 I have sent the remains of my venerable parent down to Sydney Castle, there to be interred with her ancestors. I wrote to my brother an account of her death on the day it happened, but have as yet received no answer, unnatural son, but I will not reproach him. Some accident might have prevented his writing immediately on the receipt of my letter. He never entirely forsook the duty he owed his mother, but he has of late been quite estranged from us. His wife, vain, weak and imperious, governs him totally. I must now begin to look about me for a place of abode suited to my present circumstances. My whole income would not pay more than half the rent of these lodgings in which I have lived with my dear mother. My poor patty, I am grieved for her. I begged of her to seek another mistress who might be able to reward her merit and provide for her as she deserves, but the worthy, affectionate girl told me it would break her heart if I talked of parting with her. You must have a servant of some sort, madam," said she. Why must not I do as well as another? If I were able to make you a proper return, patty, said I, you should not leave me, but I cannot afford to pay a servant of your abilities as you deserve, and I must be my own maid for the future. Never! Never, madam!" cried the honest creature bursting into tears, while I have hands to serve you. Let me but attend to you, and the two dear children, I desire nothing, I want nothing. Your goodness has all along supplied me so, that I am sure I have clothes enough to serve me during my life, and if I could not put up with the same humble way of living that my mistress does, sure, I should be a presumptuous wretch. My tears thanked the grateful girl, and taking her by the hand I told her that I would not talk of parting for the present, that when anything worth her acceptance offered, I should then insist on her embracing it. I am determined to retire to some village, at a distance from London, and either to take a little cottage to myself, or board with my children at some farmhouse as I shall find most convenient. Fifty pounds a year will be but a slender support for three persons brought up in affluence. My little ones indeed will not now be sensible of the change, and by the time they are grown up they will be so enured to their homely board, that they will not, I hope, aspire after what cannot consistently, perhaps with virtue, lie within their reach. October the twenty-seventh. After paying the expenses of my mother's funeral, discharging our lodgings and some other demands, I find my purse will be so extremely reduced that I shall have but barely enough to keep out want, till my small income becomes due to me. I must therefore for the present defer putting my scheme into execution, as I am not qualified to undertake a journey with my little family, especially as I am as yet uncertain what place to fix on for my residence. Neither will I afford my brother, though I have no reason to expect anything from him, a father pretends for reproaching me, by giving him room to say I left London without consulting him or waiting for his return to it. I shall therefore look out for a lodging of a small price, where I will conceal myself from everybody that knows me, and wait for Sir George's arrival. October the twenty-eighth. How happy you make me, my ever dear friend, by your approbation of my conduct, since my receiving your last packet, which came to my hand late last night, I am better reconciled to my present lot than I was before I heard from you. I could not do otherwise, you say, after my solemn promise given to Miss Birchle, than use my utmost endeavours to promote her marriage with Mr. Falkland. True, I could not, but I wish you had entered more into my sentiments in regard to those punctilios which you tell me you think might have been got over if that young woman had been out of the question. I could not help smiling at your wish, un-Christian as it was, but my dear, if that were to happen, do you think Mr. Falkland so void of reason, nay of feeling, as after all that has passed to persevere? Or if he did, that I could be so mean as to owe the very bread that I and my children should eat to his generosity? Would you, my Cecilia, wish to see your friend so humbled? It is not in the power, even of the cold, hard hand of poverty itself, to dash me so low as that would do. But where is the need of forming resolutions or even making declarations about what never can happen? I see, notwithstanding, that you think my heart has again done itself some violence. You know that heart too well for me to attempt to hide from you its secret workings. I own to you, honestly. I now feel my own unhappiness in its full extent. I look back, and take a survey of the past, and cannot help thinking that I have had the most wayward fate allotted me that ever woman had. But in a first love has, I think, been ever accounted a grief, scarce, amountable even by time. But this can only be the case where the heart, extremely vulnerable by nature, like Miss Birchells, suffers itself to be so entirely immersed in that passion that all the other duties of life are swallowed up in it. And where an indolent turn of mind, a want of rational avocations, and perhaps of a new object all contribute to indulge and confirm the disease. This you know was not my case. I loved, tis true, but it was with temperance, and though my disappointment afflicted me, it did not subdue me. I got the better of it. I think I got the better of it even before I married, but sure I am I totally conquered all remembrance of it after I became a wife. I then laid down a new scheme of happiness, and was for a time in possession of it. How I was thrown from this is still bitter to remembrance. You well know what I suffered when I found myself deprived of my husband's love, and suspected of a crime at which my soul shrunk. But it pleased the just God to deliver me from this heavy misfortune, and I think the happiest days of my marriage were those which I passed with Mr. Arnold after our reunion. Then it was, I was thoroughly sensible, that the heart can love a second time, truly and ardently. But I was soon again plunged into affliction by the death of a husband and dear to me more than ever by his misfortunes. My grief for him was proportionate to my love, yet, my friend, as time is a universal conqueror, it might have healed this wound as well as the former one, and a few, a very few years would perhaps have disposed me to return Mr. Falklands still unabated passion, if a variety of circumstances had not interposed, that strongly forbade our union. Just as I was of this, I acted agreeably to the dictates both of my reason and my conscience, in persuading Mr. Falkland to make Miss Birchell his wife. I should have been grieved and mortified had he rejected her, and I had determined never to have seen him more. Yet how deceitful is the human heart! This very act which I laboured with so much assiduity to accomplish, and on the accomplishment of which I had founded I know not how a sort of contentment for myself, has been the very means of destroying what little peace of mind I was beginning to taste before. Sure that man was born to torment me in a variety of ways. If I was disappointed in my early love I had, however, duty and a consciousness of what I then thought superior worth to support me. If on his account I suffered cruel and injurious aspersions, the innocence of my own self-equited heart bore me up under it, that he has at length found the way to punish me without leaving me any resource. My pride is of no use. He has raised himself in my esteem superior to everything. His whole behaviour so generous, so candid, a love so disinterested, so fervent, what noble, what uncommon proofs he has given me of it, and at length what a triumphant sacrifice he has made of that over-ruling passion to the sober call of reason and humanity. He has left me, my dear, to gaze after him with grateful admiration, and sometimes perhaps to sigh that our fates rendered it impossible for us to meet. But if I do sometimes sigh it is not at the advantages of fortune which I might have enjoyed with him. No, no, surrounded as I am with distress I do not envy Miss Birchle's affluence or splendour. If that motive could have had weight with me I might have been mean enough not to have acted as I have done. It is the qualities of the man's mind I esteem. I think our souls have something congenial in them and that we were originally designed for each other, and if I believe the doctrine that teaches us that there are little officious spirits that preside over the actions of men, I should think that our two evil geniuses laid their heads together in conjunction with Miss Birchle's active demon to thwart and cross all our measures. I have nothing now left but to pray for the happiness of one whose lot in this life he has suffered me to determine and to beseech heaven that he may never stand in that fatal predicament which Sir George with such outrageous barbarity marled out in his vile letter. I now return to myself and to my present state, which I think I may say brings up the rear of my misfortunes. Let the chastisement stop here, and I shall bow me to it with resignation. October 29th. Ah, my Cecilia, what an aggravation is here to the already too deep regret I feel on Mr. Falkland's