 Section 30 of Memoirs of Miss Sydney Bidolph. July 19. Miss Birchell pours soul how I pity her. Her anxiety increases every hour. She, you may be sure, keeps a look out on all Mr. Falkland's motions. Before she tells me, she hears he has arrived in town. I suppose I shall receive a notice of some kind or other from him. The unhappy girl, she grieves me to see her. There never was so extravagant a love as hers. She has nourished it in solitude, and I believe has a heart naturally tender to an uncommon degree, otherwise she could not for so long a time, and with so little hopes, have preserved so undiminished a fondness. But some accidents have, I know not how, combined to feed this flame. She acknowledges that Mr. Falkland's being disappointed in espousing me gave the first encouragement to her hopes, for she said, she had reason to believe that I was the only woman in the world that stood between her and her happiness. And Mr. Falkland's remaining single ever since confirmed her in that opinion. Then the generous attention that he paid to her welfare in recommending her to my mother's notice when he first left England. The noble supplies that he constantly furnished her with ever since for the child's use. His behaviour to Mrs. Gerard, who, she says, is the most ensnaring of creatures. The tender manner that he mentioned her in his letter to my brother. My mother's constantly indulging her in the belief that she would one day recover Mr. Falkland's affections. All these circumstances, I say, joined together, have kept alive the warmest and most romantic love I ever saw or heard of. Well, may the men say that forsaken women are always the most passionate lovers. It may be so, and Miss Birchell is one instance of the truth of this observation. But I think I should never make another. There is something to me unaccountable in this, but Miss Birchell is all made up of languishments and softness. I have heard her speak of Mr. Falkland in so rapturous a strain as has amazed me. And she once owned to me that she is sure she must have died if he had not returned her love. Return it! Ah, my Cecilia, how did he return it? How mortifying is her situation! To be compelled to court the man who flies her, and to make use of her rival's mediation too! But let me forget that name. I am no longer so to her, and shall do my best to prove it. She wearied me with impotunities to write to Mr. Falkland now he has come to town, but I beseeched her to have a little patience, till some overture was first made by him, towards a renewal of our acquaintance, which I told her it was very probable I should soon receive. You may be sure I took care not to let her know of the intimation I had from Sir George. She seems fearful of my seeing, Mr. Falkland. Oh, madam, said she, if he beholds your face again I am undone, unless you can first prevail with him. I understand you, dear Miss Birchle, I give you my word, I will not see Mr. Falkland unless I am first convinced I can restore him to you. How good you are, madam! Your influence, all potent as it is, can work miracles. If Mr. Falkland is sure you never will be his, perhaps he may return to his first love. My dear, ought she have said so? But it is no matter, it is nothing to me now, who was his first or second love. July the twentieth. It has happened to my wish, a billet from Mr. Falkland sent with compliments and how-do-yies to my mother and me. Miss Birchle, who almost lives with us, was present when I received it. Her colour came and went several times while our servant delivered his message. I gave the letter into her hand as soon as I had read it. There is nothing alarming in it, madam, said I, see yourself, only a few friendly lines such as I might expect. Her hands shook while she held the paper. Now, madam, said she, returning it, now you have a charming opportunity of writing to him. I shall not fail, said I, to make use of it, and will let you see what I write. These are the contents of Mr. Falkland's letter. Will you, madam, permit a forgotten, though not the least zealous of your friends, to inquire after your welfare? Give me, if I renew your grief, when I tell you, that, as I must participate in everything that relates to you, I have deeply mourned with you in the late calamity that has befallen you. When Lady Bidoff opens her doors to her general acquaintance, if I may presume to mingle in the crowd and kiss her hands, I shall esteem it as a particular honour, but will not, without her permission, attempt it. She is too good to refuse me this indulgence. You, madam, I hope, will not forbid it, too. The humblest and most devoted of your servants. Orlando Falkland! Yes, Orlando, I must forbid it. I know the consequences of thy insidious visits. I'll try you to the quick. You have given me an opportunity of writing to you, I think, without any impropriety. This virtual's interest is uppermost in my mind, and I will at least try what my influence on this romantic wayward heart can affect. How happy should I think myself if my mediation, all potent, as she called it, would have the desired success. July 21st. I wrote to Mr. Falkland last night, my mother approved of the letter which I showed her before I sent it. Mr. Falkland was abroad when it was left at his house, but as I received an answer to it early this morning, I will give you copies of the two letters together. I thank you, sir, from my heart for your friendship, and beg you will not think me ungrateful for having thus long deferred to pay you my acknowledgements for the signal favours I have received at your hands. I am sensible, sir, that it was owing to your compassion, your generosity, and disinterested nobleness of mind, that I was once indebted for the greatest blessing of my life. To you I owe the vindicating of my suspected faith, and the being restored to the affection of my dear husband. For this goodness I have never ceased to bless and pray for you, and shall continue to do so while I live. But oh, sir, while you have given me so much cause for gratitude and esteem, why will you leave one heart to sigh for your unkindness, a heart that admires, that loves, that adores you, a heart worthy of your acceptance, and which has a right to demand all your tenderness? Need I name the possessor of this heart? I need not. There is but one woman in the world who owns this description. For her, let me become an advocate. She has won me to her party, indeed, sir, she, and only she, deserves your love. Hers, I am sure, you have ever possessed unrivaled, though her youth, her beauty, and charming accomplishments must have made her the object of every one's wishes who saw her. Is above three years, since you first won her virgin affections, what has been her portion since that fatal time? Tears, solitude, and unremitting anguish. How can a mind like yours, susceptible as it is of pity for the woes of others, condemn such a woman to perpetual sorrow? How can that generosity which has been so active on other occasions, droop and languish, where there is such a cause to call forth all its exertions? Do Mr. Falkland permit pity to plead in your bosom for the dear Miss Birchell? I should urge paternal affection too, but to the voice of nature you cannot be deaf. Your sweet little son calls upon you to do him and his mother justice. The injured lady herself implores your compassion. My mother, who equally admires and loves her, intrigues you. I, whom you once esteemed, conjure you. The secret monitor in your own soul must join in our solicitations. Why then, why will you shut your ears against the united voice of reason, of conscience and of gratitude? You cannot, you will not do it. Miss Birchell's merit and sufferings must be rewarded, and I shall bless Mr. Falkland as the guardian of the injured, the patron of the afflicted, the assertor of his own, as well as of my honour. This is the light, and this only in which I shall rejoice to see him. Mr. Falkland's answer. You do well, madam, you do well to anticipate my suit, and with so much cruel eloquence to bid me despair. Yes, I see Miss Birchell has won you to her party, but what have I done to merit such a malevolent fate, that you, you of all created beings, should become her advocate? I little thought Mrs. Arnold would make such a barbarous use of her power. Call me, thou dear tyrant, how have I deserved this? Would it not have been kinder to have said it once, Falkland, do not hope, I never will be yours. I hate, I despise you, and leave you to your fate. Oh, no, you are artful in your cruelty. You would prevent even my wishes and cut off my hopes in their blossom before they dare to unfold themselves to you. But you have furnished me with weapons against yourself, and I will use them with as little mercy as you have shown to me. If three years have passed since I won Miss Birchell's affections, is it not also as long that I have loved you with an ardour? O thou insensible, were you not mine by your own consent with your mother's approbation, it's not the day, the hour, Fix, that I was to have led you to the altar. Miss Birchell's hopes were