 Volume 9, Chapter 9 of Cecilia, a suspense. Deleville had been gone but a short time before Henrietta, her eyes still red, though no longer streaming, opened the parlour door and asked if she might come in. Cecilia wished to be alone, yet could not refuse her. Well, madam, cried she with a forced smile, and constrained air of bravery. Did not I guess right? In what, said Cecilia, unwilling to understand her? In what I said would happen. I am sure you know what I mean. Cecilia, extremely embarrassed, made no answer. She much regretted the circumstances which had prevented an earlier communication, and was uncertain whether now it would prove most kind or most cruel to acquaint her with what was in agitation which, should it terminate in nothing, was unnecessarily wounding her delicacy for the openness of her confidence, and which, however serviceable it might prove to her in the end, was in the means so rough and piercing, she felt the utmost repugnance to the experiment. You think me, madam, too free, said Henrietta, in asking such a question, and indeed your kindness has been so great, it may well make me forget myself. But if it does, I am sure I deserve you should send me home directly, and then there is not much fear I shall soon be brought to my senses. No, my dear Henrietta, I can never think you too free. I have told you already everything I thought you would pleasure in hearing. Whatever I have concealed, I have been fearful would only pain you. I have deserved, madam, said she with spirit, to be pained, for I have behaved with the folly of a baby. I am very angry with myself indeed. I was old enough to have known better, and I ought to have been wise enough. You must then be angry with yourself next, said Cecilia, anxious to re-encourage her, for all the love that I bear you. Since to your openness and frankness it was entirely owing. But there are some things that people should not be frank in. However, I am only come now to beg you will tell me, madam, when it is to be, and don't think I ask out of nothing but curiosity, for I have a very great reason for it indeed. Not be, my dear Henrietta, you are very rapid in your ideas. I will tell you, madam, what my reason is. I shall go away into my own home, and so I would, if it were ten times a worse home than it is, just exactly the day before, because afterwards I shall never like to look that gentleman in the face. Never, never, for married ladies I know are not to be trusted. Be not apprehensive, you have no occasion. Never may be my fate I will never be so treacherous as to betray my beloved Henrietta to anybody. May I ask you, madam, one question, certainly, why did all this never happen before? Indeed, cried Cecilia, much distressed, I know not that it will happen now. Why what, dear madam, can hinder it? A thousand, thousand things, nothing can be less secure. And then I am still as much puzzled as ever. I heard a good while ago, and we all heard that it was to be. And I thought that it was no wonder, I am sure, for I used often to think it was just what was most likely. But afterwards we heard it was no such thing. And from that moment I always believed there had been nothing at all in it. I must speak to you, I find with sincerity. My affairs have long been in strange perplexity. I have not known myself what to expect. One day has perpetually reversed the prospect of another, and my mind has been in a state of uncertainty and disorder that has kept it, that still keeps it from comfort and from rest. This surprises me indeed, madam. I thought you were all happiness. But I was sure you deserved it, and I thought you had it for that reward. And this has been the thing that has made me behave so wrong, for I took it into my head and might tell you everything. Because I concluded it could be nothing to you. For if great people loved one another, I always supposed they married directly. Poor people indeed must stay till they are able to settle. But what in the whole world thought I, if they liked one another, should hinder such a rich lady as Miss Beverly from marrying such a rich gentleman at once? Cecilia now, finding there was no longer any chance for concealment, thought it better to give the poor Henrietta at least the gratification of unreserved confidence, which might somewhat soothe her uneasiness by proving her reliance in her faith. She frankly, therefore, confessed to her the whole of her situation. Henrietta wept at the reciter with bitterness, thought Mr. Delville a monster, and Mrs. Delville herself scares human, pitied Cecilia with unaffected tenderness, and wondered that the person could exist who had the heart to give grief to young Delville. She thanked her most gratefully for reposing such trust in her, and Cecilia made use of this opportunity to enforce the necessity of her struggling more seriously to recover her indifference. She promised she would not fail, and for bore steadily from that time to name Delville any more, but the depression of her spirits showed she had suffered a disappointment, such as astonished even Cecilia. Though modest and humble, she had conceived hopes the most romantic, and though she denied even to herself any expectations from Delville she involuntarily nourished them with the most sanguine simplicity. To compose and to strengthen her became the whole business of Cecilia, who, during her present suspense, could find no other employment in which she could take any interest. Mr. Moncton, to whom nothing was unknown that related to Cecilia, was soon informed of Delville's visit, and hastened in the utmost alarm to learn its event. She had now lost all the pleasure she had formally derived from confiding in him, but though averse and confused, could not withstand his inquiries. Unlike the tender Henrietta's was his disappointment at this relation, and his rage at such repeated trials was almost more than he could curb. He spared neither Delville's nor their insolence of mutability in rejecting or seeking her at their pleasure, nor herself for her easiness of submission in being thus the dupe of their caprices. The subject was difficult for Cecilia to dilate upon. She wished to clear, as he deserved, Delville himself from any share in the censure, and she felt hurt and offended at the charge of her own improper readiness, yet shame and pride united in preventing much vindication of either, and she heard almost in silence what with pain she bore to here at all. He now saw, with inexpressible disturbance, that whatever was his power to make her uneasy, he had none to make her retract, and that the conditional promise she had given Delville to be wholly governed by his mother, she was firm in regarding to be as sacred as one made at the altar. Perceiving this, he dared trust his temper with no further debate. He assumed a momentary calmness for the purpose of taking leave of her, and with pretended good-wishes for her happiness, whatever might be her determination, he stifled the reproachers with which his whole heart was swelling, and precipitately left her. Cecilia, affected by his earnestness, yet perplexed in all her opinions, was glad to be relieved from useless exhortations and not sorry in her present uncertainty that his visit was not repeated. She neither saw nor heard from Delville for a week, and augured nothing but evil from such delay. The following letter then came by the post, to Miss Beverly, April 2nd, 1780. I must write without comments, for I dare not trust myself with making any. I must write without any beginning address, for I know not how you will permit me to address you. I have lived a life of tumult since last compelled to leave you, and when it may subside I am still in utter ignorance. The effecting account of the losses you have suffered through your beneficence to the Harrells, and the explanatory one of the columnies you have sustained from your kindness to the Belfields, I related with the plainest which I alone I thought necessary to make them felt. I then told the high honour I had received in meeting with no other repulse to my proposal, then was owing to an inability to exceed to it, and informed my mother of the condescending powers with which you had infested her. In conclusion I mentioned my new scheme, and firmly, before I would listen to any opposition, I declared that though wholly to their decision I left the relinquishing my own name or your fortune, I was not only by your generosity more internally yours than ever, but that since again I had ventured, and with permission to apply to you, I should hold myself henceforward unalterably engaged to you. And so I do, and so I shall, nor after a renewal so public will any prohibition but yours have forced to keep me from throwing myself at your feet. My father's answer I will not mention. I would I could forget it. His prejudices are irremediable. His resolutions are inflexible. Who or what has worked him into an animosity so irreclaimable I cannot conjecture, nor will he tell. But something darkly mysterious has part in his wroth and in his justice. My mother was much affected by your reference to herself. Most of the sweetest praise broke repeatedly from her. No other such woman, she said, existed. No other such instance could be found of fidelity so exalted. Her son must have no heart but for low and mercenary selfishness if, after a proof of regard so unexampled, he could bear to live without her. Oh! how did such a sentence from lips so highly reverenced, animate, delight, confirm, and oblige me at once. The displeasure of my father at this declaration was dreadful. His charges, always as improbable as injurious, now became too horrible for my ears. He disbelieved you had taken up the money for Harrell. He discredited that you visited the bell-fields for Henrietta. Passion not merely banished his justice, but clouded his reason, and I soon left the room, that at least I might not hear the aspersions he forbid me to answer. I left not, however, your fame to a weak champion. My mother defended it with all the spirit of truth, and all the confidence of similar virtue. Yet they parted without conviction, and so mutually irritated with each other that they agreed to meet no more. This was too terrible, and I instantly consolidated my resentment to my father and my gratitude to my mother into concessions and supplications to both. I could not, however, succeed. My mother was deeply offended. My father was sternly inexorable. Nor here rests the evil of their dissension, for the violence of the conflict has occasioned a return more alarming than ever of the illness of my mother. All her faith in her recovery is now built upon going abroad. She is earnest to set off immediately, but Dr. Lister has advised her to make London in her way, and have a consultation of physicians before she departs. To this she has agreed, and we are now upon the road thither. Such is, at present, the melancholy state of my affairs. My mother advised me to write. Forgive me, therefore, that I waited not something more decisive to say. I could prevail upon neither party to meet before the journey, nor could I draw from my father the base fabricator of the columnese by which he has been thus abused. Unhappily, I have nothing more to add. And whether intelligence, such as this or total suspense, would be