account. His triumph over me is now complete. In sorting my mother's papers as I am to leave these lodgings to-morrow, I found that letter which Mr. Falkland wrote to my brother George from Bath. You may remember I told you my mother had in her resentment flung it to Sir George, and that as it happened to fall on the ground he had quitted the room in a passion without taking it up. My mother, I suppose, when she called, laid it by, though I dare say she never looked into it afterwards. Read it, and see by what a fatality we have been governed. Mr. Falkland's letter to Sir George Bidoff, Bath, May the 9th, 1703. How you mortify me, my dear Bidoff, when you tell me of the happiness I lose by staying so long at Bath. The ladies are impatient to see me, say you. Ah, Sir George, thou hast spoke better of me than I deserve, I fear. I am sadly out of humour with myself at present. I have got into a very foolish sort of a scrape here. My wrist is quite well, and I should have thrown myself at Miss Bidoff's feet before now. But to tell you a secret, my virtue not being proof against temptation, I have been intercepted. It is but a slight lapse, however, a flying affair, neither my honour nor my heart, in the question. A little vagrant cupid has contented himself with picking my pocket, just lightly fluttering through my breast and away. Are you fallen so low as that, Falkland, say you, to buy the favour of the fair? No, George, no, not quite so contemptible as that, neither. And yet, faith, I did buy it too, for it cost me three hundred pounds, but the lady to whom I am obliged knows nothing of this part of her own history, at least I hope so, for my credit's sake. The case, in short, is this. An old, gouty officer and his wife, a very notable dame, a fine woman, too, happened to lodge in the same house with me. The man came hither to get rid of his aches, the lady of her money and her virtue, if she has any, for she is eternally at the card-tables. Under the conduct of this hopeful guide came a niece of the husband's, an extremely fine girl, innocent too, I believe, and the best dancer I ever saw. I don't know how it happened, but she took a fancy to me, which, upon my word, and I'm sure you have no doubts of me, I was far from wishing to improve. You know I always despise the mean triumph of gaining a heart for which I could not give another in return. I saw with pain her growing inclination for me, but as we lived in the same house and met every day in the rooms it was impossible for me to avoid her as much as I wished to do. The aunt, I found, had her eyes upon me, and took some pains to promote a liking on my side. I saw her design, and was so much upon my guard that she, who I soon found was an adept in love matters, almost as spared of gaining her ends. The young lady's inclination, however, seemed to increase. A pair of fine blue eyes told me so every day, and I was upon the point of flying to avoid the soft contagion, when an accident happened that totally overthrew all my good resolutions. I had not seen the young lady for two or three days, and I inquired for her, and her aunt answered with a mysterious smile, "'She is ill, poor thing, why don't you look in upon her and ask her how she does?' I replied, if the lady will permit me, I will do myself that honour, and intended literally to have kept my word by just asking her at her chamber door how she did. You are very cruel,' said the aunt, "'would you persuade me that you don't know the girl is in love with you?' "'Oh, your servant madam, if you think me vain, I thank you for the reprimand. Come, come,' said she, "'this is all affectation. We'll drink tea with her this evening.' On my word, said I, if I am to believe what you say, I think you ought not to desire me. I am not blind to the young lady's merit, but I am so unfortunate as not to have it in my power to make such returns as she deserves. I found the occasion required my being serious. "'If you have not love,' said she, you may at least have a little complacence. Was there ever such a barbarian not to go and see a woman that is dying for him?' "'I promise to bring you, and she expects you. What is the pretty creature afraid of?' patting my cheek. I'll stay by it all the while.' There was nowithstanding this. I promised to wait on her. She knocked at my door about six o'clock, and looking in asked if the coin our scissors was ready. I went with her, and she led me directly to her niece's chamber. The young lady looked pale and languishing, but very pretty. I was really grieved to see her, and inquired with an unaffected concern after her health. The tea-things were set, and I tried to force something like conversation, but I believe I was rather formal. When we had done tea, the aunt looked at her watch, started off her chair, said she had outstayed her appointment with the party she was to meet at Cardes, and turning to me, I hoped so you will have the charity to stay with my niece, and then hurried out of the room. I begged leave to hand her to her chair, intending to take that opportunity of slipping away, and resolve to quit the house the next morning, that the determined gypsy was prepared for this motion, and insisted that I should not stir, thrust me back from the door which she shut and flew downstairs. What was to become of me now, George? My situation was dangerous and really critical. To be short, I forgot my prudence and found the young lady's heart too, too tender. I never felt remorse before, I never had cause. I accused myself of indiscretion, but I have not the aggravating addition to my fault of oaths and promises to fly in my face. I made none. Love, foolish love, did all, and led a willing victim to his altar, who asked nothing in return for the sacrifice she offered, and received nothing but unavailing repentance on my side. I know not anything now that would give me so much pleasure as to find that the girl hated me heartily, though I have given her no cause. At just reparation I cannot make her everything forbids that thought. I do not consider myself as free, but if I were so, I am not a seducer, and therefore do not think myself bound to carry my penitence to such lengths. The damned aunt has been the serpent. And here let me explain to you what I call buying the lady's favour. You must know the aunt one night, the greatest part of which she had spent at Hazard, lost two hundred pounds at least, she told me so the next morning, and with tears in her eyes besought me in the most earnest manner to lend her that sum. She said she should be undone if her husband were to know it, and that she would pay me in a very few days, as she had as much due to her from different people who had lost to her at play. Though our short acquaintance could hardly warrant her making such a request, I nevertheless did not hesitate but gave her the money directly. She meant indeed to pay me, but it was in a different coin, and this I suppose was the price she set on the unhappy girl's honour. My reflections on this unlucky affair make me very grave. I have explained my situation to the young lady, and expressed my concern at not having it in my power to be any other than a friend to her. She blames her own weakness in her aunt's conduct, but does not reproach me. She cannot with justice, yet I wish she would, for then I should reproach myself less. It is a foolish business, and I must get off as handsomely as I can, prithee bid off, say something to encourage me, and put me into more favour with myself. You have often been my confessor, but I never wanted absolution so much as now, nor ever was so well entitled to it, for I am really full of penitence and look so mortified, you would pity me. I am ashamed of having been surprised into a folly. I ought to have been upon my guard, knowing the natural impetuosity of my own temper. I must not conclude without telling you that this very morning the precious aunt, instead of paying me the two hundred pounds she had of me before, very modestly requested I would oblige her with another hundred, to redeem a pair of diamond earrings that she had been obliged apart with, for the supply of some other necessary demands, and with abundance of smooth speeches she assured me, in a fortnight she would pay me all together, having notes to that value which would then become due to her. I was such a booby as to give it to her. Why? Bear it well, I never expect to see a shilling of it. She thinks perhaps there is value received for it. Vile woman! The affair, fortunately for us all, has not taken wind, and for me the names of both aunt and niece may ever stand enrolled amongst those of chaste matrons and virgins. The family quits this place soon, as the old gentleman is better. I thank you for your care in relation to my house. I hope to take possession of it in a week or ten days. You are very good in fixing me, so near yourself, adieu, I am, etc. What do you think of this letter, my Cecilia, written in confidence to my brother? Mr. Falkland could not conceive it probable that anybody but Sir George should ever see it. There is no reason, therefore, to gloss over any of the circumstances. Had I seen it, but in time—oh, what anguish of heart might we all have been spared? Miss Birchle singly, as she ought, would have borne the punishment of her folly. My mother had not the patience to read this letter