never raised to such a pitch as mine, when an avenging fiend snatched the promise-blessing from my grasp. Think what were then my sufferings. I saw you afterwards in the arms of another. Miss Birchell never suffered such torture. Had I seen you happy I might have been consoled. If Miss Birchell loved me as I have loved you, she would rejoice in the prospect of my felicity. I should have done so in yours, heaven is my witness. Had you been happy I should not have thought myself miserable, though you were lost to my hopes. Why do you compel me to urge an ungrateful truth in regard to Miss Birchell? Some she has no claim to my vows. My gratitude, my compassion she has an ample right to, and she has them. More might by this time have been hers, if I had never seen Mrs. Arnold. Remember I do not yet desire permission to throw myself at your feet. I revere you too much to make such a request. But do not banish me your presence. I cannot always be proof against such rigors. Indulge me at least in the hope that time may do something in my favour. I will not desire you to tell me so, but do not forbid it. Lady Badoff knows I respect her, but she is still obdurate. If she relented, would not you, madam, do so too? How this man distresses me, my dear! Not a difficult task have I undertaken, yet I will go through with it. I am fearful of letting Miss Birchell see this answer so discouraging as it is for her, yet how can I withhold it from her sight? It is necessary I should conceal nothing from her on this occasion. She confides in me, and I must not give her cause for suspicion. She has no right to his vows. This, he always said, it is necessary the lady should be quite explicit with me. I doubt she has not been altogether sincere in what she has said to my mother on this subject. I shall see her presently in discourse with her more particularly on this head than I have ever yet done. I have had a conference with Miss Birchell a long one, and in private, for I told my mother I wished to talk with her alone. I began with showing her Mr. Falkland's last letter. It had the effect I expected. She was exceedingly shocked. I laid my finger on that paragraph. She has no rights to my vows. It is necessary, my dear madam, said I, that you should be perfectly open and candid with me on this head. I have entered the lists for you, and will not give up your cause, but it depends on you to furnish me with every possible argument in your favour. If you misled me by wrong insinuations instead of putting it in my power to serve you, you will only create to yourself fresh obstacles. It is a nice subject, madam, and what I have ever been cautious of touching upon to you, but in the present situation of your affairs it is of the utmost importance to you that you should have no reserves to me. When Mr. Falkland first recommended you to my mother's acquaintance, he referred her to your honour for an explanation of certain points, of so delicate a nature that I am loath to touch upon them. But pardon me, dear Miss Birchle, you must be open with me. Mr. Falkland was obliged to declare in his own justification that he never sought to gain your affections, and was so far from endeavouring to take advantage of the kind sentiments you had for him that he avoided all opportunities of improving them, that he was even surprised into the fatal step which has since made you so unhappy by the artifices of that vile woman who had the care of you. Mr. Falkland relied so entirely on your candour that, as I told you before, he referred my mother to you for a confirmation of the truth of what he advanced, imagining that your testimony would in some measure extenuate his fault. My mother, I have reason to believe, has heard the story from you in a light less favourable to Mr. Falkland. I was married before she received any information on this subject from you, and as any extenuation of Mr. Falkland's side was then become a matter of indifference to me I inquired not into particulars. But by what I could judge from my mother's discourse then, and from hints that she has many times dropped since, I am inclined to believe that either Mr. Falkland concealed some particulars, or that you, from a delicacy very natural to a young lady in such circumstances, chose to draw a veil over some parts of your story. But dear madam, all disguises must now be thrown aside. Depend upon it your candour will more effectually recommend you to Mr. Falkland's esteem than anything else, and perhaps you're justifying him to me, may be no immaterial circumstance in your favour. Many of passions discovered themselves on her face while I spoke, but shame was predominant. She was mute and hung down her head. I took her by the hand. Do not think, my dear, I mean to ensnare you, far be such perfidy from my heart. Have I not promised you my assistance? I declare by everything that is sacred you shall have it to the utmost stretch of my power, but do not let a false bashfulness stand between you and sincerity. You will stop up the way to your own happiness if you do. Speak, dear madam, has Mr. Falkland been just in his representations? She burst into a flood of tears. Oh, madam, you read my very soul! What disguise can I make use of before such penetrating eyes as yours? Yes. Mr. Falkland has spoke the truth, shameful as the confession is for me, I own it. Mrs. Gerard, base-woman, betrayed me, my own mad passion did the rest. Mr. Falkland told me a few days after the fatal evening that he was the most miserable man on earth for what had happened. He said there was a lady in the world to whom he was bound to offer his hand, that her brother was his particular friend, that his marriage was then actually negotiating, and he was pressed on that occasion to return to London. He owned, he had never seen the lady, but as his honour was engaged to her brother, he could not look upon himself as a free man. He cursed his ill fate, that he had not had an opportunity of informing me of this earlier, which he said might have prevented me from casting away my affection on a man who could not deserve it. What could I say, madam? There was no room for reproaches or complaints. I made none. I had nobody to accuse, but myself. I had declared my frantic love to Mr. Falkland unasked. I had implored his in return. In one dreadful moment I fell a sacrifice to my own weakness, the only hope that now remained for me was built on the circumstance of Mr. Falkland's having never seen his destined bride. Had I known you, madam, to have been the person, there could have sprung but small comfort from that consideration. But ignorant as I was of the lady's merit, I thought it not impossible but that some objection might have arisen, either to her person or temper or the lady perhaps, though that I thought most incredible, might not approve of Mr. Falkland. In either case some glimmerings of hope remained for me. Mr. Falkland's generous compassion for me gave me room to think he did not hate me, and I was unwilling to lose the little interest I thought I'd gained in his heart by fond of complainings much less upbradings, for which he had given me no cause. I therefore acquiesced, determined to wait for what my fate was to do with me, resolving privately in my own mind that in case Mr. Falkland's intended naturals should not take place to remind him of my love. I did not confess to my aunt what had been the result of that interview which she had contrived between Mr. Falkland and me. Shame would not suffer me to divulge it, but it was not long in my power to conceal it, to believe indeed she suspected it before. She reproached me for the error which she herself had caused, but I believe what most netled her was, Mr. Falkland's having escaped the snare, for I am sure she would have been base enough to have had me retain him as a lover, though I could not secure him for a husband, for he was not the first that this bad woman would have seduced me to favour for her own private interest. In the midst of the horror into which the condition I found myself in threw me, I heard that Mr. Falkland was on the point of being married. The prospect I had before me drove me to despair. I knew I could not remain long in my uncle's house. I knew not wither to fly. In my distraction I wrote to Mr. Falkland. You madam saw the letter, that ill-fated letter which deprived Mr. Falkland of his happiness. I soon received an answer wherein Mr. Falkland related to me at large the unfortunate consequences that letter had produced. He lamented in the tenderest manner my unhappy situation, told me he would provide me a proper place for my retreat, and, as I was an entire stranger in London having never been there, would recommend me to the notice of one of the best of women, Lady Bidoff, from whom as my unhappy story was known to her I might expect the utmost humanity. And here, madam, with blushes, let me own it. He urged me not to conceal a single circumstance of the truth from that lady. You know, said he, my dear Miss Birchle, I am not a seducer. Rescue me from that black suspicion, and as far as the unhappy case will