 27 December 26 We are preparing to get into the country with all speed. I have writ to Patti to set out with the two children for Sydney Castle as soon as possible. Mr Arnold has put his affairs entirely into the hands of our worthy friend Lord V, and we think upon a calculation that what we have in town at South Park and at Arnold Abbey will go near to answer the present demands that are upon us. Lady V is the best creature living. She knows that neither Mr Arnold nor I choose to see any visitors, and she is letting none these two days. I am vexed at laying her under such a restraint, though her good nature will not suffer her to think it one. We shall go out of town on Monday. Tomorrow we spend with my mother, as do Lord and Lady V, who are mightily charmed with her, and then are due to London perhaps forever. If my mother comes down to me as she intends to do, I shall have no temptation ever to return to it. Sydney Castle December 30 Here I am, my dear, in the house of my nativity. Nor Sydney and her Arnold as happy as a king and a queen, or to speak more properly, happier than any king or queen in Christendom. My two dear little girls are well, thank God, and look charmingly. Poor babes! They could have no idea of their loss when I left them, yet they now seem pleased at seeing me again. My faithful patty is almost out of her wits with joy. I have no maid but her and an honest servant whom my mother left here to look after her house. Mr. Arnold has retained one of his men. The garden is taken care of by an old man in the neighbourhood, to whom my mother allows something for keeping it in order. With what delight do I recall the days of my childhood, which I passed here so happily? You, my dear Cecilia, mix yourself in all my thoughts. Every spot almost brings you fresh into my memory. The little Filbert wood, the summer house, the mount, and the chestnut close that you used to love so. But the sight of your old dwelling makes me melancholy. I think I could not bear to go into the house. The deserted avenue to me appears much darker than it used to do, and your poor doves are all flying about wild, and I think seem to mourn the absence of their gentle mistress. Oh, Cecilia, how exquisite are the pleasures and pains of those of two nice feelings. You, whose sensibility is as strong as mine know this. From what trifles do minds of such a turn derive both joy and grief? Our names, our virgin names, I find cut on several of the old elm trees. This conjures up a thousand pleasing ideas, and brings back those days when we were inseparable. But you are no longer rivers, nor I bid off. Then I think what I have suffered since I lost that name, and at how remote a distance you are from me, and I weep like a child. But away with such reflections, I am now happier, beyond comparison happier, I think, than I was before my afflictions overtook me. Mr. Arnold's recovered heart I prize infinitely more than I did when he first made me an offer of it, because I am sure he gives it now from a thorough conviction that I deserve it, and therefore I am certain never to have it alienated again. January the Fourth It is almost three years since I left this place, and the welcomes I have received from all our old neighbours and acquaintance have given me more satisfaction than I can express. Mr. Arnold is highly pleased with the marks of affection which he sees me daily receive from those who have known me from my infancy. I am the more delighted with it, as I think it gives me an additional value with him. It is a proof at least that I never misbehaved during the long number of years that our former friends knew me, and we must need to be pleased to see the object of our love approved of by others. As I speak from my own experience, Mr. Arnold is exceedingly caressed by all our friends and seems equally delighted with them. You know, we have some of the best of people in the world amongst our old set of acquaintance. If you, my mother, and good lady V, were within my reach, I should think Sydney Castle a paradise. I have had two letters today, one from Lady V and the other from my dear mother. Lady V tells me her lord is bustling about for us to put affairs in the best condition he can. She says he has already got a purchaser for the lease of our house in St. James Street and all the moveables in it as they now stand. They have been valued at two thousand seven hundred pounds, as most of our plate is there as well as our chariot and a pair of horses. This is fallen very short of our expectations. But Lady V says she is sure there was not more allowed for the furniture than half their original value, though they have not been a great while in use. She tells me that my lord has employed a person to go down to Arnold Abbey to dispose of the things there, but she fears we shall receive a very indifferent return from thence, as there is but part of the furniture of Mr. Arnold's putting in, the old goods being together with the house, going to the widow. My lord's steward at V Hall has instructions about South Park. He writes word to his lord that he believes the whole of what is there will not sell for more than four hundred pounds. The house indeed was but small and the furniture not expensive. Mrs. Gerard, he says, has had an attachment laid on her house by a person who built some bobble for her in her garden, for which he claims a debt of ninety pounds, though the steward says it's not worth thirty. All things, however, my lady adds, shall be adjusted in the best manner we can, and my lord will not let Mr. Arnold be distressed on account of any deficiency that may happen in these sales. What a duel my Cecilia is an honest warm friend. The contents of my mother's letter are that Sir George was married yesterday to Lady Sarah Peay. She says the bride was most extravagantly fine, but looked neither handsome nor genteel. This was much for my good mother to let drop from her pen, but I know she never liked Lady Sarah, nor did her ladyship ever treat her with a regard due to her character and to the person of one who was to stand in the close and respectable degree of relationship to her, which my mother now does. But I believe I have before told you that the blessings of good sense and good temper are bestowed but in a moderate degree on Lady Sarah, and for a woman of quality Lady V tells me, for I have never seen her, her breeding is not of the highest form. But you know a great fortune covers a multitude of imperfections in the eyes of most people, and I hope her love for my brother will make her a good wife. January the twenty-third I am grown a perfect farmer's wife and have got a notable dairy. I am mistress of three cows, I assure you, which more than supply my family. Then I have the best poultry in the country and my garden flourishes like Eden. Mr. Arnold is such a sportsman that we have more game than we know what to do with, but his chief pleasure is hunting. Your little namesake promises to be the greatest beauty in the county. Dolly, who is a pretty little cherry-cheek, and her father's great favourite, prates like a parrot. How delightful would be the task of expanding and forming the minds of these two cherubs. How joyfully and how thankfully do I look back on the troubled sea which I have passed. My voyage indeed was not long, but my sufferings were great while they lasted. I never since I was married enjoyed life till now. You know, my match was originally the result of duty to the best of mothers, and though, if I ever knew my own heart it was absolutely freed from all attachment to any other person, yet was it not so devoted to Mr. Arnold as to have made him my choice, preferably to all other men. If I had not resolved in this, as in every other action of my life to be determined by those to whom I owed obedience. When I married Mr. Arnold I esteemed him, a sufficient foundation in the person of a husband whereon to build love. That love, his kindness and my own gratitude in a little time produced in my heart, and I will venture to say few wives loved so well, none better. You know, I could never bear to consider love as a childish divinity who exercises his power by throwing the heart into tumultuous raptures. My love, though of a more temperate kind, was sufficiently fervent to make Mr. Arnold's coldness towards me alone capable of wounding my heart most sensibly. But when his coldness was aggravated by the cruel distrust which he was taught to entertain of me, the blow indeed became scarce, supportable, and I did not till then know the progress he had made in my affections. Sorrows my Cecilia soften and subdue the mind prodigiously, and I think my heart was better prepared from its sufferings to receive Mr. Arnold's returning tenderness than an age of courtship in the gay and prosperous days of life could have framed it to. I exalt in his restored affections and love him a thousand times better than ever I did. He deserves it, I am sure he does. He was led away from me by enchantment, nothing else could have done it, but the charm is broke, thank heaven, and I find him now the tenderest, the best of men. Every