through, nice and punctilious as her virtue was, she passed a censure on the crime in gloss, without admitting any paliating circumstance. But I blame her not. The excellence of her own morals made her scrupulous in weighing those of others. She read the letter in a cursory way, in his plain but half of it, prepossessed as she was before by knowing the material point. The account was given with levity at the first mention of the young lady. Then she understood he had bought her of her aunt. There is a paragraph which looks like it, and to be sure she attended not to the explanation. Fatal oversight! She read not far enough to have this matter cleared up. She took nothing but the bare facts into her account. A young lady dishonored, her disgrace likely to be public, then her tenderness for the man who had undone her and that man rejecting her and on the point of marrying another. These were the only points of view in which my mother beheld the story. Her justice, her humanity and her religion prompted her to act as she did, and her conduct stands fully acquitted to my judgment, though my heart must, upon this full conviction of Mr. Falkland's honour, sigh at recollecting the past. I know that the memory of my mother's own first disastrous love wrought strongly on her mind. She was warm in her passions, liable to deep impressions, and always adhered strictly to those opinions she first imbibed. Her education had been severe and recluse, and she had drawn all her ideas of mankind from her own father and mine, who I have been told were both men of exemplary lives. From all these considerations I must say again, that I entirely acquit my dear mother in regard to her whole conduct, however, I have suffered by it. October 30th I am now fixed in a very humble habitation. Shall I own it to you, my Cecilia? I was shocked at the change, a room, two pairs of stairs high with a closet, and a small, indifferent parlour, composed the whole of my apartment. Hither did my faithful patty, my two children, and myself remove this day. It put us not to much trouble having nothing to take with us but our wearing apparel, which is all the worldly goods of which I am now possessed. When I wrote to Lady V, which was a day or two before my mother's death, I mentioned not that she was then in so dangerous a way. I know the generosity and good-nature of that worthy woman, but I have already been too much obliged to her to lay any fresh tax on her friendship, which I am sure she would too readily pay if she were acquainted with my situation. I shall therefore as long as I can defer acquainting her with my mother's death, and when I do I shall not give her room to suspect that my brother has cast me off, which I have now too much reason to believe he has. Otherwise, sure, in more than a fortnight he might have found time to write to me. I neither expect ceremony nor tenderness from him, but the occasion of my letter demanded some notice. November 2. Patti has just now been informed that Lady Sarah Bidolf is arrived in town. She met one of their servants who told her that my brother is not come with her, it seems. They parted on the road. He is gone to Sydney Castle, which is now his, and Lady Sarah chose to come to London. She has, I found, been in London four days, though she is not yet vouched safe to send me any notice of her arrival. She could not be at a loss where to find me as I left my direction at my former lodging, in case of any letter or message coming from any of my friends, though I desired the people of the house not to inform any indifferent residents where I was to be found. Though George has, in his turbulent way, renounced me as his sister, yet sure his wife, whom I never disablaged, ought not to depart so from humanity in common good-breeding as not to inquire after the sister of her husband, who has an occasion of grief so recent in which she ought to partake. I shall not, however, take notice of this slight, but I am preparing to send Patty to her with an inquiry after her health, and to know when my brother is expected in town. Patty is just returned from her embassy to Lady Sarah. I will give you the conversation she had with her. Patty sent in her message with great respect by a footman, and waited for her answer in the hall, though her pretty figure and gentile morning-dress had induced the servant to ask her into the housekeeper's room. Lady Sarah was alone in the parlour and desired her to be called to the door. "'So, young woman,' said she, "'your mistress desires to know when Sir George will be in town. I am really surprised after the letter she received from him that she can fancy Sir George means to concern himself about her. Do you know her business with him? You are in your mistress's secrets, I suppose.' "'I do not know, madam,' answered Patty, "'what particular business my lady may have? But I believe it would be a comfort to her to see her brother in her present melancholy circumstances.' "'I don't know that there is anything uncommonly melancholy in her circumstances,' replied the lady. Her mother's years and infirmities made her death a thing to be looked for. I suppose your mistress is not in want.' My poor, ingenuous Patty, said she, blushed at the cruel indifference with which Lady Sarah spoke this. "'Not in immediate want, madam, I hope, but your ladyship must needs think she is in a destitute way with two children and but fifty pounds a year in the world. "'What do you mean, woman?' cried Lady Sarah. "'It is impossible, but Lady Bidoff must have left money behind her. Sir George, I am sure, has got nothing but what she could not keep from him.' Patty answered, "'Lady Bidoff, madam, left no money behind her more than what was barely sufficient to defray some necessary expenses that occurred immediately after her death.' "'Well, and so your mistress, I suppose, after having behaved so earless she has done to her brother, expects he should provide handsomely for her and her children, Arnold's children, for the rest of their lives. "'I know not, madam,' returned Patty, what my lady expectations are, but I believe she would be very glad to see Sir George before she goes out of town, or at least inform him of her design.' "'What is her design, pray?' asked Lady Sarah. "'To retire into the country, madam, as she is not wherewithal to subsist on in London.' "'She can't do better, I think,' said the lady. "'Where does she live now?' "'My poor maid, who thought this question tended to the proud woman's calling on, or at least sending to me, made haste to inform her. She lodges, madam, at a miller-nose at the corner of the hay market, the left hand as she turned, "'Oh, dear, pray stop! You need not to be so particular. I have no design of paying her a visit in her corner shop. My only reason for inquiring was to know whether she thought proper to keep those expensive lodgings her mother was in, in expectation of Sir George's continuing her in them. My lady has no such view, I believe, madam. Well, you may tell your lady that if she will go out of town with her children, I will endeavour to prevail on Sir George to allow her something. He will not be in town this month, so that she need not wait for his arrival. She might, if she would have been guided by her brother, have been a credit to her friends instead of what she now is. Patti owns, she was so full of indignation, that she wished at that moment not to have been a servant, that she might have reproached her with her hard-heartedness. Oh, my dear, these are the stings of poverty. It is not the hard bed nor the homely board, but the oppressive insolence of proud prosperity. It is that only which can inflict a wound on the ingenuous mind. As for that mean woman, I despise her too much to suffer myself to be obliged to her. She will endeavour to prevail on my brother. If his own heart cannot prevail on him, I disclaim her influence. I know she means not to use it in my favour. On the contrary, I make no doubt that she will endeavour to irritate Sir George against me by misrepresentations. Her pride makes her wish to have an indigent relation out of the way, yet her avarice would not suffer her to enable me to retire, and she will make my continuing here through necessity a pretense for still withholding any assistance from me. Let it be so, I would rather submit to the most abject drudgery than, oh, a wretched, dependent existence to such a woman. I am sure my brother, notwithstanding his resentment, if he knew what my situation truly is, would not behave with cruelty. But my mind has not become so sordid, fallen as I am, as to turn petitioner for relief. But no more, my Cecilia, let not my fate interrupt your happiness. November the fourth. I have had a letter from Mrs. Falkland, filled with the overflowing of a joyful heart. She says Mr. Falkland is so delighted with the country he is in, and finds his estate capable of such vast improvement that he thinks of making a longer residence there than he at first intended, the rather as he has some suspicions that his agent has not acted faithfully by him, and as he is sure the extensive plan which he has now laid down will be better executed under his own eye. He purposes building a little convenient lodge on a very charming spot in the centre of his estate, where he may reside whilst his works are carrying on. So that Mrs. Falkland promises