admit, clear my honour to Lady Bidoff. See what a reliance I have on your honour, when I trust the vindicating of my own to you in such delicate circumstances. He concluded his letter, with telling me frankly, that though he had been rejected by Miss Bidoff, he loved her with such an ardent passion, that it was impossible for him ever to think of any other woman, until he had a heart to bestow, he would never entertain a thought of marriage. You know, Mr. Falkland, that this juncture went abroad, and thus was I circumstanced, when I came to that house which he had provided for me. And so frank and noble were his proceedings, that I solemnly declare I was determined, though at the hazard of divulging my own shame, to have acquitted him to the utmost of my power to Lady Bidoff, and should have rejoiced could I have been the means of procuring him the happiness he deserved, in regaining your favour, as I had been though unknowingly the unlucky cause of his losing it. But fortune had disposed of you otherwise before I saw Lady Bidoff. This she quickly informed me of, and I will own to you, madam, that as I found there was now an insuperable bar to Mr. Falkland's hopes, I was mean enough not to have the courage to speak truth. I saw it could not avail him in regard to his prospects with you. Lady Bidoff's eye awed me, yet I think she led me into a justification of myself, so great were her prejudices against Mr. Falkland, or perhaps, having already disposed of you in marriage, in vindication of this step she did not wish to be undeceived. Yes, again, in spite of my confusion I must repeat it, I was not sincere. I threw out such hints to Lady Bidoff, as must have made her think Mr. Falkland had taken pains to undo me. To this act of disingenuousness my sole motive was that I might appear in a less culpable light in the eyes of a lady of such strict virtue as your mother. By making her my friend I was in hopes one day of making you so, too. Devoted as Mr. Falkland was to the most charming woman in the world, I was not afraid of his making a second choice. I thought, if he were to be induced to marry, he might, in time, be prevailed upon to turn his thoughts towards me. In this hope I have dragged on so many tedious years. I was not mistaken in my opinion that he could find none worthy to succeed Mrs. Arnold in his heart. He loves you still, madam, but you have declared you never will be his. He is still free. These are the circumstances that nourish my hope. My heart is in your hand. I have made you mistress of my dearest secret. Can you forgive me, madam? But you have a heroic soul. Remember, Mrs. Arnold, to your generosity I now trust what is dearer to me than life. Would Mr. Falkland know, should Lady Bidoff know, how I have abused their confidence, I think I could not outlive it. They never shall, madam, said I. I thank you for this frank acknowledgment of your heart. Such a proof of your confidence in me I should be a wretch to abuse, and I hope to make such a use of the candid confession you have now made me, as will greatly promote your interest. And is it possible, madam, said she, you can yield up the interest you have in Mr. Falkland without a pang? Oh, the exquisite charmer! And she said it with such an emphasis, drawing out her breath in long sighs. And you are heroic, as I said before. Nature did not mould your heart as she has done those of the rest of your sex. Who that was beloved by Mr. Falkland would yield him to another? Worlds! Ten thousand worlds! Would I give to be beloved by him as you are? But you are a prodigy of a woman! I stopped Miss Birchle in her transports. There is less merit, madam, than you ascribe to me in my conduct. I readily acquiesced under my mother's rejection of Mr. Falkland, when he had some interest in my heart, but there is no self-denial in what I am now about to do for you. My affections have long since changed their object, and now lie buried with him in his grave. My tears here bore witness to the truth of what I said. Miss Birchle wept, too. Her mind was agitated. The confession she had made to me had humbled her. Her heart overflowed with fondness. I had filled her with pleasing hopes. All these sensations combined together melted her into tenderness. She is made up of tears and sighs and romantic wishes. I can now, said I, assure Mr. Falkland, that you have done him justice, and that he is highly obliged to your candour. She interrupted me. But madam, if he should know how late my acknowledgments came. He need not know it, said I. My mother shall not know it either. Leave everything to my management, and depend upon my word. She snatched my hand eagerly and kissed it. But, oh, madam, above all things, said she, let not Sir George Biddorf know anything of your intended goodness, in mediating for me. He hates me, implacably he hates me. I upbraid him not for it. His strong attachment to Mr. Falkland is the cause of it. He accuses me, in his heart, of being the occasion, which I own I was, though ignorantly, of Mr. Falkland's disappointment. I am sure, were he to know what you design in my favour, he would counter-work you, and use all his influence over his friend to ruin me. I made her easy on this head by assuring her Sir George should know nothing of the matter, and put her in mind how lucky it was for her that he was absent. I cannot help thinking, my Cecilia, that there is a sort of a fatality has attended Mr. Falkland's attachment to me. By what a strange accident did we come to the knowledge of Miss Birchell's affair. How strong were my mother's pre-possessions against Mr. Falkland, and how many little circumstances concurred to encourage her in this disposition. His letter from Bath to my brother helped to confirm her in her dislike of his conduct. Miss Birchell's letter to Mr. Falkland, though meant very differently, was a strong motive of condemnation. The only means of justification left for him my mother did not apply to, till it was too late, and then that very circumstance of its being too late to serve him, Miss Birchell acknowledges was the reason that the very method which he had proposed for his defence was turned to his condemnation. Rooted, as my mother's prejudices were, she engages herself, she engages me, in a promise to use my endeavours to promote Miss Birchell's marriage to Mr. Falkland. There's not all this, look, as if some unseen power who guides our actions had set a stamp of disapprobation on the union between this man and me. I wish I had seen that letter which Mr. Falkland wrote to my brother from Bath. My mother said she did not read it through. He treated the subject lightly, and there was one circumstance in particular in it that shocked her, and yet surely, if the whole might not have borne a favourable construction, Sir George would not have shown her that account by way of justifying his friend. This reflection comes too late. Why did it not occur sooner to my mother or to me? We drew no other inference, from Sir George's disclosing this letter, than that as Mr. Falkland treated the affair ludicrously, it was therefore expected, both by him and my brother, that we should consider it so too. That could not have been the case. Miss Birchell's confession has opened my eyes. Poor Mr. Falkland, what a wayward fate is thine! But let me beware of relenting, that might be fatal. There is still one indelible blot remains upon his conduct. Miss Birchell, blamable as she acknowledges herself, was still betrayed, and, though not by Mr. Falkland, yet sure his having paid the price of her innocence to the wicked aunt, renders him so far guilty, as that he owes her a great reparation. This was a particular I dirst not touch upon, the unhappy girl herself being ignorant of it. There is a wide gulf fixed between Mr. Falkland and me. How many things are leaked against him? Alas he thinks the principal bar to his hopes is removed, and that if Miss Birchell has been just, he ought to be forgiven. But he little knows thy Sidney's heart, critically delicate as my situation is in regard of him, I am removed a thousand times farther than ever from his wishes. Neither knows he the engagements I am under to Miss Birchell, which alone would put an everlasting bar between us. Unhappy Miss Birchell, she has banged me to her by stronger ties than ever. She has been ingenuous. She has owned her weakness to me. She declares she would have done this sooner if it could have promoted my happiness. Perhaps she would. Shall I not then endeavour to promote hers? I will, I must, my word is given, yet Falkland deserves—oh, he deserves a worthy a lot. I now send you my Cecilia, my second letter to Mr. Falkland. Why do you compel me, sir, noble and disinterested as your conduct has been towards me, to accuse you now of unkindness? You call me insensible. Oh, it is from my too great sensibility that all my sorrows have sprung. Destitute as I am of happiness myself, or even of a possibility of ever attaining it here, I look for no other comfort in this life but what must arise from seeing those who my most esteem in possession of that tranquillity