One evening about this time, which was the latter end of July, Lady
Honoria and Cecilia deferred walking out till very late, and then
found it so pleasant, that they had strolled into the Park two miles
from the house, when they were met by young Delvile; who, however,
only reminded them how far they had to return, and walked on.
“He grows quite intolerable!” cried Lady Honoria, when he was gone;
“it’s really a melancholy thing to see a young man behave so like an
old Monk. I dare say in another week he won’t take off his hat to us;
and, in about a fortnight, I suppose he’ll shut himself up in one of
those little round towers, and shave his head, and live upon roots,
and howl if any body comes near him. I really half wonder he does not
think it too dissipated to let Fidel run after him so. A thousand to
one but he shoots him some day for giving a sudden bark when he’s in
one of these gloomy fits. Something, however, must certainly be the
matter with him. Perhaps he is in love.”
“Can nothing be the matter with him but that?” cried Cecilia.
“Nay, I don’t know; but I am sure if he is, his Mistress has not much
occasion to be jealous of you or me, for never, I think, were two poor
Damsels so neglected!”
The utmost art of malice could not have furnished speech more truly
mortifying to Cecilia than this thoughtless and accidental sally of
Lady Honoria’s: particularly, however, upon her guard, from the
raillery she had already endured, she answered, with apparent
indifference, “he is meditating, perhaps, upon Lady Euphrasia.”
“O no,” cried Lady Honoria, “for he did not take any notice of her
when he saw her; I am sure if he marries her, it will only be because
he cannot help it.”
“Poor Lady Euphrasia!”
“O no, not at all; he’ll make her two or three fine speeches, and then
she’ll be perfectly contented especially if he looks as dismally at
her as he does at us! and that probably he will do the more readily
for not liking to look at her at all. But she’s such a romantic little
thing, she’ll never suspect him.”
Here they were somewhat alarmed by a sudden darkness in the air, which
was presently succeeded by a thunder storm; they instantly turned
back, and began running home, when a violent shower of rain obliged
them to take shelter under a large tree; where in two minutes they
were joined by Delvile, who came to offer his assistance in hurrying
them home; and finding the thunder and lightning continue, begged them
to move on, in defiance of the rain, as their present situation
exposed them to more danger than a wet hat and cloak, which might be
changed in a moment.
Cecilia readily assented; but Lady Honoria, extremely frightened,
protested she would not stir till the storm was over. It was in vain
he represented her mistake in supposing herself in a place of
security; she clung to the tree, screamed at every flash of lightning,
and all her gay spirits were lost in her apprehensions.
Delvile then earnestly proposed to Cecilia conducting her home by
herself, and returning again to Lady Honoria; but she thought it wrong
to quit her companion, and hardly right to accept his assistance
separately. They waited, therefore, some time all together; but the
storm increasing with great violence, the thunder growing louder, and
the lightning becoming stronger, Delvile grew impatient even to anger
at Lady Honoria’s resistance, and warmly expostulated upon its folly
and danger. But the present was no season for lessons in philosophy;
prejudices she had never been taught to surmount made her think
herself in a place of safety, and she was now too much terrified to
give argument fair play.
Finding her thus impracticable, Delvile eagerly said to Cecilia, “Come
then, Miss Beverley, let us wait no longer; I will see you home, and
then return to Lady Honoria.”
“By no means,” cried she, “my life is not more precious than either of
yours, and therefore it may run the same risk.”
“It is more precious,” cried he with vehemence, “than the air I
breathe!” and seizing her hand, he drew it under his arm, and, without
waiting her consent, almost forced her away with him, saying as they
ran, “How could a thousand Lady Honoria’s recompense the world for the
loss of one Miss Beverley? we may, indeed, find many thousand such as
Lady Honoria, but such as Miss Beverley—where shall we ever find
another?”
Cecilia, surprised, yet gratified, could not speak, for the speed with
which they ran almost took away her breath; and before they were near
home, slackening her pace, and panting, she confessed her strength was
exhausted, and that she could go so fast no further.