look, every word, every action of his life is expressive of a love next to adoration. Oh, I should be too happy if the blessings I now possess were to be my continued portion in this life. There is, however, but one about which I can rationally indulge any fears—my mother. Her years and her growing infomities will not suffer me to hope for her being long absent from her final place of felicity. You always used to say I anticipated misfortunes. This event may be farther off than my anxious fears sometimes suggest to me, so no more of it. March the tenth. My good Lady V writes me word that all our business is finished. The whole amount of our effects came but to three thousand four hundred pounds. Our debts, including some charges which have occurred in the transacting of our affairs, exceeded eight thousand. Our worthy Lord V has paid the whole, and has made himself our only creditor. We have nothing now that we can call our own, but my jointure. I do not reckon upon my mother's bounty to us. Our income from her and the house we live in will be so George's, whenever it is our misfortune to lose her. But she tells me she is well, and talks of coming down in a fortnight. March the eleventh. I am here in a scene of still life, my dear, and you must now expect to hear of nothing but such trivial matters as used to be the subject of our journals, when we were both girls, and you lived within a bow-shot of Sydney Castle and saw me every day. The last three months of my life have glided away like a smooth stream, when there is not a breath of wind to ruffle it. And after you have read the transactions of one day, you know how I pass all the rest. I have told you of everybody that came to see me, and all the visits that I returned. I have given you an account of all our old acquaintance, and of some new ones. You know what my amusements are, and what my business. Indeed, what I call business is my chief pleasure. You who are surrounded by the gayities of a splendid court, have need of the partiality which I know you have for your Sydney, to desire a continuation of her insipid narrative. But I suppose if I were to tell you that on such a day my white guinea hen brought out a fine brood of chickens, you might be as well pleased with it as I should be to hear from you of the birth of an arch duchess. Indeed, my Cecilia, there is such a saneness in my now tranquil days, that I believe I must have recourse to telling you my dreams, to furnish out matter of variety. March the 19th. We have had a wedding today in our neighbourhood. Young Main, Patty's brother, has got a very pretty young gentlewoman with a fortune of five thousand pounds. It seems this pair had been fond of each other from their childhood, but the girl's fortune put her above her lover's hopes. However, as he has for a good while been in a very great business, and has the reputation of being better skilled in his profession than any one in the country, he was in hopes that his character, his mistress's affection for him, and his own constancy, would have some little weight with her family. Accordingly, he ventured to make his application to the young woman's brother, at whose disposal she was, her father having been dead for some years, but he was rejected with scorn, and forbid the house. The girl's father, it seems, had been a humorist, and left her the fortune under a severe restriction, for if ever she married without her brother's consent, she was to lose it, so that in that particular instance of disposing of her person, she was never to be her own mistress. In the disposal of her fortune, however, he did not so tie her up, for after the age of one and twenty, she had the power of bequeathing her fortune by will, to whom she pleased. The brother, who is a very honest man, had no motive but to regard to his sister's interest in refusing poor Mr. Main, a man of a good fortune had proposed to her, whom the brother impotuned her to accept of, but she was firm to her first attachment. The young lover found means to convey a letter to his mistress, in which he told her, that as he was in circumstances to support her gently, if she would venture to accept of his hand, he would never more bestow a thought on her fortune. This proposal, the prudent young woman declined on her own part, but advised him to make it to her brother, as she was not then, without suspicions, that he wished to retain her fortune in the family, and that it was only to save appearances he had proposed a match to her, of which he was sure she would not accept. But, in this opinion, she injured him. She thought, however, the experiment might be of use, in giving the better colour to her marrying afterwards, the man whom she loved. But it was an ill-judged attempt, and succeeded accordingly, for if the brother should have given his consent, he could have no pretense for withholding her portion, or if he did, by so mutual agreement, his motive for denying his consent before must appear too obviously to be a bad one. The young people not considering this sufficiently resolved to make the trial, accordingly Mr. Maine wrote to the brother a very submissive letter, telling him he would, in the most solemn manner, relinquish all claim to his sister's fortune, if he would make him happy by consenting to the marriage, without which he said the young lady's regard for her brother would not suffer her to take such a step. This letter had no other effect than of making the brother extremely angry. He sent a severe message to the young man to acquaint him that he looked upon his proposal as a most injurious affront to his character, but that he was ready to convince him and everybody else that he had no designs upon his sister's fortune, as he would not refuse his consent to her marriage with any other man in the country but himself. This was a thunder-clap to the poor lover. He comforted himself, however, with the hopes that his mistress's heart would determine her in his favour, notwithstanding the severity of the brother. There had been, it seems, besides this gentleman's not thinking Maine a suitable match for his sister, some old family-peak between him and Mr. Maine's father. These transactions happened some time before I came to the country. Just about that juncture, the poor girl had the misfortune to receive a hurt in her breast by falling against the sharp corner of a desk from a stall on which she had stood in order to reach down a book that was a little case over it. This accident threw her into a fit of illness which put a stop to all correspondence between her and her lover. In this illness a fever, which was her apparent complaint, was the only thing to which the physician paid attention, and the hurt in her breast was not inquired after, so that by the time she was tolerably recovered from the former the latter was discovered to be in a very dangerous way and required the immediate assistance of a surgeon. You may be sure poor Maine was not the person pitched upon to attend her. Another was called in of less skill, but not so obnoxious to the family. By this bungler she was tortured for nearly three months, at the end of which time through improper treatment the malady was so far increased that the operator declared the breast must be taken off as the only possible means of saving her life. The young gentleman's family were all in the greatest affliction, she herself seemed the only composed person amongst them. She appointed the day when she was to undergo this severe trial of her fortitude. It was at the distance of about a week. The surgeon objected to the having it put off so long, but she was peremptory, and at last prevailed. On the evening, proceeding the appointed day, she conjured her brother in the most earnest manner to permit Mr. Maine to be present at the operation. The brother was unwilling to comply as he thought it might very much discompose her, but she was so extremely pressing that he was constrained to yield. The attending surgeon was consulted on the occasion, who having declared that he had no objection to Mr. Maine's being present, that young man was sent to. He had been quite inconsolable at the accounts he received of the dangerous state in which his mistress was, and went with an aching heart to her brother's house in the morning. He was introduced into her chamber, where he found the whole surgical apparatus ready. The young woman herself was in her closet, but came out in a few minutes with a countenance perfectly serene. She seated herself in an elbow chair, and desired she might be indulged for a quarter of an hour to speak a few words to her brother before they proceeded to their work. Her brother was immediately called to her, when, taking him by the hand, she requested him to sit down by her. You have, said she, been a father to me since I lost my own. I acknowledge your tenderness and your care of me with gratitude. I believe your refusal of me to Mr. Maine was from no other motive but your desire of seeing me matched to a richer man. I therefore freely forgive you that only act on which you ever exercise the authority my father gave you over me. My