of mind which I can never hope to enjoy. If Mr. Falkland were happy, if Miss Bertul were happy, I should be less miserable. Remember, sir, it was not this lady's fault that you were disappointed in your former hope. She did not try by female wiles to engage a heart which you refused her. She used no ungenerous arts to cross your wishes. Loving you as she did almost to distraction, she yielded you up in silent anguish to a rival, a rival superior to herself in nothing. I acknowledge, sir, I was to have been yours and with my own consent, but was it not also with my own consent those bonds were cancelled by which we were to have been united? I was then convinced Miss Bertul had a prior claim. I think so still, and ever shall. Miss Bertul's family is not mean, her fortune is considerable, her beauty and personal accomplishments inferior to none. But for Mr. Falkland she had been innocent. Yet do not imagine I would aggravate your fault. Miss Bertul's candour could not suffer this. How charmingly ingenuous was her confession. In the midst of tears and blushes she owned her weakness. You, she said, were not to blame. She praised your generosity, your compassion, the integrity and frankness of your whole behaviour towards her, and, could Miss Bertul's suffrage have ensured to you the completion of your wishes, Mr. Falkland would have been indebted to her for what he once thought his happiness. But though her testimony could not avail you in that particular, yet are your obligations to her the same. Does not, then, Miss Bertul love Mr. Falkland with a generosity equal to his own? Do years of fervent and unalterable affection deserve no return? Does the child, the dear innocent, that cause you farther, deserve no consideration? He bears your name. Sir, let him not blush to own it. He may one day be an honour and a comfort to you. Put it in his power to make it his boast, instead of his shame, that Mr. Falkland was his father. The amiable lady whose very life is bound up in you has, in the midst of her affliction, one great source of comfort. Her character has escaped the malignity of cruel tongues by the privacy with which she conducted her measures till after the birth of your son. The retirement she has since lived in, her prudent, her modest, her exemplary conduct, have created esteem in everybody that knows her. This circumstance, as it is a peculiar felicity to herself, so ought it to be a motive of encouragement to you, sir, to complete her happiness. The false judging part of the world will have nothing to point at, Miss Bertul's relation or even connection with Mrs. Gerard is hardly known here. She has had no correspondence with that irregular woman since she became a widow, and her character had not suffered before in such a manner as to reflect dishonour on the young lady who was then under her care. How then can you persist in a cruel rejection of this lady? You own, she is amiable. I am sure she has a thousand good qualities. Is her love for you her unparalleled love to be imputed to her as a crime? If it be one, long and bitter has been her punishment. On you it rests to recompense her sufferings. What may you not expect from a grateful heart that worships you, such a fervent, such a faithful love, deserving as you are, you perhaps may never again meet within woman. With her you may be happy. She will make it the whole study of her life to render you so. Your own heart, conscious of having acted nobly, will confirm your happiness. Would to God I could inspire you with such sentiments as would induce you to make generous experiment? How would your character rise in the esteem of the two persons whom you profess to revere? How would you be adored by the amiable sufferer? But above all, how delightful must be the exaltations of the self-approving mind. There once but this act to render you the most deserving of men. I would feign esteem, respect, admire you as I ought, but you will not let me. You will be a common man and undistinguished among the light ones of your sex. I showed this letter to Miss Burchall. She read it with grateful tears running down her cheeks. In about an hour I received the following answer to it. Miss Burchall may triumph, madame, since she has obtained you for her advocate. Well, you have acquitted yourself of the task your rigid heart has undertaken. I thank the lady for the justice her charmed ingenuousness, as you rightly call it, has done me. But what have I gained by this? Have I not raised the fair complainant still higher in your esteem, given her a stronger claim to your pity, and furnished you with arms against myself? Which that I am, I do. I must acknowledge the force of everything that you have urged. Miss Burchall is amiable, her sincerity, her constancy, and, by me, unmerited love, deserve to be greatly recompensed. I would to heaven I had a heart to give her, but I have not. You know I have not. She knows it too. Could I have made Miss Burchall the return she deserves, I would not thus long have shunned her presence. I acknowledged the state of my heart to her, even at the time I had lost all hopes of possessing you, and in the spite of my own struggles, after years of confirmed despair, I found myself still enslaved. How then could I offer a hand, devoted as my whole soul was to another object, to a lady whose constant tender and delicate affection demanded all the return that a sensible and grateful heart could make? This, madam, is all the plea I can urge in answer to those arguments you offer to promote your favourite wish. Consult your own delicacy, let Miss Burchall consult hers, and then perhaps I shall stand acquitted of ingratitude. I hoped, madam, that, cleared as I have been of one imputation, I might have recovered some favour in yours and Lady Biddorf's thoughts. I was flattered with this consolation, small as it was, when every other hope forsook me. But when an unexpected event again brought happiness within my prospect, this reflection I own became of more importance, and served to strengthen my then revived hopes. But you dash them with an unrelenting hand, and again build up those barriers between us that heaven itself had overthrown. What can I say to you, inflexible as you are? Has Miss Burchall all your pity? You may command my life, madam. I would lay it down freely for you, but I cannot, must not, will not, give up my love, until you declare, in express terms, that I must be miserable, I will not even give up my hope. Orlando Falkland. See my Cecilia the heart I have to deal with, hard to be subdued and obstinate in all its purposes. I expected difficulties, but was in hopes he would be less determined in regard to his perseverance towards me. I think, however, I have gained some ground. He acknowledges Miss Burchall's merit, and seems obliged to her for the part she has acted towards him. I have been under some difficulties on this occasion, for as Miss Burchall was not so candid in her acknowledgments to my mother as she has been to me, I cannot let her know the whole of her confession. For this reason I only told her the general purport of what I wrote last to Mr. Falkland, and in reading his answer to her I passed over such passages as I thought might induce her to require an explanation. I own, I am a little hurt, at Miss Burchall's form a perverting effect on this occasion, but, as I have already said more than once, there are great allowances to be made for one in her very critical situation. Neither have I the least right to reproach her for it even in my thoughts, for had she been ever so explicit at my mother's first interview with her, it could not have availed me. You find, my dear, it is necessary I should speak plainly to Mr. Falkland. I shall write to him again, and here you shall have a copy of what I say, but I must lead this violent spirit with gentleness, and endeavour to convince his reason without wounding his tenderness. Here is Arnold's third letter to Mr. Falkland. You give me pleasure, sir, I begin to describe hopes for your and my amiable friend. I know such a heart as Mr. Falkland's cannot be proof against sentiments of gratitude and compassion. It will not be difficult to convert those sentiments into love when the object is so deserving. Try, sir, try. The experiment cannot fail. How much to your honour will so nobler triumph be over an ill-fated passion? What delightful returns may you not expect from the obliged, the grateful partner of your happiness? Do not call me inflexible or rigid, filled as I am with gratitude and a sense of your merit. I should hate myself if I did not acknowledge that you deserve more from me than it can ever be in my power to repay. I must be plain with you since you require it. It is impossible I ever can be yours. Sorry I am that the necessity of circumstances compels me to make so early a declaration from which I thought my present situation would have exempted me. But I forgive you, sir, for urging me on this head and draw a happy presage from your resting your hopes in relation to me on my own determination. You appealed my delicacy, whether you ought, with