſionally made neceſſary.

By theſe means their meetings became more rare than ever, and of ſhorter duration, for if one by any accident was detained, the other retired; till, by their mutual dili⯑gence, they ſoon only ſaw each other at dinner: and though neither of them knew the motives or the intentions of the other, the beſt concerted agreement could not more effectually have ſeparated them.

This taſk to Cecilia was at firſt extreme⯑ly painful; but time and conſtancy of mind ſoon leſſened its difficulty. She amuſed herſelf with walking and reading, ſhe com⯑miſſioned Mr. Monckton to ſend her a Piano Forte of Merlin's, ſhe was fond of fine work, and ſhe found in the converſation of Mrs. Delvile a never-failing reſource againſt languor and ſadneſs. Leaving there⯑fore to himſelf her myſterious ſon, ſhe wiſe⯑ly reſolved to find other employment for her thoughts, than conjectures with which ſhe could not be ſatisfied, and doubts that might never be explained.

Very few families viſited at the caſtle, and fewer ſtill had their viſits returned. The arrogance of Mr. Delvile had offend⯑ed all the neighbouring gentry, who could [246] eaſily be better entertained than by receiv⯑ing inſtructions of their own inferiority, which however readily they might allow, was by no means ſo pleaſant a ſubject as to recompenſe them for hearing no other. And if Mr. Delvile was ſhunned through hatred, his lady no leſs was avoided through fear; high-ſpirited and faſtidious, ſhe was eaſily wearied and diſguſted, ſhe bore neither with frailty nor folly—thoſe two principal in⯑gredients in human nature! She required, to obtain her favour, the union of virtue and abilities with elegance, which meeting but rarely, ſhe was rarely diſpoſed to be pleaſed; and diſdaining to conceal either contempt or averſion, ſhe inſpired in return nothing but dread or reſentment: making thus, by a want of that lenity which is the milk of human kindneſs, and the bond of ſo⯑ciety, enemies the moſt numerous and illi⯑beral by thoſe very talents which, more meekly borne, would have rendered her not merely admired, but adored!

In proportion, however, as ſhe was thus at war with the world in general, the cho⯑ſen few who were honoured with her favour, ſhe loved with a zeal all her own; her heart, liberal, open, and but too daringly ſincere, was fervent in affection, and enthu⯑ſiaſtic in admiration; the friends who were dear to her, ſhe was devoted to ſerve, ſhe [247] magnified their virtues till ſhe thought them of an higher race of beings, ſhe inflamed her generoſity with ideas of what ſhe owed to them, till her life ſeemed too ſmall a ſa⯑crifice to be refuſed for their ſervice.

Such was the love which already ſhe felt for Cecilia; her countenance had ſtruck, her manners had charmed her, her under⯑ſtanding was diſplayed by the quick intel⯑ligence of her eyes, and every action and every notion ſpoke her mind the ſeat of elegance. In ſecret ſhe ſometimes regretted that ſhe was not higher born, but that regret always vaniſhed when ſhe ſaw and converſ⯑ed with her.

Her own youth had been paſſed in all the ſeverity of affliction: ſhe had been married to Mr. Delvile by her relations, without any conſultation of her heart or her will. Her ſtrong mind diſdained uſeleſs com⯑plaints, yet her diſcontent, however private, was deep. Ardent in her diſpoſition, and naturally violent in her paſſions, her feel⯑ings were extremely acute, and to curb them by reaſon and principle had been the chief and hard ſtudy of her life. The effort had calmed, though it had not made her happy. To love Mr. Delvile ſhe felt was impoſſible; proud without merit, and imperious without capacity, ſhe ſaw with bitterneſs the inferiority of his faculties, [248] and ſhe found in his temper no qualities to endear or attract: yet ſhe reſpected his birth and his family, of which her own was a branch, and whatever was her miſery from the connection, ſhe ſteadily behaved to him with the ſtricteſt propriety.

Her ſon, however, when ſhe was bleſſed with his preſence, had a power over her mind that mitigated all her ſorrows, and al⯑moſt lulled even her wiſhes to ſleep: ſhe rather idoliſed than loved him, yet her fond⯑neſs flowed not from relationſhip, but from his worth and his character, his talents and his diſpoſition. She ſaw in him, indeed, all her own virtues and excellencies, with a toleration for the imperfections of others to which ſhe was wholly a ſtranger. What⯑ever was great or good ſhe expected him to perform; occaſion alone ſhe thought want⯑ing to manifeſt him the firſt of human beings.

Nor here was Mr. Delvile himſelf leſs ſanguine in his hopes: his ſon was not only the firſt object of his affection, but the chief idol of his pride, and he did not merely cheriſh but reverence him as his ſucceſſor, the only ſupport of his ancient name and family, without whoſe life and health the whole race would be extinct. He conſult⯑ed him in all his affairs, never mentioned him but with diſtinction, and expected the whole world to bow down before him.

[249] Delvile in his behaviour to his father imitated the conduct of his mother, who oppoſed him in nothing when his pleaſure was made known, but who forbore to en⯑quire into his opinion except in cafes of ne⯑ceſſity. Their minds, indeed, were totally diſſimilar; and Delvile well knew that if he ſubmitted to his directions, he muſt demand ſuch reſpect as the world would refuſe with indignation, and ſcarcely ſpeak to a man whoſe genealogy was not known to him.

But though duty and gratitude were the only ties that bound him to his father, he loved his mother not merely with filial af⯑fection, but with the pureſt eſteem and higheſt reverence; he knew, too, that while without him her exiſtence would be a bur⯑then, her tenderneſs was no effuſion of weak partiality, but founded on the ſtrongeſt aſſurances of his worth; and however to maternal indulgence its origin might be owing, the rectitude of his own conduct could alone ſave it from diminution.

Such was the houſe in which Cecilia was now ſettled, and with which ſhe lived al⯑moſt to the excluſion of the ſight of any other; for though ſhe had now been three weeks at the caſtle, ſhe had only at church ſeen any family but the Delviles.

Nor did any thing in the courſe of that time occur to her, but the reception of a melancholy letter from Mrs. Harrel, filled [250] with complaints of her retirement and mi⯑ſery; and another from Mr. Arnott, with an account of the funeral, the difficulties he had had to encounter with the creditors, who had even ſeized the dead body, and the numerous expences in which he had been involved, by petitions he could not withſtand, from the meaner and more clamorous of thoſe whom his late brother-in-law had left unpaid. He concluded with a pathetic prayer for her happineſs, and a declaration that his own was loſt for ever, ſince now he was even deprived of her ſight. Cecilia wrote an affectionate anſwer to Mrs. Har⯑rel, promiſing, when fully at liberty, that ſhe would herſelf fetch her to her own houſe in Suffolk: but ſhe could only ſend her compliments to Mr. Arnott, though her compaſſion urged a kinder meſſage; as ſhe feared even a ſhadow of encouragement to ſo ſerious, yet hopeleſs a paſſion.

CHAP. IV. A RATTLE.

AT this time, the houſe was much en⯑livened by a viſit from Lady Honoria Pemberton, who came to ſpend a month with Mrs. Delvile.

Cecilia had now but little leiſure, for Lady Honoria would hardly reſt a moment away from her; ſhe inſiſted upon walking with her, ſitting with her, working with her, and ſinging with her; whatever ſhe did, ſhe choſe to do alſo; wherever ſhe went, ſhe was bent upon accompanying her; and Mrs. Delvile, who wiſhed her well, though ſhe had no patience with her foibles, encou⯑raged this intimacy from the hope it might do her ſervice.

It was not, however, that Lady Hono⯑ria had conceived any regard for Cecilia; on the contrary, had ſhe been told ſhe ſhould ſee her no more, ſhe would have heard it with the ſame compoſure as if ſhe had been told ſhe ſhould meet with her daily: ſhe had no motive for purſuing her but [252] that ſhe had nothing elſe to do, and no fond⯑neſs for her ſociety but what reſulted from averſion to ſolitude.

Lady Honoria had received a faſhion⯑able education, in which her proficiency had been equal to what faſhion made re⯑quiſite; ſhe ſung a little, played the harp⯑ſichord a little, painted a little, worked a little, and danced a great deal. She had quick parts and high ſpirits, though her mind was uncultivated, and ſhe was totally void of judgment or diſcretion: ſhe was careleſs of giving offence, and indifferent to all that was thought of her; the delight of her life was to create wonder by her rattle, and whether that wonder was to her advantage or diſcredit, ſhe did not for a moment trouble herſelf to conſider.

A character of ſo much levity with ſo little heart had no great chance of raiſing eſteem or regard in Cecilia, who at almoſt any other period of her life would have been wearied of her importunate attendance; but at preſent, the unſettled ſtate of her own mind made her glad to give it any employ⯑ment, and the ſprightlineſs of Lady Hono⯑ria ſerved therefore to amuſe her. Yet ſhe could not forbear being hurt by finding that the behaviour of Delvile was ſo ex⯑actly the ſame to them both, that any com⯑mon [253] obſerver would with difficulty have pronounced which he preferred.

One morning about a week after her lady⯑ſhip's arrival at the caſtle, ſhe came running into Cecilia's room, ſaying ſhe had very good news for her.

‘"A charming opening!"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"pray tell it me."’

‘"Why my Lord Derford is coming!"’

‘"O what a melancholy dearth of inci⯑dent,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"if this is your beſt intelligence!"’

‘"Why it's better than nothing: better than going to ſleep over a family-party; and I vow I have ſometimes ſuch difficulty to keep awake, that I am frightened to death leſt I ſhould be taken with a ſudden nap, and affront them all. Now pray ſpeak the truth without ſqeamiſhneſs, don't you find it very terrible?"’

‘"No, I find nothing very terrible with Mrs. Delvile."’

‘"O, I like Mrs. Delvile, too, of all things, for I believe ſhe's the clevereſt wo⯑man in the world; but then I know ſhe does not like me, ſo there's no being very fond of her. Beſides, really, if I admired her as much again, I ſhould be dreadfully tired of ſeeing nothing elſe. She never ſtirs out, you know, and has no company at home, which is an extremely tireſome plan, [254] for it only ſerves to make us all doubly ſick of one another: though you muſt know it's one great reaſon why my father likes I ſhould come; for he has ſome very old-faſhioned notions, though I take a great deal of pains to make him get the better of them. But I am always exceſ⯑ſively rejoiced when the viſit has been paid, for I am obliged to come every year. I don't mean now, indeed, becauſe your being here makes it vaſtly more tolerable."’

‘"You do me much honour,"’ ſaid Ceci⯑lia, laughing.

‘"But really, when my Lord Derford comes, it can't poſſibly be quite ſo bad, for at leaſt there will be ſomething elſe to look at; and you muſt know my eyes tire extremely of always ſeeing the ſame objects. And we can aſk him, too, for a little news, and that will put Mrs. Delvile in a paſſion, which will help to give us a little ſpirit: though I know we ſhall not get the ſmalleſt intelligence from him, for he knows nothing in the world that's going forward. And, indeed, that's no great matter, for if he did, he would not know how to tell it, he's ſo exceſſively ſilly. However, I ſhall aſk him all ſort of things, for the leſs he can anſwer, the more it will plague him; and I like to plague a fool amazingly, becauſe he can never plague [255] one again.—Though really I ought to beg your pardon, for he is one of your admi⯑rers."’

‘"O pray make no ſtranger of me! you have my free conſent to ſay whatever you pleaſe of him."’

‘"I aſſure you, then, I like my old Lord Ernolf the beſt of the two, for he has a thouſand times more ſenſe than his ſon, and upon my word I don't think he is much uglier. But I wonder vaſtly you would not marry him, for all that, for you might have done exactly what you pleaſed with him, which, all together, would have been no inconvenient circumſtance."’

‘"When I want a pupil,"’ anſwered Ce⯑cilia, ‘"I ſhall think that an admirable re⯑commendation: but were I to marry, I would rather find a tutor, of the two."’

‘"I am ſure I ſhould not,"’ cried lady Honoria, careleſsly, ‘"for one has enough to do with tutors before hand, and the beſt thing I know of marrying is to get rid of them. I fancy you think ſo too, only it's a pretty ſpeech to make. Oh how my ſiſ⯑ter Euphraſia would adore you!—Pray are you always as grave as you are now?"’

‘"No,—yes,—indeed I hardly know."’

‘"I fancy it's this diſmal place that hurts your ſpirits. I remember when I ſaw you in St. James's-ſquare I thouht you very [256] lively. But really theſe thick walls are enough to inſpire the vapours if one never had them before."’

‘"I don't think they have had a very bad effect upon your ladyſhip!"’

‘"O yes they have; if Euphraſia was here ſhe would hardly know me. And the extreme want of taſte and entertainment in all the family is quite melancholy: for even if by chance one has the good fortune to hear any intelligence, Mrs. Delvile will hardly let it be repeated, for fear it ſhould happen to be untrue, as if that could poſ⯑ſibly ſignify! I am ſure I had as lieve the things were falſe as not, for they tell as well one way as the other, if ſhe would but have patience to hear them. But ſhe's ex⯑tremely ſevere, you know, as almoſt all thoſe very clever women are; ſo that ſhe keeps a kind of reſtraint upon me whether I will or no. However, that's nothing com⯑pared to her caro ſpoſo, for he is utterly in⯑ſufferable; ſo ſolemn, and ſo dull! ſo ſtate⯑ly and ſo tireſome! Mortimer, too, gets worſe and worſe; O 'tis a ſad tribe! I dare ſay he will ſoon grow quite as horrible as his father. Don' you think ſo?"’

‘"Why indeed,—no,—I don't think there's much reſemblance,"’ ſaid Cecilia, with ſome heſitation.

‘"He is the moſt altered creature,"’ con⯑tinued [257] her ladyſhip, ‘"I ever ſaw in my life. Once I thought him the moſt agree⯑able young man in the world: but if you obſerve, that's all over now, and he is get⯑ting juſt as ſtupid and diſmal as the reſt of them. I wiſh you had been here laſt ſummer; I aſſure you, you would quite have fallen in love with him."’

‘"Should I?"’ ſaid Cecilia, with a con⯑ſcious ſmile.

‘"Yes, for he was quite delightful; all ſpirit and gaitey; but now, if it was not for you, I really think I ſhould pretend to loſe my way, and inſtead of going over that old draw-bridge, throw myſelf into the moat. I wiſh Euphraſia was here. It's juſt the right place for her. She'll fancy herſelf in a monaſtry as ſoon as ſhe comes, and nothing will make her half ſo happy, for ſhe is always wiſhing to be a Nun, poor little ſimpleton.’

‘"Is there any chance that Lady Euphra⯑ſia may come?"’

‘"O no, ſhe can't at preſent, becauſe it would not be proper: but I mean if ever ſhe is married to Mortimer."’

‘"Married to him!"’ repeated Cecilia, in the utmoſt conſternation.

‘"I believe, my dear,"’ cried Lady Ho⯑noria, looking at her very archly, ‘"you intend to be married to him yourſelf?"’

[258] ‘"Me? no, indeed!"’

‘"You look very guilty, though,"’ cried ſhe laughing, ‘"and indeed when you came hither, every body ſaid that the whole affair was arranged."’

‘"For ſhame, Lady Honoria!"’ ſaid Cecilia, again changing colour, ‘"I am ſure this muſt be your own fancy,—in⯑vention,—"’

‘"No, I aſſure you; I heard it at ſeve⯑ral places; and every body ſaid how char⯑mingly your fortune would build up all theſe old fortifications: but ſome people ſaid they knew Mr. Harrel had ſold you to Mr. Marriot, and that if you married Mortimer, there would be a law-ſuit that would take away half your eſtate; and others ſaid you had promiſed your hand to Sir Robert Floyer, and repented when you heard of his mortgages, and he gave it out every where that he would fight any man that pretended to you; and then again ſome ſaid that you were all the time privately married to Mr. Arnott, but did not dare own it, becauſe he was ſo afraid of fight⯑ing with Sir Robert."’

‘"O Lady Honoria!"’ cried Cecilia, half laughing, ‘"what wild inventions are theſe! and all I hope, your own?"’

‘"No, indeed, they were current over the whole town. But don't take any notice [259] of what I told you about Euphrafia, for perhaps, it may never happen."’

‘"Perhaps,"’ ſaid Cecilia, reviving by believing it all fiction, ‘"it has never been in agitation?"’

‘"O yes; it is negociating at this very moment, I believe, among the higher pow⯑ers; only Mr. Delvile does not yet know whether Euphraſia has fortune enough for what he wants."’

Ah, thought Cecilia, how do I rejoice that my independent ſituation exempts me from being diſpoſed of for life, by thus being ſet up to ſale!

‘"They thought of me, once, for Mor⯑timer,’ "continued Lady Honoria, ‘"but I'm vaſtly glad that's over, for I never ſhould have ſurvived being ſhut up in this place; it's much fitter for Euphraſia. To tell you the truth, I believe they could not make out money enough; but Euphraſia has a fortune of her own, beſides what we ſhall have together, for Grandmama left her every thing that was in her own power."’

‘"Is Lady Euphraſia your elder ſiſter?"’

‘"O no, poor little thing, ſhe's two years younger. Grandmama brought her up, and ſhe has ſeen nothing at all of the world, for ſhe has never been preſented yet, ſo ſhe is not come out, you know: but ſhe's to [260] come out next year. However, ſhe once ſaw Mortimer, but ſhe did not like him at all."’

‘"Not like him!"’ cried Cecilia, greatly ſurpriſed.

‘"No, ſhe thought him too gay,—Oh dear, I wiſh ſhe could ſee him now! I am ſure I hope ſhe would find him ſad enough! ſhe is the moſt formal little grave thing you ever beheld: ſhe'll preach to you ſometimes for half an hour together. Grand⯑mama taught her nothing in the world but to ſay her prayers, ſo that almoſt every other word you ſay, ſhe thinks is quite wicked.’

