This business effectually occupied the present and following day; the
third, Cecilia expected her answer from Delvile Castle, and the visit
she so much dreaded from the attorney.
The answer arrived first.
To Miss Beverley.
MADAM,—As my son has never apprized me of the extraordinary step which
your letter intimates, I am too unwilling to believe him capable of so
far forgetting what he owes his family, to ratify any such intimation
by interfering with my counsel or opinion.—I am, Madam, &c.,
COMPTON DELVILE.
DELVILE CASTLE, May 1st, 1780.
Cecilia had little right to be surprised by this letter, and she had
not a moment to comment upon it, before the attorney arrived.
“Well, madam,” said the man, as he entered the parlour, “Mr Eggleston
has stayed your own time very patiently: he commissions me now to
enquire if it is convenient to you to quit the premises.”
“No, Sir, it is by no means convenient to me; and if Mr Eggleston will
wait some time longer, I shall be greatly obliged to him.”
“No doubt, madam, but he will, upon proper considerations.”
“What, Sir, do you call proper?”
“Upon your advancing to him, as I hinted before, an immediate
particular sum from what must, by and bye, be legally restituted.”
“If this is the condition of his courtesy, I will quit the house
without giving him further trouble.”
“Just as it suits you, madam. He will be glad to take possession to-morrow or next day.”
“You did well, Sir, to commend his patience! I shall, however, merely
discharge my servants, and settle my accounts, and be ready to make way
for him.”
“You will not take it amiss, madam, if I remind you that the account
with Mr Eggleston must be the first that is settled.”
“If you mean the arrears of this last fortnight or three weeks, I
believe I must desire him to wait Mr Delvile’s return, as I may
otherwise myself be distressed for ready money.”
“That, madam, is not likely, as it is well known you have a fortune
that was independent of your late uncle; and as to distress for ready
money, it is a plea Mr Eggleston can urge much more strongly.”
“This is being strangely hasty, Sir!—so short a time as it is since Mr
Eggleston could expect any of this estate!”
“That, madam, is nothing to the purpose; from the moment it is his, he
has as many wants for it as any other gentleman. He desired me,
however, to acquaint you, that if you still chose an apartment in this
house, till Mr Delvile returns, you shall have one at your service.”
“To be a guest in this house, Sir,” said Cecilia, drily, “might
perhaps seem strange to me; I will not, therefore, be so much in his
way.”
Mr Carn then informed her she might put her seal upon whatever she
meant hereafter to claim or dispute, and took his leave.
Cecilia now shut herself up in her own room, to meditate without
interruption, before she would proceed to any action. She felt much
inclination to send instantly for some lawyer; but when she considered
her peculiar situation, the absence of her husband, the renunciation of
his father, the loss of her fortune, and her ignorance upon the
subject, she thought it better to rest quiet till Delvile’s own fate,
and own opinion could be known, than to involve herself in a lawsuit
she was so little able to superintend.
In this cruel perplexity of her mind and her affairs, her first thought
was to board again with Mrs Bayley; but that was soon given up, for she
felt a repugnance unconquerable to continuing in her native county,
when deprived of her fortune, and cast out of her dwelling.
Her situation, indeed, was singularly unhappy, since, by this
unforeseen vicissitude of fortune, she was suddenly, from being an
object of envy and admiration, sunk into distress, and threatened with
disgrace; from being every where caressed, and by every voice praised,
she blushed to be seen, and expected to be censured; and, from being
generally regarded as an example of happiness, and a model of virtue,
she was now in one moment to appear to the world, an outcast from her
own house, yet received into no other! a bride, unclaimed by a husband!
an HEIRESS, dispossessed of all wealth!
To be first acknowledged as Mrs Delvile in a state so degrading, she
could not endure; and to escape from it, one way alone remained, which
was going instantly abroad.
Upon this, therefore, she finally determined: her former objections to
such a step being now wholly, though unpleasantly removed, since she
had neither estate nor affairs to demand her stay, and since all hopes
of concealment were totally at an end. Her marriage, therefore, and its
disgraceful consequences being published to the world, she resolved
without delay to seek the only asylum which was proper for her, in the
protection of the husband for whom she had given up every other.
