At dinner, with the assistance of Lord Ernolf, who was most happy to
give it, Cecilia seemed tolerably easy. Lord Derford, too, encouraged
by his father, endeavoured to engage some share of her attention; but
he totally failed; her mind was superior to little arts of coquetry,
and her pride had too much dignity to evaporate in pique; she
determined, therefore, at this time, as at all others, to be
consistent in shewing him he had no chance of her favour.
At tea, when they were again assembled, Mortimer’s journey was the
only subject of discourse, and it was agreed that he should set out
very early in the morning, and, as the weather was extremely hot, not
travel at all in the middle of the day.
Lady Honoria then, in a whisper to Cecilia, said, “I suppose, Miss
Beverley, you will rise with the lark to-morrow morning? for your
health, I mean. Early rising, you know, is vastly good for you.”
Cecilia, affecting not to understand her, said she should rise, she
supposed, at her usual time.
“I’ll tell Mortimer, however,” returned her ladyship, “to look up at
your window before he goes off; for if he will play Romeo, you, I dare
say, will play Juliet, and this old castle is quite the thing for the
musty family of the Capulets: I dare say Shakespeare thought of it
when he wrote of them.”
“Say to him what you please for yourself,” cried Cecilia, “but let me
entreat you to say nothing for me.”
“And my Lord Derford,” continued she, “will make an excessive pretty
Paris, for he is vastly in love, though he has got nothing to say; but
what shall we do for a Mercutio? we may find five hundred whining
Romeos to one gay and charming Mercutio. Besides, Mrs Delvile, to do
her justice, is really too good for the old Nurse, though Mr Delvile
himself may serve for all the Capulets and all the Montagues at once,
for he has pride enough for both their houses, and twenty more
besides. By the way, if I don’t take care, I shall have this Romeo run
away before I have made my little dainty country Paris pick a quarrel
with him.”
She then walked up to one of the windows, and motioning Lord Derford
to follow her, Cecilia heard her say to him, “Well, my lord, have you
writ your letter? and have you sent it? Miss Beverley, I assure you,
will be charmed beyond measure by such a piece of gallantry.”
“No, ma’am,” answered the simple young lord, “I have not sent it yet,
for I have only writ a foul copy.”
“O my lord,” cried she, “that is the very thing you ought to send! a
foul copy of a challenge is always better than a fair one, for it
looks written with more agitation. I am vastly glad you mentioned
that.”
Cecilia then, rising and joining them, said, “What mischief is Lady
Honoria about now? we must all be upon our guards, my lord, for she
has a spirit of diversion that will not spare us.”
“Pray why do you interfere?” cried Lady Honoria, and then, in a lower
voice, she added, “what do you apprehend? do you suppose Mortimer
cannot manage such a poor little ideot as this?”
“I don’t suppose any thing about the matter!”
“Well, then, don’t interrupt my operations. Lord Derford, Miss
Beverley has been whispering me, that if you put this scheme in
execution, she shall find you, ever after, irresistible.”
“Lord Derford, I hope,” said Cecilia, laughing, is too well acquainted
with your ladyship to be in any danger of credulity.”
“Vastly well!” cried she, “I see you are determined to provoke me, so
if you spoil my schemes, I will spoil yours, and tell a certain
gentleman your tender terrors for his safety.”
Cecilia now, extremely alarmed, most earnestly entreated her to be
quiet; but the discovery of her fright only excited her ladyship’s
laughter, and, with a look the most mischievously wicked, she called
out “Pray Mr Mortimer, come hither!”
Mortimer instantly obeyed; and Cecilia at the same moment would with
pleasure have endured almost any punishment to have been twenty miles
off.
“I have something,” continued her ladyship, “of the utmost consequence
to communicate to you. We have been settling an admirable plan for
you; will you promise to be guided by us if I tell it you?”
“O certainly!” cried he; “to doubt that would disgrace us all round.”
“Well, then,—Miss Beverley, have you any objection to my proceeding?”
“None at all!” answered Cecilia, who had the understanding to know
that the greatest excitement to ridicule is opposition.
“Well, then, I must tell you,” she continued, “it is the advice of us
all, that as soon as you come to the possession of your estate, you
make some capital alterations in this antient castle.”
Cecilia, greatly relieved, could with gratitude have embraced her: and
Mortimer, very certain that such rattle was all her own, promised the
utmost submission to her orders, and begged her further directions,
declaring that he could not, at least, desire a fairer architect.