life I now apprehend is in imminent danger. The hazard nearly equal whether I do or do not undergo the operation, but as they tell me there is a chance in my favour on one side, I am determined to submit to it. I put it off to this day on account of it being my birthday. I am now one and twenty, and as the consequences of what I have to go through may deprive me of the power of doing what I intended, I have spent this morning in making my will. You, brother, have an ample fortune. I have no poor relations. I hope therefore I shall stand justified to the world for having made Mr. Maine my heir. Saying this she pulled a paper from under her gown which she put into her brother's hand that he might read it. It was her will, wrote by herself, regularly signed and witnessed by two servants of the family. Sir, said she, turning to the other surgeon, as soon as my brother is withdrawn I am ready for you. You may imagine this had various effects on the different persons concerned. The brother, however displeased he might have been at this act of his sisters, had too much humanity to make any anima diversions on it at that time. He returned the paper to his sister without speaking, and retired. Poor Maine, who had stood at the back of her chair from his first coming in, had been endeavouring to suppress his tears all the time. But at this proof of his mistress's tenderness and generosity it was no longer in his power to do so and they burst from him with the utmost violence of passion. The other surgeon desired him to compose himself, for that they were losing time and the lady would be too much ruffled. The heroic young woman, with a smiling countenance begged of him to dry his eyes, perhaps, said she, I may recover. Then, fixing herself firmly in the chair, she pronounced with much composure, I am ready. Two maidservants stood on each side of her, and the surgeon drew near to do his painful work. He had uncovered her bosom and taken off the dressings when Mr. Maine, casting his eyes at her breast, begged he might have left to examine it before they proceeded. The other surgeon with some indignation said his doing so was only an unnecessary delay, and had already laid hold of his knife when Mr. Maine, having looked at it, said he was of opinion it might be saved, without endangering the lady's life. The other, with a contemptuous smile, told him he was sorry he thought him so ignorant of his profession, and without much ceremony putting him aside was about to proceed to the operation, when Mr. Maine, laying hold of him, said that he never should do it in his presence, adding with some warmth that he would engage to make a perfect cure of it in a month without the pain or hazard of amputation. The young lady who had been an eyewitness of what passed, for she would not suffer her face to be covered, now thought it proper to interpose. She told the unfeeling operator that he might be very sure she would embrace any distant hope of saving herself from the pain, the danger, and the loss she must sustain if he pursued the method he intended. She was not, however, so irresolute, she said, as to desire either to avoid or postpone the operation if it should be found necessary. But as there was hope given of a cure without it, she thought it but reasonable to make the experiment, and should therefore defer the decision of her case to a third person of skill in the profession, by whose opinion she would be determined. The two women servants, who were always professed enemies to surgical operations, readily joined in her sentiments, and saying it was a mortal sin to cut and hack any Christian, they made haste to cover up their young lady again. The disappointed surgeon hardly forebore rude language to the women, and telling Mr. Maine he would make him know what it was to reduce the skill of a practitioner of his standing, marched off in a violent passion, saying to his patient, if she had a mind to kill herself, it was nothing to him. The modest young man, delighted to find the case of his beloved, not so desperate as he had supposed it to be, begged she would permit him to apply some proper dressings to the afflicted part, and conjured her to call in the aid of the ablest surgeon that could be procured, took his leave. The brother of the lady, being apprised of what had passed, lost no time in sending Annexpress to Bath, and by a very handsome gratuity, induced a surgeon of great eminence to set out immediately for his house, who arrived early the next morning. But in the meantime poor Maine had like to have paid dear for his superior skill in his profession. The other surgeon had no sooner got home than he sent him a challenge to meet him that evening in a field at some distance from the town. They met. Maine had the good fortune after wounding to disarm his antagonist, but first received himself a dangerous wound. This accident was kept from the knowledge of his mistress, but on the arrival of the surgeon from Bath, as he would not take off the dressings, but in the presence of the person who put them on, it was thought proper that both Mr. Maine and the other man should be sent for. The latter was not by any means in a condition to attend, but the former, though very ill and feverish, desired that he might be carried to the house. The Bath surgeon, having in his and the brother's presence examined the case, declared it as his opinion that the complaint might be removed without amputation, adding that it was owing to wrong management that the grievance had gone so far. He consulted with Maine in the presence of the family as to his intended method of treating it in the future. He agreed with him entirely, with regard to the propriety of it, and having assured the friends of the girl that he thought him as skillful and ingenious young man took his leave, being obliged to return directly home. The testimony of this gentleman, whose skill was undoubted, and whose impartiality must be so too, having never seen any of the parties concerned in his life before, wrought so much on the brother of the lady that he did not hesitate to put his sister under the care of her lover. Poor Maine, though scarce able to leave his bed for some time, was nevertheless carried to his patient every day at the hazard of his life. His skill, his tenderness, and his assiduity were all exerted in a particular manner on the present occasion, and in less than five weeks he had the pleasure to see his mistress restored to perfect health. The consequence of this incident was very happy for them both. The brother, exceeding pleased at his whole behaviour, told him he was an honest, generous fellow, and since he was convinced it was his sister's person, and not her fortune he was attached to, he would with all his heart bestow both on him. And accordingly Mr. Arnold and I had this day the satisfaction of seeing this worthy young pair united in marriage. My patty is not a little delighted at her brother's good fortune. The honest youth, who has ever since his father's death supported his mother, and as many of the younger children, as were not able to gain their own livelihood, has now invited his sister patty to live with him. But the faithful girl declined the offer, telling her brother she would never quit me, while I thought her worthy of my regard. I look upon myself to be much obliged to her for this, as the station she is now in cannot be so advantageous as I hope to make it when I first took her into my service. But I will make up in kindness what may be wanting in profit. Indeed, I consider her rather as a friend than a servant, and Mr. Arnold always treats her with respect. March the 20th. I am very uneasy at not having it in my power to fulfil my promise to poor Miss Birchell. But that is a string I dare not as yet touch upon. Indeed, I cannot bear any conversation that leads to the subject. Whenever Mr. Arnold begins to accuse himself for his unhappy conduct in relation to Mrs. Gerard, which he often does, I always stop him or turn the discourse to something else. He never speaks of her now, but with a contemptuous indifference, and is so firmly persuaded that she went off willingly with Mr. Falkland, that I dare not as yet deceive him, which I must necessarily do, should I express even a wish that Mr. Falkland should repair the niece's wrongs by marriage. Mr. Arnold knows nothing of Miss Birchell's affair. I went once, so far as to say, I had heard Mr. Falkland formally liked this young lady. Mr. Arnold answered, I am glad it went no farther than liking. If it had, probably I should not have been so soon delivered from my thralldom to her aunt. This reply silenced me. I am exceedingly perplexed about it. Would to heaven Mr. Falkland would have himself think of doing the amiable unhappy girl justice. My mother writes me word that Sir George had informed Mr. Falkland by letter of the success of his project, and that his answer was full of congratulations and expressions of joy. He is now in Italy, but talks of returning to England next summer. He says he hears sometimes from Peevee, and that he and his wife live very well together. My mother says