 volume 6 chapter 10 of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Dawn. Cecilia. Memoirs of an Eris by Francis Burney. Volume 6 chapter 10 a retreat. The next morning Cecilia arose late not only to avoid the railery of Lady Anoria but to escape seeing the departure of Delville. 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 mortification of a discovery since she found him thus content without even solicitation to resign her. Before she was dressed Lady Anoria ran into her room. A new scheme of politics she cried. Our great statesman intends to leave us. He can't trust his baby out of his sight so he's 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 pat boat myself and make him a present of it. Cecilia then inquired further particulars and heard that Mr. Delville proposed accompanying his son to Bristol whose journey therefore was postponed for a few hours to give time for new preparations. Mr. Delville who upon this occasion thought himself overwhelmed with business because before his departure he had some directions to give his domestics chose to breakfast in his own apartment. Mrs. Delville also wishing for some private conversation with her son invited him to partake of hers in her dressing room sending an apology to her guests and begging they would order their breakfasts when they pleased. Mr. Delville scrupulous in ceremony had made sundry apologies to Lord Urnolf 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 this visit being nothing interrupted so long as Cecilia continued at the castle he readily engaged as a proof that he was not affronted to remain with Mrs. Delville till his return. Cecilia therefore had her breakfast with the two lords and Lady Anoria and when it was over Lord Urnolf proposed to his son riding the first stage with the two Mr. Delville's on horseback. This was agreed upon and they left the room and then Lady Anoria full of frolic and gaiety seized one of the napkins and protested she would send it to Mortimer for a slobbering bib. She therefore made it up in a parcel and wrote upon the inside of the paper with which she enveloped it a pinafore for master Mortimer Delville lest he should dob his papi 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 soon as he got into the shez. 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 Beverly here and alone cried he with a look and in a voice which showed that all the pride of the preceding evening was sunk into the deepest dejection and does she not fly as I approach her? Can she patiently bear in her sight one so strange, so fiery, so inconsistent? But she is too wise to resent the ravings 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 gentleness so humble looked at him in silent surprise. He advanced to her mournfully and added, I am ashamed indeed of the bitterness of spirit with which I last night provoked your displeasure when I should have supplicated your lenity. But though I was prepared for your coldness, I could not endure it. And though your indifference was almost friendly, it made me a little less than frantic. So strangely may justice be blinded 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 father. But why is Miss Beverly so impatient? I shall not soon return. That, at least, is certain. And for a few instances 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. Adieu, madame. 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 impulsive surprise too sudden to be restrained, exclaimed, 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 approaching 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 renewed, every struggle refelt, again all this scene would require to be acted. Again I must tear myself away, and every tumultuous passion now beating in my heart would be revived, and if possible, be revived with added misery. No, neither my temper nor my constitution will endure such another shock. One parting shall suffice, and the fortitude with which I will lengthen myself exile shall atone to myself for the weakness which makes it requisite. And then with a vehement that seemed 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 Beverly 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. Delville 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 consideration, cried he. But who half so generous, so humane as Miss Beverly, so soft to all others, so noble in herself? Can my mother 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 honorable a charge. Oh, why must he who sees in such colors the excellencies of both, who admires with such fervor the perfections you unite, be torn with this violence from the objects he reveres, even though half his life he would sacrifice to spend in their society what remained? Well then, sir, cried Cecilia, who now felt her courage decline, and the softness of sorrow still 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 journey? 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 women, and may every blessing you deserve light on your head. I leave you to my mother, certain of your sympathetic affection for a character so resembling your own. When you, madam, leave her, may the happy successor in your favor, he paused, his voice faltered. Cecilia, too, turned away from him, and uttering a deep sigh, he caught her hand in pressing it to his lips exclaimed, O great be your felicity in whatever way you receive it. Pure is your virtues, and warm is your benevolence. Oh, too lovely, Miss Beverly. Why? Why must I quit you? Cecilia, though she trusted not her voice 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 unfortunate that could have happened. The gentleness of Delville 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 deduction was not long uninterrupted. Lady Anoria came running back with intelligence in what manner she had disposed of her napkin, and Cecilia, in listening, endeavored to find some diversion. But her ladyship, the volatile, not undiscerning, soon perceived that her tension was constrained, and looking at her with much argeness 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? Oh no! Pappy has a world of business to settle first. He won't be ready these 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 spirit's unequal either to another parting, or to the railery of Lady Anoria, should Mortimer, for his own sake, avoid it, took refuge in flight, and, seizing an umbrella, escaped into the park, where, to perplex any pursuers, instead of choosing her usual walk, she directed her steps to a thick and unfrequented wood, and never rested till she was more than two miles from the house. Fidal, however, who now always accompanied her, ran by her side, and when she thought herself sufficiently distant and private to be safe, she sat down under a tree, and caressing her faithful favorite, 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 observation to fear, and no inference to guard against, she gave vent to her long smothered emotions by weeping without caution or restraint. She had met with an object whose character 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. To this object, her affections had involuntarily bent. They were seconded by a steam 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 disgraceful. Her disposition, education, and temper seemed equal to his fondest wishes. Yet at the very time when their union appeared most likely, when they mixed with the same society and dwelt under the same roof, when the father to one was the guardian to the other, an interest seemed to invite 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, for bear to seek her heart and almost charge her not to grant it, and determining upon voluntary exile, quit his country, and his connections 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 censored his flight, she bewailed his loss, and though his inducement was repugnant to her opinion, his command over his passions she admired and applauded. 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 parlor where everybody was assembled before her, she observed, by the countenance of Mrs. Delville, that she had passed the morning as sadly as herself. Miss Beverly, cried Lady Honoria, before she was seated, I insist upon you taking my place today. Why so, madam? Because I cannot suffer you to sit by a window with such a terrible cold. Your ladyship is very good, but indeed I have not any cold at all. Oh, my dear, I must beg your pardon there, your eyes are quite bloodshot. Mrs. Delville, Lord Ernolf, are not her eyes quite red. Lord, and so I protest are her cheeks. Now do pray, look in the glass, I assure you you will hardly know yourself. Mrs. Delville, who regarded her with the utmost kindness, affected to understand Lady 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 shall soon take off the inflammation. Cecilia, perceiving her intention, for which she felt the utmost gratitude, no longer denied her cold, nor refused the offer of Lady Honoria, who, delighting in mischief, went soever it proceeded, presently added, This cold is a judgment upon you for leaving me alone all this morning, but I suppose you chose a tet-a-tet with your favorite, without the intrusion of any third person. Here everybody stared, and Cecilia very seriously declared she had been quite alone. Is it possible you can so forget yourself, cried Lady Honoria, had you not your dearly beloved with you? Cecilia, who now comprehended that she meant Fidel, colored more deeply than ever, but attempted to laugh and began eating her dinner. Here seems some matter of much intricacy, cried Lord Ernolf, but to me wholly unintelligible. And to me also, cried Mrs. Delville, but I am content to let it remain so, for the mysteries of Lady Honoria are so frequent 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 Beverly 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 suppose she had something private to say to him of his master's journey. What rattle is this, cried Mrs. Delville, Fidel is gone with my son, is he not, turning to the servants? No, madam, Mr. Mortimer did not inquire for him. That's very