herself much pleasure in spending her time partly there and partly in Dublin. She has already made a large circle of acquaintance and bestows high econiums on the great politeness and hospitality with which they are received by all the fashionable people in the county. She knows not of my mother's death, yet in my answer to her letter I cannot avoid mentioning it, though I could wish for obvious reasons to conceal it. Mr. Falkland well knows the ruin of our fortune, and though he cannot suppose while I have a brother living that I am driven to such straits, yet I know what his liberal heart may suggest to him on this occasion, which might lay me under fresh difficulties. I have, but just now, apprised Lady V of the decease of my dear mother, but have not insinuated any other grief than the loss of a tender parent and an agreeable companion. Indeed I have carried my dissimilation so far as not to desire this lady to change her address to me, lest if I gave her my present direction she might be led to think necessity had obliged me to change my former lodgings for worse. I shall use the same precaution towards Mrs. Falkland, as I have obtained permission from the gentlewoman whose house I lately left to have my letters sent thither. When I go into the country a general direction to the post-house may suffice. I shall now look out for some little spot to retire to, where I can support life on the cheapest terms. In two months I shall have my small pittance due to me which I reserve to carry me out of town, and to settle me in my new scheme of economy in the country. If I could persuade my poor patty to quit me and see her settled in some eligible situation I should then have no material concern to attend to, but the bringing up my children in the paths of virtue and humility. Humility, that happy frame of mind on which so much of our temporal, as well as our eternal welfare, depends. O my sister, in the midst of other sorrows I thought not of one that still remained behind, my children, my two little angels, both dangerously ill. The smallpox is their distemper and of the worst kind. The disease has been hanging over them for some days, and my close attendance on them prevented me from using my pen. The cruel distemper now appears with the most malignant symptoms. The eldest always slept with me. I have resigned my bed to her for these last three nights, and have watched by her. Patty has done the same by the youngest. A humane and skillful physician attends them, but my reliance rests not on him. November the 12th. Three days and nights of sorrowful anxiety have at length produced a little comfort to me. The distemper has now reached one crisis, whence the physician can form a judgment with some degree of certainty, and he bids me hope. Oh, if it were not for that healing word, how could the wretched drag on existence from day to day? I do, I will, hope, for there is a merciful providence that superintends his works. November the 21st. Thank God, thank God, my Cecilia, the dear babes are out of danger. Fifteen melancholy days and nights as their disconsolate mother watched by the poor little sufferers, but I am fully repaid by having them restored to my prayers. They are now able to sit up and open their pretty eyes, which had been closed for many days, and to add to my satisfaction, I think, they will not be marked. But they are still so feeble, that it will be at least another fortnight before I can think of venturing their little tender frames out of doors. The physician's care and diligence deserved a greater recompense that I had it in my power to make him. However, what I have done has reduced me to a single guinea. But this affects me not. I shall make no difficulty of parting with some of my now unnecessary fineries, which neither I nor my children probably will ever again have any pretensions to wear. November the 22nd. I have felt the wounds of grief, the pangs of disappointment, and the smart of indignation, yet was my heart never more sensibly affected than it was just now, by a circumstance proceeding from a cause very different from all these. I had taken out of my drawers a few superfluous ornaments, which I desired Patti to dispose of, as if they were her own, to the woman where we lodge, being things in her own way of business. The poor girl looked at me for some time with a grief in her countenance that pierced me to the soul. There is no need, madam, said she, with her voice almost stifled. There is no need, I hope, as yet for this. You don't consider, Patti, said I, that the children's weak condition requires now and more than ordinary attention to their diet, and I have not sufficient to supply them long with such necessaries as they want. I have no occasion for these trifles, and I cannot see my little one's droop, for want of such comfortable nourishment, as may restore them to their strength. Nor shall they want it, madam, answered Patti. Don't be angry with me, madam, if I beg you will let me use my endeavors to supply them. What do you mean, said I? I know the goodness of your disposition, but how have you it in your power? You know, madam, said she, I am pretty expert at my needle, and as our landlady has always abundance of work on her hands, I undertook to assist her, and have, for this fortnight past, while I was closely confined to Mrs. Room, finished a piece of curious work, for which she has this day paid me thirty shillings. You amaze me, said I. I never saw you employed, otherwise than in the attendance on the child. I was afraid you would be displeased, madam, she replied, and always hid my work when you came into the room, which I could easily do, as it was only a fine piece of point which I was grounding, and as I sat up day and night, I had an opportunity of sticking almost constantly to it, which enabled me to do it in a fortnight, what to another hand would be a month's labour. Now, madam, with your leave I can go on in this manner, and though perhaps I cannot always earn so much, yet I am sure I can still procure enough to prevent your being drove to the necessity of parting, with your apparel, till we are in a condition to leave such an expensive place as London is. And do you think, my dear Patty, said I, with tears of affection and gratitude in my eyes, that I will consent to take the fruits of your ingenuous and honest industry from you? No, no. If you can find time by these means to procure a little supply for your own pocket, do so, but I will not suffer you to expend a farthing of what you earn on my account. I saw she looked distressed and confounded. Excuse me, madam, said she, but I have made bold to lay out part of the money already. I thought the poor children would want a little wine to nourish them, and indeed, madam, your spirits want some support after your long fatigue. I have bought a few bottles of wine, madam, and some other little necessaries. I hope you will not take a deal. I pressed the affectionate creature's hand. I cannot be angry with you, Patty, for your goodness, but such proofs of it as these distress me more than my wants could. I accept of your kindness for this time, but insist on your not doing such a thing again. If there be occasion for it, I can apply my needle as well as you, and would sooner do so than part with any of my things, since it gives you so much uneasiness. The poor girl was rejoiced at my acceptance of her friendly and tender offer, and produced her little purchase, which was indeed both seasonable and useful. November the twenty-third. I had this day a letter from Lady V. I send you a copy of it. I condole with you, my dear Mrs. Arnold, on the afflicting loss you sustained in your good mother's death. You mention not any particular consequences from this accident, but I know that by Lady Biddell's death you are deprived of a considerable part of your income, and on this account I have taken the liberty of friendship to send you a supply which your family calls may require till your affairs are settled upon a better footing. Let me know how you and your brother stand. If he should not be so kind to you as he ought, I insist upon your looking on me as your banker, who know not how to make so good a use of my income as sharing it with those I love, as do you. I am, etc. The supply which Lady V. mentioned accompanied this letter, and was a bank-bill of three hundred pounds. I own to you, my Cecilia, that my first emotions were only those of joy, surprise and gratitude, for so unexpected and important a donation. But when those were a little subsided I began to reflect on the nature and manner of this noble act of friendship. I know Lady V. is one of the best women living, that she is generous and compassionate, and has always honoured me with a particular regard. Yet I must confess to you her present now comes to me suspected. I believe I told you that Lady V. had retired into Lancashire to live with an only sister she has there. This Lady is a widow, and I have since been informed, was left with a very numerous young family, and an income scarce sufficient to support them gently. They are now most of them grown up, and all the girls of which there are five unprovided for. Since Lady V's departure I have been told that it was principally on account of these young girls, of whom she is extremely fond, that she went to reside with her sister, in order to