a heart estranged, to offer your hand to Miss Bertul. Were delicacy alone to be consulted, the answer perhaps might be easy. But there are superior considerations in your case to be taken in. Love without doubt demands love in return. But where injured honour is to be repaired, where the disgrace of a darling child is to be prevented, those nicer sentiments of the soul must and ought to give way, and I will venture to pronounce that Miss Bertul would, with raptures, receive the hand which would confer such valuable blessings on her, leaving it to time and her own unremitting tenderness and assiduity to get an interest in the heart which, by such an act, proved its own rectitude. On this subject I, from experience, am qualified to speak. You know, sir, the interest you once had in me. You cannot think me so lighter-creature as to suppose I so soon, after my breaking with you, bestowed my affections on another. I did not. Obedience to my mother's commands was the sole motive which engaged my vows to Mr. Arnold, and I married him with no other sentiments than those of esteem and gratitude for the great love he bore me. Yet from these seeds, sown in my heart, sprung a tender and ardent affection. Never did wife love a husband better than I did, Mr. Arnold. His kindness merited, and did, win my whole affections, nor could a temporary alienation of his heart dispossess him of the place he held in mine. His returning love, for which with all thankfulness I own myself bound to you, sir, made him still dearer to me than ever, and I now possess myself wedded to his memory. You have a right, sir, to expect that I should explain myself at once to you in this subject, for your own sake and for Miss Birchells I must not suffer you to entertain a doubt of my resolution. You compel me to repeat that I think Miss Birchell deserves your love, and has a just right to your hand. She throws herself upon your honour without pretending to have any lawful claim. If she had, I should not condescend to solicit the man who could refuse to do her justice. My mother is firm in her first resolves. Could you place a crown on my head? Her integrity would still oblige her to reject it, nor would a crown tempt me to forfeit the duty which I owe to her. See, then, sir, if that unexpected event which you mention, a fatal event to me, has brought you nearer to your wishes, and here let me add, in justice to my own particular sentiments, that I think Mr. Falkland is the last man who ought to be my choice, even if my heart were disposed to make one. Approach me not with ingratitude or caprice, till I have explained myself. It is not long, sir, blameless and unconscious as you were of the injury, and nobly as you repaired it, since you were the cause of a separation between me and my husband. I know you will say that our mutual innocence on this occasion, and the secrets being known but to a few of our friends, made the objection of little weight. I grant you, with many it might be so, all minds are not equally susceptible. It is my unhappiness to have a too resenting heart. My own honour, scrupulous you may call it, would not suffer me to let the man succeed Mr. Arnold in my love, who was the occasion of so much uneasiness to him, and the cause of my being suspected in my fidelity. Would it not be an insult to his memory? Oh, sir, what is the world's opinion to the approbation of our own hearts? Mine has never yet reproached me, and this has been my support in all my trials. Thus much I say for the reverence I bear my dear Mr. Arnold's memory, but I have other reasons to offer in my excuse. Refinements you will call them, but my heart feels their force. I am not the same woman who you once loved. Afflictions have impaired my health, and those little advantages of person which nature bestowed on me have not been improved by time. My spirits, broken by misfortunes, have left me languid and insensible to joy. Peace is the utmost of my wish, and all that I am now capable of relishing. The bride whom Mr. Falkland once sought was in the bloom of youth, admired and caressed by a flattering world, unblemished in her character, her fortune equal to her wishes, her heart, her virgin heart, was then a present, with pride, let me say it, worthy of any man's acceptance. It was then in her power to bestow happiness, and Mr. Falkland would not have been matched unequally. But the scene is changed. What could I now bring to your arms? A person faded by grief, a reputation, though undeservedly, once called into question. A little helpless family without fortune, a widowed heart, dead to love and incapable of pleasure. O sir, could I bear to be your wife on such conditions? Indebted to you as I am, past a possibility of my ever making you a return, to what a mighty sum would you raise the obligation? How poor would you make me in my own eyes? Humbled as I am by adversity, my soul has still too much pride, or let me call it delicacy, to submit to this. No. If there was no miss-virtual in the world, no parental sway to guide me, in my present circumstances, I never would be yours. You have now before you my final determination, I shall trouble you no more on the subject. If your heart relents towards miss-virtual, great will be your reward. In her you are sure of a tender, faithful and charming friend, who will more than repay every act of kindness towards her, and he who is the author of justice and mercy will not fail to bless you. I am, etc. Me thinks, my dear friend, I have now eased my heart of a load that oppressed me. What can I say more? Mr. Falkland now knows my determined purpose in regard to myself, and, if he is not quite insensible, I think miss-virtual must at last obtain the wish of her soul. O my Cecilia, I would not have my heart devoured by such a flame as hers for the whole world. But have I not acted as I should do? I hope I have. I feel satisfied with my own conduct, and I never yet found that to be the case when I acted wrong. There are some nice points in which your own hearts are the best, as well as the most impartial judges. If Mr. Falkland persists in rejecting poor miss-virtual, I can urge him no further, but I am determined not to see him. July the twenty-fifth. How uneasy has been my suspense these three days! I question if miss-virtuals is much greater. No answer from this strange man. Perhaps he's flown off again. No, I wrong him. A letter is this minute brought to me from him. Read it, read it, my beloved, and congratulate me. You were born to conquer, madam. What is there that you cannot effect? My heart was made for you, and you can mould it as you please. Enjoy your triumph if it be one. I will receive miss-virtual as your gift, and since I cannot obtain your love I will at least compel your esteem. Why should your generosity, your compassion for an unhappy lady, to whom you have no obligation, exceed that of a man who owns himself bound to her ingratitude? I wish I could repay her the debt of love I owe her, but I will try to repair my fault hereafter, and in her gentle bosom perhaps I may recover that peace to which I have been so long a stranger. She will forgive the waywardness of her heart which never disguised its anguish to her, and which she knows has been torn by a fatal passion, that like a cruel disease was not either to be resisted or subdued. But thanks to you, madam, I think I begin to feel my cure approaching. Miss-virtual's tenderness will finish what you have begun. You shall never reproach me more. If I ever had an interest in your heart I will not forfeit it now, but make that proud heart acknowledge, spite of itself, that Falkland was not unworthy of it. Ha! my Cecilia, what do you say to my Orlando now? My Orlando let me this once call him. Has he not a noble mind? Happy, happy, Miss-virtual, you are at length arrived to the summit of your wishes. Long may you enjoy them, and may you make your love as blessed as he deserves to be. My mother clasped her hand together in joy when I read this letter to her. God bless him, God bless him! said she. He is now indeed a righteous man. How rejoiced I am, my dear, that I have been the means of bringing about this so much wished-for event. And yet me thinks, if I were in Miss-virtual's place, though my heart doted on the man to death, I could not receive him on such terms. He accepts her as my gift. It is to raise himself in my esteem, he does her justice. Nay, I think the assuming man seems to insinuate a sort of superiority over me by this concession. Why let it be so? I shall be content in my humiliation if my gift will restore him to his peace. If it does, which I pray heaven it may, ought he not to think himself indebted to me. I think I should not let Miss-virtual see this last letter. He does not consent with a good grace, and it may damp her joy, though upon second thoughts I question whether she has delicacy enough to be much affected by this circumstance. I am saved the trouble of observing any decorum towards Miss-virtual. She has been just here, wild, with transport, and was several minutes in the room before I could get her to