She purposed, therefore, to go immediately and privately to London,
whence she could best settle her route for the continent: where she
hoped to arrive before the news of her distress reached Delvile, whom
nothing, she was certain, but her own presence, could keep there for a
moment after hearing it.
Thus decided, at length, in her plan, she proceeded to put it in
execution with calmness and intrepidity; comforting herself that the
conveniencies and indulgencies with which she was now parting, would
soon be restored to her, and though not with equal power, with far more
satisfaction. She told her steward her design of going the next morning
to London, bid him pay instantly all her debts, and discharge all her
servants, determining to keep no account open but that with Mr
Eggleston, which he had made so intricate by double and undue demands,
that she thought it most prudent and safe to leave him wholly to
Delvile.
She then packed up all her papers and letters, and ordered her maid to
pack up her clothes.
She next put her own seal upon her cabinets, draws, and many other
things, and employed almost all her servants at once, in making
complete inventories of what every room contained.
She advised Mrs Harrel to send without delay for Mr Arnott, and return
to his house. She had first purposed to carry Henrietta home to her
mother herself; but another scheme for her now occurred, from which she
hoped much future advantage to the amiable and dejected girl.
She knew well, that deep as was at present her despondency, the removal
of all possibility of hope, by her knowledge of Delvile’s marriage,
must awaken her before long from the delusive visions of her romantic
fancy; Mr Arnott himself was in a situation exactly similar, and the
knowledge of the same event would probably be productive of the same
effect. When Mrs Harrel, therefore, began to repine at the solitude to
which she was returning, Cecilia proposed to her the society of
Henrietta, which, glad to catch at any thing that would break into her
loneliness, she listened to with pleasure, and seconded by an
invitation.
Henrietta, to whom all houses appeared preferable to her own home,
joyfully accepted the offer, committing to Cecilia the communication of
the change of her abode to Mrs Belfield.
Cecilia, who in the known and tried honour of Mr Arnott would
unreluctantly have trusted a sister, was much pleased by this little
arrangement, from which should no good ensue, no evil, at least, was
probable. But she hoped, through the mutual pity their mutual
melancholy might inspire, that their minds, already not dissimilar,
would be softened in favour of each other, and that, in conclusion,
each might be happy in receiving the consolation each could give, and a
union would take place, in which their reciprocal disappointment might,
in time, be nearly forgotten.
There was not, indeed, much promise of such an event in the countenance
of Mr Arnott, when, late at night, he came for his sister, nor in the
unbounded sorrow of Henrietta, when the moment of leave-taking
arrived. Mr Arnott looked half dead with the shock his sister’s
intelligence had given him, and Henrietta’s heart, torn asunder between
friendship and love, was scarce able to bear a parting, which from
Cecilia, she regarded as eternal, added to the consciousness it was
occasioned by her going to join Delvile for life!
Cecilia, who both read and pitied these conflicting emotions, was
herself extremely hurt by this necessary separation. She tenderly loved
Henrietta, she loved her even the more for the sympathy of their
affections, which called forth the most forcible commiseration,—that
which springs from fellow-feeling!
“Farewell,” she cried, “my Henrietta, be but happy as you are innocent,
and be both as I love you, and nothing will your friends have to wish
for you, or yourself to regret.”
“I must always regret,” cried the sobbing Henrietta, “that I cannot
live with you for ever! I should regret it if I were queen of all the
world, how much more then, when I am nothing and nobody! I do not wish
you happy, madam, for I think happiness was made on purpose for you,
and nobody else ever had it before; I only wish you health and long
life, for the sake of those who will be made as happy as you,—for you
will spoil them,—as you have spoilt me,—from being ever happy without
you!”
Cecilia re-iterated her assurances of a most faithful regard, embraced
Mrs Harrel, spoke words of kindness to the drooping Mr Arnott, and then
parted with them all.
Having still many small matters to settle, and neither company nor
appetite, she would eat no supper; but, in passing thro’ the hall, in
her way to her own room, she was much surprised to see all her
domestics assembled in a body. She stopt to enquire their intention,
when they eagerly pressed forward, humbly and earnestly entreating to
know why they were discharged? “For no reason in the world,” cried
Cecilia, “but because it is at present out of my power to keep you any
longer.”