The converſation was now interrupted by their ſeparating to dreſs for dinner. It left Cecilia in much perplexity; ſhe knew not what wholly to credit, or wholly to diſbelieve; but her chief concern aroſe from the unfortunate change of counte⯑nance which Lady Honoria had been ſo quick in obſerving.

The next time ſhe was alone with Mrs. Delvile, ‘"Miſs Beverley,"’ ſhe ſaid ‘"has your little rattling tormentor acquainted you who is coming?"’

‘"Lord Derford, do you mean, ma'am?"’

‘"Yes, with his father; ſhall you diſlike to ſee them?"’

[261] ‘"Not if, as I hope, they come merely to wait upon you and Mr. Delvile."’

‘"Mr. Delvile and myſelf,"’ anſwered ſhe ſmiling, ‘"will certainly have the honour of receiving them."’

‘"Lord Ernolf,"’ ſaid Cecilia," ‘can ne⯑ver ſuppoſe his viſit will make any change in me; I have been very explicit with him, and he ſeemed equally rational and well bred in forbearing any importunity upon the ſubject."’

‘"It has however been much believed in town,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"that you were ſtrangely ſhackled by Mr. Harrel, and therefore his lordſhip may probably hope that a change in your ſituation may be followed by a change in his favour."’

‘"I ſhall be ſorry if he does,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"for he will then find himſelf much deceived."’

‘"You are right, very right,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"to be difficult in your choice, and to take time for looking around you before you make any. I have forborn all queſtions upon this ſubject, leſt you ſhould find any reluctance in anſwering them; but I am now too deeply intereſted in your wel⯑fare to be contented in total ignorance of your deſigns: will you, then, ſuffer me to make a few enquiries?"’

Cecilia gave a ready, but bluſhing aſſent.

[262] ‘"Tell me, then, of the many admirers who have graced your train, which there is you have diſtinguiſhed with any intention of future preference?"’

‘"Not one, madam!"’

‘"And, out of ſo many, is there not one that, hereafter, you mean to diſtinguiſh?"’

‘"Ah madam!"’ cried Cecilia, ſhaking her head, ‘"many as they may ſeem, I have little reaſon to be proud of them; there is one only who, had my fortune been ſmaller, would, I believe, ever have thought of me, and there is one only, who, were it now diminiſhed, would ever think of me more."’

‘"This ſincerity,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"is juſt what I expected from you. There is, then, one?"’

‘"I believe there is,—and the worthy Mr. Arnott is the man; I am much indeed deceived, if his partiality for me is not truly diſintereſted, and I almoſt wiſh—"’

‘"What, my love?"’

‘"That I could return it more grate⯑fully!"’

‘"And do you not?"’

‘"No!—I cannot! I eſteem him, I have the trueſt regard for his character, and were I now by any fatal neceſſity, compel⯑led to belong to any one of thoſe who have been pleaſed to addreſs me, I ſhould not [263] heſitate a moment in ſhewing him my gra⯑titude; but yet, for ſome time at leaſt, ſuch a proof of it would render me very miſerable."’

‘"You may perhaps think ſo now,"’ re⯑turned Mrs. Delvile; ‘"but with ſentiments ſo ſtrongly in his favour, you will proba⯑bly be led hereafter to pity—and ac⯑cept him."’

‘"No, indeed, madam;" I pretend not, I own, to open my whole heart to you;—I know not that you would have pa⯑tience, for ſo unintereſting a detail; but though there are ſome things I venture not to mention, there is nothing, believe me, in which I will deceive you."’

‘"I do believe you,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, embracing her; ‘"and the more readily becauſe, not merely among your avowed admirers, but among the whole race of men, I ſcarce know one to whom I ſhould think you worthily conſigned!"’

Ah! thought Cecilia, that ſcarce! who may it mean to except?

‘"To ſhew you,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"that I will deſerve your confidence in future, I will refrain from diſtreſſing you by any fur⯑ther queſtions at preſent: you will not, I think, act materially without conſulting me, and for your thoughts—it were tyranny, [264] not friendiſhp, to inveſtigate them more narrowly."’

Cecilia's gratitude for this delicacy, would inſtantly have induced her to tell every ſecret of her ſoul, had ſhe not apprehended ſuch a confeſſion would have ſeemed ſoli⯑citing her intereſt and aſſiſtance, in the only affair in which ſhe would have diſ⯑dained even to receive them.

She thanked her, therefore, for her kind⯑neſs, and the converſation was dropt; ſhe much wiſhed to have known whether theſe enquiries ſprung ſimply from friendly curi⯑oſity, or whether ſhe was deſirous from any nearer motive to be ſatisfied with reſpect to her freedom or engagements. This, how⯑ever, ſhe had no method of diſcovering, and was therefore compelled to wait quiet⯑ly till time ſhould make it clear.

CHAP. V. A STORM.

ONE evening about this time, which was the latter end of July, Lady Honoria and Cecilia deferred walking out till very late, and then found it ſo pleaſant, that they had ſtrolled into the Park two miles from the houſe, when they were met by young Delvile; who, however, only reminded them how far they had to return, and walked on.

‘"He grows quite intolerable!"’ cried Lady Honoria, when he was gone; ‘"it's really a melancholy thing to ſee a young man behave ſo like an old Monk. I dare ſay in another week he won't take off his hat to us; and, in about a fortnight, I ſuppoſe he'll ſhut himſelf up in one of thoſe little round towers, and ſhave his head, and live upon roots, and howl if any body comes near him. I really half wonder he does not think it too diſſipated to let Fidel run after him ſo. A thouſand to one but he ſhoots him ſome day for giving a ſudden bark when he's in one of theſe gloomy fits. [266] Something, however, muſt certainly be the matter with him. Perhaps he is in love."’

‘"Can nothing be the matter with him but that?"’ cried Cecilia.

‘"Nay, I don't know; but I am ſure if he is, his Miſtreſs has not much occaſion to be jealous of you or me, for never, I think, were two poor Damſels ſo neglect⯑ed!"’

The utmoſt art of malice could not have furniſhed a ſpeech more truly morti⯑fying to Cecilia than this thoughtleſs and accidental ſally of Lady Honoria's: par⯑ticularly, however, upon her guard, from the raillery ſhe had already endured, ſhe anſwered, with apparent indifference, ‘"he is meditating, perhaps, upon Lady Eu⯑phraſia."’

‘"O no,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"for he did not take any notice of her when he ſaw her; I am ſure if he marries her, it will only be becauſe he cannot help it."’

‘"Poor Lady Euphraſia!"’

‘"O no, not at all; he'll make her two or three fine ſpeeches, and then ſhe'll be perfectly contented: eſpecially if he looks as diſmally at her as he does at us! and that probably he will do the more rea⯑dily for not liking to look at her at all. But ſhe's ſuch a romantic little thing, ſhe'll never ſuſpect him."’

[267] Here they were ſomewhat alarmed by a ſudden darkneſs in the air, which was pre⯑ſently ſucceeded by a thunder ſtorm; they inſtantly turned back, and began running home, when a violent ſhower of rain obli⯑ged them to take ſhelter under a large tree; where in two minutes they were joined by Delvile, who came to offer his aſſiſtance in hurrying them home; and finding the thunder and lightening continue, begged them to move on, in defiance of the rain, as their preſent ſituation expoſed them to more danger than a wet hat and cloak, which might be changed in a moment.

Cecilia readily aſſented; but Lady Ho⯑noria, extremely frightened, proteſted ſhe would not ſtir till the ſtorm was over. It was in vain he repreſented her miſtake in ſuppoſing herſelf in a place of ſecurity; ſhe clung to the tree, ſcreamed at every flaſh of lightening, and all her gay ſpirits were loſt in her apprehenſions.

Delvile then earneſtly propoſed to Ceci⯑lia conducting her home by herſelf, and re⯑turning again to Lady Honoria; but ſhe thought it wrong to quit her companion, and hardly right to accept his aſſiſtance ſeparately. They waited, therefore, ſome time all together; but the ſtorm encreaſing with great violence, the thunder growing louder, and the lightning becoming ſtronger, [268] Delvile grew impatient even to anger at Lady Honoria's reſiſtance, and warmly expoſtulated upon its folly and danger. But the preſent was no ſeaſon for leſſons in philoſophy; prejudices ſhe had never been taught to ſurmount made her think herſelf in a place of ſafety, and ſhe was now too much terrified to give argument fair play.

Finding her thus impracticable, Delvile eagerly ſaid to Cecilia, ‘"Come then, Miſs Beverley, let us wait no longer; I will ſee you home, and then return to Lady Honoria."’

‘"By no means,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"my life is not more precious than either of yours, and therefore it may run the ſame riſk."’

‘"It is more precious,"’ cried he with ve⯑hemence, ‘"than the air I breathe!"’ and ſeizing her hand, he drew it under his arm, and, without waiting her conſent, almoſt forced her away with him, ſaying as they ran, ‘"How could a thouſand Lady Honoria's recompence the world for the loſs of one Miſs Beverley? we may, in⯑deed, find many thouſand ſuch as Lady Honoria, but ſuch as Miſs Beverley—where ſhall we ever find another?"’

Cecilia, ſurpriſed, yet gratified, could not ſpeak, for the ſpeed with which they ran almoſt took away her breath; and be⯑fore they were near home, ſlackening her [269] pace, and panting, ſhe confeſſed her ſtrength was exhauſted, and that ſhe could go ſo faſt no further.

‘"Let us then ſtop and reſt,"’ cried he; ‘"but why will you not lean upon me? ſurely this is no time for ſcruples, and for idle and unneceſſary ſcruples, Miſs Beverley can never find a time."’

Cecilia then, urged equally by ſhame at his ſpeech and by weakneſs from fatigue, leant upon his arm; but ſhe ſoon repented her condeſcenſion; for Delvile, with an emotion he ſeemed to find wholly irrepreſſi⯑ble, paſſionately exclaimed ‘"ſweet lovely burthen! O why not thus for ever!"’

The ſtrength of Cecilia was now inſtant⯑ly reſtored, and ſhe haſtily withdrew from his hold; he ſuffered her to diſengage her⯑ſelf, but ſaid in a faultering voice, ‘"par⯑don me, Cecilia!—Madam!—Miſs Bever⯑ley, I mean!—"’

Cecilia, without making any anſwer, walked on by herſelf, as quick a pace as ſhe was able; and Delvile, not venturing to oppoſe her, ſilently followed.

They had gone but a few ſteps, before there came a violent ſhower of hail; and the wind, which was very high, being im⯑mediately in their faces, Cecilia was ſo pel⯑ted and incommoded, that ſhe was fre⯑quently [270] obliged to ſtop, in defiance of her utmoſt efforts to force herſelf forward. Delvile then approaching her, propoſed that ſhe ſhould again ſtand under a tree, as the hunder and lightening for the preſent ſeemed over, and wait there till the fury of the hail was paſt: and Cecilia, though never before ſo little diſpoſed to oblige him, was ſo much diſtreſſed by the violence of the wind and hail, that ſhe was forced to comply.

Every inſtant now ſeemed an age; yet neither hail nor wind abated: mean time they were both ſilent, and both, though with different feelings, equally comfortleſs.

Delvile, however, who took care to place himſelf on the ſide whence the wind blew hardeſt, perceived, in ſpite of his endea⯑vours to ſave her, ſome hail-ſtones lodged upon her thin ſummer cloak: he then took off his own hat, and, though he ventured not to let it touch her, held it in ſuch a manner as to ſhelter her better.

Cecilia now could no longer be either ſilent or unmoved, but turning to him with much emotion, ſaid, ‘"Why will you do this, Mr. Delvile?"’

‘"What would I not do,’ "anſwered he, ‘"to obtain forgiveneſs from Miſs Bever⯑ley?"’

[271] ‘"Well, well,—pray put on your hat."’

‘"Do you command it?"’

‘"No, certainly!—but I wiſh it."’

‘"Ah!"’ cried he, inſtantly putting it on, ‘"whoſe are the commands that would have half the weight with your wiſhes?"’

And then, after another pauſe, he added, ‘"do you forgive me?"’

Cecilia, aſhamed of the cauſe of their diſſention, and ſoftened by the ſeriouſneſs of his manner, anſwered very readily, ‘"yes, yes,—why will you make me remember ſuch nonſenſe?"’

‘"All ſweetneſs,’ "cried he warmly, and ſnatching her hand, ‘"is Miſs Beverley!—O that I had power—that it were not ut⯑terly impoſſible—that the cruelty of my ſituation—"’

‘"I find,"’ cried ſhe, greatly agitated, and forcibly drawing away her hand, ‘"you will teach me, for another time, the folly of fearing bad weather!"’

And ſhe hurried from beneath the tree; and Delvile perceiving one of the ſervants approach with an Umbrella, went forward to take it from him, and directed him to haſten inſtantly to Lady Honoria.

Then returning to Cecilia, he would have held it over her head, but with an air of diſpleaſure, ſhe took it into her own hand.

[272] ‘"Will you not let me carry it for you?"’ he cried.

‘"No, Sir, there is not any occaſion."’

They then proceeded ſilently on.

The ſtorm was now ſoon over; but it grew very dark, and as they had quitted the path while they ran, in order to get home by a ſnorter cut, the walk was ſo bad from the height of the graſs, and the unevenneſs of the ground, that Cecilia had the utmoſt difficulty to make her way; yet ſhe reſo⯑lutely refuſed any aſſiſtance from Delvile, who walked anxiouſly by her ſide, and ſeemed equally fearful upon his own ac⯑count and upon hers, to truſt himſelf with being importunate.

At length they came to a place which Cecilia in vain tried to paſs; Delvile then grew more urgent to help her; firm, how⯑ever, in declining all aid, ſhe preferred going a conſiderable way round to another part of the park which led to the houſe. Delvile, angry as well as mortified, pro⯑poſed to aſſiſt her no more, but followed without ſaying a word.

Cecilia, though ſhe felt not all the reſent⯑ment ſhe diſplayed, ſtill thought it neceſſary to ſupport it, as ſhe was much provoked with the perpetual inconſiſtency of his be⯑haviour, and deemed it wholly improper to ſuffer, without diſcouragement, occaſional [273] ſallies of tenderneſs from one who, in his general conduct, behaved with the moſt ſcrupulous reſerve.

They now arrived at the caſtle; but en⯑tering by a back way, came to a ſmall and narrow paſſage which obſtructed the en⯑trance of the umbrella: Delvile once more, and almoſt involuntarily, offered to help her; but, letting down the ſpring, ſhe cold⯑ly ſaid ſhe had no further uſe for it.

He then went forward to open a ſmall gate which led by another long paſſage into the hall: but hearing the ſervants advance, he held it for an inſtant in his hand, while, in a tone of voice the moſt dejected, he ſaid ‘"I am grieved to find you thus offended; but were it poſſible you could know half the wretchedneſs of my heart, the generoſity of your own would make you regret this ſeverity!"’ and then, opening the gate, he bowed, and went another way.

Cecilia was now in the midſt of ſervants; but ſo much ſhocked and aſtoniſhed by the unexpected ſpeech of Delvile, which in⯑ſtantly changed all her anger into ſorrow, that ſhe ſcarce knew what they ſaid to her, nor what ſhe replied; though they all with one voice enquired what was become of Lady Honoria, and which way they ſhould run to ſeek her.

Mrs. Delvile then came alſo, and ſhe was obliged to recollect herſelf. She im⯑mediately [274] propoſed her going to bed, and drinking white wine whey to prevent taking cold: cold, indeed, ſhe feared not; yet ſhe agreed to the propoſal, for ſhe was con⯑founded and diſmayed by what had paſſed, and utterly unable to hold any converſa⯑tion.

Her perplexity and diſtreſs were, how⯑ever, all attributed to fatigue and fright; and Mrs. Delvile, having aſſiſted in hurry⯑ing her to bed, went to perform the ſame office for Lady Honoria, who arrived at that time.

Left at length by herſelf, ſhe revolved in her mind the adventure of the evening, and the whole behaviour of Delvile ſince firſt ſhe was acquainted with him. That he loved her with tenderneſs, with fond⯑neſs loved her, ſeemed no longer to admit of any doubt, for however diſtant and cold he appeared, when acting with circum⯑ſpection and deſign, the moment he was off his guard from ſurpriſe, terror, accident of any ſort, the moment that he was be⯑trayed into acting from nature and incli⯑nation, he was conſtantly certain to diſ⯑cover a regard the moſt animated and flattering.

This regard, however, was not more evi⯑dent than his deſire to conceal and to con⯑quer it: he ſeemed to dread even her ſight, [275] and to have impoſed upon himſelf the moſt rigid forbearance of all converſation or in⯑tercourſe with her.

Whence could this ariſe? what ſtrange and unfathomable cauſe could render neceſſary a conduct ſo myſterious? he knew not, in⯑deed, that ſhe herſelf wiſhed it changed, but he could not be ignorant that his chance with almoſt any woman would at leaſt be worth trying.

Was the obſtacle which thus diſcouraged him the condition impoſed by her uncle's will of giving her own name to the man ſhe married? this ſhe herſelf thought was an unpleaſant circumſtance, but yet ſo common for an heireſs, that it could hard⯑ly out-weigh the many advantages of ſuch a connection.

Henrietta again occurred to her; the let⯑ter ſhe had ſeen in her hands was ſtill un⯑explained: yet her entire conviction that Henrietta was not loved by him, joined to a certainty that affection alone could ever make him think of her, leſſened upon this ſubject her ſuſpicions every moment.

Lady Euphraſia Pemberton, at laſt, reſt⯑ed moſt upon her mind, and ſhe thought it probable ſome actual treaty was negociating with the Duke of Derwent.

Mrs. Delvile ſhe had every reaſon to believe was her friend, though ſhe was [276] ſcrupulouſly delicate in avoiding either rail⯑lery or obſervation upon the ſubject of her ſon, whom ſhe rarely mentioned, and never but upon occaſions in which Cecilia could have no poſſible intereſt.