she often sees Miss Birchell, and that she encourages her with the hope of what may happen when Mr. Falkland comes back. If this match should ever take place, it would give me most sincere satisfaction. The girl's family is not contemptible, her fortune is pretty large, her person lovely. The unfortunate false step she made is an entire secret, except to the persons immediately concerned, so that, with regard to the world, her character too is good. Mrs. Gerard at worst was only her aunt by marriage, but if that circumstance should be the only rub in her way to happiness, I would sooner declare the whole affair and run the risk of Mr. Arnold's being let into this ticklish secret than to be a hindrance to the poor young creature's welfare. This affair never comes across me, but it makes me sigh. God send a favourable issue to it. March 26th. Alas, my Cecilia, we have received most heavy news. My good Lord V, that steadfast, that worthy, that best of friends, is no more. He was preparing to go to V Hall three days ago, but was seized with an apoplexy as he was coming downstairs to go into his coach, and died before any assistance could reach him. Oh, we have a severe loss in the death of this most dear and valuable man. But why do I mention our loss? His Lady, poor Lady V, is most distracted, and well she may. The loss of husband's father's everything. His eldest son, who is abroad, is sent for home on this melancholy occasion. My poor mother is afflicted exceedingly. Everybody that knew him must be so. Mr. Arnold and I have lost more than a father. How self-recurs every minute, let me think of Lady V again, and not dare to complain on my own account. But my obligations to him were of such a nature as claim all my gratitude to his memory, and all the tears that I have abundantly shed for him. Mr. Arnold is largely in his debt. We have no room to expect the same friendship from the present Lord V that we experienced from his father. The circumstance did not occur to me till poor Mr. Arnold put me in mind of it. My thoughts were too much absorbed in grief, which the death alone of our friend occasioned. My mother hinted at it too in her letter to Mr. Arnold, for it was to him she wrote the mournful tidings. What a dark cloud of sorrow is now spread over Sydney Castle, and how this stroke has imbitted our little domestic joys. But let me not carry my complainings into presumptuous murmurings. I have lost a sincere and truly valued friend. But do I not still possess infinite blessings? My husband, my dear Mr. Arnold, my two sweet children, the best of mothers, and thee, my ever-beloved Cecilia, whom I still call mine, though at such a distance from me. Then I comfort myself with reflecting that Lady V has sons, who I hope will be a blessing to her, that her fortune is affluent, and that my lord had passed through a well-spent life to a pretty advanced age. He was turned of sixty. All these considerations sooth my mind, and I acknowledge that upon the whole I have by far more cause to be thankful than to repine. March the thirtieth. Lady V's journey down to V Hall, having been so fatally prevented, she is obliged to remain in London. The shock she received has brought on her a fit of illness. I find my lord has not left any ready money. His fortune was large, but as they always lived in great splendour, he laid none of his income by. The whole sum which he could command, he laid out for our use. My lady's jointure is pretty considerable. If it were ten times more she deserves it. Oh, may her sons prove worthy of such a parent. The youngest I hear is a very fine youth. He has come to her from Oxford to comfort her, till the arrival of his eldest brother. My mother writes me word that her old friend, Lady Grimstone, is dead. She has left her whole fortune to charitable uses, not a sixpence to either of her daughters. Poor Mrs. Veer! She is content with her little income and has no loss of so unnatural a parent who carried her vindictive spirit with her to the grave. As for the eldest, she did not stand in need of any assistance from her, but I own, though I had no greater steam for Lady Grimstone, I could not help being shocked at the brutal behaviour of her son-in-law to her and her last hours. She had never seen either him or her daughter from that time I told you they had quarrelled. But when she found herself dying she sent a message to this favourite daughter, desiring to see her. Her husband, whether out of disregard to the old lady or his wife or both, absolutely refused to let her go. My mother remarks on this passage in these words. Thus was this unfortunate parent punished in kind for denying her late husband the satisfaction of seeing his youngest daughter when he was in the same circumstances with herself. My mother is nevertheless very much troubled for the death of her old acquaintance, who, she says, was a valuable woman. She considers her decease as a memento, which warns her of her own approaching end, for they were just of an age. I fear my mother is not well, though she does not say so, for she has put off her coming down to Sydney Castle without giving me a reason for it. April the twenty-second. I thank you, my beloved Cecilia, for your cordial wish. Your opinion that all my troubles are at an end is consonant to your desires, but I doubt far from the real fact. The young Lord V is returned home, but oh how unlike that honest man whose title and fortune he inherits! How deceived were his worthy parents in their hopes of him! He is a stranger to every sentiment of virtue. I have had a letter this day from my Lady V, where she laments the degeneracy of her son, whom they were made to believe a pattern of excellence, but the tutor to whom they entrusted him was as profligate as himself. In short, she says he is quite a reprobate. She is not the least authority or influence over him. She laments this, particularly on our account. We are indebted to him near five thousand pounds, and my Lady says she fears he will press Mr. Arnold. He is profuse, she says, in his expenses, without being generous. What can we do, my dear? There is not the least prospect now of our being able to pay this money, but by our selling the only remaining stake we have left. Had my Lord lived, he made us hope that by his interest he could procure Mr. Arnold some employment, which would have enabled him to discharge this debt at his ease without ever being obliged to strip ourselves of our all. As we purposed living with the utmost economy, this might have been accomplished in a few years. This prospect is now lost to us. We must submit. I have begged of Mr. Arnold to think immediately of selling my jointure, for we have no reason to expect any leniency from a man of such a character as the present Lord V is. We can subsist upon the income which my mother is so good as to allow us. It is precarious, it is true, but something may happen. I rely on that providence who has hitherto protected me. April the twenty-eighth. Lady V's apprehensions were but too well founded. We have had a letter from her son's agent. The debt must be paid, and we are come to a resolution to sell two hundred and fifty pounds a year. We shall then have but fifty pounds a year in the world which we can call our own. I reckon not upon my mother's life. These afflictions I fear will hasten her departure to another world. From Sir George we have nothing to expect. He is absorbed in vanity. His new alliance is engrossed him entirely. My dear Lady V writes us words she will do her utmost to promote Mr. Arnold's interest. She has numerous and powerful friends, and says she makes no doubt of obtaining something for him worth his acceptance. Believe me, my Cecilia, I am not disheartened at this fresh blow. If my dear Mr. Arnold could reconcile himself to it, I could be well contented. I will not now, though you used to accuse me of it, anticipate misfortunes. We have still enough for the present to live on decently, and if my Lady V's kind endeavours shall succeed, we may yet be happily provided for. I will not let the thought of my mother's death interfere. Let me but calm the anxious fears of my poor Mr. Arnold, and all will be well. May the Twelfth, thank God we have done with the merciless Lord V. His money is to be paid directly to him. I have recovered my tranquillity. I enjoy my little in peace, and have the comfort to see Mr. Arnold's mind more at ease, and reconcile to his lot. To Lady V's goodness, as well as my own earnest endeavours, I impute this. She says she has the promise of an honourable and profitable post for him, but we are to wait some months for it. The person who is now in possession of this place is to be preferred to a better, and she says she has the word of an honest man on the occasion. He is a very great man, too, says my Lady in her letter, but, as it is on the first part of his character chiefly we are to depend, I mention the other only by the by. Now, my dear, have I not reasoned to be contented? A thankless heart should I have if I were not, but I am indeed my Cecilia I am, and I begin again to be happy. Our domestic felicity was