“Don’t part with me, madam, for that,” cried one of them, “for I will
serve you for nothing!”
“So will I!” cried another, “And I!” “And I!” was echoed by them all;
while “no other such mistress is to be found!” “We can never bear any
other place!” and “keep me, madam, at least!” was even clamorously
urged by each of them.
Cecilia, distressed and flattered at once by their unwillingness to
quit her, received this testimony of gratitude for the kind and liberal
treatment they had received, with the warmest thanks both for their
services and fidelity, and assured them that when again she was
settled, all those who should be yet unprovided with places, should be
preferred in her house before any other claimants.
Having, with difficulty, broken from them, she sent for her own man,
Ralph, who had lived with her many years before the death of the Dean,
and told him she meant still to continue him in her service. The man
heard it with great delight, and promised to re-double his diligence to
deserve her favour. She then communicated the same news to her maid,
who had also resided with her some years, and by whom with the same, or
more pleasure it was heard.
These and other regulations employed her almost all night; yet late and
fatigued as she went to bed, she could not close her eyes: fearful
something was left undone, she robbed herself of the short time she had
allowed to rest, by incessant meditation upon what yet remained to be
executed. She could recollect, however, one only thing that had escaped
her vigilance, which was acquainting the pew-opener, and two or three
other poor women who had weekly pensions from her, that they must, at
least for the present, depend no longer upon her assistance.
Nothing indeed could be more painful to her than giving them such
information, yet not to be speedy with it would double the barbarity of
their disappointment. She even felt for these poor women, whose loss in
her she knew would be irreparable, a compassion that drove from her
mind almost every other subject, and determined her, in order to soften
to them this misfortune, to communicate it herself, that she might
prevent them from sinking under it, by reviving them with hopes of her
future assistance.
She had ordered at seven o’clock in the morning an hired chaise at the
door, and she did not suffer it long to wait for her. She quitted her
house with a heart full of care and anxiety, grieving at the necessity
of making such a sacrifice, uncertain how it would turn out, and
labouring under a thousand perplexities with respect to the measures
she ought immediately to take. She passed, when she reached the hall,
through a row of weeping domestics, not one of whom with dry eyes could
see the house bereft of such a mistress. She spoke to them all with
kindness, and as much as was in her power with chearfulness: but the
tone of her voice gave them little reason to think the concern at this
journey was all their own.
She ordered her chaise to drive round to the pew-opener’s and thence to
the rest of her immediate dependents. She soon, however, regretted that
she had given herself this task; the affliction of these poor
pensioners was clamorous, was almost heart-breaking; they could live,
they said, no longer, they were ruined for ever; they should soon be
without bread to eat, and they might cry for help in vain, when their
generous, their only benefactress was far away!
Cecilia made the kindest efforts, to comfort and encourage them,
assuring them the very moment her own affairs were arranged, she would
remember them all, visit them herself, and contribute to their relief,
with all the power she should have left. Nothing, however, could
console them; they clung about her, almost took the horses from the
chaise, and conjured her not to desert those who were solely cherished
by her bounty!
Nor was this all she had to suffer; the news of her intention to quit
the county was now reported throughout the neighbourhood, and had
spread the utmost consternation among the poor in general, and the
lower close of her own tenants in particular, and the road was soon
lined with women and children, wringing their hands and crying. They
followed her carriage with supplications that she would return to them,
mixing blessings with their lamentations, and prayers for her happiness
with the bitterest repinings at their own loss!
Cecilia was extremely affected; her liberal and ever-ready hand was
every other instant involuntarily seeking her purse, which her many
immediate expences, made her prudence as often check: and now first she
felt the capital error she had committed, in living constantly to the
utmost extent of her income, without ever preparing, though so able to
have done it, against any unfortunate contingency.
When she escaped, at last, from receiving any longer this painful
tribute to her benevolence, she gave orders to her man to ride forward
and stop at the Grove, that a precise and minute account of Mr
Monckton, might be the last, as it was now become the most important,
news she should hear in Suffolk. This he did, when to her equal
surprise and delight, she heard that he was suddenly so much better,
there were hopes of his recovery.