The Father, therefore, notwithſtanding all Mr. Monckton had repreſented to the contrary, appeared to be the real obſtacle; his pride might readily object to her birth, which though not contemptible, was mere⯑ly decent, and which, if traced beyond her grandfather, loſt all title even to that epithet.

‘"If this, however,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"is at laſt his ſituation, how much have I been to blame in cenſuring his conduct! for while to me he has appeared capricious, he has, in fact, acted wholly from neceſſity: if his father inſiſts upon his forming another connection, has he not been honourable, prudent and juſt, in flying an object that made him think of diſobedience, and endeavouring to keep her ignorant of a partiality it is his duty to curb?’

All, therefore, that remained for her to do or to reſolve, was to guard her own ſecret with more aſſiduous care than ever, and ſince ſhe found that their union was by himſelf thought impoſſible, to keep from his knowledge that the regret was not all his own.

CHAP. VI. A MYSTERY.

FOR two days, in conſequence of violent colds caught during the ſtorm, Lady Honoria Pemberton and Cecilia were con⯑fined to their rooms. Cecilia, glad by ſoli⯑tude and reflection to compoſe her ſpirits and ſettle her plan of conduct, would wil⯑lingly have ſtill prolonged her retire⯑ment, but the abatement of her cold afford⯑ing her no pretence, ſhe was obliged on the third day to make her appearance.

Lady Honoria, though leſs recovered, as ſhe had been more a ſufferer, was im⯑patient of any reſtraint, and would take no denial to quitting her room at the ſame time; at dinner, therefore, all the family met as uſual.

Mr. Delvile, with his accuſtomed ſolem⯑nity of civility, made various enquiries and congratulations upon their danger and their ſecurity, carefully in both, addreſſing him⯑ſelf firſt to Lady Honoria, and then with more ſtatelineſs in his kindneſs, to Cecilia. [278] His lady, who had frequently viſited them both, had nothing new to hear.

Delvile did not come in till they were all ſeated, when, haſtily ſaying he was glad to ſee both the ladies ſo well again, he [...]ſtant⯑ly employed himſelf in ca [...] [...] the agitation of a man who feared truſting him⯑ſelf to ſit idle.

Little, however, as he ſaid, Cecilia was much ſtruck by the melancholy tone of his voice, and the moment ſhe raiſed her eyes, ſhe obſerved that his countenance was equally ſad.

‘"Mortimer,"’ cried Mr. Delvile, ‘"I am ſure you are not well; I cannot imagine why you will not have ſome advice."’

‘"Were I to ſend for a phyſician, Sir,"’ cried Delvile, with affected chearfulneſs, ‘"he would find it much more difficult to imagine what advice to give me."’

‘"Permit me however, Mr. Mortimer,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"to return you my humble thanks for the honour of your aſ⯑ſiſtance in the thunder ſtorm! I am afraid you made yourſelf ill by attending me!"’

‘"Your ladyſhip,"’ returned Delvile, colouring very high, yet pretending to laugh; ‘"made ſo great a coward of me, that I ran away from ſhame at my own inferiority of courage."’

‘"Were you, then, with Lady Honoria during the ſtorm?"’ cried Mrs. Delvile.

[279] ‘"No, Madam!"’ cried Lady Honoria very quick; ‘"but he was ſo good as to leave me during the ſtorm."’

‘"Mortimer,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ‘"is this poſſible?"’

‘"O Lady Honoria was ſuch a Heroine,"’ anſwered Delvile, ‘"that ſhe wholly diſ⯑dained receiving any aſſiſtance; her valour was ſo much more undaunted than mine, that ſhe ventured to brave the lightning un⯑der an oak tree!"’

‘"Now, dear Mrs. Delvile,"’ exclaimed Lady Honoria, ‘"think what a ſimpleton he would have made of me! he wanted to per⯑ſuade me that in the open air I ſhould be leſs expoſed to danger than under the ſhelter of a thick tree!"’

‘"Lady Honoria,"’ replied Mrs. Delvile, with a ſarcaſtic ſmile, ‘"the next tale of ſcandal you oblige me to hear, I will inſiſt for your puniſhment that you ſhall read one of Mr. Newbury's little books! there are twenty of them that will explain this mat⯑ter to you, and ſuch reading will at leaſt employ your time as uſefully as ſuch tales!"’

‘"Well, ma'am,"’ ſaid Lady Honoria, ‘"I don't know whether you are laughing at me or not, but really I concluded Mr. Mortimer only choſe to amuſe himſelf in a tête à tête with Miſs Beverley."’

‘"He was not with Miſs Beverley,"’ cri⯑ed Mrs. Delvile with quickneſs; ‘"ſhe was [280] alone,—I ſaw her myſelf the moment ſhe came in."’

‘"Yes, ma'am,—but not then,—he was gone;"’—ſaid Cecilia, endeavouring, but not very ſucceſsfully, to ſpeak with com⯑poſure.

‘"I had the honour,"’ cried Delvile, making, with equal ſucceſs, the ſame at⯑tempt, ‘"to wait upon Miſs Beverley to the little gate; and I was then returning to Lady Honoria when I met her ladyſhip juſt coming in."’

‘"Very extraordinary, Mortimer,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ſtaring, ‘"to attend Lady Honoria the laſt!"’

‘"Don't be angry in earneſt, Sir,"’ cried Lady Honoria, gayly, ‘"for I did not mean to turn tell-tale."’

Here the ſubject was dropt: greatly to the joy both of Delvile and Cecilia, who mutually exerted themſelves in talking upon what next was ſtarted, in order to prevent its being recurred to again.

That fear, however, over, Delvile ſaid little more; ſadneſs hung heavily on his mind; he was abſent, diſturbed, uneaſy; yet he endeavoured no longer to avoid Ce⯑cilia; on the contrary, when ſhe aroſe to quit the room, he looked evidently diſap⯑pointed.

The ladies colds kept them at home all the evening, and Delvile, for the firſt time [281] ſince their arrival at the caſtle, joined them at tea: nor when it was over, did he as uſual retire; he loitered, pretended to be caught by a new pamphlet, and looked as anxiouſly eager to ſpeak with Cecilia, as he had hitherto appeared to ſhun her.

With new emotion and freſh diſtreſs Ce⯑cilia perceived this change; what he might have to ſay ſhe could not conjecture, but all that foreran his communication convinced her it was nothing ſhe could wiſh; and much as ſhe had deſired ſome explanation of his deſigns, when the long-expected mo⯑ment ſeemed arriving, prognoſtications the moſt cruel of the event, repreſſed her impa⯑tience, and deadened her curioſity. She earneſtly lamented her unfortunate reſi⯑dence in his houſe, where the adoration of every inhabitant, from his father to the loweſt ſervant, had impreſſed her with the ſtrongeſt belief of his general worthineſs, and greatly, though imperceptibly, encreaſ⯑ed her regard for him, ſince ſhe had now not a doubt remaining but that ſome cruel, ſome fatal obſtacle, prohibited their union.

To collect fortitude to hear it with compoſure, was now her whole ſtudy; but though, when alone, ſhe thought any diſcovery preferable to ſuſpence, all her courage failed her when Delvile appeared, and if ſhe could not detain Lady Honoria, ſhe ivoluntarily followed her.

[282] Thus paſſed four or five days; during which the health of Delvile ſeemed to ſuf⯑fer with his mind, and though he refuſed to acknowledge he was ill, it was evident to every body that he was far from well.

Mr. Delvile frequently urged him to conſent to have ſome advice; but he al⯑ways revived, though with forced and tran⯑ſitory ſpirits, at the mention of a phyſician, and the propoſal ended in nothing.

Mrs. Delvile, too, at length grew alarm⯑ed; her enquiries were more penetrating and pointed, but they were not more ſuc⯑ceſsful; every attack of this ſort was fol⯑lowed by immediate gaiety, which, however conſtrained, ſerved, for the time, to change the ſubject. Mrs. Delvile, however, was not ſoon to be deceived; ſhe watched her ſon inceſſantly, and ſeemed to feel an in⯑quietude ſcarce leſs than his own.

Cecilia's diſtreſs was now augmented every moment, and the difficulty to conceal it grew every hour more painful; ſhe felt herſelf the cauſe of the dejection of the ſon, and that thought made her feel guilty in the preſence of the mother; the explanation ſhe expected threatened her with new miſery, and the courage to endure it ſhe tried in vain to acquire; her heart was moſt cruelly oppreſſed, apprehenſion and ſuſpence never left it for an inſtant; reſt abandoned her at night, and chearfulneſs by day.

[283] At this time the two lords, Ernolf and Derford, arrived; and Cecilia, who at firſt had lamented their deſign, now rejoiced in their preſence, ſince they divided the atten⯑tion of Mrs. Delvile, which ſhe began to fear was not wholly directed to her ſon, and ſince they ſaved her from having the whole force of Lady Honoria's high ſpirits and gay rattle to herſelf.

Their immediate obſervations upon the ill looks of Delvile, ſtartled both Cecilia and the mother even more than their own fears, which they had hoped were rather the reſult of apprehenſion than of reaſon. Cecilia now ſeverely reproached herſelf with having deferred the conference he was evi⯑dently ſeeking, not doubting but ſhe had contributed to his indiſpoſition by denying him the relief he might expect from con⯑cluding the affair.

Melancholy as was this idea, it was yet a motive to overpower her reluctance, and determine her no longer to ſhun what it ſeemed neceſſary to endure.

Deep reaſoners, however, when they are alſo nice caſuiſts, frequently reſolve with a tardineſs which renders their reſolutions of no effect: this was the caſe with Cecilia; the ſame morning that ſhe came down ſtairs prepared to meet with firmneſs the blow which ſhe believed awaited her, Delvile, [284] who, ſince the arrival of the two lords, had always appeared at the general breakfaſt, acknowledged in anſwer to his mother's earneſt enquiries, that he had a cold and head-ache: and had he, at the ſame time, acknowledged a pleuriſy and fever, the alarm inſtantly ſpread in the family could not have been greater; Mr. Delvile, furi⯑ouſly ringing the bell, ordered a man and horſe to go that moment to Dr. Lyſter, the phyſician to the family, and not to return without him if he was himſelf alive; and Mrs. Delvile, not leſs diſtreſſed, though more quiet, fixed her eyes upon her ſon, with an expreſſion of anxiety that ſhewed her whole happineſs was bound in his recovery.

Delvile endeavoured to laugh away their fears, aſſuring them he ſhould be well the next day, and repreſenting in ridiculous terms the perplexity of Dr. Lyſter to con⯑trive ſome preſcription for him.

Cecilia's behaviour, guided by prudence and modeſty, was ſteady and compoſed; ſhe believed his illneſs and his uneaſineſs were the ſame, and ſhe hoped the reſolution ſhe had taken would bring relief to them both: while the terrors of Mr. and Mrs. Delvile ſeemed ſo greatly beyond the occa⯑ſion, that her own were rather leſſened than encreaſed by them.

Dr. Lyſter ſoon arrived; he was a hu⯑mane [285] and excellent phyſician, and a man of ſound judgment.

Delvile, gayly ſhaking hands with him, ſaid ‘"I believe, Dr. Lyſter, you little ex⯑pected to meet a patient, who, were he as ſkilful, would be as able to do buſineſs as yourſelf."’

‘"What, with ſuch a hand as this?"’ cried the Doctor; ‘"come, come, you muſt not teach me my own profeſſion. When I attend a patient, I come to tell how he is myſelf, not to be told."’

‘"He is, then ill!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile; ‘"oh Mortimer, why have you thus deceived us!"’

‘"What is his diſorder?"’ cried Mr. Delvile; ‘"let us call in more help; who ſhall we ſend for, doctor?"’

And again he rang the bell.

‘"What now?"’ ſaid Dr. Lyſter, coolly; ‘"muſt a man be dying if he is not in per⯑fect health? we want nobody elſe; I hope I can preſcribe for a cold without demand⯑ing a conſultation?"’

‘"But are you ſure it is merely a cold?"’ cried Mr. Delvile; ‘"may not ſome dreadful malady—"’

‘"Pray, Sir, have patience,"’ interrupted the doctor; ‘"Mr. Mortimer and I will have ſome diſcourſe together preſently; mean⯑time, let us all ſit down, and behave like [286] Chriſtians: I never talk of my art before company. 'Tis hard you won't let me be a gentleman at large for two minutes!"’

Lady Honoria and Cecilia would then have riſen, but neither Dr. Lyſter nor Del⯑vile would permit them to go; and a con⯑verſation tolerably lively took place, after which, the party in general ſeparating, the doctor accompanied Delvile to his own apartment.

Cecilia then went up ſtairs, where ſhe moſt impatiently waited ſome intelligence: none, however, arriving, in about half an hour ſhe returned to the parlour; ſhe found it empty, but was ſoon joined by Lady Honoria and Lord Ernolf.

Lady Honoria, happy in having ſome⯑thing going forward, and not much con⯑cerning herſelf whether it were good or evil, was as eager to communicate what ſhe had gathered, as Cecilia was to hear it.

‘"Well, my dear,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"ſo I don't find at laſt but that all this prodigious ill⯑neſs will be laid to your account."’

‘"To my account?"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"how is that poſſible?"’

‘"Why this tender chicken caught cold in the ſtorm laſt week, and not being put to bed by its mama, and nurſed with white-wine whey, the poor thing has got a fever."’

[287] ‘"He is a fine young man,"’ ſaid Lord Ernolf; ‘"I ſhould be ſorry any harm hap⯑pened to him."’

‘"He was a fine young man, my Lord,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"but he is grown in⯑tolerably ſtupid lately; however, it's all the fault of his father and mother. Was ever any thing half ſo ridiculous as their beha⯑viour this morning? it was with the utmoſt difficulty I forbore laughing in their faces: and really, I believe if I was to meet with ſuch an unfortunate accident with Mr. Del⯑vile, it would turn him to marble at once! indeed he is little better now, but ſuch an affront as that would never let him move from the ſpot where he received it.’

‘"I forgive him, however,"’ returned Lord Ernolf, ‘"for his anxiety about his ſon, ſince he is the laſt of ſo ancient a fa⯑mily."’

‘"That is his great misfortune, my lord,"’ anſwered Lady Honoria, ‘"becauſe it is the very reaſon they make ſuch a puppet of him. If there were but a few more little maſters to dandle and fondle, I'll anſwer for it this precious Mortimer would ſoon be left to himſelf: and then, really, I believe he would be a good tolerable ſort of young man. Don't you think he would, Miſs Beverley?’

[288] ‘"O yes!"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"I believe—I think ſo!"’

‘"Nay, nay, I did not aſk if you thought him tolerable now, ſo no need to be fright⯑ened."’

Here they were interrupted by the en⯑trance of Dr. Lyſter.

‘"Well, Sir,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"and when am I to go into mourning for my cou⯑ſin Mortimer?"’

‘"Why very ſoon,"’ anſwered he, ‘"un⯑leſs you take better care of him. He has confeſſed to me that after being out in the ſtorm laſt Wedneſday, he ſat in his wet cloaths all the evening."’

‘"Dear,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"and what would that do to him? I have no no⯑tion of a man's always wanting a cambric handkerchief about his throat."’

‘"Perhaps your ladyſhip had rather make him apply it to his eyes?"’ cried the doc⯑tor: ‘"however, ſitting inactive in wet cloaths would deſtroy a ſtouter man than Mr. Delvile; but he forgot it, he ſays! which of you two young ladies could not have given as good reaſon?"’

‘"Your moſt obedient,"’ ſaid Lady Hono⯑ria; ‘"and why ſhould not a lady give as good a reaſon as a gentleman?"’

‘"I don't know,"’ anſwered he, drily, ‘"but from want of practice, I believe."’

[289] ‘"O worſe and worſe!"’ cried Lady Ho⯑noria;" ‘you ſhall never be my phyſician; if I was to be attended by you, you'd make me ſick inſtead of well."’

‘"All the better,"’ anſwered he, ‘"for then I muſt have the honour of attending you till I made you well inſtead of ſick."’ And with a good-humoured ſmile, he left them; and Lord Derford, at the ſame time, coming into the room, Cecilia contrived to ſtroll out into the park.

The account to which ſhe had been liſ⯑tening redoubled her uneaſineſs; ſhe was conſcious that whatever was the indiſpoſi⯑tion of Delvile, and whether it was mental or bodily, ſhe was herſelf its occaſion: through her he had been negligent, ſhe had rendered him forgetful, and in conſulting her own fears in preference to his peace, ſhe had avoided an explanation, though he had vigilantly ſought one. She knew not, he told her half the wretchedneſs of his heart.—Alas! thought ſhe, he little conjectures the ſtate of mine!

Lady Honoria ſuffered her not to be long alone; in about half an hour ſhe ran after her, gayly calling out, ‘"O Miſs Be⯑verley, you have loſt the delightfulleſt di⯑verſion in the world! I have juſt had the moſt ridiculous ſcene with my Lord Der⯑ford that you ever heard in your life! I [290] aſked him what put it in his head to be in love with you,—and he had the ſimplicity to anſwer, quite ſeriouſly, his father!"’

‘"He was very right,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"if the deſire of uniting two eſtates is to be deno⯑minated being in love; for that, moſt cer⯑tainly, was put into his head by his father."’

‘"O but you have not heard half. I told him, then, that, as a friend, in confi⯑dence I muſt acquaint him, I believed you intended to marry Mortimer—"’

‘"Good heaven, Lady Honoria!"’

‘"O, you ſhall hear the reaſon; becauſe, as I aſſured him, it was proper he ſhould immediately call him to account."’

‘"Are you mad, Lady Honoria?"’

‘"For you know,"’ ſaid I, ‘"Miſs Be⯑verley has had one duel fought for her al⯑ready, and a lady who has once had that compliment paid her, always expects it from every new admirer; and I really believe your not obſerving that form is the true cauſe of her coldneſs to you."’

‘"Is it poſſible you can have talked ſo wildly?"’