support them more agreeably to their rank, their father having been a general officer and a man of high birth. Lady V's jointure is a thousand pounds a year, but as I hear the family make a respectable figure in the country, I am sure Lady V's fondness for her nieces would induce her to save what she could in order to leave them something at her death. I cannot reconcile it to her prudence, notwithstanding the liberality of her spirit and the friendship she has for me, that she should make so considerable a present, and at the same time give me, as it were, an unbounded letter of credit on her. Had she sent me the sixth part of the sum, I should not have doubted it being only the effects of her kindness towards me, and in her present situation, as considerable a proof of it as she ought in regard to her family, to have given to one whom she is already bound under strong obligations. But the largeness of the sum renders it a suspicious, and to tell you the secret inspirations of my heart, I fear it comes from a different quarter. I made Mrs. Falkland acquainted with my mother's death about the same time that I informed Lady V of it. To neither did I give the most distant hint of my circumstances, yet Mr. Falkland knows they cannot be happy. He too knows better than anybody how far Sir George's resentment may carry him. Is it not natural, then, my dear, to imagine that this man, who is generosity itself, should have taken this method of making Lady V the channel through which he conveys his liberality? I am sure it must be so. It is three weeks since Lady V had the notice of my mother's death. Why thought she not sooner of reaching out her supporting hand if she imagined I stood in need of it? I gave her no cause to believe I did, otherwise I made no question of her real friendship. As far as her abilities would go. But she could not know, as well as Mr. Falkland how much my brother was exasperated against me, and therefore could not suppose me to be as destitute as I really am. She desires to know how my brother and I stand. This question is not hers. Sir George, for his own credit, perhaps has not told Mr. Falkland what his conduct has been towards me, but he wants to be informed. Contriving man, I will disappoint him, nor shall he heap such obligations on me as must sink me under their weight. I will not receive this suspected gift of Lady V's, but it is a delicate point, and whilst I refuse, I must take care not to offend. I will send Lady V her bill back again, but in such a manner as to show her I refuse her gift for no other reason, but it's being too valuable. November the 24th. See, my Cecilia, whether I have succeeded in my endeavours to refuse with a good grace my Lady V's offered kindness. This is my answer to her. To Lady V. You oppress me, my dear and ever honoured Lady V, by a generosity and friendship that shows no bounds. Why will you force me to appear proud or ungrateful by refusing the favours of so true a friend? But, my dear madam, do not believe me, either the one or the other. Had you sent me a trifling token of your love, you would have been convinced of my respect for you, by the thankfulness with which I would have accepted it. But do not seek to humble me so far, my good Lady V, by heaping favours on me, which I can never have a prospect of returning. With equal respect and gratitude permit me, madam, to return your too considerable present. I cannot in honour receive a liberality, which I am so little entitled to, and the less as justice now demands that your bounty's heart, so diffusive in its generosity, should a little restrain itself. I cannot say that my circumstances are as happy as they have been, yet have I, I thank heaven, accommodated my mind to them. My brother has not been in town since my mother's death, but I am not without hope that he will make my situation easy. On this account I know my dear Lady V will the more readily pardon my refusal of her obliging offer, and I believe that her goodness is not bestowed on an unthankful heart. I am, etc. In this letter I re-enclosed her bill and have sent it off. Did I not well my Cecilia? If, as I strongly suspect this present came from Mr. Falkland, I should never endure myself had I retained it. If it should have really come from Lady V herself, I must still approve my own conduct. The sum, circumstance as she is now, was certainly too much for her to bestow, or me to receive. And in the manner of my refusal I think I have insinuated this, with as much deference for Lady V's judgment as I could show. She will see my motive, and I think that will be a sort of touchstone whereby I shall discover from her behaviour whether my doubts are well grounded or not. Patti has, by her inquiries, heard of a little pleasant retirement in the country, about fifty miles off, where my children and I can be tolerably lodged and bordered for thirty pounds a year, at the house of an honest farmer, a relation of hers. Thither I shall repair as soon as my little girls are in a condition to be removed. Continued by Patti. November 26. The dismal task has fallen upon me again to keep an account of our melancholy days. My dear suffering lady is seized with a fever, and confined to her bed. She orders me, madam, to write down everything as it happens. Lord keep us, there is nothing but sorrows in this world, I am sure at least my poor lady has had her full share of them. Her close attendance on the children, and the loss of rest for so many nights, has brought this new affliction on her. Oh, madam, the loss of health is a grievous thing, even when they are riches, but what must it be in my lady's circumstances? But she has the patience of Job himself. To be sure, madam, her trials are enough to put another beside themselves, but I think my lady's courage increases with her troubles. I was obliged to-day, with an aching heart, to dispose of a fine lace-head of my ladies. I heard her say it cost sixty pounds, but though it never was wet but once, I got but fifteen for it, and this perhaps may all go to the doctor if my lady's illness continues long. What does it signify? We cannot buy health, too dear. November the thirtieth. My lady is better between wiles. The doctor says her disorder is chiefly on her spirits, and though it is not dangerous, he is afraid it will be very tedious. Lord, what will become of us all? December the third. My lady has had a letter this day from Lady V, which she has ordered me to send you, madam, a copy of. To Mrs. Arnold, you cannot imagine, my dear Mrs. Arnold, how uneasy you have made me by your not accepting of the bill I sent you, because I too well know the occasion you have for it. But since you have refused, and I know the sincerity and strength of your resolutions, I must not take to myself the merit of this friendly and generous offer. Too liberal indeed, as you with great delicacy hinted, for me to make. To let you into the secret at once, and that your gratitude may be directed to the proper place, it was from our noble friend, Mr. Falkland, that I received that sum, with instructions to send it to you as from myself. For he well knows, you would not have accepted it from him. But, since I see you are determined to reject it, as coming even from me, I think I ought injustice to him, to place this act of friendship to the right account. I had a letter, lately, from Mr. Falkland, wherein he tells me that, having heard from your correspondence with Mrs. Falkland, of Lady Bidolf's death, he fears you are, by her loss, rendered extremely unhappy in your circumstances. He is not a stranger to the losses you formerly sustained in your fortune, and he says besides, he knows your brother's warm temper so well, that he is apprehensive he will carry an unreasonable resentment he has taken up so far, as to deny you that brotherly kindness and assistance, which you have unright to expect from him. If this should be the case, he adds, what must be Mrs. Arnold's situation? He then conjured me to convey to you that trifle, as he calls it, under the sanction of my own name, that being the only one from which he had a hope it would not be refused. And he farther said that if you should be prevailed upon, on account of the friendship which he knew there was between you and me, to accept of my service, he would contrive from time to time to furnish you with such little supplies as might make you easy, till Sir George and you should be on better terms. Now, my dear Mrs. Arnold, you have the truth of this whole affair. I own it was with great reluctance, I lent my name to impose on you, but as it was so much for your benefit, I overcame my scruple. I could wish your extreme nicety had not forbid you to accept this offer. I have reason to be angry with you on this account. Yet my amiable sagacious friend, perhaps, you had your doubts. Be that as it will, remember, you said you would not have refused a small token of my love. I wish I could send you unworthy of your acceptance and the love I bear you. We should then see whose punctilio should get the better. As it is, I send you a very small token, which I insist on your taking, if you have the least occasion for it, if this should be the case I know the candour of your heart and that you will be too ingenuous to grieve me by a refusal. I hope Mr. Folkland will not be angry with me for betraying his secret, but what would