“Let us then stop and rest,” cried he; “but why will you not lean upon
me? surely this is no time for scruples, and for idle and unnecessary
scruples, Miss Beverley can never find a time.”
Cecilia then, urged equally by shame at his speech and by weakness
from fatigue, leant upon his arm but she soon repented her
condescension; for Delvile, with an emotion he seemed to find wholly
irrepressible, passionately exclaimed “sweet lovely burthen! O why not
thus for ever!”
The strength of Cecilia was now instantly restored, and she hastily
withdrew from his hold; he suffered her to disengage herself, but said
in a faultering voice, “pardon me, Cecilia!—Madam!—Miss Beverley, I
mean!—”
Cecilia, without making any answer, walked on by herself, as quick a
pace as she was able; and Delvile, not venturing to oppose her,
silently followed.
They had gone but a few steps, before there came a violent shower of
hail; and the wind, which was very high, being immediately in their
faces, Cecilia was so pelted and incommoded, that she was frequently
obliged to stop, in defiance of her utmost efforts to force herself
forward. Delvile then approaching her, proposed that she should again
stand under a tree, as the thunder and lightning for the present
seemed over, and wait there till the fury of the hail was past: and
Cecilia, though never before so little disposed to oblige him, was so
much distressed by the violence of the wind and hail, that she was
forced to comply.
Every instant now seemed an age; yet neither hail nor wind abated:
mean time they were both silent, and both, though with different
feelings, equally comfortless.
Delvile, however, who took care to place himself on the side whence
the wind blew hardest, perceived, in spite of his endeavours to save
her, some hail-stones lodged upon her thin summer cloak: he then took
off his own hat, and, though he ventured not to let it touch her, held
it in such a manner as to shelter her better.
Cecilia now could no longer be either silent or unmoved, but turning
to him with much emotion, said, “Why will you do this, Mr Delvile?”
“What would I not do,” answered he, “to obtain forgiveness from
Miss Beverley?”
“Well, well,—pray put on your hat.”
“Do you command it?”
“No, certainly!—but I wish it.”
“Ah!” cried he, instantly putting it on, “whose are the commands that
would have half the weight with your wishes?”
And then, after another pause, he added, “do you forgive me?”
Cecilia, ashamed of the cause of their dissension, and softened by the
seriousness of his manner, answered very readily, “yes, yes,—why will
you make me remember such nonsense?”
“All sweetness,” cried he warmly, and snatching her hand, “is Miss
Beverley!—O that I had power—that it were not utterly impossible—
that the cruelty of my situation—”
“I find,” cried she, greatly agitated, and forcibly drawing away her
hand, “you will teach me, for another time, the folly of fearing bad
weather!”
And she hurried from beneath the tree; and Delvile perceiving one of
the servants approach with an umbrella, went forward to take it from
him, and directed him to hasten instantly to Lady Honoria.
Then returning to Cecilia, he would have held it over her head, but
with an air of displeasure, she took it into her own hand.
“Will you not let me carry it for you?” he cried.
“No, Sir, there is not any occasion.”
They then proceeded silently on.
The storm was now soon over; but it grew very dark, and as they had
quitted the path while they ran, in order to get home by a shorter
cut, the walk was so bad from the height of the grass, and the
unevenness of the ground, that Cecilia had the utmost difficulty to
make her way; yet she resolutely refused any assistance from Delvile,
who walked anxiously by her side, and seemed equally fearful upon his
own account and upon hers, to trust himself with being importunate.
At length they came to a place which Cecilia in vain tried to pass;
Delvile then grew more urgent to help her; firm, however, in declining
all aid, she preferred going a considerable way round to another part
of the park which led to the house. Delvile, angry as well as
mortified, proposed to assist her no more, but followed without saying
a word.
Cecilia, though she felt not all the resentment she displayed, still
thought it necessary to support it, as she was much provoked with the
perpetual inconsistency of his behaviour, and deemed it wholly
improper to suffer, without discouragement, occasional sallies of
tenderness from one who, in his general conduct, behaved with the most
scrupulous reserve.