least irksome, I know not. If my mother bears her journey tolerably well, I have yet one more effort to make. And of that the success or the failure will be instantly communicated to Miss Beverly by her eternally devoted, but half-distracted, Mortimer Delville. Scarcely could Cecilia herself decide whether this comfortless letter or none at all were preferable. The implacability of Mr. Delville was shocking, but his slandering her character was still more intolerable. Yet the praises of the mother and her generous vindication joined to the invariable reliance of Delville upon her innocence conferred upon her an honour that offered some alleviation. The mention of a fabricator again brought Mr. Mockton to her mind, and not all unwillingness to think him capable of such treachery could now root out her suspicions. Delville's temple, however, she knew was too impetuous to be trusted with this conjecture, and her fear of committing injustice being thus seconded by a prudence she determined to keep to herself doubts that could not without danger be divulged. She communicated briefly to Henrietta, who looked to earnest curiosity, the continuous of her suspense, and to her own fate Henrietta became somewhat more reconciled when she saw that no station in life rendered happiness certain or permanent. End of Chapter 9, Recording by Ray, Volume 9, Chapter 10 of Cecilia. This is the LibriVox recording. Our LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Ray, Cecilia, Memoirs of an Eris by Francis Burney. Volume 9, Chapter 10, A Relation. Another weak past still without any further intelligence. Cecilia was then summoned to the parlour and to Delville himself. He looked hurried and anxious, yet the glow of his face and the animation of his eyes immediately declared he at least came not to take leave of her. Can you forgive, cried he, this dismal and unsatisfactory letter I wrote you. I would not disobey you twice in the same manner and I could not till now have written in any other. The consultation with the physicians, then, said Cecilia, is over. Alas, yes, and the result is most alarming. They all agree my mother is in a dangerous way, and they rather forbear to oppose than advise her going abroad. But upon that she is earnestly bent and intends to set out without delay. I shall return to her, therefore, with all speed, and mean not to take any rest till I have seen her. Cecilia expressed with tenderness her sorrow for Mrs. Delville, nor were her looks illiberal in including her son in her concern. I must hasten, he cried, to the credentials by which I am authorised for coming, and I must hasten to prove if Miss Beverly has not flattered my mother in her appeal. He then informed her that Mrs. Delville, apprehensive for herself and softened for him by the confession of her danger which she had extorted from her physicians, had tenderly resolved upon making one final effort for his happiness, and ill and impatient as she was upon deferring her journey to wait its effect. Generously therefore giving up her own resentment, she wrote to Mr. Delville in terms of peace and kindness, lamenting their late dissension and ardently expressing her desire to be reconciled to him before she left England. She told him the uncertainty of her recovery, which had been acknowledged by her physicians, who had declared a calm mind was more essential to her than a purer air. She then added that such serenity was only to be given her by the removal of her anxiety at the comfortless state of her son. She begged him therefore to make known the author of Miss Beverly's defamation, assuring him that upon inquiry he would find her character and her fame as unsullied as his own, and strongly representing that after the sacrifice to which she had consented, their son would be utterly dishonourable in thinking of any other connection. She then to this reasoning joined the most earnest supplication protesting in her present disordered state of health, her life might pay the forfeiture of her continual uneasiness. I held out, she concluded, while his personal dignity and the honour of his name and family were endangered, but where interest alone is concerned and that interest is combated by the peace of his mind and the delicacy of his word, my opposition is at an end. And though our extensive and well-founded views for a splendid alliance are abolished, you will agree with me hereafter upon a closer inspection that the object for whom he relinquishes them offers in herself the noblest reparation. Cecilia felt gratified, humbled, animated and depressed at once by this letter of which Delville brought her a copy. And what, cried she, was the answer. I cannot in decency, he replied, speak my opinion of it. You said yourself, and let me hear yours, to the honourable Mrs. Delville. Your extraordinary letter, madam, has extremely surprised me. I had been willing to hope the affair over from the time my disapprobation of it was formally announced. I am sorry you are so much indisposed, but I cannot conclude your health would be restored by my acceding to a plan so derogatory to my house. I disapprove it upon every account, not only of the name and the fortune, but the lady herself. I have reasons more important than those I assign, but they are such as I am bound in honour not to mention. After such a declaration nobody, I presume, will affront me by asking them. Her defence you have only from herself, her accusation I have received from authority less partial. I command therefore that my son, upon pain of my eternal displeasure, may never speak to me on the subject again, and I hope, madam, from you, the same complacence to my request. I cannot explain myself further, nor is it necessary. It is no news, I flatter myself, to Morton Delville or his mother, that I do nothing without reason and I believe nothing upon slight grounds. A few cold compliments concerning her journey and the re-establishment of her health concluded the letter. Cecilia, having read hastily, returned it and indignantly said, My opinion, sir, upon this letter must surely be yours, that we had done wiser long since to have spared your mother and ourselves those vain and fruitless conflicts which we ought better to have foreseen were liable to such a conclusion. Now at least let them be ended, and let us not pursue disgrace woefully after suffering from it with so much rigor involuntarily. Oh no, cried Delville, rather let us now spurn it for ever. Those conflicts must be indeed ended, but not by a separation still more bitter than all of them. He then told her that his mother, highly offended to observe by the extreme coldness of this letter, no rancour he still nourished for the contest preceding her leaving him, no longer now refused even her separate consent, for a measure which she thought her son absolutely engaged to take. But heaven, cried Cecilia, much amazed. This from Mrs. Delville, a separate consent. She's always maintained, he answered, an independent mind, always judged for herself, and refused all other arbitration. When so impetuously she parted us, my father's will happened to be heard, and thence their concurrence. My father, over temper immoveable in stern, retained stubbornly the prejudices which once have taken possession of him. My mother, generous as fiery and noble as proud, is open to conviction, and no sooner convinced than ingenious in acknowledging it, and thence their dissension. From my father I may hope forgiveness, but must never expect concession. From my mother I may hope all the ought to grant, for pardon but her vehemence, and she has every great quality that can dignify human nature. Cecilia, whose affection and reverence for Mrs. Delville were unfaigned, and who loved in her son this sphilial enthusiasm, readily concurred with him in praising her, and Cecilia esteemed her the first among women. Now then, cried he with earnestness, now is the time when your generous adoration of her is put to the test. See what she writes to you, she has left to me all explanation, but I insisted upon some credential, lest you should believe I only owed her concurrence to a happy dream. Cecilia in much trebidation took the letter, and hastily run it over. To Miss Beverly, misery, my sweet young friend, has long been busy with us all. Much have we owed to the clash of different interests, much to that rapacity which to enjoy anything, demands everything, and much to that general perverseness which labours to place happiness in what is withheld. Thus do we struggle on till we can struggle no longer, the felicity with which we trifle at best is but temporary, and before reason and reflection show its value, sickness and sorrow are commonly become stationary. Be it yours, my love, and my sons, to profit by the experience, while you pity the errors of the many who illustrate this truth, your mutual partiality has been mutually unfortunate, and must always continue so for the interests of both. But how blind is it to wait in our own peculiar lots, for that perfection of enjoyment we can all see wanting in the lot of others. My expectations for my son had outstepped the modesty of probability. I looked for rank and high birth, with the fortune of Cecilia and Cecilia's round character. Alas, a new constellation in the heavens might as rationally have been looked for. My extravagance, however, has been all for his felicity, dearer to me than life, dearer to me than all things but his own honour. Let us but save that, and then let wealth, ambition, interest, grandeur and pride, since they cannot constitute his happiness, be removed from destroying it. I will no longer play the tyrant that, weighing good and evil by my old feelings and opinions, insists upon his acting by the notions I have formed, whatever misery they may bring him by opposing all his own. I leave the kingdom with little reason to expect I shall return to it. I leave it, oh blindness of vanity and passion, from the effect of that violence with which so lately I opposed what now I am content to advance. But the extraordinary resignation to which you have agreed shows your heart so holy my sons, and so even more than worthy the whole procession of his, that it reflects upon him an honour more bright and more alluring than any the most illustrious other alliance could now confer. I would feign see you ere I go, lest I should see you no more. Feign ratify by word of mouth, the consent that by word of mouth I so absolutely refused. I know not how to come to Suffolk, is it not possible you can come to London? I am told you leave to me the arbitration of your fate, in giving you to my son, I best show my sense of such an honour, hasten then my love to tell, that I may see you once more. If no longer a concurrence thus unjustly withheld but hasten, that I may bless the daughter I have so often wished to own, that I may entreat her forgiveness, for all the pain I have occasioned her, and committing to her charge the future happiness of my son, fold to my maternal heart the two objects most dear to it. Augusta Delville, Sicilia wept over this letter with tenderness, grief and alarm, but declared had it even summoned her to follow her abroad, she could not, after reading it, have hesitated in complying. Oh now then, cry Delville, let our long suspences end. Hear me with