‘"Yes, and what is much better, he be⯑lieved every word I ſaid!"’

‘Much better?—No, indeed, it is much worſe! and if, in fact, he is ſo uncom⯑monly weak, I ſhall really be but little in⯑debted to your ladyſhip for giving him ſuch notions."’

[291] ‘"O I would not but have done it for the world! for I never laughed ſo immode⯑rately in my life. He began aſſuring me he was not afraid, for he ſaid he had prac⯑tiſed fencing more than any thing: ſo I made him promiſe to ſend a challenge to Mortimer as ſoon as he is well enough to come down again: for Dr. Lyſter has or⯑dered him to keep his room."’

Cecilia, ſmothering her concern for this laſt piece of intelligence by pretending to feel it merely for the former, expoſtu⯑lated with Lady Honoria upon ſo miſ⯑chievous a frolic, and earneſtly entreated her to go back and contradict it all.

‘"No, no, not for the world!"’ cried ſhe; ‘"he has not the leaſt ſpirit, and I dare ſay he would not fight to ſave the whole nation from deſtruction; but I'll make him be⯑lieve that it's neceſſary, in order to give him ſomething to think of, for really his poor head is ſo vacant, that I am ſure if one might but play upon it with ſticks, it would ſound juſt like a drum."’

Cecilia, finding it vain to combat with her fantaſies, was at length obliged to ſub⯑mit.

The reſt of the day ſhe paſſed very un⯑pleaſantly; Delvile appeared not; his fa⯑ther was reſtleſs and diſturbed, and his mo⯑ther, though attentive to her gueſts, and, [292] for their ſakes rallying her ſpirits, was vi⯑ſibly ill diſpoſed to think or to talk but of her ſon.

One diverſion, however, Cecilia found for herſelf; Delvile had a favourite ſpaniel, which, when he walked followed him, and when he rode, ran by his horſe; this dog, who was not admitted into the houſe, ſhe now took under her own care; and ſpent almoſt the whole day out of doors, chiefly for the ſatisfaction of making him her com⯑panion.

The next morning, when Dr. Lyſter came again, ſhe kept in the way, in order to hear his opinion; and was ſitting with Lady Honoria in the parlour, when he entered it to write a preſcription.

Mrs. Delvile, in a few moments, follow⯑ed him, and with a face and voice of the ten⯑dereſt maternal apprehenſions, ſaid ‘"Doc⯑tor, one thing entruſt me with immediately; I can neither bear impoſition nor ſuſpence;—you know what I would ſay!—tell me if I have any thing to fear, that my prepa⯑rations may be adequate!"’

‘"Nothing, I believe, in the world."’

‘"You believe!"’ repeated Mrs. Delvile, ſtarting; ‘"Oh doctor!"’

‘"Why you would not have me ſay I am certain, would you? theſe are no times for Popery and infallibility; however, I aſſure [293] you I think him perfectly ſafe. He has done a fooliſh and idle trick, but no man is wiſe always. We muſt get rid of his fever, and then if his cold remains, with any cough, he may make a little excurſion to Briſtol."’

‘"To Briſtol! nay then,—I underſtand you too well!"’

‘"No, no, you don't underſtand me at all; I don't ſend him to Briſtol becauſe he is in a bad way, but merely becauſe I mean to put him in a good one.’

‘"Let him, then, go immediately; why ſhould he encreaſe the danger by waiting a moment? I will order—"’

‘"Hold, hold! I know what to order myſelf! 'Tis a ſtrange thing people will always teach me my own duty! why ſhould I make a man travel ſuch weather as this in a fever? do you think I want to confine him in a mad-houſe, or be confined in one my⯑ſelf?"’

‘"Certainly you know beſt—but ſtill if there is any danger—"’

‘"No, no, there is not! only we don't chuſe there ſhould be any. And how will he entertain himſelf better than by going to Briſtol? I ſend him merely on a jaunt of pleaſure; and I am ſure he will be ſafer there than ſhut up in a houſe with two ſuch young ladies as theſe."’

[294] And then he made off. Mrs. Delvile, too anxious for converſation, left the room, and Cecilia, too conſcious for ſilence, forc⯑ed herſelf into diſcourſe with Lady Ho⯑noria.

Three days ſhe paſſed in this uncertainty what ſhe had to expect; blaming thoſe fears which had deferred an explanation, and tor⯑mented by Lady Honoria, whoſe raillery and levity now grew very unſeaſonable. Fidel, the favourite ſpaniel, was almoſt her only conſolation, and ſhe pleaſed herſelf not inconſiderably by making a friend of the faithful animal.

CHAP. VII. AN ANECDOTE.

ON the fourth day the houſe wore a better aſpect; Delvile's fever was gone, and Dr. Lyſter permitted him to leave his room: a cough, however, remained, and his journey to Briſtol was ſettled to take place in three days. Cecilia, knowing he was now expected down ſtairs, haſtened out of the parlour the moment ſhe had finiſhed her breakfaſt; for affected by his illneſs, and hurt at the approaching ſeparation, ſhe dreaded the firſt meeting, and wiſhed to fortify her mind for bearing it with pro⯑priety.

In a very few minutes, Lady Honoria, running after her, entreated that ſhe would come down; ‘"for Mortimer,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"is in the parlour, and the poor child is made ſo much of by its papa and mama, that I wiſh they don't half kill him by their ridiculous fondneſs. It is amazing to me he is ſo pa⯑tient with them, for if they teized me half as much, I ſhould be ready to jump up and ſhake them. But I wiſh you would come down, for I aſſure you it's a comical ſcene."’

[296] ‘"Your ladyſhip is ſoon diverted! but what is there ſo comical in the anxiety of parents for an only ſon?"’

‘"Lord, they don't care a ſtraw for him all the time! it's merely that he may live to keep up this old caſtle, which I hope in my heart he will pull down the moment they are dead! But do pray come; it will really give you ſpirits to ſee them all. The fa⯑ther keeps ringing the bell to order half a hundred pair of boots for him, and all the great coats in the county; and the mother ſits and looks as if a hearſe and mourning coach were already coming over the draw⯑bridge: but the moſt diverting object among them is my Lord Derford! O, it is really too entertaining to ſee him! there he ſits, thinking the whole time of his chal⯑lenge! I intend to employ him all this af⯑ternoon in practiſing to ſhoot at a mark."’

And then again ſhe preſſed her to join the group, and Cecilia, fearing her oppoſition might ſeem ſtrange, conſented.

Delvile aroſe at her entrance, and, with tolerable ſteadineſs ſhe congratulated him on his recovery: and then, taking her uſual ſeat, employed herſelf in embroidering a ſcreen. She joined too, occaſionally, in the converſation, and obſerved, not without ſurpriſe, that Delvile ſeemed much leſs dejected than before his confinement.

[297] Soon after, he ordered his horſe, and, ac⯑companied by Lord Derford, rode out. Mr. Delvile then took Lord Ernolf to ſhew him ſome intended improvements in another part of the caſtle, and Lady Honoria walk⯑ed away in ſearch of any entertainment ſhe could find.

Mrs. Delvile, in better ſpirits than ſhe had been for many days, ſent for her own work, and ſitting by Cecilia, converſed with her again as in former times; mixing in⯑ſtruction with entertainment, and general ſatire with particular kindneſs, in a manner at once ſo lively and ſo flattering, that Ce⯑cilia herſelf reviving, found but little diffi⯑culty in bearing her part in the converſation.

And thus, with ſome gaiety, and toler⯑able eaſe, was ſpent the greateſt part of the morning; but juſt as they were talking of changing their dreſs for dinner, Lady Ho⯑noria with an air of the utmoſt exultation, came flying into the room. ‘"Well, ma'am,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"I have ſome news now that I muſt tell you, becauſe it will make you be⯑lieve me another time: though I know it will put you in a paſſion."’

‘"That's ſweetly deſigned, at leaſt!"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, laughing; ‘"however, I'll truſt you, for my paſſions will not, juſt now, be irritated by ſtraws."’

[298] ‘"Why, ma'am, don't you remember I told you when you were in town that Mr. Mortimer kept a miſtreſs—"’

‘"Yes!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, diſdain⯑fully," ‘and you may remember, Lady Ho⯑noria, I told you—"’

‘"O, you would not believe a word of it! but it's all true, I aſſure you! and now he has brought her down here; he ſent for her about three weeks ago, and he has boarded her at a cottage, about half a mile from the Park-gate."’

Cecilia, to whom Henrietta Belfield was inſtantly preſent, changed colour repeatedly, and turned ſo extremely ſick, ſhe could with difficulty keep her ſeat. She forced herſelf, however, to continue her work, though ſhe knew ſo little what ſhe was about, that ſhe put her needle in and out of the ſame place without ceaſing.

Mean-while Mrs. Delvile, with a coun⯑tenance of the utmoſt indignation, exclaim⯑ed ‘"Lady Honoria, if you think a tale of ſcandal ſuch as this reflects no diſgrace upon its relater, you muſt pardon me for en⯑treating you to find an auditor more of the ſame opinion than myſelf."’

‘"Nay, ma'am, ſince you are ſo angry, I'll tell you the whole affair, for this is but half of it. He has a child here, too,—I [299] vow I long to ſee it!—and he is ſo fond of it that he ſpends half his time in nurſing it;—and that, I ſuppoſe, is the thing that takes him out ſo much; and I fancy, too, that's what has made him grow ſo grave, for may be he thinks it would not be pretty to be very friſky, now he's a papa."’

Not only Cecilia, but Mrs. Delvile her⯑ſelf was now overpowered, and ſhe ſat for ſome time wholly ſilent and confounded; Lady Honoria then, turning to Cecilia ex⯑claimed, ‘"Bleſs me, Miſs Beverley, what are you about! why that flower is the moſt ridiculous thing I ever ſaw! you have ſpoilt your whole work."’

Cecilia, in the utmoſt confuſion, though pretending to laugh, then began to unpick it; and Mrs. Delvile, recovering, more calmly, though not leſs angrily, ſaid ‘"And has this tale the honour of being invented ſolely by your ladyſhip, or had it any other aſſiſtant?"’

‘"O no, I aſſure you, it's no invention of mine; I had it from very good autho⯑rity upon my word. But only look at Miſs Beverley! would not one think I had ſaid that ſhe had a child herſelf? She looks as pale as death. My dear, I am ſure you can't be well?"’

‘"I beg your pardon,"’ cried Cecilia, forcing a ſmile, though ex remely provok⯑ed with her; ‘"I never was better."’

[300] And then, with the hope of appearing unconcerned, ſhe raiſed her head; but meeting the eyes of Mrs. Delvile fixed upon her face with a look of penetrating obſervation, abaſhed and guilty, ſhe again dropt it, and reſumed her work."

‘"Well, my dear,"’ ſaid Lady Honoria, ‘"I am ſure there is no occaſion to ſend for Dr. Lyſter to you, for you recover yourſelf in a moment: you have the fineſt colour now I ever ſaw: has not ſhe, Mrs. Delvile? did you ever ſee any body bluſh ſo becomingly?"’

‘"I wiſh, Lady Honoria,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, with ſeverity, ‘"it were poſſible to ſee you bluſh!"’

‘"O but I never do! not but what it's pretty enough too; but I don't know how it is, it never happens. Now Euphraſia can bluſh from morning to night. I can't think how ſhe contrives it. Miſs Beverley, too, plays at it vaſtly well; ſhe's red and white, and white and red half a dozen times in a minute. Eſpecially looking at her archly, and lowering her voice, "if you talk to her of Mortimer!"’

‘"No, indeed! no ſuch thing!"’ cried Cecilia with ſome reſentment, and again looking up; but glancing her eyes towards Mrs. Delvile, and again meeting hers, filled with the ſtrongeſt expreſſion of enquiring [301] ſolicitude, unable to ſuſtain their inquiſition, and ſhocked to find herſelf thus watchfully obſerved, ſhe returned in haſty confuſion to her employment.

‘"Well, my dear,"’ cried Lady Honoria, again, ‘"but what are you about now? do you intend to unpick the whole ſcreen?"’

‘"How can ſhe tell what ſhe is doing,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, with quickneſs, ‘"if you torment her thus inceſſantly? I will take you away from her, that ſhe may have a little peace. You ſhall do me the honour to attend my toilette, and acquaint me with ſome further particulars of this extraordi⯑nary diſcovery."’

Mrs. Delvile then left the room, but Lady Honoria, before ſhe followed her, ſaid in a low voice ‘"Pity me, Miſs Bever⯑ley, if you have the leaſt good-nature! I am now going to hear a lecture of two hours long!"’

Cecilia, left to herſelf, was in a pertur⯑bation almoſt inſupportable: Delvile's my⯑ſterious conduct ſeemed the reſult of ſome entanglement of vice; Henrietta Belfield, the artleſs Henrietta Belfield, ſhe feared had been abuſed, and her own ill-fated partia⯑lity, which now more than ever ſhe wiſhed unknown even to herſelf, was evidently be⯑trayed where moſt the dignity of her mind made her deſire it to be concealed!

[302] In this ſtate of ſhame, regret and reſent⯑ment, which made her forget to change her dreſs, or her place, ſhe was ſuddenly ſur⯑priſed by Delvile.

Starting and colouring, ſhe buſied her⯑ſelf with collecting her work, that ſhe might hurry out of the room. Delvile, though ſilent himſelf, endeavoured to aſſiſt her; but when ſhe would have gone, he at⯑tempted to ſtop her, ſaying ‘"Miſs Bever⯑ley, for three minutes only."’

‘"No, Sir,"’ cried ſhe, indignantly, ‘"not for an inſtant!"’ and leaving him utterly aſtoniſhed, ſhe haſtened to her own apart⯑ment.

She was then ſorry ſhe had been ſo pre⯑cipitate; nothing had been clearly proved againſt him; no authority was ſo likely to be fallacious as that of Lady Honoria; nei⯑ther was he under any engagement to her⯑ſelf that could give her any right to mani⯑feſt ſuch diſpleaſure. Theſe reflections, however, came too late, and the quick feel⯑ings of her agitated mind were too rapid to wait the dictates of cool reaſon.

At dinner ſhe attended wholly to Lord Ernolf, whoſe aſſi [...]uous politeneſs, profit⯑ting by the humour, ſaved her the painful effort of forcing converſation, or the guilty conſciouſneſs of giving way to ſilence, and [303] enabled her to preſerve her general tenor between taciturnity and loquaciouſneſs. Mrs. Delvile ſhe did not once dare look at; but her ſon, ſhe ſaw, ſeemed greatly hurt; yet it was proudly, not ſorrowfully, and therefore ſhe ſaw it with leſs uneaſineſs.

During the reſt of the day, which was paſſed in general ſociety, Mrs. Delvile, though much occupied, frequently leaving the room, and ſending for Lady Honoria, was more ſoft, kind and gentle with Cecilia than ever, looking at her with the utmoſt tenderneſs, often taking her hand, and ſpeaking to her with even unuſual ſweetneſs. Cecilia with mingled ſadneſs and pleaſure obſerved this encreaſing regard, which ſhe could not but attribute to the diſcovery made through Lady Honoria's miſchievous intelligence, and which, while it rejoiced her with the belief of her approbation, added freſh force to her regret in conſidering it was fruitleſs. Delvile, mean-time, evident⯑ly offended himſelf, converſed only with the gentlemen, and went very early into his own room.

When they were all retiring, Mrs. Del⯑vile, following Cecilia, diſmiſſed her maid to talk with her alone.

‘"I am not, I hope, often,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"ſolicitous or importunate to ſpeak about my ſon: his character, I believe, wants no [304] vindication; clear and unſullied, it has al⯑ways been its own ſupport: yet the aſper⯑ſion caſt upon it this morning by Lady Ho⯑noria, I think myſelf bound to explain, not partially as his mother, but ſimply as his friend."’

Cecilia, who knew not whither ſuch an explanation might lead, nor wherefore it was made, heard this opening with much emotion, but gave neither to that nor to what followed any interruption.

Mrs. Delvile then continued: ſhe had taken the trouble, ſhe ſaid, to ſift the whole affair, in order to ſhame Lady Honoria by a pointed conviction of what ſhe had invent⯑ed, and to trace from the foundation the circumſtances whence her ſurmiſes or re⯑port had ſprung.

Delvile, it ſeems, about a fortnight be⯑fore the preſent time, in one of his morn⯑ing walks, had obſerved a gipſey ſitting by the ſide of the high road, who ſeemed ex⯑tremely ill, and who had a very beautiful child tied to her back.

Struck with the baby, he ſtopt to enquire to whom it belonged; to herſelf, ſhe ſaid, and begged his charity with the moſt piti⯑able cries of diſtreſs; telling him that ſhe was travelling to join ſome of her fraternity, who were in a body near Bath, but was ſo ill with an ague and fever that ſhe feared ſhe ſhould die on the road.

[305] Delvile deſired her to go to the next cot⯑tage, and promiſed to pay for her board there till ſhe was better. He then ſpoke to the man and his wife who owned it to take them in, who, glad to oblige his Honour, inſtantly conſented, and he had ſince called twice to ſee in what manner they went on.

‘"How ſimple,’ continued Mrs. Delvile, ‘is a matter of fact in itſelf, and how com⯑plex when embelliſhed! This tale has been told by the cottagers to our ſervants; it has travelled, probably gaining ſome⯑thing from every mouth, to Lady Hono⯑ria's maid, and, having reached her lady⯑ſhip, was ſwelled in a moment into all we heard! I think, however, that, for ſome time at leaſt, her levity will be rather leſs daring. I have not, in this affair, at all ſpared her; I made her hear from Morti⯑mer himſelf the little ſtory as it happened; I then carried her to the cottage, where we had the whole matter confirmed; and I af⯑terwards inſiſted upon being told myſelf by her maid all ſhe had related to her lady, that ſhe might thus be unanſwerably convicted of inventing whatever ſhe omitted. I have occaſioned her ſome confuſion, and, for the moment, a little reſentment; but ſhe is ſo volatile that neither will laſt; and though, with regard to my own family, I may perhaps have rendered her more cau⯑tious, I fear, with regard to the world in [306] general, ſhe is utterly incorrigible, becauſe it has neither pleaſure nor advantage to offer, that can compenſate for the deprivation of relating one ſtaring ſtory, or ridiculous anecdote.’