strange, said she, I never knew him quit home without him before. Dear mam, if he had taken him, cried Lady Honoria, what would poor Miss Beverly have done, for she has no friend here, but him and me. And really, he's so much the greater favorite, that it is well if I do not poison him some day for very spite. Cecilia had no resource but enforcing a laugh, and Mrs. Delville, who evidently felt for her, contrived soon to change the subject, yet not before Lord Ernolf, with infinite chagrin, 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 gaiety of Lady Honoria lost all power of entertainment, and even the kindness of Mrs. Delville, 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 nothing of comfort, for though Mortimer wrote gaily, his father sent word that his fever seemed threatening to return. Mrs. Delville was now in the extremist anxiety, and the task of Cecilia, in appearing cheerful and unconcerned, became more and more difficult to perform. Lord Ernoff's efforts to oblige her grew as hopeless to himself as they were irksome to her, and Lady Honoria alone of the whole house could either find or make the smallest aversion. But while Lord Durford remained, she had still an object for ridicule, and while Cecilia could color 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. Delville skewed an earnest desire to make a journey thither herself, and proposed, half laughing and half seriously, that the whole party should accompany her. Lady Honoria's time, however, was already expired, and her father intended to send for her in a few days. Mrs. Delville, who knew that such a charge would occupy all her time, willingly deferred sitting 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 distress. Her stay at the castle she knew kept Delville 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. Delville evidently desired her absence, since whenever the journey was talked of she preferably addressed herself to anyone 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 of Suffolk. This resolution taken she put it into immediate execution, and seeking Mrs. Delville inquired 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. Delville, I think I might take the present opportunity of making Mrs. Charlton the visit. Mrs. Delville looked at her some time without speaking, and then fervently embracing 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, 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. Delville, though with his usual formality, sent his permission, and Mortimer at the same time begged his mother would bring with her Fidel, whom he had unluckily forgotten. Lady Anoria, who was present when Mrs. Delville mentioned this commission, said in a whisper to Cecilia, Miss Beverly, don't let him go. Why not? Oh, you had a great deal better take him slightly into Suffolk. I would as soon, answered Cecilia, take with me the sideboard of plate, for I should scarcely think it more a robbery. Oh, 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 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 surprise and chagrin to Lord Ernoff, upon whose affairs Mrs. Delville herself now desired to speak with her. Tell me, Miss Beverly, she cried, briefly and positively, your opinion of Lord Durford. I think of him so little, madam, she answered, that I cannot say of him much. He appears, however, to be inoffensive, but, indeed, where 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. Delville, that to plead for him I find utterly impossible. Though my Lord Ernoff 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 connexion desirable, though that is only one. What is it, madam? His title. And why so? I am sure I have no ambition of that sort. No, my love, said Mrs. Delville, smiling, I mean not by way of gratification 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 Beverly. Cecilia, who too well understood her, suppressed a sigh and changed the subject of conversation. One day was sufficient for all the preparations she required, and as she meant to set out very early the next morning she took leave of Lady Anoria and the Lords Ernoff and Durford when they separated for the night, but Mrs. Delville 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, however, to hear from her frequently, and assured 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 parted, and then rising to be gone, see, she cried, with what reluctance I quit you, no interest but so dear a one is that which calls me away, could induce me with my own consent to bear your absence scarcely an hour. But the world is full of mortifications, and to endure, or to seek under them, makes the distinction 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 motions to which this speech gave rise, and if indeed you honour me with an opinion so flattering, I will endeavour, if it is possibly in my power, not to forfeit it. All my love, cried Mrs. Delville 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 monopolise to such blessings? The mother of Mortimer Delville should at nothing repine, the mother of Cecilia Beverly 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 motives, that of deserving such praise. And then in a faint voice she desired her respects to Mr. Delville, and added, You will find, I hope, everybody at Bristol better than you expect. I hope so, return she, and that you too will find your Mrs. Charlton well, happy, and as good as you left her, but suffer her not to drive me from your remembrance, 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 starting into her eyes, let us part now, where will be that strength of mine you expect from me if I listen to you any longer? You are right, my love, answered Mrs. Delville, 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 approbation, 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 herself to go to rest. She saw throughout the whole behavior of Mrs. Delville a warmth of regard which, though strongly opposed by family pride, made her almost miserable to promote the very union she thought necessary to do discountments. She saw, too, that it was with the utmost difficulty she preserved the steadiness of her opposition, and that she had a conflict perpetual with herself to forbear, openly acknowledging the contrarity 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 the power to do? Infantely, indeed, is she deceived, if she supposes that her son has acted by my directions, my influence with him is nothing, 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, where my heart at this moment laid open to him, were all its weakness, its partiality, its ill-fated admiration displayed, he would but double his vigilance to avoid and forget me, and find the task all the easier by his abatement of esteem. O strange infatuation of unconquerable prejudice, his very life will be sacrifice in preference to his name, and while the conflict of his mind threatens to level him with the dust, he disdains to unite himself where one wish is unsatisfying. These reflections and the uncertainty if she should ever in Delville Castle sleep again, disturbed her the whole night, and made all calling in the morning unnecessary. She arose at five o'clock, dressed herself with the utmost heaviness of heart, and in going through a long gallery which led to the staircase, as she passed the door of Mortimer's chamber, the thought of his ill-health, his intended long journey, and the probability 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 chase. 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. CHAPTER 1 A RANOVATION Cecilia was accompanied by her maid in the chase, and her own servant, and one of Mrs. DeVils, attended her on horseback. The quietness of her dejection was soon interrupted by a loud cry among the men, of HOME! HOME! HOME! She then looked out of one of the windows, and perceived Fidel running after the carriage, and barking at the servants, who were all endeavouring to send him back. Touched by this proof of the animal's gratitude for her attention to him, and conscious she had herself occasioned his masters leaving him, the scheme of Lady Onoria occurred to her, and she almost wished to put it in execution. But this was the thought of a moment, and motioning him with her hand to go back, she desired Mrs. DeVils' man to return with him immediately, and commit him to the care of somebody in the castle. This little incident, however trifling, was the most important of her journey, for she arrived at the house of Mrs. Charlton, without meeting any other. The sight of that lady gave her a sensation of pleasure to which she had longed been a stranger—pleasure pure, unmixed, unaffected, and unrestrained. It revived all her early affection, and with it something resembling at least her early tranquility. Again she was in a house where it had once been undisturbed. Again she enjoyed the society, which was once all she had wished. And again saw the same scene, the same faces, and the same prospects she had beheld while her heart was all devoted to her friends. Mrs. Charlton, though old and infirm, preserved an understanding which, whenever unbiased by her affections, was sure to direct her unerringly. But the extreme softness of her temper frequently misled her judgment, by making it, at the pleasure either of misfortune or of artifice, always yield to compassion, and pliant to entreaty. Where her counsel and opinion were demanded, they were certain to reflect honor on her capacity and discernment. But where her assistance or her pity were supplicated, her purse and her tears were immediately bestowed, and in her zeal to alleviate distress she forgot if the object were deserving her solicitude, and stopped not to consider propriety or discretion, if happiness, however momentary, were in her power to grant. This generous foible was, however, kept somewhat in subjection by the watchfulness of two granddaughters, who, fearing the injury they might themselves receive from it, failed not to point out both its inconvenience and its danger. These ladies were daughters of a deceased and only son of Mrs. Charlton. They