the candour my mother has already listened to me, be mine, Sicilia, at once, and force me not by eternal scruples to risk another separation. Good heavens, sir, cried Sicilia, starting, in such a state as Mrs. Delville thinks herself, would you have her journey delayed? No, not a moment. I would but ensure you mine, and go with her all over the world. Wild and impossible, and what is to be done with Mr. Delville? It is on his account wholly, I am thus earnestly precipitated. If I do not, by an immediate marriage, prevent his further interference, all I have already suffered may again be repeated, and some fresh contest with my mother may occasion another relapse. Sicilia, who now understood him, ardently protested she would not listen for a moment to any clandestine expedient. He be sought her to be patient, and then anxiously represented to her the peculiar situations. All application to his father he was preemptorily forbid making, all efforts to remove his prejudices, their impenetrable mystery prevented. A public marriage, therefore, with such obstacles, would almost irritate him to frenzy, by its daring defiance of his prohibition and authority. Alas, exclaimed Sicilia, we can never do right but imparting. Say it not, Creti, I can do you. We shall yet live, I hope to prove the contrary. And can you, then, Creti, reproachfully, oh, Mr. Delville, can you again urge me to enter your family in secret? I grieve, indeed, he answered, that your goodness should so severely be tried. Yet did you not condescend to commit the arbitration to my mother? True, and I thought her approbation would secure my peace of mind, but how could I have expected Mrs. Delville's consent to such a scheme? She has merely accorded it from a certainty there is no other resource. Believe me, therefore, my whole hope rests upon your present compliance. My father, I am certain, but his letter will now hear neither petition nor defence. On the contrary, he will only enrage at the temerity of offering to confute him. But when he knows you are his daughter, his honour will then be concerned in yours. And it will be as much as desire to have it cleared, as it is now to have it censured. Wait at least your return, and let us try what can be done with him. Oh, why, cried Delville, with much bannessness, must I linger out month after month in this wretched uncertainty? If I wait, I am undone. My father, by the orders I must unavoidably leave, will discover the preparations making without his consent, and he will work upon you in my absence and compel you to give me up. Are you sure, said she, how smiling, he would have so much power? I am but too sure that the least intimation, in his present irritable state of mind, reaching him of my intentions would make him not scruple in his fury, pronouncing some malediction upon my disobedience that neither of us, I must own, could tranquilly disregard. This was an argument that came home to Cecilia, whose deliberation upon it, though silent, was evidently not unfavourable. He then told her that, with respect to settlements, he would instantly have a bond drawn up, similar to that prepared for their former intended union, which should be properly signed and sealed, and by which he would engage himself to make, upon coming to us estate, the same settlement upon her that was made upon his mother. And as, instead of keeping up three houses, he continued, in the manner my father does at present, I mean to put my whole estate out to nurse, while we reside for a while abroad or in the country. I doubt not, but in a very few years we shall be as rich and as easy as we shall desire. He told her also of his well-founded expectations from the relations already mentioned, which the concurrence of his mother with his marriage would thence forward secure to him. He then, with more coherence, stated his plan at large. He purposed, without losing a moment, to return to London. He conjured her, in the name of his mother, to set out herself early the next day, that the following evening might be dedicated wholly to Mrs Delville. Through her intercession, he might then hope Cecilia's compliance and everything on the morning after should be prepared for their union. The long-desired ceremony over, he would instantly ride post to his father and pay him, at least, the respect of being the first to communicate it. He would then attend his mother to the continent and leave the arrangement of everything to his return. Still, therefore, as a single man, he continued, I mean to make the journey, and I shall take care by the time I return to have all things in readiness for claiming my sweet bride. Tell me then now if you can reasonably oppose this plan. Indeed, said Cecilia, after some hesitation, I cannot see the necessity of such violent precipitancy. Do you not try me too much, cried Delville impatiently, to talk now of precipitancy? After such painful waiting, such weariness and expectation, I ask you not to involve your own affairs in confusion by accompanying me abroad, sweet to me as would be such an indulgence, I will not make a runaway of you in the opinion of the world. All I wish is the secret certainty I cannot be robbed of you, that no cruel machinations may again work our separation, that you are mine, unalterably mine, beyond the power of caprice or ill fortune. Cecilia made no answer, taught to it with irresolution, she knew not upon what to answer. We might then, according to the favour or displeasure of my father, settle wholly abroad for the present, or occasionally visit him in England. My mother will be always and openly our friend. O be firm then, I conjure you to the promise you have given her, and deign to be mine on the conditions she prescribes. She will be bound to you forever by so generous a concession, and even her health may be restored by the cessation of her anxieties. With such a wife, such a mother, what will be wanting for me? Could I lament not being richer? I must be rapacious indeed. Speak then, my Cecilia, relieve me from the agony of this eternal uncertainty, and tell me your word is invariable as your honour, and tell me my mother gives not her sanction in vain. Cecilia sighed deeply, but after some hesitation said, I little knew what I had promised. No, no, I now what to perform. There must ever I find be some check to human happiness. Yet since upon these terms Mrs. Dalville herself is content to wish me of her family, she stopped. But urged earnestly by Dalville added, I must not, I think, withdraw the powers with which I entrusted her. Dalville, grateful and enchanted, now forgot his haste and his business, and lost every wish but to reanimate her spirits. She compelled him, however, to leave her, that his visit might less be wandered at, and sent by him a message to Mrs. Dalville that wholly relying upon her wisdom she implicitly submitted to her decree. End of chapter 10. Read. Barré. Volume 9, chapter 11 of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Eris by Francis Burney. Volume 9, chapter 11. An Enterprise. Cecilia now had no time for afterthoughts or anxious repentance. Since notwithstanding the hurry of her spirits and the confusion of her mind, she had too much real business to yield to pensive indulgence. Averse to all falsehood, she invented none upon this occasion. She merely told her guest she was summoned to London upon an affair of importance, and though she saw their curiosity, not being at liberty to satisfy it with the truth, she attempted not to appease it by fiction, but quietly left it to its common fare, conjecture. She would gladly have made Henrietta the companion of her journey, but Henrietta was the last to whom that journey could give pleasure. She only, therefore, took her maid in the shays and attended by one servant on horseback at six o'clock the next morning. She quitted her mansion to enter into an engagement by which soon she was to resign it forever. Disinterested as she was, she considered her situation as peculiarly perverse, that from the time of her coming to a fortune which most others regarded as enviable, she had been a stranger to peace, a fruitless seeker of happiness, a dupe to the fraudulent, and a prey to the needy. The little comfort she had received had been merely from dispensing it, and not only had she any chance of being happy herself when upon the point of relinquishing what all others built their happiness upon obtaining. These reflections only gave way to others still more disagreeable. She was now a second time engaged in a transaction she could not approve, and suffering the whole piece of her future life to hang upon an action dark, private, and imprudent, an action by which the liberal kindness of her late uncle would be annulled, by which the father of her intended husband would be disobeyed, and which already in a similar instance had brought her to affliction and disgrace. These melancholy thoughts haunted her during the whole journey, and though the assurance of Mrs. DeVille's approbation was some relief to her uneasiness, she involuntarily prepared herself for meeting new mortifications, and was tormented with an apprehension that this second attempt made her merit them. She drove immediately by the previous direction of DeVille to a lodging house in Abermill Street, which he had taken care to have prepared for her reception. She then sent for a chair and went to Mrs. DeVille's. Her being seen by the servants of that house was not very important, as their master was soon to be acquainted with the real motive of her journey. She was shown into a parlor while Mrs. DeVille was informed of her arrival, and there flown to by DeVille with the most grateful eagerness. Yet she saw in this countenance that all was not well, and heard upon inquiry that his mother was considerably worse. Extremely shocked by this intelligence, she already began to lament her unfortunate enterprise. DeVille struggled by exerting his own spirits to restore hers, but forced gaiety is never exhilarating, and, full of care and anxiety, he was ill-able to appear sprightly and easy. They were soon summoned upstairs into the apartment of Mrs. DeVille, who was lying upon a couch, pale, weak, and much altered. DeVille of the way, saying, Here, Madame, comes one whose sight will bring peace and pleasure to you. This, indeed, cried Mrs. DeVille, half-rising and embracing her, is the form in which they are most welcome to me. Mrs. Noble Cecilia, what honor you do, my son! With what joy should I ever recover, shall I assist him in paying the gratitude he owes you? Cecilia, grieved at her situation, and affected by her kindness, could only answer with her tears, which, however, were not shed alone. For DeVille's eyes were full, as he passionately exclaimed, This, this is the sight my heart has thus long desired, the wife of my choice, taken to the bosom of the parent I revere. Be yet, but well, my beloved mother, and I will be thankful for every calamity that has led to sweet a conclusion. Content yourself, however, my son, with one of us, cried Mrs. DeVille, smiling, and content yourself if you can, though your hard lot should make that, one, this creature of full-bloom health and youth. Ah, my love, added she more seriously in addressing the still-weeping Cecilia. Should now Mortimer, in losing me, lose those