“What we mean,” said she, “may be effected with the utmost ease; it is
only to take out these old windows, and fix some thick iron grates in
their place, and so turn the castle into a gaol for the county.”
Mortimer laughed heartily at this proposition; but his father,
unfortunately hearing it, sternly advanced, and with great austerity
said, “If I thought my son capable of putting such an insult upon his
ancestors, whatever may be the value I feel for him, I would banish
him my presence for ever.”
“Dear Sir,” cried Lady Honoria, “how would his ancestors ever know
it?”
“How?—why—that is a very extraordinary question, Lady Honoria!”
“Besides, Sir, I dare say the sheriff, or the mayor and corporation,
or some of those sort of people, would give him money enough, for the
use of it, to run him up a mighty pretty neat little box somewhere
near Richmond.”
“A box!” exclaimed he indignantly; “a neat little box for the heir of
an estate such as this!”
“I only mean,” cried she, giddily, “that he might have some place a
little more pleasant to live in, for really that old moat and draw-bridge
are enough to vapour him to death; I cannot for my life imagine
any use they are of: unless, indeed, to frighten away the deer, for
nothing else offer to come over. But, if you were to turn the house
into a gaol—”
“A gaol?” cried Mr Delvile, still more angrily, “your ladyship must
pardon me if I entreat you not to mention that word again when you are
pleased to speak of Delvile Castle.”
“Dear Sir, why not?”
“Because it is a term that, in itself, from a young lady, has a sound
peculiarly improper; and which, applied to any gentleman’s antient
family seat,—a thing, Lady Honoria, always respectable, however
lightly spoken of!—has an effect the least agreeable that can be
devised: for it implies an idea either that the family, or the
mansion, is going into decay.”
“Well, Sir, you know, with regard to the mansion, it is certainly very
true, for all that other side, by the old tower, looks as if it would
fall upon one’s head every time one is forced to pass it.”
“I protest, Lady Honoria,” said Mr Delvile, “that old tower, of which
you are pleased to speak so slightingly, is the most honourable
testimony to the antiquity of the castle of any now remaining, and I
would not part with it for all the new boxes, as you style them, in
the kingdom.”
“I am sure I am very glad of it, Sir, for I dare say nobody would give
even one of them for it.”
“Pardon me, Lady Honoria, you are greatly mistaken; they would give a
thousand; such a thing, belonging to a man from his own ancestors, is
invaluable.”
“Why, dear Sir, what in the world could they do with it? unless,
indeed, they were to let some man paint it for an opera scene.”
“A worthy use indeed!” cried Mr Delvile, more and more affronted: “and
pray does your ladyship talk thus to my Lord Duke?”
“O yes; and he never minds it at all.”
“It were strange if he did!” cried Mrs Delvile; “my only astonishment
is that anybody can be found who does mind it.”
“Why now, Mrs Delvile,” she answered, “pray be sincere; can you
possibly think this Gothic ugly old place at all comparable to any of
the new villas about town?”
“Gothic ugly old place!” repeated Mr Delvile, in utter amazement at
her dauntless flightiness; “your ladyship really does my humble
dwelling too much honour!”
“Lord, I beg a thousand pardons!” cried she, “I really did not think
of what I was saying. Come, dear Miss Beverley, and walk out with me,
for I am too much shocked to stay a moment longer.”
And then, taking Cecilia by the arm, she hurried her into the park,
through a door which led thither from the parlour.
“For heaven’s sake, Lady Honoria,” said Cecilia, “could you find no
better entertainment for Mr Delvile than ridiculing his own house?”
“O,” cried she, laughing, “did you never hear us quarrel before? why
when I was here last summer, I used to affront him ten times a day.”
“And was that a regular ceremony?”
“No, really, I did not do it purposely; but it so happened; either by
talking of the castle, or the tower, or the draw-bridge, or the
fortifications; or wishing they were all employed to fill up that
odious moat; or something of that sort; for you know a small matter
will put him out of humour.”
“And do you call it so small a matter to wish a man’s whole habitation
annihilated?”
“Lord, I don’t wish anything about it! I only say so to provoke him.”
“And what strange pleasure can that give you?”
“O the greatest in the world! I take much delight in seeing anybody in
a passion. It makes them look so excessively ugly!”