but disturbed for a while. It was not overthrown. Here will I close. I have an opportunity of sending this immediately by a private hand to my beloved. Here Mrs. Arnold's maid Patti continues the journal. May the fifteenth, by my lady's audits, I take up the pen, and she has charged me to set down every particular. God knows I am ill able to do it, but I will strive to obey her. My poor dear lady is in such trouble! She has not the heart to write nor scarcely to do anything. My master! Oh, madam, how shall I express myself? My poor master! Now he is so good! We are going, I fear, to lose him! I must write, according to my lady's custom, everything in the best order I can. You cannot think, madam, how happy they have lived together ever since my lady came home to him again. He seemed to grow fonder and fonder of her every day. I believe he perfectly adored her, and he had reason. You know, madam, my lady was always used to a chariot, but they never attempted keeping one since they came down to Sydney Castle. She asked my master once if he had a horse, quiet enough for her to venture to ride on to church. I observed my master turned away his face and put his handkerchief to his eyes. I believe he thought of a little favourite pad that he had given to Mrs. Gerard. I have not won my love, said he, that I would trust you on. You had once a pretty horse that you were fond of, but my desperate folly has not even left you that. But I will look out for one that will suit you. No matter, my dear, said my lady, smiling, and taking them by the hand, I will ride double. I think that will suit me best. Dearest of women, said my master, and he fetched a deep sigh. When shall I be able to make you amends? He lamented hourly the loss of his fortune for her sake. What would become of you, my dearest creature, my two young children, said he, when he was obliged apart with her jointure, if I should die before you, and then he cried and wrung his hands. My lady begged of him to put such melancholy thoughts out of his head, saying they never disturbed her. I hope, said she, I shall never see your death. But, if it pleases God to punish me so far, a little, a very little, will content me for the rest of my days. My master embraced her and the sweet children, and said, if heaven spared in life, he would yet be the happiest man in the world. Many a time have I been witness to such discourse between them, for they knew my love for them was so great that they would never scruple talking of their affairs before me. Oh, madam, I believe there was never a truer penitent than my master. My dear lady has said to me since they were forced to spend her jointure. Patti, though we are now reduced to little more than two hundred pounds a year, I have much more comfort than when we had twelve. I have the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Arnold such as I wish him. He is an altered man. Patti, he is truly virtuous, and I am sure he loves me now from right reason. I am content with the little that has left us. I always prayed for her prosperity, but, madam, God is pleased to order things otherwise, and we poor cine mortals think the best. My lady has always been good and pious, and I hope he will yet bring her out of her troubles, though they are great and many. My lady always charged me to be minute and to write particulars, but, good madam, excuse the silly way I put my words together. I have not yet come to the dismal part of my story, and I hardly know how to go on. For indeed I am forced to break off every now and then to cry. Reason enough I have to be sure, but what is my sorrow compared to my ladies? The day before yesterday my master was asked by some gentleman in our neighbourhood to go hunting. He had no mind to go, for my lady was not very well, and he was unwilling to leave her, but she persuaded him because she knew he loved hunting dearly. She has blamed herself for it ever since, but she could not know by enchantment what was to happen. He left my lady in bed, and went out about five o'clock in the morning. At eight, as my lady was sitting at breakfast and I attending, the other maid called me out. Our man, who had gone abroad with my master, was in the kitchen and looked as pale as death. I asked him what was the matter? The poor fellow could hardly speak, but at last said, my master has got a desperate fall in leaping a ditch, and I am afraid has hurt his skull. He is lying at Farmer Hill's cottage, and one of the gentlemen is rid off for a surgeon, but that is no place for him. We must get him home, but I thought it best to prepare my lady before she sees him. My lady rung her bell before I could answer him. I ran in, but I am sure I looked like a ghost, for my lady started when she saw me. Bless me, Patty, said she, what is the matter? Not much, madam, said I. He is killed! she cried, and sprung out of her chair. Indeed, he is not, madam, I answered, standing between her and the door, but he has got a fall, and is a little hurt. She made me no answer, but flew downstairs, out at the front door, and down the avenue as quick as an arrow. I ran after her, and the other servants after me. We could not overtake her, but she was soon stopped, for she met my poor master, born by four men. I suppose she thought he was dead, for she fainted away directly, and we carried her in after him. My master was put to bed. He was alive, but not able to speak. He had got a dreadful cut in his head, and was sadly bruised besides. As soon as my lady came to herself, we told her my master was not killed. She went into his room, but had not power to speak, but sat, like a stone statue at his bedside. The surgeon came in less than half an hour. I believe he is but a sorry one, for after he dressed the wound he said, there was not danger in it. At first we were all in hopes that it was so, for about two o'clock, my master got his speech again. He complained of sickness at his stomach and violent pains all over him. My lady, on hearing him speak, seemed to be roused, as if out of a deep sleep. Several of the gentlemen who had been out with my master had come to inquire how he did, and though some of them came into his chamber, my lady did not speak, nor seem to regard any of them. The first word she uttered was to call me. Patti, said she, what is the reason I do not see Mr. Main here? It was my brother she meant, who is a surgeon, and I believe, madame, she has mentioned him to you, as one that is reckoned pretty skillful in his business. One of the gentlemen immediately said, by all means, let him be sent for directly. My brother was soon fetched, and he thought proper to bleed my master in the arm. He would not take the dressings off his head as the other surgeon had declared the skull was not touched, but said he would be present when the wound was dressed the next day, and would watch all night by my master. My lady was not to be removed from the bedside, nor could we persuaded to take any sustenance the whole day. My poor master was in a high fever all night, and I thought he strove to stifle his groans that my lady might not hear them. She did, for all that, and I am sure every one of them was worse than a dagger to her heart. She stole out of the room several times for a minute, and I could hear her, bursting into tears as soon as she was with outside the door. Then she would come in again, and sit by him till her heart was again so full, she was forced to go out to give it vent. The whole night passed over in this dismal way. When my master's head was examined the next day, my brother found that the skull was not touched where he had received the cut, but that it was broken in two other places, and in so dangerous a way that it was impossible to save his life, as it was not an apart where it could be triphanned. The other surgeon who found he had been mistaken at first, now joined with my brother in opinion that the world could not save my master's life. Oh, madam, if you had seen my lady when this was declared to her, I shall never forget her looks. I remember a piece of fine painting at your house, which I used to hear your family commend mightily. It was a picture of despair. My lady put me in mind of this piece. She had the very countenance of it, but I think if she had then sat to a painter, he could have made a stronger and more heart-breaking look, even than that picture has. Such another dismal day and night, I believe, never was passed in this house. My brother stayed with us, though he could do but little service except to watch my poor master, for he was between wiles quite out of his reason. No rest did my lady take all last night. She could not be got out of the room. She has tasted nothing these two days, nor slept a wink these two nights. She will destroy herself. What will become of us? I have roped my lady bit off to let her know the deplorable condition we're all in. My God, what will become of the poor children if my lady goes on at this rate? She cannot hold out to be sure. Such load of sorrow at her heart without nourishment or sleep. No, my good madam, I'm not able to go on with my task. We have not the