it now avail to keep it? I would have you as well as myself know his worth. Oh, how I lament! But it is to no purpose. Adieu, my dear good creature, you are tried like fine gold, and your excellence is become the more conspicuous by adversity. I am, etc. My lady spirits were greatly affected by reading this letter. She wept bitterly, and was so cast down all day I was afraid it would make her disorder much worse. The good lady Vy enclosed a bill of fifty pounds in it. My lady said she must not refuse it, but would thank her ladyship whenever she was able to take a pen in her hand. God knows when that will be, for though she struggles with her illness, it still gets the mastery. The two young misses mend, but slowly. They do not gather the least strength and one of them has such a weakness in her eyes that she cannot bear the least light. Indeed, madame, this is a most melancholy family. I pray to God night and day to keep me in health, more for their sakes than my own, for I think it would quite break my heart if they should want my attendance, and should not be able to give it to them. December the sixth. I write on, madame, as I am ordered, though I have but little to say, in the confinement of a dismal sick room where I never see anybody but a doctor and an apothecary. But my lady is unwilling to let this packet go, till she is able herself to tell you with her own hand that she is better, for fear my delicance should make you uneasy. December the seventh. There is such changes and turns in my lady's disorder that we do not know what to make of it. One while we think she is a little better, and then again the next hour she seems much worse than before. The doctor would have a consultation, though my lady is quite against it, but these doctors love to bring in one another. My lady V's present came in good time, but if they go on at this rate it will not last long. My lady said to me to-day, Patti, I would think that I was of great consequence and mighty happy by this bustle to preserve my life, but there is the tie, pointing to the children, for their sakes I must try to get well. After an interval of six weeks written by Mrs. Arnold in a hand scarce legible. January the 20th. Restored at length by the mercy of God from the jaws of death, restored to my children, to my dear Cecilia, and just able to tell her with a feeble hand that her Sydney lives. January the 25th. I am now able, my dear, to reassume that task once the most pleasing of my life, when health, joy and prosperity gilded all my days. The scene is now changed, and I think I have nothing the same about me, but the feelings and affections of my mind. You cannot imagine, my dear Cecilia, how I am altered. You would not say now that you envied my white and red. You would hardly know me, and it is not to be wondered at, prayed on, as I have been for near two months, by a slow but tormenting fever. It is with difficulty that I hold my pen, that my willing hand obeys my heart, when it would pour itself out to thee. I have made a shift to scroll a few lines to my good lady V, to thank her for her kindness. I could not refuse it. It would indeed have been disingenuous considering the footing on which she put my acceptance of it. I should have been driven to extreme straits if it had not been for her present, confined as long as I have been to the languishing bed of sickness. January the 26th. Patty heard today that my brother has been in town some time, but he takes no notice of me. I have not a relation in the world but himself. He could not sure be so cruel if he knew all, but Lady Sarah keeps it from him. She thinks perhaps I am slunk into some obscure corner where she leaves me to distress. So George is not of a savage nature, yet his humanity is not strong enough to seek out the afflicted. His pride too, I know, is gratified by having me out of the way of observation, and so long as I do not call upon him, I find he will not inquire after me. The winter is now so far advanced, and I am in a condition so extremely weak, that I cannot, till the spring advances a little, think of taking my flight to my peaceful retreat in the country. I look eagerly forward to the time of my enlargement, such I may call it, for indeed my dear, my spirits are quite exhausted with my long confinement in a little close lodging in this irksome town. January the 27th. The gentle woman with whom I lodged in St Albans Street told Patty, who went to her house today to inquire if there were any letters for me, that there have been at different time several people of my former acquaintance to look for me, but I do not find that one inquiry has come from my brother. I had given the gentle woman instructions not to tell any stranger where I lodged. I believe this caution was needless. There are few who give themselves the trouble to trace out the steps of the unhappy, and I dare say that those whom common form obliged to pay me a visit of condolence on my mother's death, when none of them much hurt at the disappointment of not finding me. End of Section 34. January the 30th. I have been laying down a little sort of plan for my future life. I told you the terms I could live upon with the farmer whom Patty found out for me, but as I cannot expect to be bordered at so cheaper rate when my children are grown bigger, I have been devising the means how to enlarge my scanty income against the time that our wants must necessarily increase. For I am firmly resolved, my kind Lady V shall never augment the debt I already owe her. You know, my dear, I am pretty dexterous at my needle. The woman where I lodged deals in embroidery, which is much in fashion, and I think I have not seen any, although she pays largely to her artifices in this way, equal to some pieces of my own work. Now, my Cecilia, I have resolved to apply myself to this when I get into the country. I showed the woman a small fire-screen wrought by me when I was a girl, the same which I remember my poor Mr. Arnold accused me of neglecting for my horrors, and which had never been made up. She said the work was so curious that she would give any price for such a hand. Patty is well-skilled in this sort of work, too, and as I find she is determined not to quit me, I must in return endeavour not to let the poor girl be too great a sufferer for her kindness. I think we shall, between us, be able to do a good deal, and my landlady has promised to receive and dispose of our work for a small consideration, as fast as we can send it to her, which we shall have constant opportunities of doing. You cannot imagine how pleased I am with my scheme. Patty is in raptures at the thoughts of her being permitted to continue with me. I would even now set about my project if my health would allow me, but alas, my Cecilia, I am still so feeble. I am not able to sit up more than an hour or two at a time, and cannot walk across my narrow room without help. Fresh air and a little gentle exercise would, I am sure, more than anything contribute to restore my strength, but the means to procure these are not conveniently within my power, so that I must wait that slow but generally sure remedy. Patience. February the 10th. I have a wonderful incident to relate to you, my Cecilia. I know you will join with me in admiring and praising God for his gracious providence. This morning I was but just risen, and got down into my little parlour, when Patty came to tell me a man desired to speak with me. I immediately ordered him to be admitted. Patty accordingly introduced the person who had stood in the entry while she was talking to me. He seemed to be a man between forty and fifty years old, mean in his apparel, though clean. I nodded to my maid to leave the room, which, when she had done, I civilly demanded of the stranger his business. I was standing when he entered the room and continued doing so while I spoke to him, not thinking from his appearance that he was entitled to sit down with me. You know I am not proud, but there is a sort of usage established which we naturally fall into. The man who had advanced some steps into the room looked over his shoulder as if for a chair, so I understood the motion and accordingly sat down myself and bade him to do so too. He did so, and with an air as if he considered the civility to be only what was due to him. I believe, madame, said he, though you do not remember me, that you cannot be ignorant of your having had a relation of the name of Warner, who went to the West Indies about five and twenty years ago. I answered I do remember to have heard of such a person. You see that unfortunate man before you, he replied. I am your near relation, madame. Your father was my mother's only brother. I have been very unhappy. I lost in my return to England what almost five and twenty years industry had scraped together. The sum was but a moderate one, yet sufficient to have supported me decently for the remainder of my life. I asked him how it happened. I began, said he, to grow sickly abroad and was told that my native air might restore me. This advice so well agreed with my own inclinations, which were, for a long time passed, bent upon returning home, that I took the first opportunity of a ship bound for England. But we were unluckily met by a French privateer, who stripped me of everything but the clothes on my back, and set me on shore on the coast of