were single and lived with their grandmother, whose fortune, which was considerable, they expected to share between them. And they waited with eagerness for the moment of appropriation, narrow-minded and rapacious, they wished to monopolize whatever she possessed, and thought themselves aggrieved by her smallest donations. Their chief employment was to keep from her all objects of distress, and in this, though, they could not succeed. They at least confined her liberality to such as resembled themselves, since neither the spirited could brook nor the delicate support the checks and rebuffs from the granddaughters, which followed the gifts of Mrs. Charlton. Cecilia of all her acquaintance was the only one whose intimacy they encouraged, for they knew her fortune made her superior to any mercenary views, and they received from her themselves more civilities than they paid. Mrs. Charlton loved Cecilia with an excess of fondness, that not only took place of the love she bore her other friends, but to which even her regard for the Mrs. Charlton's was inferior and feeble. Cecilia, when a child had reverenced her as a mother, and grateful for her tenderness and care, had afterwards cherished her as a friend. The revival of this early connection delighted them both. It was bomb to the wounded mind of Cecilia. It was renovation to the existence of Mrs. Charlton. Early the next morning she wrote a card to Mr. Moncton and Lady Margaret, acquainting them with her return into Suffolk, and desiring to know when she might pay her respects to her ladyship. She received from the old lady a verbal answer, when she pleased, but Mr. Moncton came instantly himself to Mrs. Charlton's. His astonishment, his rapture at this unexpected incident, were almost boundless. He thought a sudden turn of fortune in his own favor, and concluded, now she had escaped the danger of Deville Castle, the road was short and certain that led to his own security. Her satisfaction in the meeting was as sincere, though not so animated as his own. But this similarity in their feelings was of short duration. For when he inquired into what had passed at the castle, with the reasons of her quitting it, the pain she felt in giving even a cursory and evasive account, was opposed on his part by the warmest delight in hearing it. He could not obtain from her the particulars of what had happened. But the revuctance with which she spoke, the air of mortification with which she heard his questions, and the evident displeasure which was mingled in her chagrin, when he forced her to mention Deville, were all proofs the most indisputable and satisfactory, that they had either parted without any explanation, or with one by which Cecilia had been hurt and offended. He now readily concluded that since the fiery trial he had most apprehended was over, and she had quitted in anger the asylum she had saw in ecstasy, Deville himself did not covet the alliance, which since they were separated, was never likely to take place. He had therefore little difficulty in promising all success to himself. She was once more upon the spot where she had regarded him as the first of men. He knew that during her absence no one had settled in the neighborhood, who had any pretensions to dispute with him, that pre-eminence. He should again have access to her, at pleasure, and so Sanguine grew his hopes that he almost began to rejoice even in the partiality to Deville that had hitherto been his terror, from believing it would give her for a time, that solemn distaste of all other connections, to which those who at once are delicate and fervent, are commonly led by early disappointment. His whole solicitude therefore now was to preserve her esteem, to seek her confidence, and to regain whatever by absence might be lost of the ascendancy over her mind, which her respect for his knowledge and capacity had for many years given him. Fortune at this time seemed to prosper all his views, and by a stroke the most sudden and unexpected, to render more rational his hopes and his plans than he himself had been able to effect by the utmost craft of worldly wisdom. The day following Cecilia and Mrs. Charlton's chase waited upon Lady Margaret. She was received by Miss Bennet, her companion, with the most fawn and courtesy. But when conducted to the Lady of the House, she saw herself so evidently unwelcome, that she even regretted the civility which had prompted her visit. She found with her nobody but Mr. Maurice, who was the only young man that could persuade himself to endure her company in the absence of her husband, but who, in common with most young men, who were assiduous in their attendance upon old ladies, doubted not but he ensured himself a handsome legacy for his trouble. Almost the first speech which her ladyship made was, so you are not married yet, I find, if Mr. Moncton had been a real friend, he would have taken care to have seen for some establishment for you. I was by no means, cried Cecilia, with spirit, either in so much haste or distress as to require from Mr. Moncton any such exertion of his friendship. Ma'am, cried Maurice, what a terrible night we have had of it at Vauxhall. Poor Harrell, I was really excessively sorry for him. I had not courage to see you or Mrs. Harrell after it. But as soon as I heard you were in St. James Square, I tried to wait upon you, for really going to Mr. Harrell's again would have been quite too dismal. I would rather have run a mile by the side of a racehorse. There is no occasion for any apology, said Cecilia, for I was very little disposed either to see or think of visitors. So I thought, ma'am, answer thee with quickness, and really that made me the less alert in finding you out. However, ma'am, next winter I shall be excessively happy to make up for the deficiency. Besides, I shall be much obliged to you to introduce me to Mr. DeVille, for I have a great desire to be acquainted with him. Mr. DeVille, thought Cecilia, would be but too proud to hear it. However, she merely answered that she had no present prospect of spending any time at Mr. DeVille's next winter. True, ma'am, true, cried he. Now I recollect, you become your own mistress between this and then. And so I suppose you will naturally choose a house of your own, which will be much more eligible. I don't think that, said Lady Margaret. I never saw anything eligible come out of young women's having houses of their own. She will do a much better thing to marry, and have some proper person to take care of her. Nothing more right, ma'am, returned he. A young lady in a house by herself must be subject to a thousand dangers. What sort of place, ma'am, has Mr. DeVille got in the country? I hear he has a good deal of ground there, and a large house. It is an old castle, sir, and situated in a park. That must be terribly for a lawn. I dare say, ma'am, you were very happy to return into Suffolk. I did not find it for a lawn. I was very well satisfied with it. Why, indeed, upon second thoughts I don't much wonder, an old castle in a large park must make a very romantic appearance, something noble in it, I dare say. I cried, Lady Margaret. They said you were to become mistress of it, and marry Mr. DeVille's son, and I cannot, for my own part, see any objection to it. I am told of so many strange reports, said Cecilia, and all, to myself so unaccountable, that I begin now to hear of them without much wonder. That's a charming young man, I believe, said Maurice. I had the pleasure once or twice of meeting him at poor Harrell's, and he seemed mighty agreeable. Is he not so, ma'am? Yes, I believe so. Nay, I don't mean to speak of him as anything very extraordinary, cried Maurice, imagining her hesitation proceeded from dislike. I merely meant as the world goes, in a common sort of way. Here they were joined by Mr. Monkton, and some gentleman who were on a visit at his house, for his anxiety was not of a sort to lead him to solitude, nor his disposition to make him deny himself any kind of enjoyment which he had power to attain. A general conversation ensued, which lasted till Cecilia ended her visit. Mr. Monkton then took her hand to lead her to the chase, but told her, in their way out, of some alterations in his grounds, which he desired to show her. This view of detaining her was to gather what she thought of her reception, and whether she had yet any suspicions of the jealousy of Lady Margaret, well knowing, from the delicacy of her character, that if once she became acquainted with it she would scrupulously avoid all intercourse with him, from the fear of increasing her uneasiness. He began, therefore, with talking of the pleasure which Lady Margaret took in the plantations, and of his hope that Cecilia would often favour her by visiting them. Without waiting to have her visits returned, as she was entitled by her infirmities to particular indulgences. He was continuing in the strain, receiving from Cecilia hardly any answer, when suddenly, from behind a thick laurel bush jumped up Mr. Maurice, who had run out of the house by a shorter cot, and planted himself there to surprise them. So ho! cried he, with a loud laugh. I have caught you. This will be a fine anecdote for Lady Margaret. I vow I'll tell her. Mr. Moncton, never off his guard, readily answered. I pretty do, Maurice, but don't omit to relay also what we said of yourself. Of me? cried he, with some eagerness. Why, you never mentioned me. Oh, that won't pass, I assure you. We shall tell another tale at table by and by, and bring the old proverb of all the ill luck of listeners upon you in its full force. Well, I'll be hanged if I know what you mean. Why, you won't pretend you did not hear Miss Beverly say you were the truest orangutan or man-monkey she ever knew? No, indeed, that I did not. No, nor how much she admired your dexterity in escaping being horse-whipped three times a day for your incurable impudence. Not a word on it, horse-whipped? Miss Beverly, pray, did you say any such thing? I cried Moncton again, and not only horse-whipped, but horse ponded, for she thought when, once had