And then, wiſhing her good night, ſhe added, ‘"I make not any apology for this detail, which you owe not, believe me, to a mother's folly, but, if I knew myſelf at all, to a love of truth and juſtice. Morti⯑mer, independent of all connection with me, cannot but to every body appear of a cha⯑racter which may be deemed even exemp⯑lary; calumny, therefore, failing upon ſuch a ſubject, injures not only himſelf but ſociety, ſince it weakens all confidence in virtue, and ſtrengthens the ſcepticiſm of depravity."’

She then left her.

‘"Ah! thought Cecilia, to me, at leaſt, this ſolicitude for his fame needs no apolo⯑gy! humane and generous Delvile! never, again, will I a moment doubt your worthi⯑neſs!"’ And then, cheriſhing that darling idea, ſhe forgot all her cares and apprehen⯑ſions, her quarrel, her ſuſpicions, and the approaching ſeparation, and, recompenſed for every thing by this refutation of his guilt, ſhe haſtened to bed, and compoſed herſelf to reſt.

CHAP. VIII. A CONFERENCE.

EARLY the next morning Cecilia had a viſit from Lady Honoria, who came to tell her ſtory her own way, and laugh at the anxiety of Mrs. Delvile, and the trouble ſhe had taken; ‘"for, after all, continued ſhe, what did the whole matter ſignify? and how could I poſſibly help the miſtake? when I heard of his paying for a woman's board, what was ſo natural as to ſuppoſe ſhe muſt be his miſtreſs? eſpecially as there was a child in the caſe. O how I wiſh you had been with us! you never ſaw ſuch a ridi⯑culous ſight in your life; away we went in the chaiſe full drive to the cottage, fright⯑ening all the people almoſt into fits; out came the poor woman, away ran the poor man,—both of them thought the end of the world at hand! The gipſey was beſt off, for ſhe went to her old buſineſs, and began begging. I aſſure you, I believe ſhe would be very pretty if ſhe was not ſo ill, and ſo I dare ſay Mortimer thought too, or I fancy he would not have taken ſuch care of her."’

[308] ‘"Fie; fie, Lady Honoria! will nothing bring conviction to you?"’

‘"Nay, you know, there's no harm in that, for why ſhould not pretty people live as well as ugly ones? There's no occaſion to leave nothing in the world but frights. I looked hard at the baby, to ſee if it was like Mortimer, but I could not make it out; thoſe young things are like nothing. I tried if it wou d talk, for I wanted ſad⯑ly to make it call Mrs. Delvile grandmama; however, the little urchin could ſay nothing to be underſtood. O what a rage would Mrs. Delvile have been in! I ſuppoſe this whole caſtle would hardly have been thought heavy enough to cruſh ſuch an inſolent brat, though it were to have fallen upon it all at a blow!"’

Thus rattled this light-hearted lady till the family was aſſembled to breakfaſt; and then Cecilia, ſoftened towards Delvile by newly-excited admiration, as well as by the abſence which would ſeparate them the following day, intended, by every little cour⯑teous office in her power, to make her peace with him before his departure: but ſhe ob⯑ſerved, with much chagrin, that Mrs. Del⯑vile never ceaſed to watch her, which, ad⯑ded to an air of pride in the coldneſs of Delvile, that he had never before aſſumed, diſcouraged her from making the attempt, [309] and compelled her to ſeem quiet and un⯑concerned.

As ſoon as breakfaſt was over, the gen⯑tlemen all rode or walked out; and when the ladies were by themſelves, Lady Ho⯑noria ſuddenly exclaimed, ‘"Mrs. Delvile, I can't imagine for what reaſon you ſend Mr. Mortimer to Briſtol."’

‘"For a reaſon, Lady Honoria, that with all your wildneſs, I ſhould be very ſorry you ſhould know better by experience."’

‘"Why then, ma'am, had we not better make a party, and all go? Miſs Beverley, ſhould you like to join it? I am afraid it would be vaſtly diſagreeable to you."’

Cecilia, now again was red and white, and whtte and red a dozen times in a minute; and Mrs. Delvile, riſing and taking her hand, expreſſively ſaid, ‘"Miſs Beverley, you have a thouſand times too much ſenſibility for this mad-cap of a companion. I believe I ſhall puniſh her by taking you away from her all this morning; will you come and ſit with me in the dreſſing room?"’

Cecilia aſſented without daring to look at her, and followed in trembling, up ſtairs. Something of importance, ſhe fancied, would enſue, her ſecret ſhe ſaw was reveal⯑ed, and therefore ſhe could form no conjec⯑ture but that Delvile would be the ſubject of their diſcourſe: yet whether to explain [310] his behaviour, or plead his cauſe, whether to expreſs her ſeparate approbation, or communicate ſome intelligence from him⯑ſelf, ſhe had neither time, opportunity nor clue to unravel. All that was undoubted ſeemed the affection of Mrs. Delvile, all that, on her own part, could be reſolved, was to ſuppreſs her partiality till ſhe knew if it might properly be avowed.

Mrs. Delvile, who ſaw her perturbation, led immediately to ſubjects of indifference, and talked upon them ſo long, and with ſo much eaſe, that Cecilia, recovering her compoſure, began to think ſhe had been miſtaken, and that nothing was intended but a tranquil converſation.

As ſoon, however, as ſhe had quieted her apprehenſions, ſhe ſat ſilent herſelf, with a look that Cecilia eaſily conſtrued into thoughtful perplexity in what manner ſhe ſhould introduce what ſhe meant to com⯑municate.

This pauſe was ſucceeded by her ſpeaking of Lady Honoria; ‘"how wild, how care⯑leſs, how incorrigible ſhe is! ſhe loſt her mother early; and the Duke, who idolizes her, and who, marrying very late, is already an old man, ſhe rules entirely; with him, and a ſupple governeſs, who has neither courage to oppoſe her, nor heart to wiſh well but to her own intereſt, ſhe has lived al⯑moſt [311] wholly. Lately, indeed, ſhe has come more into the world, but without even a deſire of improvement, and with no view and no thought but to gratify her idle humour by laughing at whatever goes for⯑ward."’

‘"She certainly neither wants parts nor diſcernment,"’ ſaid Cecilia; ‘"and, when my mind is not occupied by other matters, I find her converſation entertaining and agreeable,"’

‘"Yes,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ‘"but that light ſort of wit which attacks, with equal alacrity, what is ſerious or what is gay, is twenty times offenſive, to once that it is exhilarating; ſince it ſhews that while its only aim is ſelf-diverſion, it has the moſt inſolent negligence with reſpect to any pain it gives to others. The rank of Lady Honoria, though it has not rendered her proud, nor even made her conſcious ſhe has any dignity to ſupport, has yet given her a ſaucy indifference whom ſhe plea⯑ſes or hurts, that borders upon what in a woman is of all things the moſt odious, a daring defiance of the world and its opi⯑nions."’

Cecilia, never leſs diſpoſed to enter upon her defence, made but little anſwer; and ſoon after, Mrs. Delvile added, ‘"I hearti⯑ly wiſh ſhe were properly eſtabliſhed; and [312] yet, according to the pernicious manners and maxims of the preſent age, ſhe is per⯑haps more ſecure from miſconduct while ſingle, than ſhe will be when married. Her father, I fear, will leave her too much to herſelf, and in that caſe I ſcarce know what may become of her; ſhe has neither judge⯑ment nor principle to direct her choice, and therefore, in all probability, the ſame whim which one day will guide it, will the next lead her to repent it."’

Again they were both ſilent; and then Mrs. Delvile, gravely, yet with energy ex⯑claimed, ‘"How few are there, how very few, who marry at once upon principles rational, and feelings pleaſant! intereſt and inclination are eternally at ſtrife, and where either is wholly ſacrificed, the other is in⯑adequate to happineſs. Yet how rarely do they divide the attention! the young are raſh, and the aged are mercenary; their deliberations are never in concert, their views are ſcarce ever blended; one van⯑quiſhes, and the other ſubmits; neither party ten porizes, and commonly each is unhappy."’

‘"The time,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"is now arrrived when reflections of this ſort can⯑not too ſeriouſly occupy me; the errors I have obſerved in others, I would fain avoid committing; yet ſuch is the blindneſs of [313] ſelf-love, that perhaps, even at the mo⯑ment I cenſure them, I am falling, without conſciouſneſs, into the ſame! nothing, how⯑ever, ſhall through negligence be wrong; for where is the ſon who merits care and attention, if Mortimer from his parents de⯑ſerves not to meet them?"’

The expectations of Cecilia were now again awakened, and awakened with freſh terrors leſt Mrs. Delvile, from compaſſion, meant to offer her ſervices; vigorouſly, therefore, ſhe determined to exert herſelf, and rather give up Mortimer and all thoughts of him for-ever, than ſubmit to receive aſſiſtance in perſuading him to the union.

‘"Mr. Delvile,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"is moſt earneſt and impatient that ſome alliance ſhould take place without further delay; and for myſelf, could I ſee him with propriety and with happineſs diſpoſed of, what a weight of anxiety would be removed from my heart!"’

Cecilia now made an effort to ſpeak, attempting to ſay ‘"Certainly, it is a mat⯑ter of great conſequence;"’ but ſo low was her voice, and ſo confuſed her manner, that Mrs. Delvile, though attentively liſ⯑tening, heard not a word. She forbore, however, to make her repeat what ſhe ſaid, and went on herſelf as if ſpeaking in anſwer.

[314] ‘"Not only his own, but the peace of his whole family will depend upon his elec⯑tion, ſince he is the laſt of his race. This caſtle and eſtate, and another in the north, were entailed upon him by the late Lord Delvile, his grandfather, who, diſobliged by his eldeſt ſon, the preſent lord, left every thing he had power to diſpoſe of to his ſe⯑cond ſon, Mr. Delvile, and at his death, to his grandſon, Mortimer. And even the preſent lord, though always at variance with his brother, is fond of his nephew, and has declared him his heir. I, alſo, have one ſiſter, who is rich, who has no children, and who has made the ſame de⯑claration. Yet though with ſuch high ex⯑pectations, he muſt not connect himſelf imprudently; for his paternal eſtate wants repair, and he is well entitled with a wife to expect what it requires."’

Moſt true! thought Cecilia, yet aſhamed of her recent failure, ſhe applied herſelf to her work, and would not again try to ſpeak.

‘"He is amiable, accompliſhed, well edu⯑cated, and well born; far may we look, and not meet with his equal; no woman need diſdain, and few women would refuſe him."’

Cecilia bluſhed her concurrence; yet [315] could well at that moment have ſpared hearing the eulogy,

‘"Yet how difficult,"’ ſhe continued, ‘"to find a proper alliance! there are many who have ſome recommendations, but who is there wholly unexceptionable?"’

This queſtion ſeemed unanſwerable; nor could Cecilia deviſe what it meant.

‘"Girls of high family have but ſeldom large fortunes, ſince the heads of their houſe commonly require their whole wealth for the ſupport of their own dignity; while on the other hand, girls of large fortune are frequently ignorant, inſolent, or low born; kept up by their friends leſt they ſhould fall a prey to adventurers, they have no ac⯑quaintance with the world, and little en⯑largement from education; their inſtruc⯑tions are limited to a few merely youthful accompliſhments; the firſt notion they im⯑bibe is of their own importance, the firſt leſſon they are taught is the value of riches, and even from their cradles, their little minds are narrowed, and their ſelf-ſufficien⯑cy is excited, by cautions to beware of fortune-hunters, and aſſurances that the whole world will be at their feet. Among ſuch ſhould we ſeek a companion for Mor⯑timer? ſurely not. Formed for domeſtic happineſs, and delighting in elegant ſociety, [316] his mind would diſdain an alliance in which its affections had no ſhare."’

Cecilia colouring and trembling, thought now the moment of her trial was approach⯑ing, and half mortified and half frightened prepared herſelf to ſuſtain it with firmneſs.

‘"I venture, therefore, my dear Miſs Beverley, to ſpeak to you upon this ſubject as a friend who will have patience to hear my perplexities; you ſee upon what they hang,—where the birth is ſuch as Mortimer Delvile may claim, the fortune generally fails; and where the fortune is adequate to his expectations, the birth yet more fre⯑quently would diſgrace us."’

Cecilia, aſtoniſhed by this ſpeech, and quite off her guard from momentary ſur⯑prize, involuntarily raiſed her head to look at Mrs. Delvile, in whoſe countenance ſhe obſerved the moſt anxious concern, though her manner of ſpeaking had ſeemed placid and compoſed.

‘"Once,"’ ſhe continued, without appear⯑ing to remark the emotion of her auditor, ‘"Mr. Delvile thought of uniting him with his couſin Lady Honoria; but he never could endure the propoſal; and who ſhall blame his repugnance? her ſiſter, indeed, Lady Euphraſia, is much preferable, her education has been better, and her fortune is much more conſiderable. At preſent, [317] however, Mortimer ſeems greatly averſe to her, and who has a right to be difficult, if we deny it to him?"’

Wonder, uncertainty, expectation and ſuſpence now all attacked Cecilia, and all harraſſed her with redoubled violence; why ſhe was called to this conference ſhe knew not; the approbation ſhe had thought ſo certain, ſhe doubted, and the propoſal of aſſiſtance ſhe had apprehended, ſhe ceaſed to think would be offered: ſome fearful myſtery, ſome cruel obſcurity, ſtill clouded all her proſpects, and not merely obſtructed her view of the future, but made what was immediately before her gloomy and in⯑diſtinct.

The ſtate of her mind ſeemed read by Mrs. Delvile, who examined her with eyes of ſuch penetrating keenneſs, that they ra⯑ther made diſcoveries than enquiries. She was ſilent ſome time, and looked irreſolute, how to proceed; but at length, ſhe aroſe, and taking Cecilia by the hand, who almoſt drew it back from her dread of what would follow, ſhe ſaid ‘"I will torment you no more, my ſweet young friend, with per⯑plexities which you cannot relieve: this only I will ſay, and then drop the ſubject for ever; when my ſolicitude for Mortimer is removed, and he is eſtabliſhed to the ſatisfaction of us all, no care will remain [318] in the heart of his mother, half ſo fervent, ſo anxious and ſo ſincere as the diſpoſal of my amiable Cecilia, for whoſe welfare and happineſs my wiſhes are even maternal."’

She then kiſſed her glowing cheek, and perceiving her almoſt ſtupified with aſto⯑niſhment, ſpared her any effort to ſpeak, by haſtily leaving her in poſſeſſion of her room.

Undeceived in her expectations and chil⯑led in her hopes, the heart of Cecilia no longer ſtruggled to ſuſtain its dignity, or conceal its tenderneſs; the conflict was at an end, Mrs. Delvile had been open, though her ſon was myſterious; but, in removing her doubts, ſhe had bereft her of her peace. She now found her own miſtake in buil⯑ding upon her approbation; ſhe ſaw no⯑thing was leſs in her intentions, and that even when moſt ardent in affectionate re⯑gard, ſhe ſeparated her intereſt from that of her ſon as if their union was a matter of utter impoſſibility. ‘"Yet why,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"oh why is it deemed ſo! that ſhe loves me, ſhe is ever eager to proclaim, that my fortune would be peculiarly uſe⯑ful, ſhe makes not a ſecret, and that I, at leaſt, ſhould ſtart no inſuperable objections, ſhe has, alas! but too obviouſly diſcovered! Has ſhe doubts of her ſon?—no, ſhe has too much diſcernment; the father, then, [319] the haughty, impracticable father, has deſ⯑tined him for ſome woman of rank, and will liſten to no other alliance."’

This notion ſomewhat ſoothed her in the diſapointment ſhe ſuffered; yet to know herſelf betrayed to Mrs. Delvile, and to ſee no other conſequence enſue but that of exciting a tender compaſſion, which led her to diſcourage, from benevolence, hopes too high to be indulged, was a mortification ſo ſevere, that it cauſed her a deeper depreſſion of ſpirits than any occurrence of her life had yet occaſioned. ‘"What Henrietta Belfield is to me,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"I am to Mrs. Delvile! but what in her is amiable and artleſs, in me is diſgraceful and un⯑worthy. And this is the ſituation which ſo long I have deſired! This is the change of habitation which I thought would make me ſo happy! oh who can chuſe, who can judge for himſelf? who can point out the road to his own felicity, or decide upon the ſpot where his peace will be enſured!"’ Still, however, ſhe had ſomething to do, ſome ſpirit to exert, and ſome fortitude to mani⯑feſt: Mortimer, ſhe was certain, ſuſpected not his own power; his mother, ſhe knew, was both too good and too wiſe to reveal it to him, and ſhe determined, by caution and firmneſs upon his leave-taking and depar⯑ture, to retrieve, if poſſible, that credit with [320] Mrs. Delvile, which ſhe feared her betray⯑ed ſuſceptibility had weakened.

As ſoon, therefore, as ſhe recovered from her conſternation, ſhe quitted Mrs. Delvile's apartment, amd ſeeking Lady Honoria herſelf, determined not to ſpend even a moment alone, till Mortimer was gone; leſt the ſadneſs of her reflections ſhould overpower her reſolution, and give a melancholy to her air and manner which he might attribute, with but too much juſ⯑tice, to concern upon his own account.

CHAP. IX. AN ATTACK.

AT dinner, with the aſſiſtance of Lord Ernolf, who was moſt happy to give it, Cecilia ſeemed tolerably eaſy. Lord Derford, too, encouraged by his father, endeavoured to engage ſome ſhare of her attention; but he totally failed; her mind was ſuperior to little arts of coquetry, and her pride had too much dignity to evapo⯑rate in pique; ſhe determined, therefore, at this time, as at all others, to be conſiſ⯑tent in ſhewing him he had no chance of her favour.