cares by which alone, for some months past my life, had been rendered tolerable, how peaceably shall I resign him to one so able to recompense his filial patience and services. This was not a speech to stop the tears of Cecilia, though such warmth of approbation quieted her conscientious scruples. DeVille now earnestly interfered. He told her that his mother had been ordered not to talk or exert herself, and entreated her to be composed and his mother to be silent. Be it your business, then, said Mrs. DeVille more gaily. To find us entertainment, we will promise to be very still, if you will, take that trouble upon yourself. I will not answer he, be rallied from my purpose, if I cannot entertain. It will be something to weary you, for that may incline you to take rest, which will be answering a better purpose. Mortimer returned she, Is this the ingenuity of duty or of love, and which are you just now thinking of, my health or a conversation uninterrupted with Miss Beverly? Perhaps a little of both, said he cheerfully, though coloring. But you rather meant it should pass, and Mrs. DeVille? You were only thinking of me. I have always observed that where one scheme answers two purposes, the ostensive is never the purpose most at heart. Why is it but common prudence, answered DeVille, to feel our way a little before we mention what we most wish, and so cast the hazard of the refusal upon something rather less important? Admirably settled cried Mrs. DeVille. So my rest is but to prove Miss Beverly's disturbance. Well, it is only anticipating our future way of life, when her disturbance, in taking the management of you to herself, will of course prove my rest. She then quietly reposed herself, and DeVille discoursed with Cecilia upon their future plans, hopes, and actions. He meant to set off from the church door to DeVille Castle to acquaint his father with his marriage, and then to return instantly to London, there he entreated Cecilia to stay with his mother, that finding them both together he might not exhaust her patience, by making his parting visit occasion another journey to Suffolk. But here Cecilia resolutely opposed him, saying her only chance to escape discovery was going instantly to her own house, and representing so earnestly her desire that their marriage should be unknown till his return to England, upon a thousand motives of delicacy, propriety, and fearfulness that the obligation he owed already to a compliance which he saw grew more and more reluctant, restrained him both in gratitude and pity from persecuting her further. Neither would she consent to seeing him in Suffolk, which could but delay his mother's journey and expose her to unnecessary suspicions. She promised, however, to write to him often, and as, from his mother's weakness, he must travel very slowly, she took a plan of his route, and engage that he should find a letter from her at every great town. The bond which he had already had altered, he insisted upon leaving in her own custody, averse to applying to Mr. Mockton whose behavior to him had before given him disgust, and in whom Cecilia herself no longer wished to confide. He had again applied to the same lawyer, Mr. Singleton, to give her away, for though to his secrecy he had no tie, he had still less to any entire stranger. Mrs. Deville was too ill to attend them to church, nor would Deville have desired from her such absolute defiance of his father. Cecilia now gave another sigh to her departed friend, Mrs. Charlton, whose presence upon this awful occasion would else again have sued then supported her. She had no female friend in whom she could rely, but feeling a repugnance invincible to being accompanied only by men. She accepted the attendance of Mrs. Deville's own woman, who had lived many years in the family, and was in high favor and confidence of her lady. The arrangement of these and other articles with occasional interruptions from Mrs. Deville fully employed the evening. Deville would not trust again to meeting her at the church, but begged her to send out her servant between seven and eight o'clock in the morning, at which time he would himself call for her with a chair. She went away early, that Mrs. Deville might go to rest, and it was mutually agreed that they should risk no meeting the next day. Deville conjured them to part with firmness and cheerfulness, and Cecilia, bearing her own emotion, would have retired without bidding her adieu. But Mrs. Deville, calling after her, said, Take with you my blessing, and tenderly embracing her at it. My son, as my chief nurse, claims a prescriptive right to govern me, but I will break from his control to tell my sweet Cecilia what ease and what delight she has already given to my mind. My best hope of recovery is founded on the pleasure I anticipate to witnessing your mutual happiness. But should my illness prove fatal, and that felicity be denied me, my greatest earthly care is already removed by the security I feel of Mortimer's future peace. Take with you, then, my blessing, for you are become one to me, long daughter of my affection, now wife of my darling son. Love her, Mortimer, as she merits, and cherish her with tenderest gratitude. Danish, sweetest Cecilia, every apprehension that oppresses you, and receive in Mortimer Deville a husband that will revere your virtues and dignify your choice. She then embraced her again, and seeing that her heart was too full for speech, suffered her to go without making any answer. Deville attended her to her chair, scarce-less moved than herself, and found only opportunity to entreat her punctuality the next morning. She had, indeed, no inclination to fail in her appointment or arrest the repetition of scenes so affecting or situations so alarming. Mrs. Deville's full approbation somewhat restored to her own, but nothing could remove the fearful anxiety which still privately tormented her with the expectations of another disappointment. The next morning she arose with the light and calling all her courage to her aid, determined to consider this day as decisive of her destiny with regard to Deville and rejoicing that at least all suspense would be over, to support herself with fortitude, be that destiny what it might. At the appointed time she sent her maid to visit Mrs. Hill, and gave some errands to her man that carried him to a distant part of the town, but she charged them both to return to the lodgings by nine o'clock, at which hour she ordered a dishes for returning into the country. Deville, who was impatiently watching for their quitting the house, only waited till they were out of sight to present himself at the door. He was shown into a parlor which she instantly attended him, and being told that the clergyman, Mr. Singleton and Mrs. Deville's woman were already in the church, she gave him her hand in silence and he led her to the chair. The calmness of stifled hope had now taken place in Cecilia of quick sensations and alarm. Occupied with a firm belief she should never be the wife of Deville, she only waited with a desperate sort of patience to see when and by whom she was next to be parted from him. When they arrived to the church, Deville stopped the chair, he handed Cecilia out of it and, discharging the chairman, connected her into the church. He was surprised himself at her composure, but earnestly wishing it to last, took care not to say to her a word that should make any answer from her necessary. He gave her as before to Mr. Singleton, secretly praying that not as before she might be given him in vain. Mrs. Deville's woman attended her, the clergyman was ready, and they all proceeded to the altar. The ceremony was begun. Cecilia, rather mechanically, then with consciousness appearing to listen to, but at the words, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, Deville himself shook with terror lest some concealed person should again answer it, and Cecilia, with a sort of steady dismay in her countenance, cast her eyes round the church with no other view than that of seeing from what corner the prohibitor would start. She looked, however, to no purpose. No prohibitor appeared. The ceremony was performed without any interruption, and she received the thanks of Deville and the congratulations of the little set before the idea which had so strongly preoccupied her imagination was sufficiently removed from it to satisfy her she was really married. Then they went to the vestry where their business was not long, and Deville again put Cecilia into a chair, which again he accompanied on foot. Her sensibility was now returned, though still attended with strangeness and a sensation of incredulity, but the sight of Deville at her lodgings, contrary to their agreement, wholly recovered her senses from the stupor which had doled them. He came, however, but to acknowledge how highly she had obliged him to see her himself restored to the animation natural to her character and give her a million of charges resulting from anxiety and tenderness. And then, fearing the return of her servants, he quitted her and set out for Deville Castle. The amazement of Cecilia was still unconquerable to be actually united with Deville, to be his with the full consent of his mother. To have him hers beyond the power of his father, she could not reconcile it with possibility. She fancy did a dream, but a dream from which she wished not to wake. End of CHAPTER XI Cecilia's journey back to her home. Her friends at her return expressed their wonder at her expedition, but their wonder at what occasion did, though still greater, met no satisfaction. Henrietta rejoiced on her side, though her absence had been so short. And Cecilia, whose affection with her pity increased, intimated to her the event for which she wished her to prepare herself and frankly acknowledged she had reason to expect it would soon take place. Cecilia endeavored with composure to receive this intelligence and to return such a mark of confidence with cheerful congratulations, but her fortitude was unequal to an effort so heroic, and her character was too simple to assume a greatness she felt not. She sighed and changed colour, and hastily quitted the room that she might sob aloud in another. Warm-hearted, tender, and susceptible, her affections were all undisguised, struck with the elegance of Delvile and enchanted by his services to her brother, she had lost to him her heart at first without missing it, and, when missed, without seeking to reclaim it. The hopelessness of such a passion she never considered, nor asked herself its end, or scar suspected it's aim. It was pleasant to her at the time, and she looked not to the future, but fed it with visionary schemes and soothed it with voluntary fancies. Now she knew all was over, and she felt the folly she had committed, but though sensibly and candidly angry at her own error, its conviction offered nothing but sorrow to succeed it. The felicity of Cecilia, whom she loved, admired, and revered, she wished with the genuine ardour of zealous sincerity. But that Delvile, the very cause and sole subject of her own personal unhappiness, should himself constitute that felicity, was too much for her spirits, and seemed to her mortified mind to cruel in her destiny. Cecilia, who in the very vehemence of her sorrow saw its innocence, was