heeded, the other might cool you, and then you might be fitted again for your native woods, for she insists upon it you was brought from Africa, and are not yet half-tamed. Oh, Lord! cried Maurice, amazed. I should not have suspected Miss Beverly would have talked so. And do you suspect she did now? cried Cecilia. Foe, foe! cried Moncton, coolly, why he heard it himself the whole time, and so shall all our party by and by, if I can but remember to mention it. Cecilia then returned to the chase, leaving Mr. Moncton to settle the matter with his credulous guest as he pleased, for supposing he was merely gratifying a love of sport, or taking this method of checking the general forwardness of the young man, she forebore any interference that might mar his intention. But Mr. Moncton loved not to be rallied concerning Cecilia, though he was indifferent to all that could be said to him of any other woman. He meant, therefore, to intimidate Maurice from renewing the subject, and he succeeded to his wish. Poor Maurice, whose watching and whose speech were the mere blunders of chance, made without the slightest suspicion of Mr. Moncton's designs, now apprehended some scheme to render himself ridiculous, and though he did not believe Cecilia had made use of such expressions, he fancied Mr. Moncton meant to turn the laugh against him, and determined, therefore, to say nothing that might remind him of what had passed. Mr. Moncton had at this time admitted him to his house merely from an expectation of finding more amusement in his blundering and giddiness than he was capable during his anxiety concerning Cecilia of receiving from conversation of an higher sort. The character of Maurice was, indeed, particularly adapted for the entertainment of a large house in the country, eager for sport, and always ready for enterprise, willing to oblige, yet tormented with no delicacy about offending. The first to promote mischief for any other, and the last to be offended when exposed to it himself, gay, thoughtless, and volatile, a happy composition of levity and good humor. Cecilia, however, to quitting the house, determined not to visit it again very speedily, for she was extremely disgusted with Lady Margaret, though she suspected no particular motives of enmity against which she was guarded alike by her own unsuspicious innocence, and by an high esteem of Mr. Moncton, which she firmly believed he'd returned with equal honesty of undesigning friendship. Her next excursion was to visit Mrs. Harrell. She found that unhappy Lady a prey to all the misery of unoccupied solitude, torn from whatever had, to her, made existence seem valuable. Her mind was as listless as her person was inactive, and she was at a loss how to employ even a moment of the day. She had now neither a party to form, nor an entertainment to plan, company to arrange, nor dress to consider, and these, with visits and public places, had failed all her time since marriage, which, as it had, happened very early in her life, had merely taken place of girlish amusements, masters, and governesses. This helplessness of insipidity, however, though naturally the effect of a mind devoid of all genuine resources, was dignified by herself with the appellation of sorrow, nor was thus merely a screen to the world, unused to investigate her feelings or examine her heart. The general compassion she met for the loss of her husband persuaded her that indeed she lamented his destiny. Though had no change in her life been caused by his suicide, she would scarcely, when the first shock was over, have thought of it again. She received Cecilia with great pleasure, and, with still greater, heard the renewal of her promises to fit up a room for her in her house, as soon as she came of age, a period which was now hardly a month distance. Far greater, however, as well as infinitely purer, was the joy which her presence bestowed upon Mr. Arnott. She saw it herself with a sensation of regret, not only at the constant passion which occasioned it, but even at her own inability to participate in or reward it for him with an alliance which would meet no opposition. His character was amiable, his situation in life unexceptionable. He loved her with a tenderest affection, and, no pride, she well knew would interfere to overpower it. Yet, in return, to grant him her love, she felt as utterly impossible as to refuse him her esteem, and the superior attractions of Deville, of which neither displeasure nor mortification could rob him, shot up her heart for the present, more firmly than ever, as Mr. Monkton had well imagined, to all other assailants. Yet she by no means weakly gave way to repining or regret. Her suspense was at an end. Her hopes and her fears were subsided into certainty. Deville, in quitting her, had acquainted her that he had left her for ever, and even, though not indeed, with much steadiness, had prayed for her happiness in union with some other. She held it therefore as essential to her character as to her peace. To manifest equal fortitude in subduing her partiality, she forebore to hint to Mrs. Charlton what had passed, that the subject might never be started, allowed herself no time for dangerous recollection, strolled in her old walks, and renewed her old acquaintance, and by a vigorous exertion of active wisdom, doubted not completing, before long, the subject of her unfortunate tenderness. Nor was her task so difficult as she had feared. Resolution in such cases may act the office of time, and anticipate by reason and self-denial, what that, much less nobly, affects through forgetfulness and inconsistency. CHAPTER II A visit. One week only, however, had yet tried the perseverance of Cecilia, when while she was working with Mrs. Charlton in her dressing-room, her maid hastily entered it, and with a smile that seemed announcing welcome news, said, Lord Mum, he is fiddle! And at the same moment she was followed by the dog, who jumped upon Cecilia in a transport of delight. Could Heaven! cried she, all amazement. Who has brought him? Whence does he come? A countryman brought him, Mum, but he only put him in, and would not stay a minute. But whom did he inquire for? Who saw him? What did he say? He saw Ralph, Mum. Ralph then was instantly called, and these questions being repeated, he said, Mum, it was a man I never saw before, but he only bid me take care to deliver the dog into your own and said you would have a letter about him soon, and then went away. I wanted him to stay till I came upstairs, but he was off at once. Cecilia, quite confounded by this account, could make neither comment nor answer. But as soon as the servants had left the room, Mrs. Charlton intreated to know whom the dog had belonged, convinced by her extreme agitation that something interesting and uncommon must relate to him. This was no time for disguise. Astonishment and confusion bereft Cecilia of all power to attempt it, and after a very few evasions, she briefly communicated her situation with respect to Delvile, his leaving her, his motives, and his mother's evident concurrence, for these were all so connected with her knowledge of Fidel that she led to them unavoidably in telling what she knew of him. Very little penetration was requisite to gather from her manner all that was united in her narrative of her own feelings and disappointment in the course of this affair, and Mrs. Charlton, who had hitherto believed the whole world at her disposal, and that she continued single from no reason but her own difficulty of choice, was utterly amazed to find that any man existed who could withstand the united allurements of so much beauty, sweetness, and fortune. She felt herself sometimes inclined to hate, and at other times to pity him, yet concluded that her own extreme coldness was the real cause of his flight, and warmly blamed a reserve which had thus ruined her happiness. Cecilia was in the extremest perplexity and distress to conjecture the meaning of so unaccountable a present, and so strange a message. Del Vile, she knew, had desired the dog might follow him to Bristol. His mother, always pleased to oblige him, would now less than ever neglect any opportunity. She could not, therefore, doubt that she had sent or taken him thither, and thence, according to all appearances, he must now come. But was it likely Del Vile would take such a liberty? Was it probable, when so lately he had almost exorted her to forget him, he would even wish to present her with such a remembrance of himself? And what was the letter she was bid to expect? Whence and from what was it to come? All was inexplicable. The only thing she could surmise, with any semblance of probability, was that the whole was some frolic of Lady Annoria Pemberton, who had persuaded Del Vile to send her the dog, and perhaps assured him she had herself requested to have him. Provoked by this suggestion, her first thought was instantly having him conveyed to the castle. But uncertain what the whole affair meant, and hoping some explanation in the letter she was promised, she determined to wait till it came, or at least till she heard from Mrs. Del Vile before she took any measures herself in the business. Mutual accounts of their safe arrivals at Bristol and in Suffolk had already passed between them, and she expected very soon to have further intelligence. Though she was now by the whole behaviour of Mrs. Del Vile, convinced she wished not again to have her an inmate of her house, and that the rest of her minority might pass without opposition in the house of Mrs. Charlton. Day after day however passed, and yet she heard nothing more. A week, a fortnight elapsed, and still no letter came. She now concluded the promise was a deception, and repented that she had waited a moment with any such expectation. Her peace, during this time, was greatly disturbed. This present made her fear she was thought meanly of by Mr. Del Vile. The silence of his mother gave her apprehensions for his health, and her only resolution how to act kept her in perpetual in quietude. She tried in vain to behave as if this incident had not