At tea, when they were again aſſembled, Mortimer's journey was the only ſubject of diſcourſe, and it was agreed that he ſhould ſet out very early in the morning, and, as the weather was extremely hot, not travel at all in the middle of the day.

Lady Honoria then, in a whiſper to Ce⯑cilia, ſaid, ‘"I ſuppoſe, Miſs Beverley, you will riſe with the lark to-morrow morning? for your health, I mean. Early riſing, you know, is vaſtly good for you."’

[322] Cecilia, affecting not to underſtand her, ſaid ſhe ſhould riſe, ſhe ſuppoſed, at her uſual time.

‘"I'll tell Mortimer, however,"’ returned her ladyſhip, ‘"to look up at your window before he goes off; for if he will play Ro⯑meo, you, I dare ſay, will play Juliet, and this old caſtle is quite the thing for the muſty family of the Capulets: I dare ſay Shakeſpear thought of it when he wrote of them."’

‘"Say to him what you pleaſe for your⯑ſelf,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"but let me entreat you to ſay nothing for me."’

‘"And my Lord Derford, continued ſhe, will make an exceſſive pretty Paris, for he is vaſtly in love, though he has got nothing to ſay; but what ſhall we do for a Mercutio? we may find 500 whining Romeos to one gay and charming Mercutio. Beſides, Mrs. Delvile, to do her juſtice, is really too good for the old Nurſe, though Mr. Del⯑vile himſelf may ſerve for all the Capulets and all the Montagues at once, for he has pride enough for both their houſes, and twenty more beſides. By the way, if I don't take care, I ſhall have this Romeo run away before I have made my little dainty country Paris pick a quarrel with him."’

She then walked up to one of the win⯑dows, [323] and motioning Lord Derford to follow her, Cecilia heard her ſay to him, ‘"Well, my lord, have you writ your letter? and have you ſent it? Miſs Beverley, I aſ⯑ſure you, will be charmed beyond meaſure by ſuch a piece of gallantry."’

‘"No, ma'am,"’ anſwered the ſimple young lord, ‘"I have not ſent it yet, for I have only writ a foul copy."’

‘"O my lord,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"that is the very thing you ought to ſend! a foul copy of a challenge is always better than a fair one, for it looks written with more agita⯑tion. I am vaſtly glad you mentioned that."’

Cecilia then, riſing and joining them, ſaid, ‘"What miſchief is Lady Honoria about now? we muſt all be upon our guards, my lord, for ſhe has a ſpirit of diverſion that will not ſpare us."’

‘"Pray why do you interfere?"’ cried Lady Honoria, and then, in a lower voice, ſhe added, ‘"what do you apprehend? do you ſuppoſe Mortimer cannot manage ſuch a poor little ideot as this?"’

‘"I don't ſuppoſe any thing about the matter!"’

‘"Well, then, don't interrupt my opera⯑tions. Lord Derford, Miſs Beverley has been whiſpering me, that if you put this [324] ſcheme in execution, ſhe ſhall find you, ever after, irreſiſtible."’

‘"Lord Derford, I hope,"’ ſaid Cecilia, laughing, ‘"is too well acquainted with your ladyſhip to be in any danger of cre⯑dulity."’

‘"Vaſtly well!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I ſee you are determined to provoke me, ſo if you ſpoil my ſchemes, I will ſpoil yours, and tell a certain gentleman your tender terrors for his ſafety."’

Cecilia now, extremely alarmed, moſt earneſtly entreated her to be quiet; but the diſcovery of her fright only excited her ladyſhip's laughter, and, with a look the moſt miſchievouſly wicked, ſhe called out ‘"Pray Mr. Mortimer, come hither!"’

Mortimer inſtantly obeyed; and Cecilia at the ſame moment would with pleaſure have endured almoſt any puniſhment to have been twenty miles off.

‘"I have ſomething,"’ continued her ladyſhip, ‘"of the utmoſt conſequence to communicate to you. We have been ſet⯑tling an admirable plan for you; will you promiſe to be guided by us if I tell it you?"’

‘"O certainly!"’ cried he; ‘" [...] that would diſgrace us all round."’

‘Well, then,—Miſs Beverley, have you any objection to my proceeding?"’

[325] ‘"None at all!"’ anſwered Cecilia, who had the underſtanding to know that the greateſt excitement to ridicule is oppoſi⯑tion.

‘"Well, then, I muſt tell you,"’ ſhe con⯑tinued, ‘"it is the advice of us all, that as ſoon as you come to the poſſeſſion of your eſtate, you make ſome capital al⯑terations in this antient caſtle."’

Cecilia, greatly relieved, could with gra⯑titude have embraced her: and Mortimer, very certain that ſuch rattle was all her own, promiſed the utmoſt ſubmiſſion to her or⯑ders, and begged her further directions, declaring that he could not, at leaſt, deſire a fairer architect.

‘"What we mean,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"may be effected with the utmoſt eaſe; it is only to take out theſe old windows, and fix ſome thick iron grates in their place, and ſo turn the caſtle into a gaol for the county.’

Mortimer laughed heartily at this propo⯑ſition; but his father, unfortunately hear⯑ing it, ſternly advanced, and with great auſterity ſaid, ‘"If I thought my ſon capa⯑ble of putting ſuch an inſult upon his an⯑ceſt [...] whatever may be the value I feel [...] I would baniſh him my preſence for ever."’

‘"Dear ſir,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"how would his anceſtors ever know it?"’

[326] ‘"How?—why—that is a very extraor⯑dinary queſtion, Lady Honoria!"’

‘"Beſides, ſir, I dare ſay the ſheriff, or the mayor and corporation, or ſome of thoſe ſort of people, would give him money enough, for the uſe of it, to run him up a mighty pretty neat little box ſomewhere near Richmond."’

‘"A box!"’ exclaimed he indignantly; ‘"a neat little box for the heir of an eſtate ſuch as this!"’

‘"I only mean,"’ cried ſhe, giddily, ‘"that he might have ſome place a little more pleaſant to live in, for really that old moat and draw-bridge are enough to vapour him to death; I cannot for my life imagine any uſe they are of: unleſs, indeed, to frighten away the deer, for nothing elſe offers to come over. But, if you were to turn the houſe into a gaol—"’

‘"A gaol?"’ cried Mr. Delvile, ſtill more angrily, ‘"your ladyſhip muſt pardon me if I entreat you not to mention that word again when you are pleaſed to ſpeak of Delvile caſtle."’

‘"Dear ſir, why not?"’

‘"Becauſe it is a term that, in itſelf, from a young lady, has a ſound peculiarly improper; and which, applied to any gen⯑tleman's antient family ſeat,—a thing, lady Honor [...]a, always reſpectable, however light⯑ly ſpoken or!—has an effect the leaſt agre⯑eable [327] that can be deviſed: for it implies an idea either that the family, or the manſion, is going into decay."’

‘Well, ſir, you know, with regard to the manſion, it is certainly very true, for all that other ſide, by the old tower, looks as if it would fall upon one's head every time one is forced to paſs it."’

‘"I proteſt, Lady Honoria,"’ ſaid Mr. Delvile, ‘"that old tower, of which you are pleaſed to ſpeak ſo ſlightingly, is the moſt honourable teſtimony to the antiquity of the caſtle of any now remaining, and I would not part with it for all the new boxes, as you ſtyle them, in the kingdom."’

‘"I am ſure I am very glad of it, ſir, for I dare ſay nobody would give even one of them for it."’

‘"Pardon me, Lady Honoria, you are greatly miſtaken; they would give a thou⯑ſand; ſuch a thing, belonging to a man from his own anceſtors, is invaluable."’

‘"Why, dear ſir, what in the world could they do with it? unleſs, indeed, they were to let ſome man paint it for an opera ſcene."’

‘"A worthy uſe indeed!"’ cried Mr. Del⯑vile, more and more affronted: ‘"and pray does your ladyſhip talk thus to my Lord Duke?"’

‘"O yes; and he never minds it at all."’

[328] ‘"It were ſtrange if he did!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile; ‘"my only aſtoniſhment is that any body can be found who does mind it."’

‘"Why now, Mrs. Delvile,"’ ſhe anſwered, ‘"pray be ſincere; can you poſſibly think this gothic ugly old place at all compara⯑ble to any of the new villas about town?"’

‘"Gothic ugly old place!"’ repeated Mr. Delvile, in utter amazement at her daunt⯑leſs flightineſs; ‘"your ladyſhip really does my humble dwelling too much honour!"’

‘"Lord, I beg a thouſand pardons!"’ cried ſhe, ‘"I really did not think of what I was ſaying. Come, dear Miſs Beverley, and walk out with me, for I am too much ſhocked to ſtay a moment longer."’

And then, taking Cecilia by the arm, ſhe hurried her into the park, through a door which led thither from the parlour.

‘"For heaven's ſake, Lady Honoria,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"could you find no better entertainment for Mr. Delvile than ridicu⯑ling his own houſe?"’

‘"O,"’ cried ſhe, laughing, ‘"did you never hear us quarrel before? why when I was here laſt ſummer, I uſed to affront him ten times a day."’

‘"And was that a regular ceremony?’

‘"No, really, I did not do it purpoſely; but it ſo happened; either by talking of the caſtle, or the tower, or the draw-bridge, [329] or the fortifications; or wiſhing they were all employed to fill up that odious moat; or ſomething of that ſort; for you know a ſmall matter will put him out of hu⯑mour."’

‘"And do you call it ſo ſmall a matter to wiſh a man's whole habitation annihi⯑lated?"’

‘"Lord, I don't wiſh any thing about it! I only ſay ſo to provoke him."’

‘"And what ſtrange pleaſure can that give you?"’

‘"O the greateſt in the world! I take much delight in ſeeing any body in a paſ⯑ſion. It makes them look ſo exceſſively ugly!"’

‘"And is that the way you like every body ſhould look, Lady Honoria?"’

‘"O my dear, if you mean me, I never was in a paſſion twice in my life: for as ſoon as ever I have provoked the people, I always run away. But ſometimes I am in a dreadful fright leſt they ſhould ſee me laugh, for they make ſuch horrid grimaces it is hardly poſſible to look at them. When my father has been angry with me, I have ſometimes been obliged to pretend I was crying, by way of excuſe for putting my handkerchief to my face: for really he looks ſo exceſſively hideous, you would [330] ſuppoſe he was making mouths, like the children, merely to frighten one."’

‘"Amazing!"’ exclaimed Cecilia, ‘"your ladyſhip can, indeed, never want diverſion, to find it in the anger of your father. But does it give you no other ſenſation? are you not afraid?"’

‘"O never! what can he do to me, you know? he can only ſtorm a little, and ſwear a little, for he always ſwears when he is angry; and perhaps order me to my own room; and ten to one but that hap⯑pens to be the very thing I want; for we never quarrel but when we are alone, and then it's ſo dull, I am always wiſhing to run away."’

‘And can you take no other method of leaving him?"’

‘"Why I think none ſo eaſily: and it can do him no harm, you know; I often tell him, when we make friends, that if it were not for a poſtilion and his daugh⯑ter, he would be quite out of practice in ſcolding and ſwearing: for whenever he is upon the road he does nothing elſe: though why he is in ſuch a hurry, nobody can di⯑vine, for go whither he will he has nothing to do."’

Thus ran on this flighty lady, happy in high animal ſpirits, and careleſs who was [331] otherwiſe, till, at ſome diſtance, they per⯑ceived Lord Derford, who was approach⯑ing to join them.

‘"Miſs Beverley,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"here comes your adorer: I ſhall therefore only walk on till we arrive at that large oak, and then make him proſtrate himſelf at your feet, and leave you together."’

‘"Your ladyſhip is extremely good! but I am glad to be apprized of your intention, as it will enable me to ſave you that trouble."’

She then turned quick back, and paſſing Lord Derford, who ſtill walked on towards Lady Honoria, ſhe returned to the houſe; but, upon entering the parlour, found all the company diſperſed, Delvile alone excepted, who was walking about the room, with his tablets in his hand, in which he had been writing.

From a mixture of ſhame and ſurprize, Cecilia, at the ſight of him, was involun⯑tarily retreating; but, haſtening to the door, he called out in a reproachful tone, ‘"Will you not even enter the ſame room with me?"’

‘"O yes,"’ cried ſhe, returning; ‘"I was only afraid I diſturbed you."’

‘"No, madam, anſwered he, gravely; you are the only perſon who could not diſturb me, ſince my employment was [332] making memorandums for a letter to your⯑ſelf: with which, however, I did not deſire to importune you, but that you have denied me the honour of even a five minutes audience."’

Cecilia, in the utmoſt confuſion at this attack, knew not whether to ſtand ſtill or proceed; but, as he preſently continued his ſpeech, ſhe found ſhe had no choice but to ſtay.

‘"I ſhould be ſorry to quit this place, eſpecially as the length of my abſence is extremely uncertain, while I have the un⯑happineſs to be under your diſpleaſure, without making ſome little attempt to apo⯑logize for the behaviour which incurred it. Muſt I, then, finiſh my letter, or will you at laſt deign to hear me?"’

‘"My diſpleaſure, ſir,"’ ſaid Cecilia ‘"died with its occaſion; I beg, therefore, that it may reſt no longer in your remem⯑brance."’

‘"I meant not, madam, to infer, that the ſubject or indeed that the object merited your deliberate attention; I ſimply wiſh to explain what may have appeared myſterious in my conduct, and for what may have ſeemed ſtill more cenſurable, to beg your pardon."’

Cecilia now, recovered from her firſt apprehenſions, and calmed, becauſe piqued, [333] by the calmneſs with which he ſpoke him⯑ſelf, made no oppoſition to his requeſt, but ſuffering him to ſhut both the door leading into the garden, and that which led into the hall, ſhe ſeated herſelf at one of the win⯑dows, determined to liſten with intrepidity to this long expected explanation.

The preparations, however, which he made to obviate being overheard, added to the ſteadineſs with which Cecilia waited his further proceedings, ſoon robbed him of the courage with which he began the aſſault, and evidently gave him a wiſh of retreating himſelf.

At length, after much heſitation, he ſaid ‘"This indulgence, madam, deſerves my moſt grateful acknowledgments; it is, indeed, what I had little right, and ſtill leſs reaſon, after the ſeverity I have met with from you, to expect."’

And here, at the very mention of ſeve⯑rity, his courage, called upon by his pride, inſtantly returned, and he went on with the ſame ſpirit he had begun.

‘"That ſeverity, however, I mean not to lament; on the contrary, in a ſituation ſuch as mine, it was perhaps the firſt bleſſing I could receive; I have found from it, in⯑deed, more advantage and relief than from all that philoſophy, reflection or fortitude could offer. It has ſhewn me the vanity of [334] bewailing the barrier, placed by fate to my wiſhes, ſince it has ſhewn me that another, leſs inevitable, but equally inſuperable, would have oppoſed them. I have deter⯑mined, therefore, after a ſtruggle I muſt confeſs the moſt painful, to deny myſelf the dangerous ſolace of your ſociety, and en⯑deavour, by joining diſſipation to reaſon, to forget the too great pleaſure which hitherto it has afforded me."’

‘"Eaſy, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"will be your taſk: "I can only wiſh the re-eſtabliſhment of your health may be found no more diffi⯑cult."’

‘"Ah, madam,"’ cried he, with a re⯑proachful ſmile, ‘"he jeſts at ſcars who never felt a wound!—but this is a ſtrain in which I have no right to talk, and I will neither of⯑fend your delicacy, nor my own integrity, by endeavouring to work upon the genero⯑ſity of your diſpoſition in order to excite your compaſſion. Not ſuch was the motive with which I begged this audience; but merely a deſire, before I tear myſelf away, to open to you my heart, without palliation or reſerve."’

He pauſed a few moments; and Cecilia finding her ſuſpicions juſt that this inter⯑view was meant to be final, conſidered that her trial, however ſevere, would be ſhort, and called forth all her reſolution to ſuſtain it with ſpirit.

[335] ‘"Long before I had the honour of your acquaintance,"’ he continued, ‘"your character and your accompliſhments were known to me: Mr. Biddulph of Suffolk, who was my firſt friend at Oxford, and with whom my intimacy is ſtill undiminiſhed, was early ſen⯑ſible of your excellencies: we correſpond⯑ed, and his letters were filled with your praiſes. He confeſſed to me, that his ad⯑miration had been unfortunate:—alas! I might now make the ſame confeſſion to him!"’

Mr. Biddulph, among many of the neigh⯑bouring gentlemen, had made propoſals to the Dean for Cecilia, which, at her deſire, were rejected.

‘"When Mr. Harrel ſaw maſks in Port⯑man-ſquare, my curioſity to behold a lady ſo adored, and ſo cruel, led me thither; your dreſs made you eaſily diſtinguiſhed.—Ah Miſs Beverley! I venture not to men⯑tion what I then felt for my friend! I will only ſay that ſomething which I felt for myſelf, warned me inſtantly to avoid you, ſince the clauſe in your uncle's will was al⯑ready well known to me."’

Now, then, at laſt, thought Cecilia, all perplexity is over!—the change of name is the obſtacle; he inherits all the pride of his family,—and therefore to that family will I unrepining leave him!

[336] ‘"This warning,"’ he continued, ‘"I ſhould not have diſregarded, had I not, at the Opera, been deceived into a belief you were engaged; I then wiſhed no longer to ſhun you; bound in honour to forbear all efforts at ſupplanting a man, to whom I thought you almoſt united, I conſidered you already as married, and eagerly as I ſought your ſo⯑ciety, I ſought it not with more pleaſure than innocence. Yet even then, to be can⯑did, I found in myſelf a reſtleſſneſs about your affairs that kept me in eternal pertur⯑bation: but I flattered myſelf it was mere curioſity, and only excited by the perpetu⯑al change of opinion to which occaſion gave riſe, concerning which was the happy man."’