Spain, whence I begged my passage to England having nothing to support me but a few shillings. Part of a collection made for me and my fellow saffras, amongst some English gentlemen. Whilst he spoke, I thought I could discover a likeness in his face to my father. He was reckoned extremely to resemble his sister, the mother of this unhappy Mr. Warner. She was a fine woman, and I had seen her picture. His story was credible, and I had no reason to doubt the truth of what he said. And here I will give you a brief account of what occasioned this unfortunate relation to be thus long an alien from his family. His mother, as you have now heard, was my father's sister, who threw her person in her fortune away upon a broken officer. This act disobliged my father so much, that from the time of her marriage to the hour of her death he never would see her. Her husband died, when this their only child was about nine years old. The poor mother survived him by a short time, and the orphan boy was left to my father's mercy. I have often heard him say he was very unlucky, and never could be persuaded into a love of his book. He was, however, put to school, and my father bestowed the same expense on his education as if he had been his own son. When he was about sixteen years old, as he wrote a good hand and had a great capacity for figures, he bound him apprentice to a merchant, in which situation he had been above a year, and during that time he had made several elopements, and was with difficulty reconciled to his master through my father's mediation. When he committed such a misdemeanor in his master's family, as obliged him to abscond. Accordingly he stole, unknown to anybody, on board a ship bound to the West Indies, of which his master was partly owner, where he hid himself, and nobody could tell what was become of him, till my father, about nine months after his departure, received a letter from him, dated from Jamaica, wherein he begged pardon of him and his master for his elopement, told him that he had been taken into a merchant's compting-house, and declared that he meant by his diligence and good behaviour to make amends for his past ill conduct. This was the only letter my father or any of his friends ever had from him. He answered it, but had no return, nor could he from repeated inquiries made two or three years after learn anything of him, so that all his relations concluded him dead. These particulars I had heard before from my father, and his relations perfectly agreeing with him in every circumstance, I could have no doubt but that he was the man. Sir, said I, I very well remember to have heard your story. Your likeness to my father, who was the image of your mother, leaves me no room to question your being the Mr. Warner of whom I have so often heard. You are indeed my near relation, and it grieves my heart to see you in such distress, and the more so, as I have not the ability I could wish to assist you. But we will talk over more particulars after breakfast. I rang the bell and ordered Patty to get some coffee. While we were at breakfast I asked my new fan, Kinsman, by what means he had discovered me so soon, for by the way I should have told you that he said he'd been arrived but two days in London. He answered that one of the English gentlemen, who had been kind to him in Cadiz, had given him a letter to a gentleman in London, for whom he was to leave it at a coffee house in Palmale. That as he was delivering it he perceived another letter lying on the bar, directed to Sir George Bidolf. The two names struck him remembering them to be those of his cousin. His uncle, he supposed, was dead, but he determined to inquire who that gentleman was, and if he found it to be my brother, to apply to him for assistance. He had soon an opportunity of being satisfied. My brother happened to come in his chariot to the door, just as Mr. Warner was going out. He knew the arms, and had some recollections even of his features. It was past three o'clock, said he, and I heard Sir George direct his servant home. I concluded he was going to dinner and that the morning was the properest time to call on him, and having informed myself where he lived, I accordingly went, yesterday morning. He stopped, and sipped his coffee for some time without speaking. And did you see him, sir? Yes, madam, I saw him and heard him, too. He's got a fine house and seems to have everything very elegant about him. When I was let into the hall, I desired the footman to acquaint his master that a gentleman, newly arrived from the West Indies, wanted to speak with him, being commissioned by Mr. Warner a relation of his to inquire after him. The footman went upstairs, and returning presently, asked me if I brought a letter from the gentleman I mentioned. I said no, but I had something to say to him. The servant, after delivering this message, came half-way down the first flight of the stairs and leaning over the banisters, he bid me walk up. I found your brother and his lady, I suppose, in her dressing-room at breakfast. There was tea and chocolate on the table. I bowed very respectfully. The lady scarce moved her head. Your brother said, your servant, sir, and viewed me from head to foot, but fixed his eyes earnestly on my face. The footman who introduced me had withdrawn. Sir, said I, have you quite forgot me? I remember you well, he answered hesitatingly, and with a change of countenance that bowed me no good. I protest, sir. I know nothing of you. Have you forgot your cousin, Ned Warner? He looked at his wife and she at him. He forced a smile at her, which she returned without knowing for what. I do remember there was such a one related to the family, whom we all supposed to be dead, as for recollecting his person, it is really so long ago that I—I can't say I do. All this while he let me stand. He was lolling in an easy chair and had a dish of chocolate in his hand, of which he sipped and spoke to me by turns. His wife was feeding a monkey that was perched on her shoulder. I am indeed more altered than you, Sir George. The hardships which I have undergone, and my long residence in a warmer climate, may readily account for that, but have you no traces of my features, no recollection of my voice? I have carried you many times in my arms. Sir, I do not dispute the identity of your person, but I should be glad to know your commands with me. Commands I have none, Sir. The poor must entreat, not command. I then proceeded to tell him my unhappy story, and the same words I just now gave it to you. His lady seemed not to mind me, but kept talking to her marmoset. He listened to me, but with so much impatience in his looks, has quite abashed me. I was still standing, but a little to take off the awkwardness of my posture, I had ventured to rest one arm on the back of a chair. When I had done speaking, your brother got up in a violent passion, to which he seemed to have been working himself up during the time I took to explain myself. He whisked away the chair on which I was leaning, and walked to the other end of the room, then turning to his lady. Is not this a pretty fellow to force his way in upon us by a sham story of a message from a relation? And now truly, by way of an agreeable surprise, he turns out to be that very relation come a-begging in his own proper person. Sir, said I, I ask your pardon for the liberty I took to gain admittance to you, but you will be the more inclined to excuse me if you pleased to consider that it was out of respect to you that I would not in the mean appearance I now make acknowledge myself to any of your servants. For the same reasons I imagined, that had I not sent a message which I was in hopes would have little interested you in my favour, I might have been ordered to send you my business by your footmen, which would I thought have been quite improper. You might have writ, said he, interrupting me. Ah, sir, shaking my head, if I had, and I stopped short, you might not have been much the better for it, is that what you would say, with a contemptuous half-sneer? In short, sir, I can do nothing for you. What is it that you expect I should do? I do not mean to be a burden to you, sir, I replied. I was bred to business. I write a good hand, and understand accounts. I hope to get into some merchants' house, but in the meantime I am starving. I am an utter stranger here, though in my own country. I observed he had slipped his hand into his breecher's pocket, and seemed to be feeling for a bit of money. Sir George, said the lady, who had observed him as well as I, tis to no purpose to give anything to these sort of people. Assist one, and they will send another to you, and so there is no end to such claims. Your brother withdrew his hand from his pocket as if checked by his lady's looks. Sir, it is not in my power to assist you. I then asked him if you were living, and where I could find you, for though you were not born when I left England, I heard afterwards that Sir Robert Bidoff had a daughter. Your brother replied peevishly he knew nothing of you, as you preferred the friendship of strangers to that of your relations. He then rang the bell and called his man to dress him, went out of the room without casting a look at me. I ventured to ask his lady your name, if you had changed it, and where you lived. She told me your name, but said she knew not where you