speak coherently. She had received a letter from Mr. Falkland, written by his own angelic hand, she said. She made no difficulty of leaving it with me, and here it is. Mr. Falkland's letter to Miss-virtual. Is it possible, madam, that I can still be dear to you, careless and remiss as I have been towards you since you first honoured me with your affection? If you can forgive this I am ready to offer you my hand, and hope by devoting my future days to you, to make you amends for those years during which, deserving as you are, I have withheld that heart which was your due. I never had any merit towards you but my sincerity, and I will not now give up that virtue to arrogate to myself another to which I have no title. I own to you, madam, that it is to Mrs. Arnold's superior prudence and nice honour I am beholden for being brought to a just sense of your worth, and my own obligations to you. If you will give me leave to attend you this afternoon, you will receive a man filled with sentiments of gratitude and esteem for you, and who is determined by his future conduct to deserve a continuance of your love, I am, etc. I congratulated Miss-virtual after reading this letter on her approaching felicity. She had not words to express her acknowledgements to me. The service I had rendered her was indeed to her a most important one, and there are some occasions where words are of no use. Miss-virtual can be eloquent without them. She embraced me a thousand times and wept in tender transport on my neck. My mother is as much delighted at this happy event as if it immediately concerned her own welfare. She recommended it to Miss-virtual to have her little boy with her when Mr. Falkland came to visit her. It seems he has not seen the child since his last return to England. He did not care to go to the house where it was boarded, for fear of drawing any observation on himself to Miss-virtual's prejudice, and the people never permitted the child to be taken abroad by any one but Miss-virtual, who passes for its aunt, or Mr. Falkland's housekeeper. But this good woman happening to be sick when he came to town, Mr. Falkland had not an opportunity of sending for it. Miss-virtual greatly approved of the notion, and flew from us to prepare for this so much desired interview. And now, my Cecilia, do you not think Mr. Falkland has proved himself a disinterested lover, shall I say, of your Sydney? Indeed he has given a noble testimony of his esteem and deference for me, as well as he formally did of his affection. If Miss-virtual does not render herself worthy of him, how I shall hate myself for having brought about this union. But she loves him too ardently, and is herself too lovely not to get possession of his heart when it becomes his duty as well as his interest to give it up to her. All acquaintance between her and me must now cease, for her sake, as well as Mr. Falkland's. This will be necessary. My presence may disturb, but never can contribute to the tranquillity of either of them. June the 26th Miss-virtual was in too much haste to communicate her joy to us to defer the giving and account of what passed between her and Mr. Falkland yesterday evening. She hurried to us last night at almost ten o'clock. He came to her house, she said, at six, the hour she had appointed him, and looked so enchantingly. She herself was dressed out very elegantly to receive him, and I thought looked really charming. Her countenance was so lightened up with joy that she did not appear the same woman. She had endeavoured, she said, to compose herself for this interview, and had tried to assume something of dignity, but it all vanished when her conqueror approached, and the tumult of her heart so entirely banished all recollection and presence of mind that she was not able to tell me in what manner she received him. She only knows, she says, that having snatched up her little boy, who stood by her and hung on her gown, she put him into his father's arms, and bidding the babe thank him for his goodness, she burst into tears. Mr. Falkland tenderly embraced the child, not without a visible emotion of countenance, and having gently set him down again, he placed himself by Miss Birchall's side. She was still sobbing. Those generous tears, madame, said he, taking her by the hand, reproach me too much. I have not deserved this tenderness. I cannot look upon you nor that dear boy without blushing, but you have forgiven me. It shall be the study of my life to make you both happy. Oh, madame, continued Miss Birchall, what an exquisite joy must such a declaration give me from the beloved of my soul. I wrung his hand. Oh, sir, you are too, too good. What return can I make you? One thing only, say to me, that you do not offer me a very reluctant hand. And then I shall be the happiest of women. Mr. Falkland paused a little while, and then with a noble frankness replied, You know, my dear Miss Birchall, with what an excess of passion I have ever loved Mrs. Arnold. Had no such woman existed, you would have been my choice, preferably to any other. But when I first knew you, I looked upon myself as bound to her, though at that time I had never seen her. My knowledge of her afterwards confirmed me hers. I made no secret of this to you, and you may remember what my declarations to you were, even at the time my hopes were frustrated. I have loved her fervently ever since, even in the arms of a husband I adored her, and I will be candid enough to own to you that, as my attachment to her has, during all that time estranged me from you, so should I still, had I the least hopes of succeeding have persisted in my suit. But she has cut off all hope, she has declared she never can be mine, and that the same time has represented my obligations to you in so strong a light, that I am convinced I ought to be yours, and let me own, madam, you who are generous and know what it is to love, will pardon a declaration which I durst not make to any other woman. To you I will confess that Mrs. Arnold is arbitress of my fate, and in approving myself to her I do so to my own conscience. I do not therefore, though my actions have been guided by her yield, with reluctance to her will, her virtue, her religion, and enlarged mind, have only dictated to me what my own reason tells me I ought to do. I have been a slave to a hopeless passion too long. I am now resolved to struggle with my chains. You, madam, must assist me in breaking them entirely, and I make no doubt but that time joined to my own efforts, and aided by your sweetness of disposition, your tenderness, and admirable sense, will enable me to conquer what I must now call a weakness, and make the triumph equally happy for us both. But remember, madam, I never see Mrs. Arnold more. Tis for your peace's sake as well as my own that I make this a preliminary to our marriage, I will, when you shall vouchsafe me the honour of your hand, receive it if you please from Lady Bidoff, and as I presume it will be agreeable to you to have the ceremony entirely private that I may, for our dear boys' sake, present you rather as my acknowledged wife than as my new-made bride, I will, with the utmost speed and secrecy, have such disposition made as shall be suitable to my condition and your own merit. I should like, after we are united, if you have no objection to it, to pay a visit for a while to an estate I have in Ireland, which I have never yet seen, and which I intended to have looked at, if this event, this happy event, and he kiss my hand, had not taken place. Penetrated as I was pursued, Miss Birchle, with a sense of the generosity and openness of his heart, I could not forbear raising his hand to my lips. He tenderly withdrew it from me as if abashed at my condescension. He then turned the discourse to less interesting subjects, and after three delightful hours spent with me, took his leave, not without first having fixed on Wednesday, next Wednesday, to be the blessed day that is to make him mine for ever. Happy, happy, may you be, said I, you must be happy, but let me see you once again before you are Mrs. Falkland. There are not many hours to come before that name will be yours." "'My dear madam,' said she, and patted my bosom with her hand, I hope all is well here. She looked earnestly in my face and then added, but you have a noble heart, does an honest one, I hope,' said I, a little disconcerted at her manner. Why did she address me thus, my dear? I hope I did not discover anything in my behaviour as if I repined at her good fortune. If I did, far be such a wretched meanness from the heart of thy friend. Was it not my own act to make Miss Birch or the happy woman she now thinks herself? Yet I own there is something in Mr. Falkland's conduct which has raised my esteem to admiration. O may his future days be blessed, else shall I indeed be wretched." My mother told Miss Birchle it would give her inexpressible satisfaction to bestow her in marriage on Mr. Falkland, and desired she would let her know to-morrow at what time and place the ceremony was to be performed. She answered at her own house, as she could be