Intelligence so joyful made her amends for almost every thing; yet she
hesitated not in her plan of going abroad, as she knew not where to be
in England, and could not endure to hurry Delvile from his sick mother,
by acquainting him with her helpless and distressed situation. But so
revived were her spirits by these unexpected tidings, that a gleam of
brightest hope once more danced before her eyes, and she felt herself
invigorated with fresh courage and new strength, sufficient to support
her through all hardships and fatigues.
Spirits and courage were indeed much wanted for the enterprize she had
formed; but little used to travelling, and having never been out of
England, she knew nothing of the route but by a general knowledge of
geography, which, though it could guide her east or west, could teach
her nothing of foreign customs, the preparations necessary for the
journey, the impositions she should guard against, nor the various
dangers to which she might be exposed, from total ignorance of the
country through which she had to pass.
Conscious of these deficiencies for such an undertaking, she
deliberated without intermission how to obviate them. Yet sometimes,
when to these hazards, those arising from her youth and sex were added,
she was upon the point of relinquishing her scheme, as too perilous for
execution, and resolving to continue privately in London till some
change happened in her affairs.
But though to every thing she could suggest, doubts and difficulties
arose, she had no friend to consult, nor could devise any means by
which they might be terminated. Her maid was her only companion, and
Ralph, who had spent almost his whole life in Suffolk, her only guard
and attendant. To hire immediately some French servant, used to
travelling in his own country, seemed the first step she had to take,
and so essential, that no other appeared feasible till it was done. But
where to hear of such a man she could not tell, and to take one not
well recommended, would be exposing herself to frauds and dangers
innumerable.
Yet so slow as Delvile travelled, from whom her last letter was still
dated Ostend, she thought herself almost certain, could she once reach
the continent, of overtaking him in his route within a day or two of
her landing.
The earnest inclination with which this scheme was seconded, made her
every moment less willing to forego it. It seemed the only harbour for
her after the storm she had weathered, and the only refuge she could
properly seek while thus houseless and helpless. Even were Delvile in
England, he had no place at present to offer her, nor could any thing
be proposed so unexceptionable as her living with Mrs Delvile at Nice,
till he knew his father’s pleasure, and, in a separate journey home,
had arranged his affairs either for her return, or her continuance
abroad.
With what regret did she now look back to the time when, in a distress
such as this, she should have applied for, and received the advice of
Mr Monckton as oracular! The loss of a counsellor so long, so
implicitly relied upon, lost to her also, only by his own interested
worthlessness, she felt almost daily, for almost daily some intricacy
or embarrassment made her miss his assistance: and though glad, since
she found him so undeserving, that she had escaped the snares he had
spread for her, she grieved much that she knew no man of honest
character and equal abilities, that would care for her sufficiently to
supply his place in her confidence.
As she was situated at present, she could think only of Mr Belfield to
whom she could apply for any advice. Nor even to him was the
application unexceptionable, the calumnies of Mr Delvile senior making
it disagreeable to her even to see him. But he was at once a man of the
world and a man of honour; he was the friend of Mortimer, whose
confidence in him was great, and his own behaviour had uniformly shewn
a respect far removed from impertinence or vanity, and a mind superior
to being led to them by the influence of his gross mother. She had,
indeed, when she last quitted his house, determined never to re-enter
it; but determinations hasty or violent, are rarely observed, because
rarely practicable; she had promised Henrietta to inform Mrs Belfield
whither she was gone, and reconcile her to the absence she still hoped
to make from home. She concluded, therefore, to go to Portland-street
without delay, and enquire openly and at once whether, and when, she
might speak with Mr Belfield; resolving, if tormented again by any
forward insinuations, to rectify all mistakes by acknowledging her
marriage.
She gave directions accordingly to the post-boy and Ralph.
With respect to her own lodgings while in town, as money was no longer
unimportant to her, she meant from the Belfields to go to the Hills, by
whom she might be recommended to some reputable and cheap place. To the
Belfields, however, though very late when she arrived in town, she went
first, unwilling to lose a moment in promoting her scheme of going
abroad.
She left her maid in the chaise, and sent Ralph on to Mrs Hill, with
directions to endeavour immediately to procure her a lodging.
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