They now arrived at the castle; but entering by a back way, came to a
small and narrow passage which obstructed the entrance of the
umbrella: Delvile once more, and almost involuntarily, offered to help
her; but, letting down the spring, she coldly said she had no further
use for it.
He then went forward to open a small gate which led by another long
passage into the hall: but hearing the servants advance, he held it
for an instant in his hand, while, in a tone of voice the most
dejected, he said “I am grieved to find you thus offended; but were it
possible you could know half the wretchedness of my heart, the
generosity of your own would make you regret this severity!” and then,
opening the gate, he bowed, and went another way.
Cecilia was now in the midst of servants; but so much shocked and
astonished by the unexpected speech of Delvile, which instantly
changed all her anger into sorrow, that she scarce knew what they said
to her, nor what she replied; though they all with one voice enquired
what was become of Lady Honoria, and which way they should run to seek
her.
Mrs Delvile then came also, and she was obliged to recollect herself.
She immediately proposed her going to bed, and drinking white wine
whey to prevent taking cold: cold, indeed, she feared not; yet she
agreed to the proposal, for she was confounded and dismayed by what
had passed, and utterly unable to hold any conversation.
Her perplexity and distress were, however, all attributed to fatigue
and fright; and Mrs Delvile, having assisted in hurrying her to bed,
went to perform the same office for Lady Honoria, who arrived at that
time.
Left at length by herself, she revolved in her mind the adventure of
the evening, and the whole behaviour of Delvile since first she was
acquainted with him. That he loved her with tenderness, with fondness
loved her, seemed no longer to admit of any doubt, for however distant
and cold he appeared, when acting with circumspection and design, the
moment he was off his guard from surprise, terror, accident of any
sort, the moment that he was betrayed into acting from nature and
inclination, he was constantly certain to discover a regard the most
animated and flattering.
This regard, however, was not more evident than his desire to conceal
and to conquer it: he seemed to dread even her sight, and to have
imposed upon himself the most rigid forbearance of all conversation or
intercourse with her.
Whence could this arise? what strange and unfathomable cause could
render necessary a conduct so mysterious? he knew not, indeed, that
she herself wished it changed, but he could not be ignorant that his
chance with almost any woman would at least be worth trying.
Was the obstacle which thus discouraged him the condition imposed by
her uncle’s will of giving her own name to the man she married? this
she herself thought was an unpleasant circumstance, but yet so common
for an heiress, that it could hardly out-weigh the many advantages of
such a connection.
Henrietta again occurred to her; the letter she had seen in her hands
was still unexplained: yet her entire conviction that Henrietta was
not loved by him, joined to a certainty that affection alone could
ever make him think of her, lessened upon this subject her suspicions
every moment.
Lady Euphrasia Pemberton, at last, rested most upon her mind, and she
thought it probable some actual treaty was negociating with the Duke
of Derwent.
Mrs Delvile she had every reason to believe was her friend, though she
was scrupulously delicate in avoiding either raillery or observation
upon the subject of her son, whom she rarely mentioned, and never but
upon occasions in which Cecilia could have no possible interest.
The Father, therefore, notwithstanding all Mr Monckton had represented
to the contrary, appeared to be the real obstacle; his pride might
readily object to her birth, which though not contemptible, was merely
decent, and which, if traced beyond her grandfather, lost all title
even to that epithet.
“If this, however,” she cried, “is at last his situation, how much
have I been to blame in censuring his conduct! for while to me he has
appeared capricious, he has, in fact, acted wholly from necessity: if
his father insists upon his forming another connection, has he not
been honourable, prudent and just, in flying an object that made him
think of disobedience, and endeavouring to keep her ignorant of a
partiality it is his duty to curb?”
All, therefore, that remained for her to do or to resolve, was to
guard her own secret with more assiduous care than ever, and since she
found that their union was by himself thought impossible, to keep from
his knowledge that the regret was not all his own.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Cecilia (Burney)/Book 6/Chapter v. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.