‘"I am ſorry,"’ ſaid Cecilia, coolly, ‘"there was any ſuch miſtake."’

‘"I will not, madam, fatigue you,"’ he returned, ‘"by tracing the progreſs of my unfortunate admiration; I will endeavour to be more brief, for I ſee you are already wearied."’ He ſtopt a moment, hoping for ſome little encouragement; but Cecilia, in no humour to give it, aſſumed an air of unconcern, and ſat wholly quiet.

‘"I knew not,"’ he then went on, with a look of extreme mortification, ‘"the warmth with which I honoured your virtues, till you deigned to plead to me for Mr. Belfield,— [337] but let me not recollect the feelings of that moment!—yet were they nothing,—cold, languid, lifeleſs to what I afterwards expe⯑rienced, when you undeceived me finally with reſpect to your ſituation, and informed me the report concerning Sir Robert Floyer was equally erroneous with that which con⯑cerned Belfield! O what was the agitation of my whole ſoul at that inſtant!—to know you diſengaged,—to ſee you before me,—by the diſorder of my whole frame to diſcover the miſtake I had cheriſhed—"’

Cecilia then, half riſing, yet again ſeating herſelf, looked extremely impatient to be gone.

‘"Pardon me, madam,"’ he cried; ‘"I will have done, and trace my feelings and my ſufferings no longer, but haſten, for my own ſake as well as yours, to the reaſon why I have ſpoken at all. From the hour that my ill-deſtined paſſion was fully known to myſelf, I weighed all the conſequences of indulging it, and found, added to the ex⯑treme hazard of ſucceſs, an impropriety even in the attempt. My honour in the honour of my family is bound; what to that would ſeem wrong, in me would be unjuſtifiable: yet where inducements ſo numerous were oppoſed by one ſingle ob⯑jection!—where virtue, beauty, education and family were all unexceptionable,—Oh [338] cruel clauſe! barbarous and repulſive clauſe! that forbids my aſpiring to the firſt of wo⯑men, but by an action that with my own family would degrade me for ever!"’

He ſtopt, overpowered by his own emo⯑tion, and Cecilia aroſe. ‘"I ſee, madam,"’ he cried, ‘"your eagerneſs to be gone, and however at this moment I may lament it, I ſhall recollect it hereafter with advantage. But to conclude: I determined to avoid you, and, by avoiding, to endeavour to for⯑get you: I determined, alſo, that no hu⯑man being, and yourſelf leaſt of all, ſhould know, ſhould even ſuſpect the ſituation of my mind: and though upon various occa⯑ſions, my prudence and forbearance have ſuddenly yielded to ſurpriſe and to paſſion, the ſurrender has been ſhort, and almoſt, I believe, unnoticed.’

‘"This ſilence and this avoidance I ſuſ⯑tained with decent conſtancy, till during the ſtorm, in an ill-fated moment, I ſaw, or thought I ſaw you in ſome danger, and then, all caution off guard, all reſolution ſur⯑priſed, every paſſion awake, and tenderneſs triumphant—’

‘"Why, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, angrily, ‘"and for what purpoſe all this?"’

‘"Alas, I know not!"’ ſaid he, with a deep ſigh, ‘"I thought myſelf better quali⯑fied for this conference, and meant to be [339] firm and conciſe. I have told my ſtory ill, but as your own underſtanding will point out the cauſe, your own benevolence will perhaps urge ſome excuſe.’

‘"Too certain, ſince that unfortunate accident, that all diſguiſe was vain, and con⯑vinced by your diſpleaſure of the impro⯑priety of which I had been guilty, I deter⯑mined, as the only apology I could offer, to open to you my whole heart, and then fly you perhaps for ever.’

‘"This, madam, incoherently indeed, yet with ſincerity, I have now done: my ſufferings and my conflicts I do not men⯑tion, for I dare not! O were I to paint to you the bitter ſtruggles of a mind all at war with itſelf,—Duty, ſpirit, and fortitude, combating love, happineſs and inclination,—each conquering alternately, and alter⯑nately each vanquiſhed,—I could endure it no longer, I reſolved by one effort to finiſh the ſtrife, and to undergo an inſtant of even exquiſite torture, in preference to a conti⯑nuance of ſuch lingering miſery!"’

‘"The reſtoration of your health, Sir, and ſince you fancy it has been injured, of your happineſs,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ‘"will, I hope, be as ſpeedy, as I doubt not they are certain."’

‘"Since I fancy it has been injured!"’ re⯑peated he; ‘"what a phraſe, after an avowal ſuch as mine! But why ſhould I wiſh to [340] convince you of my ſincerity, when to you it cannot be more indifferent, than to my⯑ſelf it is unfortunate! I have now only to entreat your pardon for the robbery I have committed upon your time, and to repeat my acknowledgments that you have endea⯑voured to hear me with patience."’

‘"If you honour me, Sir, with ſome por⯑tion of your eſteem,"’ ſaid the offended Ce⯑cilia, ‘"theſe acknowledgments, perhaps, ſhould be mine; ſuppoſe them, however made, for I have a letter to write, and can therefore ſtay no longer."’

‘"Nor do I preſume, madam,"’ cried he proudly, ‘"to detain you: hitherto you may frequently have thought me myſteri⯑ous, ſometimes ſtrange and capricious, and perhaps almoſt always, unmeaning; to clear myſelf from theſe imputations, by a candid confeſſion of the motives which have go⯑verned me, is all that I wiſhed. Once, alſo—I hope but once,—you thought me impertinent,—there, indeed, I leſs dare vin⯑dicate myſelf—"’

‘"There is no occaſion, Sir,"’ interrupt⯑ed ſhe, walking towards the door, ‘"for further vindication in any thing; I am per⯑fectly ſatisfied, and if my good wiſhes are worth your acceptance, aſſure yourſelf you poſſeſs them."’

‘"Barbarous, and inſulting!"’ cried he, [341] half to himſelf; and then, with a quick motion haſtening to open the door for her, ‘"Go, madam,"’ he added, almoſt breath⯑leſs with conflicting emotions, ‘"go, and be your happineſs unalterable as your in⯑flexibility!"’

Cecilia was turning back to anſwer this reproach, but the ſight of Lady Honoria, who was entering at the other door, deter⯑red her, and ſhe went on.

When ſhe came to her own room, ſhe walked about it ſome time in a ſtate ſo un⯑ſettled, between anger and diſappointment, ſorrow and pride, that ſhe ſcarce knew to which emotion to give way, and felt almoſt burſting with each.

‘"The dye, ſhe cried, is at laſt thrown; and this affair is concluded for ever! Del⯑vile himſelf is content to relinquiſh me; no father has commanded, no mother has in⯑terfered, he has required no admonition, full well enabled to act for himſelf by the powerful inſtigation of hereditary arro⯑gance! Yet my family, he ſays,—unex⯑pected condeſcenſion! my family and every other circumſtance is unexceptionable; how feeble, then, is that regard which yields to one only objection! how potent that haugh⯑tineſs which to nothing will give way! Well, let him keep his name! ſince ſo wonderous its properties, ſo all-ſufficient its [342] preſervation, what vanity, what preſump⯑tion in me, to ſuppoſe myſelf an equivalent for its loſs!"’

Thus, deeply offended, her ſpirits were ſupported by reſentment, and not only while in company, but when alone, ſhe found herſelf ſcarce averſe to the approach⯑ing ſeparation, and enabled to endure it without repining.

CHAP. X. A RETREAT.

THE next morning Cecilia aroſe late, not only to avoid the raillery of Lady Honoria, but to eſcape ſeeing the depar⯑ture of Delvile; ſhe knew that the ſpirit with which ſhe had left him, made him, at preſent, think her wholly inſenſible, and ſhe was at leaſt happy to be ſpared the mortifi⯑cation of a diſcovery, ſince ſhe found him thus content, without even ſolicitation, to reſign her.

Before ſhe was dreſſed, Lady Honoria ran into her room, ‘"A new ſcheme of po⯑litics!"’ ſhe cried; ‘"our great ſtateſman intends to leave us: he can't truſt his baby out of his ſight, ſo he is going to nurſe him while upon the road himſelf. Poor pretty dear Mortimer! what a puppet do they make of him! I have a vaſt inclination to get a pap-boat myſelf, and make him a pre⯑ſent of it."’

Cecilia then enquired further particulars, and heard that Mr. Delvile purpoſed ac⯑companying his ſon to Briſtol, whoſe jour⯑ney, [344] therefore, was poſtponed for a few hours to give time for new preparations.

Mr. Delvile, who, upon this occaſion, thought himſelf overwhelmed with buſineſs, becauſe, before his departure, he had ſome directions to give to his domeſtics, choſe to breakfaſt in his own apartment: Mrs. Del⯑vile, alſo, wiſhing for ſome private conver⯑ſation with her ſon, invited him to partake of her's in her dreſſing-room, ſending an apology to her gueſts, and begging they would order their breakfaſts when they pleaſed.

Mr. Delvile, ſcrupulous in ceremony, had made ſundry apologies to Lord Ernolf for leaving him; but his real anxiety for his ſon overpowering his artificial character, the excuſes he gave to that nobleman were ſuch as could not poſſibly offend; and the views of his lordſhip himſelf in his viſit, being nothing interrupted, ſo long as Ceci⯑lia continued at the caſtle, he readily en⯑gaged, as a proof that he was not affronted, to remain with Mrs. Delvile till his return.

Cecilia, therefore, had her breakfaſt with the two lords and Lady Honoria; and when it was over, Lord Ernolf propoſed to his ſon riding the firſt ſtage with the two Mr. Delviles on horſeback. This was agreed upon, and they left the room: and then Lady Honoria, full of frolic and gaiety, [345] ſeized one of the napkins, and proteſted ſhe would ſend it to Mortimer for a ſlabbering⯑bib: ſhe therefore made it up in a parcel, and wrote upon the inſide of the paper with which ſhe envelloped it, ‘"A pin-a-fore for Maſter Mortimer Delvile, leſt he ſhould daub his pappy when he is feeding him."’ Eager to have this properly conveyed, ſhe then ran out, to give it in charge to her own man, who was to preſent him with it as he got into the chaiſe.

She had but juſt quitted the room, when the door of it was again opened, and by Mortimer himſelf, booted, and equipped for his journey.

‘"Miſs Beverley here! and alone!"’ cried he, with a look, and in a voice, which ſhewed that all the pride of the pre⯑ceding evening was ſunk into the deepeſt dejection; ‘"and does ſhe not fly as I ap⯑proach her? can ſhe patiently bear in her ſight one ſo ſtrange, ſo fiery, ſo inconſiſt⯑ent? But ſhe is too wiſe to reſent the rav⯑ings of a madman;—and who, under the influence of a paſſion at once hopeleſs and violent, can boaſt, but at intervals, full poſſeſſion of his reaſon?"’

Cecilia, utterly aſtoniſhed by a gentle⯑neſs ſo humble, looked at him in ſilent ſur⯑priſe; he advanced to her mournfully, and added, ‘"I am aſhamed, indeed, of the bit⯑terneſs [346] of ſpirit with which I laſt night pro⯑voked your diſpleaſure, when I ſhould have ſupplicated your lenity: but though I was prepared for your coldneſs, I could not en⯑dure it, and though your indifference was almoſt friendly, it made me little leſs than frantic; ſo ſtrangely may juſtice be blind⯑ed by paſſion, and every faculty of reaſon be warped by ſelfiſhneſs!"’

‘"You have no apology to make, Sir,"’ cried Cecilia, ‘"ſince, believe me, I require none."’

‘"You may well,"’ returned he, half-ſmiling, ‘"diſpenſe with my apologies, ſince under the ſanction of that word, I obtained your hearing yeſterday. But, believe me, you will now find me far more reaſonable; a whole night's reflections—reflections which no repoſe interrupted!—have brought me to my ſenſes. Even lunatics, you know, have lucid moments!"’

‘"Do you intend, Sir, to ſet off ſoon?"’

‘"I believe ſo; I wait only for my fa⯑ther. But why is Miſs Beverley ſo impa⯑tient? I ſhall not ſoon return; that, at leaſt, is certain, and, for a few inſtants delay, may ſurely offer ſome palliation;—See! if I am not ready to again accuſe you of ſeverity!—I muſt run, I find, or all my boaſted reformation will end but in freſh offence, freſh diſgrace, and freſh contrition! [347] Adieu, madam!—and may all proſperity attend you! That will be ever my darling wiſh, however long my abſence, however diſtant the climates which may part us!"’ He was then hurrying away, but Cecilia, from an impulſe of ſurpriſe too ſudden to be reſtrained, exclaimed ‘"The climates?—do you, then, mean to leave England?"’

‘"Yes,"’ cried he, with quickneſs, ‘"for why ſhould I remain in it? a few weeks only could I fill up in any tour ſo near home, and hither in a few weeks to return would be folly and madneſs: in an abſence ſo brief, what thought but that of the ap⯑proaching meeting would occupy me? and what, at that meeting, ſhould I feel, but joy the moſt dangerous, and delight which I dare not think of!—every conflict renew⯑ed, every ſtruggle re-felt, again all this ſcene would require to be acted, again I muſt tear myſelf away, and every tumul⯑tuous paſſion now beating in my heart would be revived, and, if poſſible, be re⯑vived with added miſery!—No!—neither my temper nor my conſtitution will endure ſuch another ſhock, one parting ſhall ſuf⯑fice, and the fortitude with which I will lengthen my ſelf-exile, ſhall atone to my⯑ſelf for the weakneſs which makes it requi⯑ſite!"’

And then, with a vehemence that ſeem⯑ed [348] fearful of the ſmalleſt delay, he was again, and yet more haſtily going, when Cecilia, with much emotion, called out, ‘"Two moments, Sir!"’

‘"Two thouſand! two million!"’ cried he, impetuouſly, and returning, with a look of the moſt earneſt ſurpriſe, he added, ‘"What is it Miſs Beverley will condeſcend to command?"’

‘"Nothing,"’ cried ſhe, recovering her preſence of mind, ‘"but to beg you will by no means, upon my account, quit your country and your friends, ſince another aſylum can be found for myſelf, and ſince I would much ſooner part from Mrs. Del⯑vile, greatly and ſincerely as I reverence her, than be inſtrumental to robbing her, even for a month, of her ſon.’

‘"Generous and humane is the conſidera⯑tion,"’ cried he; ‘"but who half ſo gener⯑ous, ſo humane as Miſs Beverley? ſo ſoft to all others, ſo noble in herſelf? Can my mo⯑ther have a wiſh, when I leave her with you? No; ſhe is ſenſible of your worth, ſhe adores you, almoſt as I adore you myſelf! you are now under her protection, you ſeem, indeed, born for each other; let me not, then, deprive her of ſo honourable a charge:—Oh, why muſt he, who ſees in ſuch colours the excellencies of both, who admires with ſuch fervour the perfections [349] you unite, be torn with this violence from the objects he reveres, even though half his life he would ſacrifice, to ſpend in their ſo⯑ciety what remained!"—’

‘"Well, then, Sir,"’ ſaid Cecilia, who now felt her courage decline, and the ſoft⯑neſs of ſorrow ſteal faſt upon her ſpirits, ‘"if you will not give up your ſcheme, let me no longer detain you."’

‘"Will you not wiſh me a good jour⯑ney?"’

‘"Yes,—very ſincerely."’

‘"And will you pardon the unguarded errors which have offended you?"’

‘"I will think of them, Sir, no more."’

‘"Farewell, then, moſt amiable of wo⯑men, and may every bleſſing you deſerve light on your head! I leave to you my mo⯑ther, certain of your ſympathetic affection for a character ſo reſembling your own. When you, madam, leave her, may the happy ſucceſſor in your favour—"’ He pauſ⯑ed, his voice faultered, Cecilia, too, turned away from him, and, uttering a deep ſigh, he caught her hand, and preſſing it to his lips, exclaimed, ‘"O great be your feli⯑city, in whatever way you receive it!—pure as your virtues, and warm as your benevo⯑lence!—Oh too lovely Miſs Beverley!—why, why muſt I quit you!"’

Cecilia, though ſhe truſted not her voice [350] to reprove him, forced away her hand, and then, in the utmoſt perturbation, he ruſhed out of the room.

This ſcene for Cecilia, was the moſt un⯑fortunate that could have happened; the gentleneſs of Delvile was alone ſufficient to melt her, ſince her pride had no ſubſiſtence when not fed by his own; and while his mildneſs had blunted her diſpleaſure, his anguiſh had penetrated her heart. Loſt in thought and in ſadneſs, ſhe continued fixed to her ſeat; and looking at the door through which he had paſſed, as if, with himſelf, he had ſhut out all for which ſhe exiſted.

This penſive dejection was not long un⯑interrupted; Lady Honoria came running back, with intelligence, in what manner ſhe had diſpoſed of her napkin, and Cecilia in liſtening, endeavoured to find ſome diver⯑ſion; but her ladyſhip, though volatile not undiſcerning, ſoon perceived that her at⯑tention was conſtrained, and looking at her with much archneſs, ſaid ‘"I believe, my dear, I muſt find another napkin for you! not, however, for your mouth, but for your eyes! Has Mortimer been in to take leave of you?"’

‘"Take leave of me?—No,—is he gone?"’

‘"O no, Pappy has a world of buſi⯑neſs to ſettle firſt; he won't be ready theſe [351] two hours. But don't look ſo ſorrowful, for I'll run and bring Mortimer to conſole you."’