too just and too noble to be offended by it, or impute to the bad passions of envy or jealousy the atlas regret of an untutored mind. To be penetrated too deeply with the merit of Delvile, with her wanted no excuse, and she grieved for her situation with, but little mixture of blame and none of surprise. She redoubled her kindness and caresses with the hope of consoling her, but venture to trust her no further, till reflection and her natural good sense should better enable her to bear an explanation. Nor was this friendly exertion any longer a hardship to her. The sudden removal, in her own feelings and affairs, of distress and expectation had now so much lightened her heart that she could spare without repining some portion of its spirit to her dejected young friend. But an incident happened two mornings after which called back, and most unpleasantly, her attention to herself. She was told that Mrs. Matt, the poor woman she had settled in Burry, begged an audience, and upon sending for her upstairs, and desiring to know what she could do for her, nothing, madam, just now, she answered, for I don't come upon my own business, but to tell some news to you, madam. You bid me never take notice of the wedding that was to be, and I am sure I never opened my mouth about it from that time to this, but I have found out who it was put a stop to it, and so I come to tell you. Cecilia, extremely amazed, eagerly desired her to go on. Why, madam, I don't know the gentlewoman's name quite right yet, but I can tell you where she lives, for I knew her as soon as I set eyes on her. When I see her at church last Sunday, and I would have followed her home, but she went into a coach, and I could not walk fast enough. But I asked one of the footmen where she lived, and he said at the great house at the grove, and perhaps, madam, you may know where that is. And then he told me her name, but that I can't just now think of. Good heaven, cried Cecilia. It could not be Bennett. Yes, ma'am, that's a very name. I know it again, now I hear it. Cecilia then hastily dismissed her, first desiring her not to mention the circumstances to anybody. Shocked and dismayed, she now saw, but saw with horror, the removal of all her doubts and the explanation of all her difficulties in the full and irrefragable discovery of the perfidy of her oldest friend and confidant. Miss Bennett herself, she regarded in the affair as a mere tool, which, though in effect it did the work, was innocent of its mischief, because powerless but in the hand of its employer. That employer, cried she, must be Mr. Moncton, Mr. Moncton whom so long I have known, who so willingly has been my counselor, so ably my instructor, in whose integrity I have confided upon whose friendship I have relied, my succour in all emergencies, my guide in all perplexities, Mr. Moncton thus dishonorably, thus barbarously, to betray me, to turn against me the very confidence I had reposed in his regard for me, and make use of my own trust to furnish the means to injure me. She was now wholly confirmed that he had wronged her with Mr. Delvile. She could not have two enemies so malignant with her provocation, and he, who so unfeelingly could dissolve a union at the very altar, could alone have the baseness to culminate her succrually. Evil thoughts thus awakened, stopped not merely upon facts. Conjecture carried her further, and conjecture built upon probability. The officiousness of Morris in perceiving her to London, his visiting her went there, and as following and watching Delvile, she now reasonably concluded were actions directed by Mr. Moncton, whose house he had but just left, and whose orders, whatever they might be, she was almost certain he would obey. Availing himself, therefore, of the forwardness and suppleness which met in this young man, she doubted not, but his intelligence had contributed to acquaint him with her proceedings. The motive of such deep concerted and accumulated treachery was next to be sought, nor was the search long. One only could have tempted him to scheme so hazardous and costly, and unsuspicious as she was, she now saw into his old design. Long accustomed to regard him as a safe and disinterested old friend, the respect with which, as a child, she had looked up to him, she had insensibly preserved when a woman. That respect had taught her to consider his notice as a survivor, and far from suspiciously shunning, she innocently courted it, and his readiness in advising and tutoring her, his frank and easy friendliness of behavior, had kept his influence unimpaired by preventing its secret purpose from being detected. But now the whole mystery was revealed, his aversion to the Delviles to which hitherto she had attributed all she disapproved in his behavior, she was convinced must be inadequate to stimulate him to such lengths. That aversion itself was by this late surmise accounted for, and no sooner did it occur to her than a thousand circumstances confirmed it. The first among these was the evident ill will of Lady Margaret, which though she had constantly imputed to the general irasibility for which her character was notorious, she had often wondered to find impenetrable to all endeavours to please or soften her. His care of her fortune, his exhortations against her expenses, his wish to make her live with Mr. Briggs all contributed to point out the selfishness of his attentions, which in one instance rendered visible, became obvious in every other. Yet various asswear the incidents that now poured upon her memory to his disgrace, not one among them took its rise from his behavior to herself, which always had been scrupulously circumspect, or if for a moment unguarded, only at a season when her own distress or confusion had prevented her from perceiving it. This recollection almost staggered her suspicions. Yet so absolute seemed the confirmation they received from every other that her doubt was overpowered and soon wholly extinguished. She was yet ruminating on this subject when word was brought her that Mr. Moncton was in the parlour. Mingle's disgust and indignation made her shudder at his name, and without pausing a moment she sent him word she was engaged and could not possibly leave her room. Astonished by such a dismission he left the house in the utmost confusion, but Cecilia could not end her to see him, after a discovery of such hypocrisy and villainy. She considered, however, that the matri could not rest here. He would demand an explanation, and perhaps by his unparalleled address again contrived to seem innocent, notwithstanding appearances where it present so much against him, expecting, therefore, some artifice, and determined not to be duped by it, she sent again for the pew-opener to examine her more strictly. The woman was out at work in a private family and could not come till the evening, but when further questioned the description she gave of Miss Bennet was too exact to be disputed. She then desired to call again the next morning and sent a servant to the grove, with her compliments to Miss Bennet, and a request that she might send her carriage for her the next day at any time she pleased, as she wished much to speak with her. This message, she was aware, might create some suspicion, and put her upon her guard, but she thought, nevertheless, a sudden meeting with the pew-opener, whom she meant abruptly to confront with her, would baffle the security of any previously settled scheme. To a conviction such as this even Mr. Monkton must submit, and since he was lost to her as a friend, she might at least save herself the pain of keeping up his acquaintance. End of Chapter 1 Volume 10, Chapter 2 of Cecilia. The servant did not return till it was dark, and then, with the look of much dismay, said he had been able to meet with nobody who could either give or take a message, that the grove was all in confusion, and the whole country in an uproar, for Mr. Monkton, just as he arrived, had been brought home dead. Cecilia screamed with involuntary horror, a paying life remorse seized her mind, with the apprehension she had some share in this catastrophe, an innocent as she was either of his fall or his crimes. She no sooner heard he was no more than she forgot he had offended her, and reproached herself with severity for the shame to which she meant to expose him the next morning. Dreadfully disturbed by this horrible incident, she entreated Mrs. Harrell and Henrietta to sup by themselves, and, going into her own room, determined to write the whole affair to Delville in a letter she should direct to be left at the post office for him at Margate. And here, strongly, she felt the happiness of being actually his wife. She could now, without reserve, make him acquainted with all her affairs, and tell to the master of her heart every emotion that entered it. While engaged in this office, the very action of which quieted her, a letter was brought her from Delville himself. She received it with gratitude and opened it with joy. He had promised to write soon, but so soon she had thought impossible. The reading took not much time. The letter contained but the following words. To Miss Beverly, my Cecilia, be alone, I conjure you, dismiss everybody, and admit me this moment. Great was her astonishment at this note. No name to it, no conclusion, the characters indistinct, the writing crooked, the words so few and those few scarce legible. He desired to see her, and to see her alone. She could not hesitate in her compliance, but whom could she dismiss? Her servants, if ordered away, would but be curiously upon the watch. She could think of no expedient. She was all hurry and amazement. She asked if anyone waited for an answer. The footman said no, that the note was given in by somebody who did not speak, and who ran out of sight the moment he had delivered it. She could not doubt this was Delville himself. Delville, who should now be just returned from the castle to his mother, and whom she had thought not even a letter would reach if directed anywhere nearer than Margate. All she could devise in obedience to him was to go and wait for him alone in her dressing room, giving orders that if anyone called they might be immediately brought up to her as she expected somebody upon business, with whom she must not be interrupted. This was extremely disagreeable to her. Yet contrary as it was to their agreement, she felt no inclination to reproach Delville, the abruptness of his note, the evident handshaking with which it had been written, the strangeness of the request in a situation such as theirs, all concurred to assure her he came not to her idly, and all led her to apprehend he came to her with evil tidings. What they might be she had no time to conjecture. A servant in a few minutes opened the dressing room door and said, ma'am, a gentleman. And Delville, abruptly entering, shut it himself in his eagerness to get rid of him. At his sight her prognostication availed became stronger. She went forward to meet him, and he advanced to her smiling in entaste, but that smile did not well do its office. He concealed not a pallid countenance in which every feature spoke horror. It disguised not an aching heart which almost visibly throbbed with intolerable emotion, yet he addressed her in terms of tenderness and peace, but his