“And is that the way you like every body should look, Lady Honoria?”
“O my dear, if you mean me, I never was in a passion twice in
my life: for as soon as ever I have provoked the people, I always run
away. But sometimes I am in a dreadful fright lest they should see me
laugh, for they make such horrid grimaces it is hardly possible to
look at them. When my father has been angry with me, I have sometimes
been obliged to pretend I was crying, by way of excuse for putting my
handkerchief to my face: for really he looks so excessively hideous,
you would suppose he was making mouths, like the children, merely to
frighten one.”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Cecilia, “your ladyship can, indeed, never want
diversion, to find it in the anger of your father. But does it give
you no other sensation? are you not afraid?”
“O never! O what can he do to me, you know? he can only storm a
little, and swear a little, for he always swears when he is angry; and
perhaps order me to my own room; and ten to one but that happens to be
the very thing I want; for we never quarrel but when we are alone, and
then it’s so dull, I am always wishing to run away.”
“And can you take no other method of leaving him?”
“Why I think none so easily: and it can do him no harm, you know; I
often tell him, when we make friends, that if it were not for a
postilion and his daughter, he would be quite out of practice in
scolding and swearing: for whenever he is upon the road he does
nothing else: though why he is in such a hurry, nobody can divine, for
go whither he will he has nothing to do.”
Thus ran on this flighty lady, happy in high animal spirits, and
careless who was otherwise, till, at some distance, they perceived
Lord Derford, who was approaching to join them.
“Miss Beverley,” cried she, “here comes your adorer: I shall therefore
only walk on till we arrive at that large oak, and then make him
prostrate himself at your feet, and leave you together.”
“Your ladyship is extremely good! but I am glad to be apprized of your
intention, as it will enable me to save you that trouble.”
She then turned quick back, and passing Lord Derford, who still walked
on towards Lady Honoria, she returned to the house; but, upon entering
the parlour, found all the company dispersed, Delvile alone excepted,
who was walking about the room, with his tablets in his hand, in which
he had been writing.
From a mixture of shame and surprize, Cecilia, at the sight of him,
was involuntarily retreating; but, hastening to the door, he called
out in a reproachful tone, “Will you not even enter the same room with
me?”
“O yes,” cried she, returning; “I was only afraid I disturbed you.”
“No, madam,” answered he, gravely; “you are the only person who could
not disturb me, since my employment was making memorandums for
a letter to yourself: with which, however, I did not desire to
importune you, but that you have denied me the honour of even a five
minutes’ audience.”
Cecilia, in the utmost confusion at this attack, knew not whether to
stand still or proceed; but, as he presently continued his speech, she
found she had no choice but to stay.
“I should be sorry to quit this place, especially as the length of my
absence is extremely uncertain, while I have the unhappiness to be
under your displeasure, without making some little attempt to
apologize for the behaviour which incurred it. Must I, then, finish my
letter, or will you at last deign to hear me?”
“My displeasure, Sir,” said Cecilia, “died with its occasion; I beg,
therefore, that it may rest no longer in your remembrance.”
“I meant not, madam, to infer, that the subject or indeed that the
object merited your deliberate attention; I simply wish to explain
what may have appeared mysterious in my conduct, and for what may have
seemed still more censurable, to beg your pardon.”
Cecilia now, recovered from her first apprehensions, and calmed,
because piqued, by the calmness with which he spoke himself, made no
opposition to his request, but suffering him to shut both the door
leading into the garden, and that which led into the hall, she seated
herself at one of the windows, determined to listen with intrepidity
to this long expected explanation.
The preparations, however, which he made to obviate being overheard,
added to the steadiness with which Cecilia waited his further
proceedings, soon robbed him of the courage with which he began the
assault, and evidently gave him a wish of retreating himself.
At length, after much hesitation, he said “This indulgence, madam,
deserves my most grateful acknowledgments; it is, indeed, what I had
little right, and still less reason, after the severity I have met
with from you, to expect.”
And here, at the very mention of severity, his courage, called upon by
his pride, instantly returned, and he went on with the same spirit he
had begun.
“That severity, however, I mean not to lament; on the contrary, in a
situation such as mine, it was perhaps the first blessing I could
receive: I have found from it, indeed, more advantage and relief than
from all that philosophy, reflection or fortitude could offer. It has
shewn me the vanity of bewailing the barrier, placed by fate to my
wishes, since it has shewn me that another, less inevitable, but
equally insuperable, would have opposed them. I have determined,
therefore, after a struggle I must confess the most painful, to deny
myself the dangerous solace of your society, and endeavour, by joining
dissipation to reason, to forget the too great pleasure which hitherto
it has afforded me.”