happened. Her mind was uneasy, and the same actions produced not the same effects. When she now worked, or read, the sight of Fidel by her side distracted her attention. When she walked it was the same, for Fidel always followed her, and though in visiting her old acquaintance she forbore to let him accompany her, she was secretly planning the whole time the contents of some letter which she expected to meet with on returning to Mrs. Charlton's. Those gentlemen in the country, who during the lifetime of the dean, had paid their addresses to Cecilia, again waited upon her at Mrs. Charlton's, and renewed their proposals. They had now, however, still less chance of success, and their dismission was brief and decisive. Among these came Mr. Bidolf, and to him Cecilia was involuntarily most civil, because she knew him to be the friend of Del Vile. Yet his conversation increased the uneasiness of her suspense. For after speaking of the family in general which she had left, he inquired more particularly concerning Del Vile, and then added, I am indeed greatly grieved to find, by all the accounts I receive of him, that he is now in a very bad state of health. This speech gave her fresh subject for apprehension, and in proportion as the silence of Mrs. Del Vile grew more alarming, her regard for her favourite Fidel became more partial. The affectionate animal seemed to mourn the loss of his master, and while sometimes she indulged herself infancyfully telling him of her fears, she imagined she read in his countenance the faithfulest sympathy. One week of her minority was now all that remained, and she was soon wholly occupied in preparations for coming of age. She proposed taking possession of a large house that had belonged to her uncle, which was situated only three miles from that of Mrs. Charlton, and she employed herself in giving orders for fitting it up and in hearing complaints and promising indulgencies to various of her tenants. At this time, while she was at breakfast one morning, a letter arrived from Mrs. Del Vile. She apologised for not writing sooner, but added that various family occurrences which had robbed her of all leisure might easily be imagined when she acquainted her that Mortimer had determined upon a gain going abroad. They were all, she said, returned to Del Vile Castle, but mentioned nothing either of the health of her son or of her own regret, and filled up the rest of her letter with general news and expressions of kindness, though in a post-script was inserted. We have lost our poor Fidel. Cecilia was still meditating upon this letter, by which her perplexity how to act was rather increased than diminished, when to her great surprise Lady Honoria Pemberton was announced. She hastily begged one of the Miss Charlton's to convey Fidel out of sight, from a dread of her railery, should she at last be unconcerned in the transaction, and then went to receive her. Lady Honoria, who was with her governess, gave a brief history of her quitting Del Vile Castle, and said she was now going with her father to visit a noble family in Norfolk, but she had obtained his permission to leave him at the inn where they had slept, in order to make a short excursion to Burry, for the pleasure of seeing Miss Beverly. And therefore, she continued, I can stay but half an hour, so you must give me some account of yourself as fast as possible. What account does your ladyship require? Why, who you live with here, and who are your companions, and what you do with yourself? Why, I live with Mrs. Charlton, and for companions I have at least a score, here are her two granddaughters, and Mrs. and Miss— Fofo, interrupted Lady Honoria. But I don't mean such hum-drum companions as those. You'll tell me next, I suppose, of the parson and his wife and three daughters, with all their cousins and aunts. I hate those sort of people. What I desire to hear of is, who are your particular favourites, and whether you take long walks here, as you used to do at the castle, and who you have to accompany you. And then, looking at her very archly, she added, A pretty little dog, now I should think, would be vastly agreeable in such a place as this. Ah, Miss Fevelly, you have not left off that trick of colouring, I see. If I colour now, said Cecilia, fully convinced of the justness of her suspicions, I think it must be for your ladyship not myself. For, if I am not much mistaken, either in person or by proxy, a blush from Lady Honoria Pemberton would not just now be wholly out of season. Lord! cried she, how like that is to a speech of Mrs. Del Viles! She has taught you exactly her manner of talking. But do you know, I am informed, you have got Fidel with you here. Oh, fine, Miss Fevelly, what will Papa and Maman say when they find you have taken away poor little master's plaything? And, oh, fine, Lady Honoria, what shall I say when I find you guilty of this mischievous frolic? I must beg, however, since you have gone thus far that you will proceed a little farther, and send back the dog to the person from whom you received him. No, not I. Manage him all your own way. If you choose to accept dogs from gentlemen, you know it is your affair, and not mine. If you really will not return him yourself, you must at least pardon me should you hear that I do in your ladyship's name. Lady Honoria for some time only laughed and rallied, without coming to any explanation. But when she had exhausted all the sport she could make, she frankly owned that she had herself ordered the dog to be privately stolen, and then sent a man with him to Mrs. Charlton's. But you know, she continued, I really owed you a spite for being so ill-natured as to run away after sending me to call Mortimer to comfort and take leave of you. Do you dream, Lady Honoria, when did I send you? Why, you know you looked as if you wished it, and that was the same thing. But really it made me appear excessively silly when I had forced him to come back with me and told him you were waiting for him to see nothing of you at all and not be able to find or trace you. He took it all for my own invention. And was it not your own invention? Why, that's nothing to the purpose. I wanted him to believe you sent me, for I knew else he would not come. Your ladyship was a great deal too good. Why now suppose I had brought you together? What possible harm could have happened from it? It would merely have given each of you some notion of a fever and a guil. For first you would both have been hot, and then you would both have been cold, and then you would both have turned red, and then you would both have turned white, and then you would both have pretended to simper at the trick. And then there would have been an end of it. This is a very easy way of settling it all, cried Cecilia, laughing. However, you must be content to abide by your own theft, for you cannot in conscience expect I should take it upon myself. You are terribly ungrateful, I see, said her ladyship, for all the trouble and contrivance and expense I have been at merely to oblige you, while the whole time poor Mortimer, I daresay, has had his sweet pet advertised in all the newspapers, and cried in every market-town in the kingdom. By the way, if you do send him back, I would advise you to let your man demand the reward that has been offered for him, which may serve in part a payment for his travelling expenses. Cecilia could only shake her head and recollect Mrs. Del Vile's expression that her levity was incorrigible. Oh, if you had seen—she continued—how sheepish Mortimer looked when I told him you were dying to see him before he set off! He coloured so, just as you do now, but I think you're vastly alike. I fear, then, cried Cecilia, not very angry at the speech, there is but little chance your ladyship should like either of us. Oh, yes, I do, I like odd people of all things. Odd people? And in what are we so very odd? Oh, in a thousand things! You're so good, you know, and so grave, and so—squeamish! Squeamish? How? Why, you know, you never laugh at the old folks, and never fly at your servants, nor smoke people before their faces, and are so civil to the old fogrums, you would make one imagine you liked nobody so well. By the way, I could do no good with my little Lord Durford. He pretended to find out I was only laughing at him, and so he minded nothing, I told him. I daresay, however, his father made the detection, for I am sure he had not wit enough to discover it himself. Cecilia then very seriously began to entreat that she would return the dog herself, and confess her frolic, remonstrating in strong terms upon the mischievous tendency and consequences of such inconsiderate flights. Well! cried she, rising. This is all vastly true, but I have no time to hear any more of it just now, besides it's only for stalling my next lecture from Mrs. Del Vile, for you talk so much alike, that it is really very perplexing to me to remember which is which. She then hurried away, protesting she had already outstayed her father's patience, and declaring the delay of another minute would occasion half a dozen expresses to know whether she was gone toward Scotland or Flanders. This visit, however, was both pleasant and consolatory to Cecilia, who was now relieved from her suspense, and revived in her spirits by the intelligence that Del Vile had no share in sending her a present, which from him would have been humiliating and impertinent. She regretted, indeed, that she had not instantly returned it to the castle, which she was now convinced was the measure she ought to have pursued. But to make all possible reparation, she determined that her own servant should set out with him the next morning to Bristol, and take a letter to Mrs. Del Vile, to explain what had happened. Since to conceal it from any delicacy to Lady Anoria would be to expose herself to suspicions the most mortifying, for which that gay and careless young lady would never thank her. She gave orders, therefore, to her servant to get ready for the journey. When she communicated these little transactions to Mrs. Charlton, that kind-hearted