least hopes in the world. My master grows worse and worse every hour. He has his reason now and is sensible that he is dying. Heaven knows if I could lay down my life to save his, how gladly I would do it. I should be no loss, but he will be a grievous one. Lord, help me, I'm not able to go on. I have writ this by bits and scraps. Mr. Main In Continuation May the sixteenth, three o'clock in the morning, Mr. Arnold has been delirious the greatest part of yesterday, but about six o'clock in the evening, having come a little to his senses, he was conscious that he was going fast, and decided that prayers might be read by him. His lady sent for the minister of the parish, but he was gone to London. The gentleman who he'd left to do his duty was taken ill the night before and was not able to leave his bed. He sent the messenger that went for him to another clergyman who lived about four miles farther off, to request he would attend in his stead. But he was engaged in the same duty in his own parish and could not come, he said, till next morning. The servant had wasted above two hours on this errand. It was nine o'clock when he returned. Mr. Arnold, during this interval, had had several ramblings, but was now again a little composed, though apparently worse. I whispered the apothecary, who had just come in, that he could not live till morning. Mrs. Arnold observed me and begged to know what I said. I told her tenderly that I feared Mr. Atkins—that was the clergyman's name—would arrive too late if he deferred his visit till next day. She made me no answer, but seemed to study a little, then went composedly to Mr. Arnold's bedside. My dear, said she, Mr. Atkins is unluckily from home. His assistant is sick in bed, and we cannot tonight get any other clergyman to visit you. But as you are desirous of offering up your prayers to Almighty God, I hope it will not be improper if I read the service for the sick by you. He stretched out his hand towards her and said, in a faint yet eager voice, Do, do, my good angel! Tears stood in the lady's eyes as she turned from him, but she quickly wiped them off and requested of me and the apothecary to join with her in the solemn office she was going to perform, which she said, though she was sensible it was an irregular act, yet she hoped from the necessity of the case would be accepted in the sight of God. She ordered my sister to fetch her a prayer book and then kneel down at Mr. Arnold's bedside. Surely nothing ever appeared so graceful. Her fine hands and her fine eyes lifted up to heaven while the book lay open before her on the table. Such a reverential, such an ardent, yet such a mournful supplication in those fine eyes. She looked like something more than human. After having in this posture offered up a short petition in silence, she began the service. Never did I see true devotion before. The fervour of her looks and the tone of her voice was such. You would have thought she beheld her creator with her bodily eyes. For my part I looked on her with such reverence that she appeared to me like an angel interceding for us poor mortal sinners. She went through the office with admirable strength of mind, omitting the exhortation, till she came to that part of the prayer which says, yet for as much as in all appearance the time of his dissolution draweth nigh, etc. Here her voice faltered and she stopped, but soon recovered herself and proceeded with an unbroken tone to the end. Every one present wept but herself. She thanked us for our kindness in staying, and begged we would continue by poor Mr. Arnold, while there was the least possibility of administering any relief to him. I told her I would most willingly obey her commands and sit up all the night with him, though it was not in human power to give him any assistance. She repeated her thanks, and then sitting down by the bedside, remained composed and silent. About twelve o'clock, finding Mr. Arnold speechless, I entreated her to retire to her own chamber, and if she could not sleep to take some little refreshment, for she had taken nothing that whole day, nor for the two preceding ones, but a dish of tea which my sister had forced on her. Mr. Maine, said she, suffer me to continue a little longer. My task will soon be over. I was unwilling to urge her, and she remained sitting in her place. About two o'clock, we heard Mr. Arnold give a deep groan. He is gone, said she, and started off her chair. I stepped to his bedside and found, indeed, he had breathed his last. She snatched up one of his hands that lay upon the coverlet of the bed, held it for near a minute to her lips, and then, without any audible token of grief, went out of the room. I pray God to support and comfort this excellent woman. Patti, in continuation. Amen, amen! Sure, my dear unhappy lady is enough to break one's heart to see her. I was not able to go on, good madam, and begged of my brother to set down what happened, and he has put it in better words than I could. My lady shut herself up for the remainder of the night, and would not suffer anyone to come near her. It is easy to guess how she spent her time. Rest, to be sure, she took none. She could not, if she had been inclined, for there was no bed in the chamber where she locked herself up. In the morning, a lady who was our neighbour, a worthy, good woman, came in her own coach, and took away my lady and the two children. She neither consented nor refused, but seemed to let us do what we would with her, for she said nothing, but suffered the lady and me to lead her downstairs and put her into the coach. But the sight of the two children threw her into such an agony, that I thought I should have died on the spot only with seeing her. I have writ again to Lady Bidolf, if she is able to be sure she will come down, but I'd rather she would send for my lady, for this is a sorrowful place for her to stay in. May the twentieth, my lady has received a letter from her mother, desiring her to come to town directly with the children. She says she is not able to come down for her, as her health is but bad, and my Lady V has been so good as to send down her own coach to carry the little family to town. My brother has taken the care of my master's funeral upon himself. He is to be carried to the family burying place at Arnold Abbey. As soon as that is over, we must try to get my lady to town. She has no business to go into her own lonely house again. It would be enough to kill her. May the thirtieth, thank God we have got safe back to London. My lady keeps up wonderfully under the load of grief that she has in her heart. She does not complain nor lament herself, as I have seen some do, who have not been in half her trouble. She hardly spoke a word during her whole journey, and strove as much as possible not to cry, but I could observe that she never turned her eyes on the two little babes, one of whom sat on my lap, and the other beside me, but the tears ran down her cheeks. It was a dull full sight, the meeting between her and my Lady Bidolf. The poor old lady grieves, sadly, and looks mighty ill. I am afraid she will not hold out long. She has had great trials for a lady so far in years. Sir George came to see my lady. He looked troubled. I hope he will be good to her. June the first. My lady asked me this morning if I had thought of keeping any journal for this fortnight past. I told her I had, and she desired to see it. She shed so many tears while she read it, that the paper was quite wet when she gave it to me again. She ordered me to make up the packet and send it off, as she was not in a condition to add anything to it herself. Mrs. Arnold, in continuation. June the thirtieth. Yes, my dear Cecilia, I have need of the tender condolments with which your last kind packet was filled. Well, may you call me a child of affliction. I am now so exercised in sorrows that I look forward to nothing else. Patti, I find, has been a faithful journalist, and has carried down her melancholy narrative to this day, this day on which for the first time I have taken a pen in my hand for more than two months. But my eyes are much better, and I hope I shall not have occasion for the assistance of her pen, unless some new calamity should again disqualify me from using my own. Yet in the midst of my griefs ought I not to return thanks to heaven, that I have such an asylum to fly to, as the arms of one of the best of mothers. O my dear, while I have her, I ought not to say that I have lost everything. Sir George has been more obliging since my fatal loss than he was before, but still there once that cordial heart which he formerly had. As for his lady, I know very little of her. She came to see me twice, since my arrival in town, in all the formal parade of a state visit. How ill does the vanity of pomp suit with a house of mourning! Her visits were short, formal, and cold. She seems to be intolerably proud, and I thought looked as if she was disgusted at visiting people in lodgings who were so nearly related to her. My brother and she are to go down this summer into Scotland to see a nobleman who is her uncle by her mother's