nowhere else so private, and that Mr. Falkland would engage for the purpose a clergyman, a particular friend of his, and fellow collegian, on whose discretion he could rely. Miss Birchle's spirits were too much exhilarated to let her think of rest. She stayed with us till it was very late, and having taken occasion to mention how grieved she was at the thoughts of losing my society, and of the necessity Mr. Falkland expressed himself under, of never seeing me more. My mother took that opportunity of gravely entering into the subject of matrimonial duties. She highly applauded Mr. Falkland's resolution on that head, and told Miss Birchle it ought exceedingly to enhance his merit towards her. Let this be a memorandum to you, my dear madam, said she, how sacred the bond is to be held, that is now going to unite you. He will not, you say, run the hazard of being tempted, even in thought, to swerve from that faith which he is going to plight to you. Your situation is delicate, and it will require the utmost prudence and circumspection on your part to secure such an interest in his heart, as he now seems inclined to give you. It is not on your personal charms that you are to rely, for subduing or preserving the affections of such a man as he is. They alone, you see, are not able to affect this. It is to Mr. Falkland's honour, rather than his love, that you are now obliged for the justice he has done you. Never let this be out of your thoughts. Be grateful, but let your gratitude have dignity in it, and by your behaviour convince your husband that honour was with you a first motive to wish this union. Love will then come in with a better grace as a secondary inducement. The freedom of my mother's observations and instructions I was not surprised at, because she always speaks her mind, but the emphasis with which she delivered herself was unusual. Miss Birchell expressed herself as obliged to her, and joined entirely in her opinion. I could perceive, however, she was not pleased with the lecture. When Miss Birchell was gone my mother told me she thought it necessary to speak as she had done. Miss Birchell said she is not quite the girl I took her for. So much modesty and reserve, I thought, I never had met with in a young creature before. When she used to speak of Mr. Falkland it was with affection indeed, but with such a nice decorum as convinced me of the innocence and purity of her heart, but of late I have observed she has been less delicate in her expressions of tenderness. Such passionate flights have sometimes broken from her, as I did not think becoming in a young woman, with which indeed almost offended me, and this night her joy has been ungoverned. Great reason she has for joy is true, but there are some considerations which ought to have made her chasten that joy with a sober and at least seemingly moderate satisfaction. She loves Mr. Falkland, but let her beware of disgusting a man of his sense by too strong an expression of her fondness. My mother's observation and her uncommonly forcible manner of expressing it struck me prodigiously. It is true I had made the same remarks myself, but as you know she is not extremely penetrating and in general but a superficial observer. I was the more surprised at what she said. Miss Birchell's behaviour must have been formally very different from what it is now to have made my mother so sensible of the change. Some considerations, she said, ought to have made her chasten her joy. Perhaps she meant no more than that the young lady in the midst of that joy had upon reflection cause for humiliation. I hope she did not think that her gaiety on this desired event affected me, who had so warmly promoted it. My mother is too open not to give the full meaning of her thoughts. This may be only the suggestion of my own fancy, yet it has mortified me. I had but little rest last night, and rose this morning by daylight to throw together in writing the above particulars. June the twenty-seventh. Miss Birchell came not to us till late this evening, pleasure danced in her eyes. I whispered to her, We rejoice with you, dear madam, sincerely rejoice at the approaching felicity, but our present state will not suffer us to keep pace with you in that gaiety, however justifiable it may be from the cause. Restrain yourself a little. My mother will not think you kind, as we are so soon to part with you. She smiled and thanked me for the hint, immediately composed her features to such a decorum, I will not call it demure-ness, that it was impossible to discover she was agitated by any extraordinary emotion. I was amazed at the command she so suddenly assumed over her countenance. I was glad, however, she did so, that my mother might not have the fresh cause of dislike towards her. She told us that Mr. Falkland had settled a thousand pounds a year on her, and that too without ever having informed himself of the state of her fortune, for in the hurry of her thoughts she had neglected to mention it to him. Generous man, whispered I to myself. She then with great gravity applied herself to my mother and told her she hoped for the honour of her presence the next morning at her own house, where the ceremony was to be performed, before no other witnesses but her ladyship and the gentlewoman who had been Mr. Falkland's housekeeper, and that the following day they purposed retiring to Mr. Falkland's seat in Hartfordshire, and after a short stay there to set out for Ireland. My mother commended Mr. Falkland's diligence for having so suddenly disposed everything for this important event, and told our friend she would not fail to attend her at the appointed time. The spiritual's behaviour was extremely composed. She either really was, or affected to be, extremely sorry at parting with me. She could not stay long with us, she said, as she had many things still to settle in the remaining part of that evening. On taking leave of me, I shall not see you again, worthiest of women, said she, at least for many months, but my love, my respect, and my gratitude towards you will be as lasting as my life. You shall hear often from me, and be so good as sometimes to tell me I am not forgotten. She embraced me, with tears in her eyes, but I thought she tripped downstairs to her chair as if her heart was very light. My mother liked her deportment. She said she believed the flightiness of her behaviour before was owing to her being quite intoxicated with the suddenness of her joy, or so unexpected a turn of fortune. But that, since she had time for recollection, she had recovered her wanted-bashful and sober hair, with which she used to be so delighted. My mother says she will contrive to carry a rich white brocade gang with her in order to slip it on at Miss Birchell's house, for she would not on any consideration appear in mourning on this joyful occasion. You know the reverence she has for omens. June the twenty-eighth. The important event is over, my Cecilia. Miss Birchell is now Mrs. Falkland. My mother has just returned and saw the nuptial knot tied. The lady, she said, looked very lovely, and it was easy to observe she gave her hand with all her heart. Mr. Falkland's behaviour was polite and unconstrained, but his attention to his bride was more gallant than tender, and his whole deportment was that of a man who seemed to endeavour at acquitting himself with a good grace of an act of duty, rather than of inclination. The latter part of the observation is mine, not my mother's, but I collected it from certain little particulars which she related to me in her own way, without drawing any inference from them. He thanked her in a most respectful manner for the honour she had done him, and for her former friendship to Miss Birchell, but did not once mention my name. So much the better. I hope he will forget me. My mother is mighty alert on the occasion, and felicitates both herself and me on our having brought about this very important affair. She joined heartily with me in praying that the new married pair may be happy in each other. She is quite reconciled to Mr. Falkland. What a pity it was, said she, and stopped. Then added, but everything is for the best. I understood her, but made no reply. They go out of town to-morrow morning, all happiness attend them. I expect Sir George will be quite outrageous about this marriage. My second refusal of his friend, with the addition of his now being wedded, through my persuasion to a woman my brother never could endure, will I fear exasperating beyond a possibility of reconciliation. I cannot help it. I have acted agreeably to the dictates of my duty. That must be my consolation. Life is in itself a warfare. My life has been particularly so. July the 8th. My mother is far from being well. Her spirits have been a little heightened for these few days past, but her disorder I see gains ground. The swelling in her legs is returning, and her rest at night quite broken. I am hourly habituating myself to think of her dissolution, or in other words, am preparing myself for the worst evil that can now be for me. I hope I shall find myself equal to the