old lady, who knew her fondness for Fidel, advised her not yet to part with him, but merely to acquaint Mrs. Del Vile where he was, and what Lady Anoria had done, and by leaving to herself the care of settling his restoration, to give her at least an opportunity of offering him to her acceptance. Cecilia, however, would listen to no such proposal. She saw the firmness of Del Vile in his resolution to avoid her, and knew that policy, as well as propriety, made it necessary she should part with what she could only retain to remind her of one whom she now most wished to forget. The spirits of Cecilia, however, internally failed her. She considered her separation from Del Vile to be now in all probability for life, since she saw that no struggle either of interest, inclination, or health could bend him from his purpose. His mother, too, seemed to regard his name and his existence as equally valuable, and the scruples of his father she was certain would be still more insurmountable. Her own pride, excited by theirs, made her, indeed, with more anger than sorrow, see this general consent to abandon her. But pride and anger both failed when she considered the situation of his health. Sorrow there took the lead, and admitted no partner. It represented him to her not only as lost to herself, but to the world, and so sad grew her reflections, and so heavy her heart, that to avoid from Mrs. Charlton observations which pained her, she stole into a summer house in the garden the moment she had done tea, declining any companion but her affectionate Fidel. Her tenderness and her sorrow found here a romantic consolation, in complaining to him of the absence of his master, his voluntary exile, and her fears for his health, calling upon him to participate in her sorrow, and lamenting that even this little relief would soon be denied her, and that in losing Fidel no vestige of Mortimer, but in her own breast, would remain. Go then, dear Fidel, she cried, carry back to your master all that nourishes his remembrance. Bid him not love you the less for having some time belonged to Cecilia, but never may his proud heart be fed with the vain glory of knowing how fondly, for his sake she has cherished you. Go, dear Fidel, guard him by night, and follow him by day, serve him with zeal, and love him with fidelity. Oh, that his health were invincible as his pride! There alone he is vulnerable. Here Fidel with the loud barking said they sprang away from her, and as she turned her eyes toward the door to see what had thus startled him, she beheld standing there, as if immovable, young Delvile himself. Her astonishment at this sight almost bereft her of her understanding. It appeared to her supernatural, and she rather believed it was his ghost than himself. Fixed in mute wonder, she stood still though terrified, her eyes almost bursting from their sockets to be satisfied if what they saw was real. Delvile, too, was sometimes speechless. He looked not at her indeed with any doubt of her existence, but as if what he had heard was to him as amazing as to her what she saw. At length, however, tormented by the dog who jumped up to him, licked his hands, and by his rapturous joy forced himself into notice. He was moved to return his caresses, saying, Yes, dear Fidel, you have a claim indeed to my attention, and with a fondest gratitude will I cherish you ever. At the sound of his voice Cecilia again began to breathe, and Delvile, having quieted the dog, now entered the summer-house, saying as he advanced, Is this possible? Am I not in a dream? Good God, is it indeed possible? The consternation of doubt and astonishment, which had seized every faculty of Cecilia, now changed into certainty that Delvile indeed was present. All her recollection returned as she listened to this question, and the wild rambling of fancy with which she had unconsciously indulged her sorrow, rushing suddenly upon her mind. She felt herself wholly overpowered by consciousness and shame, and sunk, almost fainting, upon a window-seat. The consternation of doubt and astonishment, which had seized every faculty of Cecilia, now changed into certainty that Delvile indeed was present. All her recollection returned as she listened to this question, and the wild rambling of fancy with which she had unconsciously indulged her sorrow, rushing suddenly upon her mind. She felt herself wholly overpowered by consciousness and shame, and sunk, almost fainting, upon a window-seat. Delvile instantly flew to her, penetrated with gratitude, and filled with wonder and delight, which, however internally combatted by sensations less pleasant, were too potent to control, and he poured forth at her feet the most passionate acknowledgments. Cecilia, surprised, affected, and trembling with a thousand emotions, endeavoured to break from him and rise, but eagerly detaining her. No loveliest Miss Beverly! he cried. Not thus must we now part. This moment only hath a discovered what a treasure I was leaving, and but for Fidel I had quitted it in ignorance for ever. Indeed, cried Cecilia, in the extremist agitation, indeed you may believe me, Fidel is here quite by accident. Lady Anoria took him away. I knew nothing of the matter. She stole him, she sent him, she did everything herself. Oh, kind Lady Anoria! cried Delvile, more and more delighted. How shall I ever thank her? And did she also tell you to caress and to cherish him, to talk to him of his master? Oh, Heaven! interrupted Cecilia, in an agony of mortification and shame. To what has my unguarded folly reduced me? Then again endeavouring to break from him. Leave me, Mr. Delvile, she cried. Leave me, or let me pass. Never can I see you more. Never bear you again in my sight. Come, dear Fidel, cried he, still detaining her. Come and plead for your master. Come and ask in his name who now has a proud heart, whose pride now is invincible. Oh, go! cried Cecilia, looking away from him while she spoke. Repeat not those hateful words, if you wish me not to detest myself eternally. Ever lovely, Miss Beverly, cried he more seriously. Why this resentment, why all this causeless distress, has not my heart long since been known to you? Have you not witnessed its sufferings, and been assured of its tenderness? Why, then, this untimely reserve, this unabating coldness? Oh, why try to rob me of the felicity you have inadvertently given me, and to sour the happiness of a moment that recompenses such exquisite misery? Oh, Mr. Delvile, cried she impatiently, though half softened. Was this honourable or right to steal upon me thus privately, to listen to me thus secretly? You blame me, cried he, too soon. Your own friend, Mrs. Charlton, permitted me to come hither in search of you. Then indeed, when I heard the sound of your voice, when I heard that voice talk of Fidele, of his master. Oh, stop, stop! cried she. I cannot support the recollection. There is no punishment indeed which my own indiscretion does not merit, but I shall have sufficient in the bitterness of self-reproach. Why will you talk thus, my beloved Miss Beverly? What have you done? What let me ask have I done, that such infinite disgrace and depression should follow this little sensibility to a passion so fervent? Does it not render you more dear to me than ever? Does it not add new life, new vigor, to the devotion by which I am bound to you? No, no! cried the mortified Cecilia, who from the moment she found herself betrayed, believed herself to be lost. Far other is the effect it will have, and the same mad folly by which I am ruined in my own esteem will ruin me and yours. I cannot endure to think of it. Why will you persist in detaining me? You have filled me with anguish and mortification. You have taught me the bitterest of lessons, that of hating and condemning myself. Good Heaven! cried he, much hurt. What strange apprehensions thus terrify you! Are you with me less safe than with yourself? Is it my honor, you doubt? Is it my integrity, you fear? Surely I cannot be so little known to you, and to make protestations now would but give a new alarm to a delicacy all ready to agitated. Else would I tell you that more sacred than my life will I hold what I have heard, that the words just now graven on my heart shall remain there to eternity unseen, and that higher than ever not only in my love, but my esteem, is the beautiful speaker. Ah, no! cried Cecilia, with a sigh. That at least is impossible, for lower than ever is she sunk from deserving it. No! cried he, with fervor. She is raised. She is exalted. I find her more excellent and perfect than I had even dared believe her. I discover new virtues in the spring of every action. I see what I took for indifference was dignity. I perceive what I imagine the most rigid insensibility was nobleness, was propriety, was true greatness of mind. Cecilia was somewhat appeased by this speech, and after a little hesitation she said with a half-smile. Must I thank you for this good nature in seeking to reconcile me with myself, or shall I quarrel with you for flattery, in giving me praise you can so little think I merit? Ah! cried he, were I to praise as I think of you, were my language permitted to accord with my opinion of your worth? You would not then simply call me a flatterer. You would tell me I was an idolater, and fear at least for my principles, if not for my understanding. I shall have but little right, however, said Cecilia, again rising, to arraign your understanding while I act as if bereft of my own. Now at least let me pass. Indeed, you will greatly displease me by any further opposition. Will you suffer me, then, to see you early to-morrow morning? No, sir. Nor the next morning, nor the morning after that. This meeting has been wrong. Another would be worse. In this I have accusation enough for folly. In another the charge would be far more heavy. Does Miss Beverly, then, cried he gravely, think me capable of desiring to see her for mere selfish gratification, of intending to trifle either with her time or her feelings? No. The conference I desire will be important and decisive. This night I shall