tremulous voice counteracted his words and spoke that all within was tumult and war. Cecilia, amazed, affrightened, had no power to hasten an explanation, which on his own part he seemed unable or fearful to begin. He talked to her of his happiness in again seeing her before he left the kingdom, and treated her to write to him continually, said the same thing two and three times in a breath, began with one subject, and seemed unconscious he wandered presently into another, and asked her questions innumerable about her health, journey, affairs, and ease of mind, without hearing from her any answer, or seeming to miss that she had none. Cecilia grew dreadfully terrified, something strange and most alarming she was sure must have happened, but what she had no means to know, nor courage, nor even words to inquire. Delville, at length, the first hurry of his spirits abating, became more coherent and considerate, and looking anxiously at her, said, why the silence, my Cecilia? I know not, said she, endeavoring to recover herself, but your coming was unexpected. I was just writing to you at Margate. Write still, then, but direct to Austin. I shall be quicker than the post, and I would not lose a letter, a line, a word from you, for all the world can offer me. Quicker than the post, cried Cecilia, but how can Mrs. Delville? She stopped, not knowing what she might venture to ask. She is now on the road to Margate. I hope to be there to receive her. I mean but to bid you adieu and be gone. Cecilia made no answer. She was more and more astonished, more and more confounded. You were thoughtful, said he with tenderness. Are you unhappy? Sweetest Cecilia, most excellent of human creatures, if I have made you unhappy, and I must, it is inevitable. Oh, Delville, cried she, now assuming more courage, why will you not speak to me openly? Something I see is wrong. May I not hear it? May I not tell you, at least, my concern that anything has distressed you? You are too good, cried he, to deserve you is not possible, but to afflict you is inhuman. Why so, cried she more cheerfully, must I not share the common law, or expect the whole world to be new modeled lest I should meet it in anything but happiness? There is not, indeed, much danger. Have you pen and ink here? She brought them to him immediately, with paper. You have been writing to me, you say. I will begin a letter myself. To me, cried she, he made no answer, but took up the pen and wrote a few words. And then, flinging it down, said, fool, I could have done this without coming. May I look at it? Said she, and finding he made no opposition, advanced and read. I fear to alarm you by rash precipitation. I fear to alarm you by lingering suspense. But all is not well. Fair nothing, cried she, turning to him with the kindest earnestness. Tell me whatever it may be. Am I not your wife, bound by every tie, divine and human, to share in all your sorrows? If, unhappily, I cannot mitigate them? Since you allow me, cried he gratefully, so sweet a claim, a claim to which all others yield, and which, if you repent not giving me, will make all others nearly immaterial to me, I will own to you that all, indeed, is not well. I have been hasty. You will blame me. I deserve, indeed, to be blamed, entrusted with your peace and happiness, to suffer rage, resentment, violence, to make me forgo what I owed to such a deposit. If you blame, however, stop short of repentance. But it cannot. What then, cried she with warmth, must you have done? For there is not an action of which I believe you capable. There is not an event which I believe to be possible that can ever make me repent belonging to you wholly. Generous condescending Cecilia, cried he, words such as these, hung there not upon me in evil the most depressing, would be almost more than I could bear, would make me too blessed for mortality. But words such as these, said she more gaily, I might long have coquetted ere I had spoken, had you not drawn them from me by this alarm. Take, therefore, the good with the ill, and remember, if all does not go right, you have now a trusty friend, as willing to be the partner of your serious as your happiest hours. Show but as much firmness as you have shown sweetness, cried he, and I will fear to tell you nothing. She reiterated her assurances, then they both sat down. And he began his account. Immediately from your lodgings I went where I had ordered a chase, and stopped only to change horses till I reached Delville Castle. My father saw me with surprise, and received me with coldness. I was compelled by my situation to be abrupt, and told him I came, before I accompanied my mother abroad, to make him acquainted with an affair which I thought myself bound in duty and respect, to suffer no one to communicate to him but myself. He then sternly interrupted me, and declared in high terms that if this affair concerned you, he would not listen to it. I attempted to remonstrate upon this injustice, when he passionately broke forth into new and horrible charges against you, affirming that he had them from authority as indisputable as ocular demonstration. I was then certain of some foul play. Foul play indeed, cried Cecilia, who now knew but too well by whom she had been injured. Good Heaven, how have I been deceived, where most I have trusted? I told him, continued Delville, some gross imposition had been practiced upon him, and earnestly conjured him no longer to conceal from me by whom. This, unfortunately, increased his rage. Imposition, he said, was not so easily played upon him. He left that for me, who so readily was duped, while for himself he had only given credit to a man of much consideration in Suffolk, who had known you from a child, who had solemnly assured him he had repeatedly endeavored to reclaim you, who had rescued you from the hands of Jews at his own hazard and loss, and who actually showed him bonds acknowledging immense debts which were signed with your own hand. Horrible, exclaimed Cecilia, I believed not such guilt and perfidy possible. I was scarce myself, resumed Delville, while I heard him. I demanded, even with fierceness, his author, whom I scruple not to execrate as he deserved. He coldly he answered he was bound by an oath never to reveal him, nor should he repay his honorable attention to his family by a breach of his own word, were it even less formally engaged. I then lost all patience. To mention honor, I cried, was a farce where such infamous calamities were listened to, but let me not shock you unnecessarily. You may readily conjecture what had passed. Ah, me, cried Cecilia, you have then quarreled with your father. I have, said he, nor does he yet know I am married. In so much wrath there was no room for narration. I only pledged myself by all I held sacred, never to rest till I had cleared your fame by the detection of this villainy, and then left him without further explanation. Oh, return then to him immediately, cried Cecilia. He is your father. You are bound to bear with his displeasure, alas, had you never known me, you had never incurred it. Believe me, he answered, I am ill at ease under it. If you wish it, when you have heard me, I will go to him immediately. If not, I will write, and you shall yourself dictate what. Cecilia thanked him, and begged he would continue his account. My first step, when I left the castle, was to send a letter to my mother, in which I treated her to set out as soon as possible for Margate, as I was detained from her unavoidably, and was unwilling my delay should either retard our journey, or oblige her to travel faster. At Margate I hoped to be as soon as herself, if not before her. And why, cried Cecilia, did you not go to town as you had promised, and accompany her? I had business another way. I came hither. Directly? No, but soon. Where did you go first? My Cecilia, it is now you must summon your fortitude. I left my father without an explanation on my part. But not till, in his rage of asserting his authority, he had unwarily named his informant. Well! That informant, the most deceitful of men, was your long-pretended friend, Mr. Moncton. So I feared, said Cecilia, whose blood now ran cold through her veins with sudden and new apprehensions. I rode to the grove, on hack horses, and on a full gallop the whole way. I got to him early in the evening. I was shown into his library. I told him my errand. You look pale, my love. You are not well? Cecilia, too sick for speech, lent her head upon the table. Delville was going to call for help, but she put her hand upon his arm to stop him. And, perceiving she was only mentally affected, he rested, and endeavored by every possible means to revive her. After a while she again raised her hand, faintly saying, I am sorry I interrupted you. But the conclusion I already know, Mr. Moncton is dead. Not dead, cried he, dangerously, indeed, wounded, but thank heaven not actually dead. Not dead, cried Cecilia, with recruited strength and spirits. Oh, then all yet may be well. If he is not dead, he may recover. He may, I hope he will. Now then, she cried, tell me all, I can bear any intelligence but of death by human means. I meant not to have gone such lengths. Far from it, I hold duels in abhorrence as unjustifiable acts of violence and savage devices of revenge. I have offended against my own conviction, but, transported with passion at his infamous charges, I was not master of my reason. I accused him of his perfidy. He denied it. I told him I had it from my father. He changed the subject to poor abuse upon him. I insisted on a recantation to clear you. He asked by what right. I fiercely answered by a husband's. His countenance, then, explained at least the motives of his treachery. He loves you himself. He had probably schemed to keep you free till his wife died, and then concluded his machinations would secure you his own. For this purpose, finding he was in danger of losing you, he was content even to blast your character rather than suffer you to escape him. But the moment I acknowledged my marriage, he grew more furious than myself. And in short for why relate the frenzies of rage, we walked out together. My traveling pistols were already charged. I gave him his choice of them, and the challenge being mine for insolence joined with guilt had robbed me of all forbearance. He fired first, but missed me. I then demanded whether he would clear your fame. He called out, fire, I will make no terms. I did fire, and unfortunately aimed better. We had neither of us any second. All was the result of immediate passion, but I soon got people to him and assisted in conveying him home. He was at first believed to be dead, and I was seized by his servants. But he afterwards showed signs of life, and by sending for my friend Bidolf, I was released, such as the melancholy transaction I came to relate to you. Flattering myself, it would something less shock you from me than from another. Yet my own real concern for the affair, the repentance with which from the moment the rage fell, I was struck in being his destroyer, and the sorrow, the remorse, rather, which I felt in coming to wound you with such black, such fearful intelligence, you to whom all I owe is peace and comfort. These thoughts gave me so much disturbance that, in fact, I knew less than any other how