trial. July the 10th. Here is a storm for you, my dear, a letter from Sir George. I wanted such a thing to rouse me from the almost lethargic dullness that was creeping on me. Mr. Falkland has acquainted him with his marriage. Pray observe his brotherly address. Mrs. Arnold, June the 6th, 1706. For I disclaim all relation to you. I have just now had a letter from Falkland wherein I am at once informed of your having finally rejected him, and of his being married to Miss Birchell. As for the first, your own folly be on your head. You will have time enough for repentance, but what in the name of blind infatuation could provoke you to urge the man to whom you owed such obligations to his destruction? You I know have done it. He could not be so mad but under your influence. You and my mother, I suppose, fancy you have done a righteous deed, but you have done what I am afraid poor Falkland will have reason to—I will suppress the shocking word that my indignation suggested. Why was not I made acquainted with this precious design of marrying my friend to that insinuating little viper? I might perhaps have prevented the mischief, for I cannot think if she had not imposed upon you that you would have pushed your chimerical notions of honour to such extremities. Perhaps you meant well, but it has ever been your peculiar misfortune, I think, to have your good intentions productive of nothing but evil. This last action I fear will be a severe proof of the truth of this observation. I warned you in time against this woman, but my advice has always been despised. I will say no more on the hateful subject. What is done is irrevocable, but I believe you will hardly be able to answer to it yourself if you find that you have condemned one of the noblest fellows in the world to the arms of a prostitute. Lord bless me, my Cecilia, was there ever such a barbarian, with what an implacable aversion does he pursue this poor girl. But what does he mean by the odious epithet with which he closes this horrid letter? Sure Miss Bertrand Merritt is not that name. Her weakness in regard to Mr. Falkland cannot bring on her so detestable a charge. If George knows anything more of her character than I do, then why did he not tell me so before? It cannot be. His aversion to her makes him cruel and unjust. He says true, I should not indeed forgive myself if I were the means of making Mr. Falkland unhappy, and his observation would be dreadfully verified that all my good intentions produce nothing but evil. If this marriage should prove to be unfortunate. July 20th I have had a letter from Mrs. Falkland. She and her husband have arrived safely at his estate on the borders of the north of Ireland, within less than thirty miles of the capital. It is a pleasant part of the country, she says, but as Mr. Falkland has no house there they have taken up their lodgings for the present at the house of his steward. Her letter is filled with declarations of the felicity she enjoys. She says she would not change her lot to be the greatest queen on earth. May she continue to deserve her happy fortune and to render her husband as satisfied with his lot as she is with hers. Then shall I triumph over Sir George for his vile insinuations. I have heard from my good Lady V, in answer to the letter I wrote to her giving an account of Mr. Falkland's marriage. As he had not made her acquainted with his return to England, I knew not whether he had informed her of this particular, and I find he had not, as Lady V was a stranger to his former connection with Miss Birchill, with whom I have already told you she was acquainted, and that she entertained a very favourable opinion of her. She expressed no displeasure at the alliance, but said she supposed he married in a tiff upon my refusal of him, for which I gave her such reasons as I had before given Mr. Falkland, accepting those which related to Miss Birchill, which for both their sakes must now be no more mentioned. Lady V says she will not condemn the delicacy of my sentiments, though she owns her wish was, that it could have been got over, as she is sure that Mr. Falkland can never be happy with any one but me. Here follows an interval of near two months in which nothing material occurred. September the 13th. The time approaches, my Cecilia, when thy friend shall be poor and destitute. I know thy generous heart will more than sympathise with me and my calamity, from the aggravating reflection that it is not in your power to assist me. The account you have given me of your husband's close disposition has too fully convinced me of this, nor should I have mentioned my apprehensions to you at this time, but that I am bound not to conceal a thought from the friend of my heart. Sir George has dropped all correspondence with us. I have nothing to expect from him, nor does that mortal live, yourself accepted, to whom I would on such an occasion be indebted. I have already sighed too often under the weight of obligations I could not repay. My mother is hastening a pace towards a better world. She sees her end approaching with such a calmness, such a truly pious joy, as almost makes me ashamed of lamenting her loss. For what is it in me, my dear, but selfishness? It is true, the loss of a tender parent, a faithful friend, at a time when all other comforts of life are fled, is an evil one could wish wholly to avoid, or at least postpone to the longest date possible. But when I consider her welfare, ought I to indulge myself in such a wish? Her life has already become a burden to her. Her infirmities are painful, and without hope of cure. She longs to be released, and to receive that reward of her righteousness which cannot be obtained on this side of the grave. If we had a friend who, in compassion to our wants or weakness, consented to live with us, though under the pressure of years and bodily pain, and that friend were invited to a remote country and an assurance of recovering health, of having youth renewed, and of possessing all the riches, power, honours, and accumulated pleasure that this world can bestow, should we not blush to own even a wish to detain him from such a station? What but a love of ourselves superior to that which we bear to our friend would suggest such a thought? How much more to be desired than is the change to which my mother looks forward with an assured hope? But there is something dismal in the idea of death, it is only our prejudices makes it so. I have been endeavouring for many days past to familiarise it to my thoughts, and to consider death only as the name of a region through which my mother is to pass, in order to get to that delightful country to which she is invited, and with her eyes shall assuredly follow her. Such is the present frame of my mind. Judge then my sister of this philosophy will not bear me up against the expected blow when it falls upon me. To strange my Cecilia that this best of parents who has always so tenderly loved me expresses now not the least uneasiness at the forlorn condition in which she must soon leave me. Her thoughts are employed on higher objects, and she seems to have weaned herself from all worldly attachments. I am going from you, my daughter, said she to me just now, and have no other legacy to leave you but a parent's blessing. Your brother possesses all when I die. I wish you had the means of enjoying life with comfort, but you must be contented. See that you bear your lot as becomes you. I perceive your grief for the melancholy condition to which I am reduced. But added she smiling, I shall soon be released. Remember how David behaved on the death of that son whose life he had earnestly besought of his maker. Let that serve you as an example, not to give yourself up to unprofitable sorrow. Bring up your children in the principles that I taught you, and God will take care of them. For I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread. She said she found herself drowsy, and desired me to leave her for a while. I have left her, going to hope to get a little sleep. She breathes with so much difficulty that she cannot bear to lie down, and never gets any rest but by snatches, as she sits in an armchair supported by pillows. How heavy and cast down do I feel in my spirits! But I know the worst, that is something. It is all over, and my mother, blessed woman, opens not her eyes again, but to a joyful resurrection. O my dear, there is no terror in death when he seizes us not unprepared. I went into my mother's chamber, about a half an hour after I had quitted it, with her desire. I found her leaning back in her chair, her eyes shut, and a complacent air diffused over her face, which made me hope that her slumber was sweeter and more profound than usual. I sat down by her to contemplate her benign countenance, and was some minutes before I discovered that she did not breathe. I took her hand. She had no pulse, and I soon found that the happy spirit had escaped from its house of clay. May I die the death of the righteous, and my latter end be like hers. No murmurings. No, no, my sister. I will be patience itself. End of section 32