“Easy, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “will be your task: I can only wish the
re-establishment of your health may be found no more difficult.”
“Ah, madam,” cried he, with a reproachful smile, “he jests at scars
who never felt a wound!—but this is a strain in which I have no
right to talk, and I will neither offend your delicacy, nor my own
integrity, by endeavouring to work upon the generosity of your
disposition in order to excite your compassion. Not such was the
motive with which I begged this audience; but merely a desire, before
I tear myself away, to open to you my heart, without palliation or
reserve.”
He paused a few moments; and Cecilia finding her suspicions just that
this interview was meant to be final, considered that her trial,
however severe, would be short, and called forth all her resolution to
sustain it with spirit.
“Long before I had the honour of your acquaintance,” he continued,
“your character and your accomplishments were known to me: Mr Biddulph
of Suffolk, who was my first friend at Oxford, and with whom my
intimacy is still undiminished, was early sensible of your
excellencies: we corresponded, and his letters were filled with your
praises. He confessed to me, that his admiration had been
unfortunate:—alas! I might now make the same confession to him!”
Mr Biddulph, among many of the neighbouring gentlemen, had made
proposals to the Dean for Cecilia, which, at her desire, were
rejected.
“When Mr Harrel saw masks in Portman-square, my curiosity to behold a
lady so adored, and so cruel, led me thither; your dress made you
easily distinguished.—Ah Miss Beverley! I venture not to mention
what I then felt for my friend! I will only say that something which I
felt for myself, warned me instantly to avoid you, since the clause in
your uncle’s will was already well known to me.”
Now, then, at last, thought Cecilia, all perplexity is over!—the
change of name is the obstacle; he inherits all the pride of his
family,—and therefore to that family will I unrepining leave him!
“This warning,” he continued, “I should not have disregarded, had I
not, at the Opera, been deceived into a belief you were engaged; I
then wished no longer to shun you; bound in honour to forbear all
efforts at supplanting a man, to whom I thought you almost united, I
considered you already as married, and eagerly as I sought your
society, I sought it not with more pleasure than innocence. Yet even
then, to be candid, I found in myself a restlessness about your
affairs that kept me in eternal perturbation: but I flattered myself
it was mere curiosity, and only excited by the perpetual change of
opinion to which occasion gave rise, concerning which was the happy
man.”
“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, coolly, “there was any such mistake.”
“I will not, madam, fatigue you,” he returned, “by tracing the
progress of my unfortunate admiration; will endeavour to be more
brief, for I see you are already wearied.” He stopt a moment, hoping
for some little encouragement; but Cecilia, in no humour to give it,
assumed an air of unconcern, and sat wholly quiet.
“I knew not,” he then went on, with a look of extreme mortification,
“the warmth with which I honoured your virtues, till you deigned to
plead to me for Mr Belfield,—but let me not recollect the feelings of
that moment!—yet were they nothing,—cold, languid, lifeless to what
I afterwards experienced, when you undeceived me finally with respect
to your situation, and informed me the report concerning Sir Robert
Floyer was equally erroneous with that which concerned Belfield! O
what was the agitation of my whole soul at that instant!—to know you
disengaged,—to see you before me,—by the disorder of my whole frame
to discover the mistake I had cherished—”
Cecilia then, half rising, yet again seating herself, looked extremely
impatient to be gone.
“Pardon me, madam,” he cried; “I will have done, and trace my feelings
and my sufferings no longer, but hasten, for my own sake as well as
yours, to the reason why I have spoken at all. From the hour that my
ill-destined passion was fully known to myself, I weighed all the
consequences of indulging it, and found, added to the extreme hazard
of success, an impropriety even in the attempt. My honour in the
honour of my family is bound; what to that would seem wrong, in me
would be unjustifiable: yet where inducements so numerous were opposed
by one single objection!—where virtue, beauty, education and family
were all unexceptionable,—Oh cruel clause! barbarous and repulsive
clause! that forbids my aspiring to the first of women, but by an
action that with my own family would degrade me for ever!”