devote solely to deliberation. Tomorrow shall be given to action, without some thinking I dare venture at no plan. I presume not to communicate to you the various interests that divide me, but the result of them all I can take no denial to your hearing. Cecilia, who felt when thus stated the justice of his request, now opposed it no longer, but insisted upon his instantly departing. True, cried he, I must go. The longer I stay the more I am fascinated, and the weaker are those reasoning powers of which I now want the strongest exertion. He then repeated his professions of eternal regard, besought her not to regret the happiness she had given him, and after disobeying her injunctions of going till she was seriously displeased, he only stayed to obtain her pardon and permission to be early the next morning, and then, though still slowly and reluctantly, he left her. Scarce was Cecilia again alone, but the whole of what had passed seemed a vision of her imagination, that Del Vile should be at Burry, that he should visit her at Mrs. Charlton's, surprise her by herself, and discover her most secret thoughts, appeared so strange and so incredible, that occupied rather by wonder, than thinking, she continued almost motionless in the place where he had left her, till Mrs. Charlton sent to request that she would return to the house. She then inquired if anybody was with her, and being answered in the negative, obeyed the summons. Mrs. Charlton, with a smile of much meaning, hoped she had had a pleasant walk, but Cecilia seriously remonstrated on the dangerous imprudence she had committed in suffering her to be so ungodedly surprised. Mrs. Charlton, however, more anxious for her future and solid happiness than for her present apprehensions and delicacy, repented not the steps she had taken, and when she gathered from Cecilia the substance of what had passed, unmindful of the expostulations which accompanied it, she thought with exultation that the sudden meeting she had permitted, would now, by making known to each their mutual affection, determine them to defer no longer a union upon which their mutual peace of mind so much depended. And Cecilia, finding she had been thus betrayed designedly, not inadvertently, could hardly reproach her zeal, though she lamented its indiscretion. She then asked by what means he had obtained admission, and made himself known, and heard that he had inquired at the door for Miss Beverly, and having sent in his name was shown into the parlor, where Mrs. Charlton, much pleased with his appearance, had suddenly conceived the little plan which she had executed, of contriving a surprise for Cecilia, from which she rationally expected the very consequences that ensued, though the immediate means she had not conjectured. The account was still unsatisfactory to Cecilia, who could frame to herself no possible reason for a visit so extraordinary, and so totally inconsistent with his declarations and resolutions. This, however, was a matter of but little moment, compared with other subjects to which the interview had given rise. Del Vile, upon whom so long, though secretly, her dearest hopes of happiness had rested, was now become acquainted with his power, and knew himself the master of her destiny. He had quitted her avowedly to decide what it should be. Since his present subject of deliberation included her fate in his own, the next morning he was to call and acquaint her with his decree, not doubting her concurrence whichever way be resolved. A subjection so undue, and which she could not but consider as disgraceful, both shocked and afflicted her. And the reflection that the man, who of all men she preferred, was acquainted with her preference, yet hesitated whether to accept or abandon her, mortified and provoked her alternately, occupied her thoughts the whole night, and kept her from peace and from rest. CHAPTER IV A PROPOSITION Early the next morning, Del Vile again made his appearance. Cecilia, who was at breakfast with Mrs. and Miss Chalton's, received him with the most painful confusion, and he was evidently himself in a state of the utmost perturbation. Mrs. Chalton made a pretense almost immediately for sending away both her granddaughters, and then, without taking the trouble of devising one for herself, arose and followed them, though Cecilia made sundry signs of solicitation that she should stay. Finding herself now alone with him, she hastily and without knowing what she said, cried, How is Mrs. Del Vile, sir? Is she still at Bristol? At Bristol? No. Have you never heard she is returned to Del Vile Castle? Oh, true! I meant Del Vile Castle, but I hope she found some benefit from the waters. She had not, I believe, any occasion to try them. Cecilia, ashamed of these two following mistakes, coloured high, but ventured not again to speak, and Del Vile, who seemed big with something he feared to utter, arose and walked for a few instance about the room, after which exclaiming allowed, How vain is every plan which passes the present hour! He advanced to Cecilia, who pretended to be looking at some work, and seating himself next to her. When we parted yesterday, he cried, I presume to say one night alone should be given to deliberation. And today, this very day to action. But I forgot that though in deliberating, I had only myself to consult, in acting I was not so independent, and that when my own doubts were satisfied and my own resolutions taken, other doubts and other resolutions must be considered, by which my proposed proceedings might be retarded, might perhaps be wholly prevented. He paused. But Cecilia, unable to conjecture to what he was leading, made not any answer. Upon you, madam, he continued, all that is good or evil of my future life, as far as relates to its happiness or misery, will from this very hour almost solely depend. Yet much as I rely upon your goodness and superior as I know you to trifling or affectation, what I now come to propose, to petition, to entreat, I cannot summon courage to mention from a dread of alarming you. What next, thought Cecilia, trembling at this introduction, is preparing for me. Does he mean to ask me to solicit Mrs. Delville's consent? Or from myself must he receive commands that we should never meet more? Is Miss Beverly, cried he, determined not to speak to me? Is she bent upon silence only to intimidate me? Indeed, if she knew how greatly I respect her, she would honour me with more confidence. One so, cried she, do you mean to make your tour? Never, cried he with fervour. Unless banished by you, never. No loveliest, Miss Beverly, I can now quit you no more. Fortune, beauty, worth, and sweetness I had power to relinquish. Severe as was the task I compelled myself to perform it. But when to these I find so attractive a softness, a pity for my suffering so unexpectedly gentle, no. Sweetest, Miss Beverly, I can quit you no more. And then, seizing her hand with yet greater energy, he went on. I hear, he cried, offer you my vows. I hear own news, sole arbitress of my fate. I give you not merely the possession of my heart. That indeed I had no power to withhold from you. But I give you the direction of my conduct. I entreat you to become my counsellor and guide. Will Miss Beverly accept such an office? Will she deign to listen to such a prayer? Yes, cried Cecilia, involuntarily delighted to find that such was the result of his night's deliberation. I am most ready to give you my counsell, which I now do, that you set off for the continent tomorrow morning. Oh, how malicious, cried he, half laughing. Yet not so immediately do I even request your counsell. Something must first be done to qualify you for giving it. Penetration, skill, and understanding, however amply you possess them, are not sufficient to fit you for the charge. Something still more is requisite. You must be invested with fuller powers. You must have a right less disputable, and a title that not alone, inclination, not even judgment, alone must sanctify, but which law must enforce and rights the most solemn support. I think, then, said Cecilia, deeply blushing, I must be content to forbear giving any counsell at all, if the qualifications for it are so difficult of a quarryment. Resent not my presumption, cried he, my beloved Miss Beverly, but let the severity of my recent sovereigns paleot my present emerity, for where reflection has been deep and serious, coarseless and unnecessary misery will find little encouragement. And mine has been serious indeed. Sweetly, then, permit me in proportion to its bitterness to rejoice in the soft reverse which now flatters me with its approach. Cecilia, abashed and uneasy, uncertain of what was to follow, and unwilling to speak till more assured, paused, and then abruptly exclaimed, I am afraid Mrs. Charlton is waiting for me, and would have hurried away, but Delville, almost forcibly preventing her, compelled her to stay. And after a short conversation, on his side the most impassioned, and on hers the most confused, obtained from her what indeed, after the surprise of the preceding evening she could but ill deny, a frank confirmation of his power over her heart, and an ingenious, though reluctant acknowledgement how long he had possessed it. This confession, made as affairs now stood wholly in opposition to her judgment, was torn from her by an impetuous urgency which she had not presence of mind to resist, and with which Delville, when particularly animated, had long been accustomed to overpower all opposition. The joy with which he heard it, though but little mixed with wonder, was as violent as the eagerness with which he had sorted, yet it was not of long duration, a sudden and most painful recollection presently quilted, and even in the midst of his rapturous acknowledgement seemed to strike him to the heart. Cecilia, soon perceiving both in his countenance and manner an alteration that shocked her, bitterly repented and vowed which she could never recall and looked aghast with expectation and dread. Delville, who with quickness saw a change of expression in her of which in himself he