to prepare for such a tale. He stopped, but Cecilia could say nothing. To censure him now would both be cruel and vain. Yet to pretend she was satisfied with his conduct would be doing violence to her judgment and veracity. She saw, too, that his error had sprung wholly from a generous ardour in her defense, and that his confidence in her character had resisted without wavering every attack that menaced it. For this she felt truly grateful. Yet his quarrel with his father, the danger of his mother, his necessary absence, her own clandestine situation, and more than all, the threatened death of Mr. Mockden by his hands, were circumstances so full of dread and sadness she knew not upon which to speak, how to offer him comfort, how to assume accountants that looked able to receive any, or by what means to repress the emotions which, to many ways, assailed her. Delville, having vainly waited some reply, then, in atone, the most melancholy, said, if it is yet possible you can be sufficiently interested in my fate to care what becomes of me, aid me now with your counsel, or rather, with your instructions, I am scarce able to think for myself, and to be thought for by you would yet be a consolation that would give me spirit for anything. Cecilia, starting from her reverie, repeated, to care what becomes of you? Oh, Delville, make not my heart bleed by words of such unkindness. Forgive me, cried he, I meant not a reproach, I meant but to state my own consciousness of how little I deserve from you. You talk to me of going to my father? Do you still wish it? I think so, cried she, too much disturbed to know what she said, yet fearing again to hurt him by making him wait her answer. I will go then, said he, without doubt, too happy to be guided by you, whichever way I stare. I have now indeed much to tell him, but whatever may be his wrath, there is little fair at this time that my own temper cannot bear it. What next shall I do? What next, repeated she, indeed I know not. Shall I go immediately to Margate, or shall I first ride hither? If you please, said she, much perturbed and deeply sighing, I please nothing but by your direction. To follow that is my only chance of pleasure, which then shall I do? You will not now refuse to direct me. No, certainly not for the world. Speak to me then, my love, and tell me, why are you thus silent? Is it painful to you to counsel me? No, indeed, said she, putting her hand to her head. I will speak to you in a few minutes. Oh, my Cecilia, cried he, looking at her with much alarm. Call back your recollection. You know not what you say. You take no interest in what you answer. Indeed I do, said she, sighing deeply and oppressed beyond the power of thinking, beyond any power but an internal consciousness of wretchedness. Sign not so bitterly, cried he, if you have any compassion. Sign not so bitterly, I cannot bear to hear you. I am very sorry indeed, said she, sighing again, not seeming sensible, she spoke. Good heaven, cried he, rising, distract me not with this horror. Speak not to me in such broken sentences. Do you hear me, Cecilia? Why will you not answer me? She started and trembled, looked pale and frightened, and putting both her hands upon her heart, said, oh yes, but I have an oppression here, a tightness, a fullness. I have not room for breath. Oh, beloved of my heart, cried he, wildly casting himself at her feet. Kill me not with this terror. Call back your faculties. Awake from this dreadful insensibility. Tell me at least you know me. Tell me I have not tortured you quite to madness. Soul, darling of my affections, my own, my wedded Cecilia, rescue me from this agony. It is more than I can support. This energy of distress brought back her scattered senses. Scares more stunned by the shock of all this misery than by the restraint of her feelings and struggling to conceal it. But these passionate exclamations, restoring her sensibility, she burst into tears, which happily relieved her mind from the conflict with which it was laboring, and which, not thus affected, might have ended more fatally. Never had Delville more rejoiced in her smiles than now in these seasonable tears, which she regarded and blessed as the preservers of her reason. They flowed long without any intermission, his soothing and tenderness, but melting her to more sorrow. After a while, however, the return of her faculties, which at first seemed all consigned over to grief, was manifested by the returning strength of her mind. She blamed herself severely for the little fortitude she had shown, but having now given vent to her emotions too forcible to be wholly stiff, she assured him he might depend upon her better courage for the future and entreated him to consider and settle his affairs. Not speedily, however, could Delville himself recover. The torture he had suffered in believing, though only for a few moments that the terror he had given to Cecilia had affected her intellects, made even a deeper impression upon his imagination than the scene of fury and death, which had occasioned that terror. And Cecilia, who now strained every nerve to repair by her firmness, the pain which by her weakness she had given him was sooner in a condition for reasoning and deliberation than himself. Ah, Delville, she cried, comprehending what passed within him. Do you allow nothing for surprise and nothing for the hard conflict of endeavoring to suppress it? Do you think me still is unfit to advise with and as worthless as feeble a counselor as during the first confusion of my mind? Hurry not, your tender spirits, I beseech you, cried he. We have time enough, we will talk about business by and by. What time, cried she? What is it now o'clock? Good heaven, cried he, looking at his watch. Already past 10, you must turn me out, my Cecilia, or Calum new will still be busy, even though poor Mockden is quiet. I will turn you out, cried she. I am indeed most earnest to have you gone, but tell me your plan and which way you mean to go. That, he answered, you shall decide for me yourself, whether to Delville Castle to finish one tale and wholly communicate another or to Margate to hasten my mother abroad before the news of this calamity reaches her. Go to Margate, cried she eagerly, set off this very moment. You can write to your father from Osted, but continue I conjure you on the continent till we see if this unhappy man lives and inquire of those who can judge what must follow if he should not. A trial, said he, must follow, and it will go, I fear, but hardly with me. The challenge was mine, his servants can all witness I went to him, not he to me. O my Cecilia, the rashness of which I have been guilty is so opposite to my principles, and all generous as is your silence, I know it so opposite to yours, that never should his blood be on my hands, wretch as he was, never will my heart be quiet more. He will live, he will live, cried Cecilia, repressing her horror. Fear nothing, for he will live, and as to his wound and his sufferings, his perfidy has deserved them. Go then to Margate, think only of Mrs. Delville and save her if possible from hearing what has happened. I will go, stay, do which in whatever you bid me, but should what I fear come to pass, should my mother continue ill, my father inflexible, should this wretched man die, and should England no longer be a country I shall love to dwell in, could you then bear to own, would you then consent to follow me? Could I? Am I not yours? May you not command me? Tell me then, you have only to say, shall I accompany you at once? Delville, affected by her generosity, could scarce utter his thanks, yet he did not hesitate in denying to avail himself of it. No, my Cecilia, he cried, I am not so selfish. If we have not happier days, we will at least wait for more desperate necessity, with the uncertainty if I have not this man's life to answer for at the hazard of my own, to take my wife, my bride, from the kingdom I must fly, to make her a fugitive and an exile in the first publishing that she is mine? No, if I am not a destined alien for life, I can never permit it. Nothing less, believe me, shall ever urge my consent to wound the chaste propriety of your character by making you an eloper with a duelist. They then again consulted upon their future plans and concluded that in the present disordered state of their affairs, it would be best not to acknowledge, even to Mr. Delville their marriage, to whom the news of the duel and Mr. Moncton's danger would be a blow so severe that to add to it any other might have distract him. To the few people already acquainted with it, Delville therefore determined to write from upstairs, re-erging his entreaties for their discretion and secrecy. Cecilia promised every post to acquaint him how Mr. Moncton went on, and she then besought him to go instantly, that he might out-travel the ill news to his mother. He complied and took leave of her in the tenderest manner, conjuring her to support her spirits and be careful of her health. Happiness, said he, is much in it, errs with us. And though my violence may have frightened it away, your sweetness and gentleness will yet attract it back. All that for me is in store must be received at your hands. What is offered in any other way, I shall only mistake for evil. Troop not, therefore, my generous Cecilia, but in yourself preserve me. I will not, Troop, said she, you will find, I hope, you have not entrusted yourself in ill hands. Peace, then, be with you, my love, my comforting, my soul-reviving Cecilia. Peace, such as angels give, and such as may drive from your mind the remembrance of this bitter hour. He then tore himself away. Cecilia, who to his blessings could almost, like the tender Belvedere have exclaimed, do not leave me, stay with me, and curse me. Listen to his steps till she could hear them no longer, as if the remaining moments of her life were to be measured by them. But then, remembering the danger both to herself and him of his stay, she endeavored to rejoice that he was gone, and but that in her mind was in no state for joy, was too rational not to have succeeded. Grief and horror for what was past, apprehension and suspense for what was to come, so disordered her whole frame, so confused even her intellects, that when not all the assistance of fancy could persuade her, she still heard the footsteps of Delville. She went to the chair upon which she had been seated, and, taking possession of it, sat with her arms crossed, silent, quiet, and erect, almost vacant of all thought, yet with a secret idea, she was doing something right. Here she continued till Henrietta came to wish her good night, whose surprise and concern at the strangeness of her look and attitude once more recovered her. But terrified herself at this threatened wandering of her reason, and certain she must all night be a stranger to rest, she accepted the affectionate offer of the kind-hearted girl to stay with her, who was too much grieved for her grief to sleep any more than herself. She told her not what had passed, that she knew would be fruitless affliction to her. But she was soothed by her gentleness, and her conversation was some security from the dangerous rambling of her ideas. Henrietta herself found no little consolation in her own private sorrows, that she was