He stopt, overpowered by his own emotion, and Cecilia arose. “I see,
madam,” he cried, “your eagerness to be gone, and however at this
moment I may lament it, I shall recollect it hereafter with advantage.
But to conclude: I determined to avoid you, and, by avoiding, to
endeavour to forget you: I determined, also, that no human being, and
yourself least of all, should know, should even suspect the situation
of my mind: and though upon various occasions, my prudence and
forbearance have suddenly yielded to surprise and to passion, the
surrender has been short, and almost, I believe, unnoticed.
“This silence and this avoidance I sustained with decent constancy,
till during the storm, in an ill-fated moment, I saw, or thought I saw
you in some danger, and then, all caution off guard, all resolution
surprised, every passion awake, and tenderness triumphant—”
“Why, Sir,” cried Cecilia, angrily, “and for what purpose all this?”
“Alas, I know not!” said he, with a deep sigh, “I thought myself
better qualified for this conference, and meant to be firm and
concise. I have told my story ill, but as your own understanding will
point out the cause, your own benevolence will perhaps urge some
excuse.
“Too certain, since that unfortunate accident, that all disguise was
vain, and convinced by your displeasure of the impropriety of which I
had been guilty, I determined, as the only apology I could offer, to
open to you my whole heart, and then fly you perhaps for ever.
“This, madam, incoherently indeed, yet with sincerity, I have now
done: my sufferings and my conflicts I do not mention, for I dare not!
O were I to paint to you the bitter struggles of a mind all at war
with itself,—Duty, spirit, and fortitude, combating love, happiness
and inclination,—each conquering alternately, and alternately each
vanquished,—I could endure it no longer, I resolved by one effort to
finish the strife, and to undergo an instant of even exquisite
torture, in preference to a continuance of such lingering misery!”
“The restoration of your health, Sir, and since you fancy it has been
injured, of your happiness,” said Cecilia, “will, I hope, be as
speedy, as I doubt not they are certain.”
“Since I fancy it has been injured!” repeated he; “what a
phrase, after an avowal such as mine! But why should I wish to
convince you of my sincerity, when to you it cannot be more
indifferent, than to myself it is unfortunate! I have now only to
entreat your pardon for the robbery I have committed upon your time,
and to repeat my acknowledgments that you have endeavoured to hear me
with patience.”
“If you honour me, Sir, with some portion of your esteem,” said the
offended Cecilia, “these acknowledgments, perhaps, should be mine;
suppose them, however made, for I have a letter to write, and can
therefore stay no longer.”
“Nor do I presume, madam,” cried he proudly, “to detain you: hitherto
you may frequently have thought me mysterious, sometimes strange and
capricious, and perhaps almost always, unmeaning; to clear myself from
these imputations, by a candid confession of the motives which have
governed me, is all that I wished. Once, also—I hope but once,—you
thought me impertinent,—there, indeed, I less dare vindicate myself—”
“There is no occasion, Sir,” interrupted she, walking towards the
door, “for further vindication in any thing; I am perfectly satisfied,
and if my good wishes are worth your acceptance, assure yourself you
possess them.”
“Barbarous, and insulting!” cried he, half to himself; and then, with
a quick motion hastening to open the door for her, “Go, madam,” he
added, almost breathless with conflicting emotions, “go, and be your
happiness unalterable as your inflexibility!”
Cecilia was turning back to answer this reproach, but the sight of
Lady Honoria, who was entering at the other door, deterred her, and
she went on’.
When she came to her own room, she walked about it some time in a
state so unsettled, between anger and disappointment, sorrow and
pride, that she scarce knew to which emotion to give way, and felt
almost bursting with each.
“The die,” she cried, “is at last thrown; and this affair is concluded
for ever! Delvile himself is content to relinquish me; no father has
commanded, no mother has interfered, he has required no admonition,
full well enabled to act for himself by the powerful instigation of
hereditary arrogance! Yet my family, he says,—unexpected
condescension! my family and every other circumstance is
unexceptionable; how feeble, then, is that regard which yields to one
only objection! how potent that haughtiness which to nothing will give
way! Well, let him keep his name! since so wondrous its properties, so
all-sufficient its preservation, what vanity, what presumption in me,
to suppose myself an equivalent for its loss!”
Thus, deeply offended, her spirits were supported by resentment, and
not only while in company, but when alone, she found herself scarce
averse to the approaching separation, and enabled to endure it without
repining.
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