was unconscious, exclaimed with much emotion, oh how transient is human felicity, how rapidly fly those rare and exquisite moments in which it is perfect. Ah, sweetest Miss Beverly, what words shall I find to soften what I have now to reveal? To tell you that, after goodness, candour, generosity such as yours, a request, a supplication remains yet to be uttered that banishes me if refused from your presence for ever. Cecilia, extremely dismayed, desired to know what it was, an evident dread of offending her kept him some time from proceeding, but at length, after repeatedly expressing his fears of her disapprobation and the repugnance even on his own part of the very measure he was obliged to urge, he acknowledged that all his hopes of being ever united to her rested upon obtaining her consent to an immediate and secret marriage. Cecilia, thunderstruck by this declaration, remained for a few instance too much confounded to speak, but when he was beginning an explanatory apology, she started up, and glowing with indignation said, I had flattered myself, sir, that both my character and my conduct, independent of my situation in life, would have exempted me at all times from a proposal which I shall ever think myself degraded by having heard. And then she was again going, but Delville still prevented her, said, I knew too well how much you would be alarmed and such was my dread of your displeasure, that it had power even to embitter the happiness I sought with so much earnestness, and to render your condescension insufficient to ensure it. Yet wander not at my scheme, wild as it may appear, it is the result of deliberation, and sensible as it may seem, it springs not from unworthy motives. Whatever may be your motives with respect to yourself, sir, said Cecilia, with respect to me, they must certainly be disgraceful, I will not therefore listen to them. You wrong me, cruel thee, Crichty, with warmth, and a moment's reflection must tell you that however distinct may be our honor, or our disgrace in every other instance, in that by which we should be united, they must inevitably be the same. And far sooner would I voluntarily relinquish you, than be myself accessory to tainting that delicacy of which the unsullied purity has been the chief source of my apparition. Why, then, Crichty Cecilia, reproachfully, have you mentioned to me such a project? Circumstances the most singular, a necessity the most unavoidable, he answered, should alone have never tempted me to form it. No longer ago than yesterday morning, I believed myself incapable of even wishing it. But extraordinary situations call for extraordinary resolutions, and in private as well as public life, palliates at least, extraordinary actions. Alas, the proposal which so much offends you is my final resource. It is the sole barrier between myself and perpetual misery, the only expedient in my power to save me from eternally parting from you, for I am compelled now cruelly to confess that my family I am certain will never consent to our union. Neither then, sir, Crichty Cecilia, with great spirit, will I. The disdain I may meet with, I pretend not to retort, but willfully to encounter were meanly to deserve it. I will enter into no family in opposition to its wishes. I will consent to no alliance that may expose me to indignity. Nothing is so contagious as contempt. The example of your friends might work powerfully upon yourself, and who shall dare assure me you would not catch the infection? I dare assure you, Crichty. Hasty you may perhaps think me, and somewhat impetuous I cannot deny myself, but believe me not of so wretched a character as to be capable in any affair of moment of fickleness or caprice. But what, sir, is my security to the contrary? Have you not this moment avowed that by yesterday you held an abhorrence the very plan to today you propose? That may not tomorrow resume again the same opinion. Cruel, Miss Brevely, how unjust is this inference! If yesterday I disproved what today I recommend, a little recollection must surely tell you why, and that not my opinion, but my situation is changed. The conscious Cecilia here turned away her head. Too certain he alluded to the discovery of her partiality. Have you not yourself, he continued, witnessed the steadiness of my mind? Have you not behold me fly when I had power to pursue and avoid when I had opportunity to seek you? After witnessing my constancy upon such trying occasions, is it equitable, is it right to suspect me of wavering? But what, cried she, was the constancy which brought you into Suffolk? When all occasion was over for our meeting any more, when you told me you were going abroad and took leave of me forever, where then was your steadiness in this unnecessary journey? Have a care, cried he, half-smiling, and taking a letter from his pocket. Have a care, upon this point, how you provoke me to spew my justification. Ah! cried Cecilia, blushing, to some trick of Lady Honoria. No, upon my honor, the authority is less doubtful. I believe I should hardly else have regarded it. Cecilia, much alarmed, held out her hand for the letter, and looking first at the end was much astonished to see the name of Bidoof. She then cast her eye over the beginning, and then, when she saw her own name, read the following paragraph. Miss Beverly, as you doubtless know, is returned into Suffolk. Everybody here saw her with the utmost surprise. From the moment I had heard of her residence in Delville Castle, I had given her up for lost. But, upon her unexpected appearance among earths again, I was weak enough once more to make trial of her heart. I soon found, however, that the pain of a second rejection you might have spared me, and that though she had quitted Delville Castle, she had not for nothing entered it. At the sound of your name she blushes. At the mention of your illness she turns pale. And the dog you have given her, which I recollected immediately, is her darling companion. Oh happy Delville, yet so lovely a conquest you abandon. Cecilia could read no more. The letter dropped from her hand. To find herself thus by her own emotions betrayed, made her instantly conclude she was universally discovered, and turning sick at the supposition, all her spirit for succour, and she burst into tears. Good heaven, cried Delville, extremely shocked. What has thus affected you? Can the jealous surmises of an apprehensive rival do not talk to me, interrupted her, impatiently, and do not detain me? I am extremely disturbed. I wish to be alone. I beg. I even entreat you would leave me. I will go. I will obey you in everything, cried he eagerly. Tell me, but when I may return, and when will you suffer me to explain to you all the motives of my proposal? Never, never, cried she with earnestness. I am sufficiently lowered already. But never will I intrude myself into a family that disdains me. Disdains? No, you are revered in it. Who could disdain you? That fate who claws alone? Well, pray leave me. Indeed, I cannot hear you. I am unfit for argument, and all reasoning now is nothing less than cruelty. I am gone, cried he, this moment. I would not even wish to take advantage of your agitation in order to work upon your sensibility. My desire is not to surprise, but to reconcile you to my plan. What is it I seek in Miss Beverly, an heiress? No, as such she has seen I could resist her, nor yet the light trifle of a spring or two neglected when no longer a novelty. No, no, it is a companion for ever. It is a solace for every care. It is a bosom friend through every period of life that I seek in Miss Beverly. Her esteem, therefore, to me is as precious as her affection. For how can I hope her friendship in the winter of my days, if their brighter and gayer season is darkened by doubts of my integrity? All shall be clear and explicit. No latent cause of unaziness shall disturb our future quiet. We will now be sincere, that hereafter we may be easy and sweetly in unclouded felicity. Time shall glide away imperceptibly, and we will make an interest with each other in the gaiety of youth, to bear with the infirmities of age, and alleviate them by kindness and sympathy. And then shall my soothing Cecilia, O say no more, interrupted she, softened in her own despite, by a plan so consonant to her wishes. What language is this, how improper for you to use, or me to hear? She then very earnestly insisted upon his going, and after a thousand times taking leave and returning, promising obedience yet pursuing his own way, he at length said if she would consent to receive a letter from him, he would endeavour to commit what he had to communicate to paper, since their mutual agitation made him unable to explain himself with clearness, and rather hurt his cause then assisted it, by leaving all his arguments unfinished and obscure. Another dispute now arose. Cecilia, protesting she would receive no letter, and hear nothing upon the subject, and Delville, impetuously declaring he would submit to no award without being first heard. At length he conquered, and at length he departed. Cecilia then felt her whole heart sink within her at the unhappiness of her situation. She considered herself now condemned to refuse Delville herself, as the only condition upon which he even solicited her favour, neither the strictness of her principles, nor the delicacy of her mind would suffer her to accept. Her displeasure at the proposal had been wholly unaffected, and she regarded it as an injury to her character ever to have received it. Yet that Delville's pride of heart should give way to his passion, that he should love her with so much fondness as to relinquish for her the ambitious schemes of his family, and even that darling name which so lately seemed annexed to his existence, was circumstances to which she was not insensible, and proofs of tenderness and regard which she had thought incompatible with the general spirit of his disposition. Yet however by these she was gratified. She resolved never to comply with so humiliating a measure but to wait the consent of his friends, or renounce him forever.