side. She is ridiculously vain of her family, and has taught Sir George to be so too, so that now he can hardly vouchsafe to own a relation that is untitled. June the 21st, Lady V, whose friendship has been one of the chief resources of comfort to me, went out of town this morning. She is retired, for life, I fear, to a distant part of Lancashire, in order to spend the rest of her days with her eldest sister, a widow-lady, of whom she is very fond. Her son's ill behaviour has disgusted her so. She has broke with him entirely. Her younger son has gone into the army, not I find with her approbation, and she told me she has nothing now worth living for, at least nothing for which she could subject herself to the cares of life. She insisted on my corresponding with her, and renewed her assurances of that kind attachment, which I have already so strongly experienced. At another time the loss of this dear woman's society would have affected me more sensibly, but I am so inured to disappointment and grief, that I am almost become a stoic. Patti has already informed you that Miss Birchell is often with us. She is more solicitous, more assiduous than ever in her attendance on my mother. I find she even sat up with her two nights, on an illness which seized her on her first hearing the news of my misfortune. Poor girl! my mother tells me she went so far as to express her apprehensions on my being again single, but my mother quieted her fears on that head, not without a soft reprimand for her doubting, by putting her in mind that besides the circumstances not being altered in regard to her, she had received my solemn promise that whenever it was in my power I would use my whole influence, whatever that might be, in her favour. I did make her such a promise, and shall fulfil it to the utmost. Mr. Falkland's absence from the kingdom hitherto put it out of my power, nor would I, without my beloved Mr. Arnold's participation, have ever attempted it. Had he lived fully restored as I was to his confidence and good opinion, I should have ventured to disclose the secret to him, and got him to join with me in such measures as I should have thought best for Miss Birchell's happiness. It now rests upon myself alone, and I will leave nothing unattempted to serve her. June 22nd You will be surprised, perhaps, my Cecilia, when I tell you that Mr. Falkland is now in England. Miss Birchell told me so this day. She mentioned it in a careless manner, rather directing her discourse to my mother. She had too much delicacy to hint at consequences of any kind from this circumstance, and quickly turned from the subject. My mother asked her impatiently when he came, where he was, and several other questions, to none of which she could give any answer, but that she heard he had been returned above three months, and was at his seat in Hertfordshire. I am surprised Sir George never mentioned this to me, to be sure he knew it. He is not extremely nice in his notions, however. This is a decorum for which I am obliged to him. Lady V doubtless was ignorant of it, or she would have told me. There is nothing now to prevent me from warmly interfering for Miss Birchell. Charming young woman, how is she to be pitied? The tedious years of suspense, of almost hopeless love that she has passed, deserve a recompense, and her little boy, my mother tells me, is a lovely creature. Miss Birchell brought him once to see my mother. Mr. Falkland's former housekeeper visits the child often, and has brought his mother frequent and large supplies for his use. I told Miss Birchell, at parting to-day, that I had not forgot my promise, and that as soon as decency would permit, nothing should hinder me from being a most strenuous advocate for her. She squeezed my hand and whispered, Dear madam, my fate is in your power. I would it were, then, should she soon be happy, but I will acquit myself as far as I am able. June the twenty-third I was prevailed on to dine at my brothers to-day, the first time that I have been abroad ever since I came to town. I had no mind to go, but my mother not being well had excused herself, and she said it would be taken amiss if I did so too. Lady Sarah herself having made the invitation. Her ladyship said, I need not be fearful of meeting strangers at her house, as it was to be a private day. So much the better thought I, nothing else should induce me to go. It was the first time I was in Sir George's house, which is a very magnificent one, within a door or two of Mr. Falklands in St. James's Square, as Lady Sarah did not approve of that which he had before. But, my dear, the ostentation of this woman made me sick! Such a parade of grandeur, such an unnecessary display of state and splendour! I thought looked like an insult upon me. I was carried into a most sumptuous drawing-room, but as this was a private day, as she called it, the furniture was all covered up with body-cloths, and the room, having been newly washed, felt extremely cold. I was told her ladyship was dressing, that was then, as I imagined, her dinnertime. After I'd shivered here for about half an hour, Lady Sarah's woman came to desire me to walk upstairs. As the woman did not know me, and from the little ceremony she saw me treated with concluded I was some humble visitor, she took me up the back stairs to her lady's dressing-room, where I found Lady Sarah, who was not yet half-dressed, in consultation with her milliner. The woman was trying some head-dresses on her before the glass. She made me a very light apology for having kept me waiting so long, and to mend the matter told me, as she was not near ready, if I chose looking at the house I should have time enough to do it before dinner. I thanked her, but said I had already sat so long in the cold that I felt myself chilled, and with her ladyship's permission would place myself at her fireside till dinner was ready. She asked her woman carelessly why had not been shown into the dining-parler. She then turned to her milliner again to whom she gave a particular charge to have a suit of very rich point, which she had fixed on done for her against the next night, by which I found my sister was going to throw off her mourning entirely, that which she had on being so slight that it was scarcely to be distinguished for such. My brother entered the room while she was thus employed, and having saluted me looked at his watch, and asked Lady Sarah had she ordered dinner later than usual? She told him she had ordered it half an hour later than the ordinary, as she had a mind to make a long mourning having dedicated it to tradespeople, with whom she had a hundred things to do. My brother cast a side-glance at me. I thought he looked a little abashed at the impertinence and ill-breeding of his wife. Lady Sarah had by this time huddled on her clothes, a laced footman appeared at the door who summoned us by a silent bow to dinner. The milliner gathered up her frippery and put them into a band-box telling her she should wait on her ladyship again. Lady Sarah answered, You have a monstrous way to go, Mrs. Blank, I forget the name, and, as I have not half done with you yet, you may stay and dine here as we are alone, and I will look over the rest of the things in the evening, as I shall not have another leisure-day while I am in town. This was going a little too far, Sir George felt it. I believe Lady Sarah said he this gentle woman has a coach waiting for at the door. He had seen it, for he was but just come in. Perhaps it may be inconvenient to detain her. She may leave the things and call another time. The woman took the hint, though she before seemed inclined to accept the honour Lady Sarah had done her. She made her curtsy and withdrew. As this, however, had brought on a variety of fresh instructions, it detained us so long that the dinner was quite cold. Nor was our repast had it even been warm, by any means answerable to the elegance of the service, the superb side-board, and the number of attendants. In short, the dinner was composed of a parcel of tossed-up dishes that looked like the fragments of a feast. You know there is nobody more indifferent to the pleasures of the table than I am, yet I own that this, joined to the rest of this foolish woman's behaviour, nettle'd me extremely. There was such a mixture of sordidness and vanity in the whole apparatus has made it truly contemptible. I made haste to put an end to my visit as soon as I possibly could after dinner, with a resolution never to repeat it. From these few sketches of Lady Sarah you may form some kind of an idea of what sort of a creature it is. I should pity Sir George, but that I think her disposition is not extremely opposite to his own. June the 24th. I am told that the widow Arnold is actually married to that vile attorney who was the contriver and more than partner in her iniquity. I am really glad she has lost the name of a family to which she was such a disgrace. Everybody now believes that I and my children have been greatly injured, but how unavailing is compassion! It only mortifies when it is expressed by the pitting words and looks of people who have it neither