able to give comfort to her beloved Miss Beverly, from whom she had received favors and kind offices innumerable. She quitted her not night nor day, and in the honest pride of a little power to skew the gratefulness of her heart, she felt a pleasure and self-consequence she had never before experienced. End of chapter two. Volume 10, chapter three of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Eris, by Francis Burnie. Volume 10, chapter three, A Summons. Cecilia's earliest care, almost at break of day, was to send to the Grove. From thence she heard nothing but evil. Mr. Moncton was still alive, but with little or no hope of recovery, constantly delirious, and talking of Miss Beverly and of her being married to Young Del Vile. Cecilia, who knew well this, at least, was no delirium, though shocked that he talked of it, hoped his danger less than was apprehended. The next day, however, more fatal news was brought her, though not from the quarter she expected it. Mr. Moncton, in one of his raving fits, had sent for Lady Margaret to his bedside, and used her almost inhumanly. He had railed at her age and her infirmities with incredible fury, called her the cause of all his sufferings, and accused her as the immediate agent of Lucifer, in his present wound and danger. Lady Margaret, whom neither jealousy nor malignity had cured of loving him, was dismayed and affrighted, and in hurrying out of the room upon his attempting in his frenzy to strike her, she dropped down dead in an apoplectic fit. Good Heaven, thought Cecilia, what an exemplary punishment has this man? He loses his hated wife at the very moment when her death could no longer answer his purposes. Poor Lady Margaret, her life has been as bitter as her temper, married from a view of interest, ill-used as a bar to happiness, and destroyed from the fruitless ravings of despair. She wrote all this intelligence to Ostend when she received a letter from Del Vile, acquainting her, he was detained from proceeding further by the weakness and illness of his mother, whose sufferings from seasickness had almost put an end to her existence. Thus passed a miserable week, monk and still merely alive, Del Vile detained at Ostend, and Cecilia tortured alike by what was recently passed, actually present, and fearfully expected, when one morning she was told a gentleman upon business desired immediately to speak with her. She hastily obeyed the summons, the constant image of her own mind, Del Vile, being already present to her, and a thousand wild conjectures upon what had brought him back rapidly occurring to her. Her expectations, however, were ill-answered, for she found an entire stranger, an elderly man of no pleasant aspect or manners. She desired to know his business. I presume, madam, you are the lady of this house? She bowed an ascent. May I take the liberty, madam, to ask your name? My name, sir? You will do me a favor, madam, by telling it me. Is it possible you are come hither without already knowing it? I know it only by common report, madam. Common report, sir, I believe is seldom wrong, in a matter where to be right is so easy. Have you any objection, madam, to telling me your name? No, sir, but your business can hardly be very important if you are yet to learn whom you are to address. It will be time enough, therefore, for us to meet when you are elsewhere satisfied in this point. She would then have left the room. I beg, madam, cried the stranger. You will have patience. It is necessary before I can open my business that I should hear your name from yourself. Well, sir, cried she with some hesitation. You can scarce have come to this house without knowing that its owner is Cecilia Beverly. That, madam, is your maiden name. My maiden name, cried she, starting. Are you not married, madam? Married, sir? She repeated while her cheeks were the color of scarlet. It is, properly, therefore, madam, the name of your husband that I mean to ask. And by what authority, sir, cried she, equally astonished and offended? Do you make these extraordinary inquiries? I am deputed, madam, to wait upon you by Mr. Eggleston, the next heir to this estate by your uncle's will, if you die without children or change your name when you marry. His authority of inquiry, madam, I presume you will allow, and he has vested it in me by a letter of attorney. Cecilia's distress and confusion were now unspeakable. She knew not what to own or deny. She could not conjecture how she had been betrayed, and she had never made the smallest preparation against such an attack. Mr. Eggleston, madam, he continued, has been pretty credibly informed that you are actually married. He is very desirous, therefore, to know what are your intentions, for your continuing to be called Miss Beverly, as if still single, leaves him quite in the dark, but as he is so deeply concerned in the affair, he expects, as a lady of honor, you will deal with him without prevarication. This demand, sir, said Cecilia, stammering, is so extremely, so little expected. The way, madam, in these cases is to keep pretty closely to the point. Are you married, or are you not? Cecilia, quite confounded, made no answer to disavow her marriage, when thus formally called upon, was every way unjustifiable. To acknowledge it in her present situation would involve her in difficulties innumerable. This is not, madam, a slight thing. Mr. Eggleston has a large family and a small fortune, and that into the bargain very much encumbered. It cannot, therefore, be expected that he will knowingly connive at cheating himself by submitting to your being actually married, and still enjoying your estate, though your husband does not take your name. Cecilia, now summoning more presence of mind, answered, Mr. Eggleston, sir, has at least nothing to fear from imposition, those with whom he has, or may have any transactions in this affair, are not accustomed to practice it. I am far from meaning any offense, madam. My commission from Mr. Eggleston is simply this. To beg you will satisfy him upon what grounds you now evade the will of your late uncle, which, till cleared up, appears a point manifestly to his prejudice. Tell him, then, sir, that whatever he wishes to know shall be explained to him in about a week. At present I can give no other answer. Very well, madam, he will wait that time, I am sure, for he does not wish to put you to any inconvenience. But when he heard the gentleman was gone abroad without owning his marriage, he thought at high time to take some notice of the matter. Cecilia, who by this speech found she was every way discovered, was again in the utmost confusion, and with much trepidation said, since you seem so well, sir, acquainted with this affair, I should be glad you wanted to inform me by what means you came to the knowledge of it. I heard it, madam, from Mr. Eggleston himself, who has long known it. Long, sir? Impossible! When it is not yet a fortnight, not ten days, or no more, that, she stopped recollecting she was making a confession better deferred. That, madam, he answered, may perhaps bear a little contention, for when this business comes to be settled, it will be very essential to be exact as to the time, even to the very hour, for a large income per annum divides into a small one per diem, and if your husband keeps his own name, you must not only give up your uncle's inheritance from the time of relinquishing yours, but refund from the very day of your marriage. There is not the least doubt of it, answered she, nor will the smallest difficulty be made. You will please, then, to recollect, madam, that this sum is every hour increasing, and has been since last September, which made half a year accountable for last March. Since then, there is now added, Good Heaven, sir! cried Cecilia. What calculation are you making out? Do you call last week, last September? No, madam, but I call last September the month in which you were married. You will find yourself, then, sir, extremely mistaken, and Mr. Eggleston is preparing himself for much disappointment, if he supposes me so long in arrears with him. Mr. Eggleston, madam, happens to be well informed of this transaction, as if there is any dispute in it, you will find. He was your immediate successor in the house to which you went last September in Paul Mall. The woman who kept it acquainted his servants that the last lady who hired it stayed with her but a day, and only came to town, she found, to be married. And hearing upon enquiry this lady was Miss Beverly, the servant's well-knowing that their master was her conditional heir, told him the circumstance, you will find all this, sir, end in nothing. That, madam, as I said before, remains to be proved. If a young lady at eight o'clock in the morning is seen, and she was seen, going into a church with a young gentleman and one female friend, and is afterwards observed to come out of it, followed by a clergyman and another person, supposed to have officiated as father, and is seen get into a coach with same young gentleman and same female friend, why the circumstances are pretty strong. They may seem so, sir, but all conclusions drawn from them will be erroneous. I was not married, then, upon my honor. We have little, madam, to do with professions. The circumstances are strong enough to bear a trial, and a trial? We have traced, madam, many witnesses able to stand to diverse particulars. An eight-month share of such an estate as this is well worth a little trouble. I am amazed, sir. Surely Mr. Eggleston never desired you to make use of this language to me. Mr. Eggleston, madam, has behaved very honorably, though he knew the whole affair so long ago. He was persuaded Mr. DelVile had private reasons for a short concealment, and expecting every day when they would be cleared up by his taking your name, he never interfered. But being now informed he set out last week for the Continent, he has been advised by his friends to claim his rights. That claims, sir, he need not fear will be satisfied, and without any occasion for threats of enquiries or lawsuits. The truth, madam, is this. Mr. Eggleston is at present in a little difficulty about some money matters, which makes it a point with him of some consequence to have the affair settled speedily, unless you could conveniently compromise the matter by advancing a particular sum till it suits you to refund the whole that is due to him and quit the premises. Nothing, sir, is due to him. At least nothing worth mentioning. I shall enter into no terms, for I have no compromise to make. As to the premises, I will quit them with all the expedition in my power. You will do well, madam, for the truth is it will not be convenient to him to wait much longer. He then went away. When next, cried Cecilia, shall I again be weak, vain, blind enough to form any plan with a hope of secrecy, or enter with any hope into a clandestine scheme, betrayed by those I have trusted, discovered by those I have not thought of, exposed to the cruelest alarms, and defenseless from the most shocking attacks, such has been the life I have led since the moment I first consented to a private engagement. Ah, del vile! Your mother in her tenderness forgot her dignity, or she would not have concurred in an action which to such disgrace made me liable. End of chapter three.