Away ſhe flew, and Cecilia, who had no power to prevent her, finding her ſpirits un⯑equal either to another parting, or to the raillery of Lady Honoria, ſhould Mortimer, for his own ſake, avoid it, took refuge in flight, and ſeizing an umbrella, eſcaped in⯑to the Park; where, to perplex any purſu⯑ers, inſtead of chuſing her uſual walk, ſhe directed her ſteps to a thick and unfre⯑quented wood, and never reſted till ſhe was more than two miles from the houſe. Fi⯑del, however, who now always accompani⯑ed her, ran by her ſide, and, when ſhe thought herſelf ſufficiently diſtant and pri⯑vate to be ſafe, ſhe ſat down under a tree, and careſſing her faithful favourite, ſoothed her own tenderneſs by lamenting that he had loſt his maſter; and, having now no part to act, and no dignity to ſupport, no obſerva⯑tion to fear, and no inference to guard againſt, ſhe gave vent to her long ſmother⯑ed emotions, by weeping without caution or reſtraint.

She had met with an object whoſe cha⯑racter anſwered all her wiſhes for him with whom ſhe ſhould entruſt her fortune, and whoſe turn of mind, ſo ſimilar to her own, promiſed her the higheſt domeſtic felicity: [352] to this object her affections had involunta⯑rily bent, they were ſeconded by eſteem, and unchecked by any ſuſpicion of impropriety in her choice: ſhe had found too, in return, that his heart was all her own: her birth, indeed, was inferior, but it was not diſ⯑graceful; her diſpoſition, education and temper ſeemed equal to his fondeſt wiſhes: yet, at the very time when their union ap⯑peared moſt likely, when they mixed with the ſame ſociety, and dwelt under the ſame roof, when the father to one, was the guar⯑dian to the other, and intereſt ſeemed to in⯑vite their alliance even more than affection, the young man himſelf, without counſel or command, could tear himſelf from her preſence by an effort all his own, forbear to ſeek her heart, and almoſt charge her not to grant it, and determining upon volun⯑tary exile, quit his country and his con⯑nections with no view, and for no reaſon, but merely that he might avoid the ſight of her he loved!

Though the motive for this conduct was now no longer unknown to her, ſhe neither thought it ſatisfactory nor neceſſary; yet, while ſhe cenſured his flight, ſhe bewailed his loſs, and though his inducement was repugnant to her opinion, his command over his paſſions ſhe admired and applauded.

CHAP. XI. A WORRY.

CECILIA continued in this private ſpot, happy at leaſt to be alone, till ſhe was ſummoned by the dinner bell to return home.

As ſoon as ſhe entered the parlour, where every body was aſſembled before her, ſhe obſerved, by the countenance of Mrs. Delvile, that ſhe had paſſed the morn⯑ing as ſadly as herſelf.

‘"Miſs Beverley,’ "cried Lady Honoria, before ſhe was ſeated, ‘"I inſiſt upon your taking my place to-day."’

‘"Why ſo, madam?"’

‘"Becauſe I cannot ſuffer you to ſit by a window with ſuch a terrible cold."’

‘"Your ladyſhip is very good, but in⯑deed I have not any cold at all."’

‘"O my dear, I muſt beg your pardon there; your eyes are quite blood-ſhot; Mrs. Delvile, Lord Ernolf, are not her eyes quite red?—Lord, and ſo I proteſt are her cheeks! now do pray look in the glaſs, I aſ⯑ſure you you will hardly know yourſelf."’

[354] Mrs. Delvile, who regarded her with the utmoſt kindneſs, affected to underſtand La⯑dy Honoria's ſpeech literally, both to leſſen her apparent confuſion, and the ſuſpicious ſurmiſes of Lord Ernolf; ſhe therefore ſaid, ‘"you have indeed a bad cold, my love; but ſhade your eyes with your hat, and after dinner you ſhall bathe them in roſe water, which will ſoon take off the inflammation."’

Cecilia, perceiving her intention, for which ſhe ſelt the utmoſt gratitude, no longer denied her cold, nor refuſed the of⯑fer of Lady Honoria: who, delighting in miſchief, whence-ſoever it proceeded, pre⯑ſently added, ‘"This cold is a judgment upon you for leaving me alone all this morning; but I ſuppoſe you choſe a tête à tête with your favourite, without the intru⯑ſion of any third perſon."’

"Here every body ſtared, and Cecilia very ſeriouſly declared ſhe had been quite alone.

‘"Is it poſſible you can ſo forget your⯑ſelf?"’ cried Lady Honoria; ‘had you not your dearly beloved with you?"’

Cecilia, who now comprehended that ſhe meant Fidel, coloured more deeply than ever, but attempted to laugh, and began eating her dinner.

‘"Here ſeems ſome matter of much in⯑tricacy,"’ [355] cried Lord Ernolf, ‘"but, to me, wholly unintelligible."’

‘"And to me alſo,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"but I am content to let it remain ſo; for the myſteries of Lady Honoria are ſo fre⯑quent, that they deaden curioſity."’

‘"Dear madam, that is very unnatural,"’ cried Lady Honoria, ‘"for I am ſure you muſt long to know who I mean."’

‘"I do, at leaſt,"’ ſaid Lord Ernolf.

‘"Why then, my lord, you muſt know, Miſs Beverley has two companions, and I am one, and Fidel is the other; but Fidel was with her all this morning, and ſhe would not admit me to the conference. I ſup⯑poſe ſhe had ſomething private to ſay to him of his maſter's journey."’

‘"What rattle is this?"’ cried Mrs. Del⯑vile; ‘"Fidel is gone with my ſon, is he not?"’ turning to the ſervants.

‘"No, madam, Mr. Mortimer did not enquire for him."’

‘"That's very ſtrange,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I ne⯑ver knew him quit home without him before."’

‘"Dear ma'am, if he had taken him,"’ cri⯑ed Lady Honoria, ‘"what could poor Miſs Beverley have done? for ſhe has no friend here but him and me, and really he's ſo much the greater favourite, that it is well [356] if I do not poiſon him ſome day for very ſpite."’

Cecilia had no reſource but in forcing a laugh, and Mrs. Delvile, who evidently felt for her, contrived ſoon to change the ſubject: yet not before Lord Ernolf, with infinite chargrin, was certain by all that paſſed of the hopeleſs ſtate of affairs for his ſon.

The reſt of the day, and every hour of the two days following, Cecilia paſſed in the moſt comfortleſs conſtraint, fearful of being a moment alone, leſt the heavineſs of her heart ſhould ſeek relief in tears, which conſolation, melancholy as it was, ſhe found too dangerous for indulgence: yet the gai⯑ety of Lady Honoria loſt all power of en⯑tertainment, and even the kindneſs of Mrs. Delvile, now ſhe imputed it to compaſſion, gave her more mortification than pleaſure.

On the third day, letters arrived from Briſtol: but they brought with them no⯑thing of comfort, for though Mortimer wrote gaily, his father ſent word that his fever ſeemed threatening to return.

Mrs. Delvile was now in the extremeſt anxiety; and the taſk of Cecilia in appear⯑ing chearful and unconcerned, became more and more difficult to perform. Lord Ernolf's efforts to oblige her grew as hope⯑leſs [357] to himſelf, as they were irkſome to her; and Lady Honoria alone, of the whole houſe, could either find or make the ſmalleſt diverſion. But while Lord Derford remained, ſhe had ſtill an object for ridi⯑cule, and while Cecilia could colour and be confuſed, ſhe had ſtill a ſubject for miſchief.

Thus paſſed a week, during which the news from Briſtol being every day leſs and leſs pleaſant, Mrs. Delvile ſhewed an ear⯑neſt deſire to make a journey thither her⯑ſelf, and propoſed, half laughing and half ſeriouſly, that the whole party ſhould ac⯑company her.

Lady Honoria's time, however, was al⯑ready expired, and her father intended to ſend for her in a few days.

Mrs. Delvile, who knew that ſuch a charge would occupy all her time, willingly deferred ſetting out till her ladyſhip ſhould be gone, but wrote word to Briſtol that ſhe ſhould ſhortly be there, attended by the two lords, who inſiſted upon eſcorting her.

Cecilia now was in a ſtate of the utmoſt diſ⯑treſs; her ſtay at the caſtle ſhe knew kept Del⯑vile at a diſtance; to accompany his mother to Briſtol, was forcing herſelf into his ſight, which equally from prudence and pride ſhe wiſhed to avoid; and even Mrs. Delvile [358] evidently deſired her abſence, ſince when⯑ever the journey was talked of, ſhe prefer⯑ably addreſſed herſelf to any one elſe who was preſent.

All ſhe could deviſe to relieve herſelf from a ſituation ſo painful, was begging permiſſion to make a viſit without delay to her old friend Mrs. Charlton in Suffolk.

This reſolution taken, ſhe put it into immediate execution, and ſeeking Mrs. Delvile, enquired if ſhe might venture to make a petition to her?

‘"Undoubtedly,"’ anſwered ſhe; ‘"but let it not be very diſagreeable, ſince I feel already that I can refuſe you nothing."’

‘"I have an old friend, ma'am,"’ ſhe then cried, ſpeaking faſt, and in much haſte to have done, ‘"who I have not for many months ſeen, and, as my health does not require a Briſtol journey,—if you would honour me with mentioning my requeſt to Mr. Delvile, I think I might take the pre⯑ſent opportunity of making Mrs. Charlton a viſit."’

Mrs. Delvile looked at her ſome time without ſpeaking, and then, fervently em⯑bracing her, ‘"ſweet Cecilia!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"yes, you are all that I thought you! good, wiſe, diſcreet, tender, and noble at once!—how to part with you, indeed, I know not,—but you ſhall do as you pleaſe, [359] for that I am ſure will be right, and therefore I will make no oppoſition."’

Cecilia bluſhed and thanked her, yet ſaw but too plainly that all the motives of her ſcheme were clearly comprehended. She haſtened, therefore, to write to Mrs. Charlton, and prepare for her reception.

Mr. Delvile, though with his uſual for⯑mality, ſent his permiſſion: and Mortimer at the ſame time, begged his mother would bring with her Fidel, whom he had un⯑luckily forgotten.

Lady Honoria, who was preſent when Mrs. Delvile mentioned this commiſſion, ſaid in a whiſper to Cecilia, ‘"Miſs Beverley, don't let him go."’

‘"Why not?"’

‘"O, you had a great deal better take him ſlyly into Suffolk."’

‘"I would as ſoon,"’ anſwered Cecilia, ‘"take with me the ſide-board of plate, for I ſhould ſcarcely think it more a robbery."’

‘"O, I beg your pardon, I am ſure they might all take ſuch a theft for an honour; and if I was going to Briſtol, I would bid Mortimer ſend him to you immediately. However, if you wiſh it, I will write to him. He's my couſin, you know, ſo there will be no great impropriety in it."’

Cecilia thanked her for ſo courteous an [360] offer, but entreated that ſhe might by no means draw her into ſuch a condeſcenſion.

She then made immediate preparations for her journey into Suffolk, which ſhe ſaw gave equal ſurprize and chargin to Lord Ernolf, upon whoſe affairs Mrs. Delvile herſelf now deſired to ſpeak with her.

‘Tell me, Miſs Beverley,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"briefly and poſitively your opinion of Lord Derford?"’

‘"I think of him ſo little, madam,"’ ſhe anſwered, ‘"that I cannot ſay of him much; he appears, however, to be inoffenſive; but, indeed, were I never to ſee him again, he is one of thoſe I ſhould forget I had ever ſeen at all."’

‘"That is ſo exactly the caſe with myſelf alſo,"’ cried Mrs. Delvile, ‘"that to plead for him, I find utterly impoſſible, though my Lord Ernolf has ſtrongly requeſted me: but to preſs ſuch an alliance, I ſhould think an indignity to your underſtanding."’

Cecilia was much gratified by this ſpeech; but ſhe ſoon after added, ‘"There is one reaſon, indeed, which would render ſuch a connection deſirable, though that is only one."’

‘"What is it, madam?"’

‘"His title."’

‘"And why ſo? I am ſure I have no am⯑bition of that ſort."’

[361] ‘"No, my love,"’ ſaid Mrs. Delvile, ſmiling, ‘"I mean not by way of gratifica⯑tion to your pride, but to his; ſince a title, by taking place of a family name, would obviate the only objection that any man could form to an alliance with Miſs Be⯑verley."’

Cecilia, who too well underſtood her, ſup⯑preſſed a ſigh, and changed the ſubject of converſation.

One day was ſufficient for all the prepa⯑rations ſhe required, and, as ſhe meant to ſet out very early the next morning, ſhe took leave of Lady Honoria, and the Lords Ernolf and Derford, when they ſeparated for the night; but Mrs. Delvile followed her to her room.

She expreſſed her concern at loſing her in the warmeſt and moſt flattering terms, yet ſaid nothing of her coming back, nor of the length of her ſtay; ſhe deſired, how⯑ever, to hear from her frequently, and aſ⯑ſured her that out of her own immediate family, there was nobody in the world ſhe ſo tenderly valued.

She continued with her till it grew ſo late that they were almoſt neceſſarily part⯑ed: and then riſing, to be gone, ‘"See,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"with what reluctance I quit you! no intereſt but ſo dear a one as that which calls me away, ſhould induce [362] me, with my own conſent, to bear your abſence ſcarcely an hour: but the world is full of mortifications, and to endure, or to ſink under them, makes all the di⯑ſtinction between the noble or the weak⯑minded. To you this may be ſaid with ſafety; to moſt young women it would paſs for a reflection."’

‘"You are very good,"’ ſaid Cecilia, ſmothering the emotions to which this ſpeech gave riſe, ‘"and if indeed you ho⯑nour me with an opinion ſo flattering, I will endeavour, if it is poſſibly in my power, not to forfeit it."’

‘"Ah, my love!"’ cried Mrs. Delvile warmly, ‘"if upon my opinion of you alone depended our reſidence with each other, when ſhould we ever part, and how live a moment aſunder? But what title have I to monopolize two ſuch bleſſings? the mother of Mortimer Delvile ſhould at no⯑thing repine; the mother of Cecilia Beverley had alone equal reaſon to be proud."’

‘"You are determined, madam,"’ ſaid Cecilia, forcing a ſmile, ‘that I ſhall be worthy, by giving me the ſweeteſt of mo⯑tives, that of deſerving ſuch praiſe."’ And then, in a faint voice, ſhe deſired her re⯑ſpects to Mr. Delvile, and added, ‘"you will find, I hope, every body at Briſtol better than you expect."’

[363] ‘"I hope ſo;"’ returned ſhe; ‘"and that you too, will find your Mrs. Charlton well, happy, and good as you left her: but ſuffer her not to drive me from your re⯑membrance, and never fancy that becauſe ſhe has known you longer, ſhe loves you more; my acquaintance with you, though ſhort, has been critical, and ſhe muſt hear from you a world of anecdotes, before ſhe can have reaſon to love you as much."’

‘"Ah, madam,"’ cried Cecilia, tears ſtart⯑ing into her eyes, ‘"let us part now!—where will be that ſtrength of mind you expect from me, if I liſten to you any longer!"’

‘"You are right, my love,"’ anſwered Mrs. Delvile, ‘"ſince all tenderneſs enfeebles fortitude."’ Then affectionately embracing her, ‘"Adieu,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"ſweeteſt Cecilia, amiable and moſt excellent creature, adieu!—you carry with you my higheſt appro⯑bation, my love, my eſteem, my fondeſt wiſhes!—and ſhall I—yes, generous girl! I will add my warmeſt gratitude!"’

This laſt word ſhe ſpoke almoſt in a whiſper, again kiſſed her, and haſtened out of the room.

Cecilia, ſurpriſed and affected, gratified and depreſſed, remained almoſt motionleſs, and could not, for a great length of time, either ring for her maid, or perſuade her⯑ſelf [364] to go to reſt. She ſaw throughout the whole behaviour of Mrs. Delvile, a warmth of regard which, though ſtrongly oppoſed by family pride, made her almoſt miſerable to promote the very union ſhe thought neceſſary to diſcountenance; ſhe ſaw, too, that it was with the utmoſt diffi⯑culty ſhe preſerved the ſteadineſs of her oppoſition, and that ſhe had a conflict per⯑petual with herſelf, to forbear openly ac⯑knowledging the contrariety of her wiſhes, and the perplexity of her diſtreſs; but chiefly ſhe was ſtruck with her expreſſive uſe of the word gratitude. ‘"Wherefore ſhould ſhe be grateful, thought Cecilia, what have I done, or had power to do? infinitely, indeed, is ſhe deceived, if ſhe ſuppoſes that her ſon has acted by my directions; my influence with him is no⯑thing, and he could not be more his own maſter, were he utterly indifferent to me. To conceal my own diſappointment has been all I have attempted; and perhaps ſhe may think of me thus highly, from ſuppoſing that the firmneſs of her ſon is owing to my caution and reſerve: ah, ſhe knows him not!—were my heart at this moment laid open to him,—were all its weakneſs, its partiality, its ill-fated admi⯑ration diſplayed, he would but double his vigilance to avoid and forget me, and find [365] the taſk all the eaſier by his abatement of eſ⯑teem. Oh ſtrange infatuation of uncon⯑querable prejudice! his very life will [...] ſacrifice in preference to his name, a [...] while the conflict of his mind threatens t [...] level him with the duſt, he diſdains to unit [...] himſelf where one wiſh is unſatisfied!"’

Theſe reflections, and the uncertainty [...] ſhe ſhould ever in Delvile caſtle ſleep again diſturbed her the whole night, and mad [...] all calling in the morning unneceſſary: Sh [...] aroſe at five o'clock, dreſſed herſelf with the utmoſt heavineſs of heart, and in going through a long gallery which led to the ſtair-caſe, as ſhe paſſed the door of Morti⯑mer's chamber, the thought of his ill health, his intended long journey, and the proba⯑bility that ſhe might never ſee him more, ſo deeply impreſſed and ſaddened her, that ſcarcely could ſhe force herſelf to proceed, without ſtopping to weep and to pray for him; ſhe was ſurrounded, however, by ſervants, and compelled therefore to haſten to the chaiſe; ſhe flung herſelf in, and, leaning back, drew her hat over her eyes, and thought, as the carriage drove off, her laſt hope of earthly happineſs extinguiſhed.