in their power nor inclination to assist you. This Mrs. Arnold, bad as she is, is visited and caressed. Favour always follows the fortunate. June the 25th. This day Sir George and his lady set out for Scotland. He came to take his leave of us, but made an apology for Lady Sarah, whose hurry could not permit her to call on us. My brother says they shall stay some months at her uncle's, Lord Kay. He told me at parting he should write to me as soon as he got to his journey's end, having something very particular to say to me. July the 7th. I have read over my journal of the last fortnight, and am startled to think what a poor, insignificant being I am. Not a single act worth recording even to you. My whole life perhaps may have passed so, yet one is apt to fancy that they are doing something of importance while they are engaged in the little bustle of the world, be it ever so trifling a manner. And when you find you have a variety of incidents to relate in which you yourself were concerned, and your time has not been spent in vain, but for these last fourteen days had I kept a journal for my cat, I think I should have had as much to say for her. July the 8th. I shall grow busy again. I have received the promised letter from Sir George, an extraordinary one it is, but I will not anticipate the contents, read them yourself. Dear Sydney, July the 4th, 1706. I have a serious subject to offer to your consideration, which made me the rather choose to engage your attention in this manner than in a conversation between ourselves, liable as that would be to interruptions, objections and frivolous punctilios from which you have already suffered so severely. I have paid so much regard to that decorum of which you are so fond, as never to have mentioned Mr. Falkland's name to you since you were become a widow, though it is near four months since he returned to England. As I kept a correspondence with him when he was abroad, you may be sure I informed him of your reconciliation to your late husband, a reconciliation which, if you thought it a happiness to you, you were indebted to Falkland for. This single circumstance it was that inclined him to return to England, which otherwise perhaps he would never again have seen, though the necessity of his affairs here, which he had left at random, required his presence. To avoid giving umbrage to your husband, he repaired privately to his house in the country, where I paid him a visit. Few of his friends except myself knew of his being in the kingdom. Remember, Sydney, the great obligations you have to Mr. Falkland, and let that prepare your mind for what I am going to say. You are now become a free woman. Falkland loves you still with an unparalleled affection. I had a letter from him soon after your arrival in town, wherein he mentions the revival of his hopes from your present situation, and intrigues me to be mindful of his interest. He charged me, however, not to mention his name to you, till a decent time was passed. Otherwise, probably, you would have been acquainted with these particulars sooner, but Falkland himself has a little too much of that ridiculous nicety which you admire so. I think I have waited till a very decent time, as you have now been almost three months a widow. I have very little reason to imagine that my influence on this occasion will have any weight either with you or my mother. I have had proofs of this already, but I hope you will not be so blind to your own interest as to refuse the good that fortune once more throws at your feet. I can hardly suppose you so weak as to let the absurd objection which formerly prevented your happiness still prevail with you to reject the same happiness so unexpectedly again offered to your acceptance. My mother and you have by this time learned how to forgive human frailties. Indeed, you forgave such enormities that Falkland's transgression in comparison to them was innocence, but I will not reproach the memory of the dead. Whatever pretense you might formally have had to carry your punctilioes to an extraordinary height, certain circumstances in your life have now made your situation very different. You are destitute of fortune, encumbered with children. Reflect on this, and let your own imagination supply the rest. To anybody but yourself I should think all that I have said needless, but I know the minds that I have to deal with. I must take this opportunity of telling you that I am surprised at my mother's continued attachment to Miss Burchell. She is an artful creature, and I think by no means a proper acquaintance for you. I am far from wishing to injure her, but such an intimacy may be dangerous. You will certainly hear from Falkland before it be long. I repeat it again. You owe him more than ever you will be able to repay. The recompense he desires will ensure your own happiness and prosperity. Your gratitude as well as your prudence will now be put to the test, and your conduct on this occasion will determine me, as to the light in which I shall henceforth consider you. Present my duty to my mother. Lady Sarah desires her service may be accepted. I am, etc. What a letter is this, my sister! But Sir George is still himself, gross, void of sentiment. He dreams of nothing but the glaring advantages that fortune and rank in life procure. And how he argues too! Weak, arguer! He will not suppose that the object, absurd he calls it, which formerly prevented my happiness, should still prevail with me to reject the same happiness. Why not? Is the nature of Mr. Falkland's offence changed? Has he ever repaired it? Has not Miss Birchell the same claim she ever had? Nay, a stronger than ever, if years of unabated love can give it to her. My mother and I have by this time learnt to forgive human frailties. Nay, we forgave enormities! Unkind, brother, to rake up the unfortunate ashes of my beloved. We have indeed learnt to forgive human frailties. But they were the frailties of a husband, a repenting husband, who was seduced to the commission of those crimes which he abhorred. But surely that is no plea for my overlooking the faults of another, to whom I am under no such tie. I am now without fortune and encumbered with children in delicate man. Does he think that an argument in favour of his proposal? It is a strong one against it. Shall I, who when I was in the virgin bloom of youth, flattered with some advantages of person, which time and grief have since impaired, and not destitute of fortune, I, who then rejected Mr. Falkland from motives which still subsist, shall I now that I have lost those advantages meanly come descend to accept of this rejected man? This would indeed be acknowledging that the humiliating change had levelled me to those principles which I formally condemned, would lay me under mortifying obligations to Mr. Falkland, and destroy the merit of that refusal which proceeded from such justifiable motives. No, my sordid brother, if I could recompense Mr. Falkland as he deserves at my hand, I would do it. But with such a mind as I bear, it cannot be done your way. I say nothing of the promise I made, Miss Birchell. If I had never made her such, my sentiments would be the same from those other considerations. But such a promise, binding as it is, determines my conduct beyond the possibility of a doubt. How unreasonable a Sir George's prejudice is with regard to this unhappy young creature. He is forever throwing out some invective against her. It is cruel. But I am tempted to forgive him as I know it proceeds from his attachment to his friend. He need not put me in mind of the gratitude I owe Mr. Falkland. I am thoroughly sensible of it. But Sir George and I differ widely in our ideas of expressing this gratitude. My conduct in this affair is to determine him as to the light in which he is hereafter to consider me. Why, be it so, he has long lost the tenderness of a brother for me. I will not regain it at the expense of my honour. I know the worst that can befall me is poverty. I have already experienced almost every possible ill in life but that, and for that I am prepared. But I will not call myself poor while I have an upright heart to support me, and the means, poor and despicable as they are, of sustaining life. But what do I call despicable? Have I not an estate, my dear, a whole fifty pounds a year that I can call my own? This much was reserved to me out of my jointure when the rest was sold, and on this, whenever it pleases heaven to take my mother away, will I retire to some cottage in a cheap country where my two children and I will live and smile at the rich and the great. My brother's letter has vexed and disgusted me exceedingly. Lady Sarah presents her service. Vane woman. Is that a becoming phrase to the mother of her husband? I am so provoked I think I shall not answer her. He has no relish for such arguments as I could reduce in support of my own opinions. And my writing to him would only bring on disagreeable altercations. My mother is in a downright passion with him. Selfish wretch, she called him, and said he would sacrifice both honour and justice to his own pride. End of section 29