lodged, adding I might spare myself the trouble of inquiring you out, for to her knowledge you could do nothing for me. I took my leave, but inquiring of a footman whom I found in the hall, he directed me to St. Albans Street where you formerly lodged. I went there, and it was with difficulty that I could prevail on the woman of the house, to tell me where you now lived, but my necessities made me urgent, and I waited on you this morning, madam, to make my distress known to you. But I am afraid the information I had from your sister-in-law concerning you has but too much truth in it. As he spoke this, he cast his eyes round my meanly furnished parlour, looked at the poor equipage of my tea-table, and again sift his unfinished and now cold dish of coffee. Sir, said I, when my sister informed you that I was poor it is certain she spoke truth. I am not, however, I thank God so poor, but that I can spare you a little. If you will take a cheap lodging near me, I will supply you with enough to pay for it, and if you can eat as I and my family do, you shall be welcome to us every day till something can be done for you. I see but very few people, but I will speak to such as come in my way, to try to have you recommended to some one for employment. I then put my hand in my pocket, and taking out five shillings, all the silver I had, I put it into his hand. Sir, you may owe some little trifle where you've slept these two nights. I fear your lodging has been but poor, but if this will not discharge it tell me freely. He suffered me to drop the shillings into his unclosed hands. He fixed his eyes eagerly on my face, but instead of replying to what he said he only cried out, Good God! Good God! and undoing two or three buttons at his breast, he sobbed as if his bosom were bursting. I was affected with his gratitude, and tried to disperse the tears that mounted to my eyes. I wish I could weep, said he, but I can't. And may these be the last tears that ever you shall have occasion to shed. My worthy, my generous, my pious relation, God forgive me for trying such a heart. But I will reward it. Amply will I reward your goodness. He then drew a red letter case out of his bosom, and opening it, he put a bill into my hand for two thousand pounds on the Bank of England. Think, my dear, how I stared at such a vision! Sir, you amaze me! It was all I could say. I beg your pardon for deceiving you, said he, but it was with a good intent. I suppose it is needless to tell you that I am not that poor, forlorn wretch that I represented myself to you. Hear the real truth of my circumstances. You see before you, of a private man, one of the richest subjects of these dominions. You have heard that my setting out was no other than that of a common writing-clark in a merchant's counting-house at Jamaica. From thence I wrote twice to your father, but never had any answer. I interrupted him to tell him I had heard my father say he had got one letter from him, and had written to him in return and afterwards made many inquiries after him, without success. Perhaps he might, said he, but I never received it, nor heard of any inquiries made, which peaked me so that I resolved never to write again. In a little time I made myself so useful to my master that he grew exceedingly fond of me, and having no heir but an only daughter, who it seems had conceived an inclination for me, though without my suspecting it, but which her father had by some means discovered, he frankly made an offer of her to me in marriage, with an assurance of leaving me all that he was worth at his decease, and an immediate proffer of entering into partnership with him. The only return he required on my part was to change my name, and assume his, which was collet. I made no scruple of complying, for though my regard to the young lady had never risen to what is commonly called love, I yet thought her in all respects an unexceptionable match. I married her, my patron punctually fulfilled his promise, and at the end of three years I found myself by his death in possession of a considerable estate. The following year I lost my wife in child-bed of her first child, who died with its mother. The changing of my name was probably the occasion of my not being found out by those employed to inquire after me, and I perhaps ought now to acknowledge myself careless in not acquainting my friends with my good fortune. I had such uncommon success in trade that my wealth increased amazingly. In about five years after the decease of my first wife, I married the widow of a merchant with whom I got an immense fortune. This lady I truly loved. She was an amiable creature. I had one son by her, a fine youth, and we lived happily together for twelve years, at the end of which it pleased God to take from me both wife and child. Poor man, his tears began to flow here. He proceeded, after this loss my own life began to grow tiresome to me. I had more riches than I knew what to do with, and had nobody to leave them to. My health began to decline. I grew weary of the place, and resolved partly to defer my melancholy, and partly through affection to my native country to see England once more. I settled my affairs in the best manner, sent considerable sums of money over before me, and brought a large one with me. During my voyage the whim took me that I would inquire privately after your family, and present myself to you as I have done, in order to make trial of your dispositions, resolving, according as I found you worthy of it, to share my fortune amongst you, as I knew I had no other relations in the world. I have been in England above a month. The first thing I did was to go down into Wiltshire, where I was soon informed that your father and mother were dead, and that your brother was married, and resided for the most part in London. You, I was told, had been married, and was a widow, but I could learn no more about you. On my return to town I soon found where your brother lived, and had the pleasure to hear a good character of him, but I had determined to make my own experiment on him, and I did intend, had he received me ever so kindly, to have made the same experiment on you, before I disclosed my plot to either of you. I dressed myself in these old clothes on purpose, and what the success of my scheme has been, you know. Your brother, narrow-hearted, inhuman wretch, I blot forever from my thoughts. It will be the better for you, though I have more than enough for you both. Your kindness, I tell you again, my valuable relation, I will replay and hundredfold, accept of that bill in your hand for your present use, I am sure you want it, and accept of it only as an earnest of my future friendship towards you. That brother, in affluence himself, who could see his sister, such a sister, want, must have lost all regard to ties of blood, and is no wonder that I, so much further removed in kindred, met with such treatment at his hands. See, my Cecilia, what an amazing turn of fortune! What could I do but lift up my eyes as I did my heart, in silent adoration of that God who is a father to the fatherless, and defendeth the cause of the widow? It was some time before I could frame my mind to discourse on ordinary subjects. I gratefully accepted my cousin's noble present. He inquired my nucleon to my situation. There was no need of concealing anything from him, nor did I attempt it. He was very inquisitive as to my brother's behaviour towards me. I told him the whole of it. He was even bitter in his invectives against him and Lady Sarah, but said he, I will have my revenge on them. I will make you triumph over him and that proud upstart, his wife. What lodgings you are in, my poor dear creature! Is this your best room? I told him I had nothing but that and a bed-chamber, where the children and I lay, and a closet for my maid. He desired to see the children, and I had them both brought in. He kissed them tenderly, poor babes. You have a cursed uncle, but you have a very good murmur, and I will take care of you all. I will dine with you to-morrow, said he, Let us eat a comfortable morsel together, and for your life, not a word of what has passed to anybody. He then took an affectionate leave of me and departed. Let me here lay down my pen and wonder at my fate. I have got into a flow of spirits, my dear, what scenes of happiness might now open before me. If happiness consisted in riches alone, but no, no it does not. My heart, broken by vexation, cannot recover its tranquility so soon. Yet is there room for joy, joy springing from a rational, from a humane, from a commendable motive, and I will a little indulge it. I can now, in part, return the vast obligation I own Mr. Falkland, as far at least as relates to pecuniary debts. I can now repay manyfold the kindness of my good lady V. I can provide for my affectionate worthy patty. I have the delightful prospect of giving my children an education suitable to their birth, and if my life is prolonged, of seeing them honourably and happily settled in the world. I shall have the glorious power of diffusing benefits. Oh, my dear, it is good for me that I have been in trouble. It is so enlarged my charity that I feel transports, which prosperity is a stranger to, at the bare idea of having it in my power to succour the afflicted. Who would not suffer adversity to have the heart so improved? End of section 35