The next morning Cecilia arose late, not only to avoid the raillery of
Lady Honoria, but to escape seeing the departure of Delvile; she knew
that the spirit with which she had left him, made him, at present,
think her wholly insensible, and she was at least happy to be spared
the mortification of a discovery, since she found him thus content,
without even solicitation, to resign her.
Before she was dressed, Lady Honoria ran into her room, “A new scheme
of politics!” she cried; “our great statesman intends to leave us: he
can’t trust his baby out of his sight, so he is going to nurse him
while upon the road himself. Poor pretty dear Mortimer! what a puppet
do they make of him! I have a vast inclination to get a pap-boat
myself, and make him a present of it.”
Cecilia then enquired further particulars, and heard that Mr Delvile
purposed accompanying his son to Bristol, whose journey, therefore,
was postponed for a few hours to give time for new preparations.
Mr Delvile, who, upon this occasion, thought himself overwhelmed with
business, because, before his departure, he had some directions to
give to his domestics, chose to breakfast in his own apartment: Mrs
Delvile, also, wishing for some private conversation with her son,
invited him to partake of hers in her dressing-room, sending an
apology to her guests, and begging they would order their breakfasts
when they pleased.
Mr Delvile, scrupulous in ceremony, had made sundry apologies to Lord
Ernolf for leaving him; but his real anxiety for his son overpowering
his artificial character, the excuses he gave to that nobleman were
such as could not possibly offend; and the views of his lordship
himself in his visit, being nothing interrupted, so long as Cecilia
continued at the castle, he readily engaged, as a proof that he was
not affronted, to remain with Mrs Delvile till his return.
Cecilia, therefore, had her breakfast with the two lords and Lady
Honoria; and when it was over, Lord Ernolf proposed to his son riding
the first stage with the two Mr Delviles on horseback. This was agreed
upon, and they left the room: and then Lady Honoria, full of frolic
and gaiety, seized one of the napkins, and protested she would send it
to Mortimer for a slabbering-bib: she therefore made it up in a
parcel, and wrote upon the inside of the paper with which she
enveloped it, “A pin-a fore for Master Mortimer Delvile, lest
he should daub his pappy when he is feeding him.” Eager to have this
properly conveyed, she then ran out, to give it in charge to her own
man, who was to present him with it as he got into the chaise.
She had but just quitted the room, when the door of it was again
opened, and by Mortimer himself, booted, and equipped for his journey.
“Miss Beverley here! and alone!” cried he, with a look, and in a
voice, which skewed that all the pride of the preceding evening was
sunk into the deepest dejection; “and does she not fly as I approach
her? can she patiently bear in her sight one so strange, so fiery, so
inconsistent? But she is too wise to resent the ravings of a madman;—
and who, under the influence of a passion at once hopeless and
violent, can boast, but at intervals, full possession of his reason?”
Cecilia, utterly astonished by a gentleness so humble, looked at him
in silent surprise; he advanced to her mournfully, and added, “I am
ashamed, indeed, of the bitterness of spirit with which I last night
provoked your displeasure, when I should have supplicated your lenity:
but though I was prepared for your coldness, I could not endure it,
and though your indifference was almost friendly, it made me little
less than frantic; so strangely may justice be blinded by passion, and
every faculty of reason be warped by selfishness!”
“You have no apology to make, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “since, believe me,
I require none.”
“You may well,” returned he, half-smiling, “dispense with my
apologies, since under the sanction of that word, I obtained your
hearing yesterday. But, believe me, you will now find me far more
reasonable; a whole night’s reflections—reflections which no repose
interrupted!—have brought me to my senses. Even lunatics, you know,
have lucid moments!”
“Do you intend, Sir, to set off soon?”
“I believe so; I wait only for my father. But why is Miss Beverley so
impatient? I shall not soon return; that, at least, is certain,
and, for a few instants delay, may surely offer some palliation;—See!
if I am not ready to again accuse you of severity!—I must run, I
find, or all my boasted reformation will end but in fresh offence,
fresh disgrace, and fresh contrition! Adieu, madam!—and may all
prosperity attend you! That will be ever my darling wish, however long
my absence, however distant the climates which may part us!” He was
then hurrying away, but Cecilia, from an impulse of surprise too
sudden to be restrained, exclaimed “The climates?—do you, then, mean
to leave England?”
“Yes,” cried he, with quickness, “for why should I remain in it? a few
weeks only could I fill up in any tour so near home, and hither in a
few weeks to return would be folly and madness: in an absence so
brief, what thought but that of the approaching meeting would occupy
me? and what, at that meeting, should I feel, but joy the most
dangerous, and delight which I dare not think of!—every conflict
renewed, every struggle re-felt, again all this scene would require to
be acted, again I must tear myself away, and every tumultuous passion
now beating in my heart would be revived, and, if possible, be revived
with added misery!—No!—neither my temper nor my constitution will
endure such another shock, one parting shall suffice, and the
fortitude with which I will lengthen my self-exile, shall atone to
myself for the weakness which makes it requisite!”
And then, with a vehemence that seemed fearful of the smallest delay,
he was again, and yet more hastily going, when Cecilia, with much
emotion, called out, “Two moments, Sir!”
“Two thousand! two million!” cried he, impetuously, and returning,
with a look of the most earnest surprise, he added, “What is it Miss
Beverley will condescend to command?”
“Nothing,” cried she, recovering her presence of mind, “but to beg you
will by no means, upon my account, quit your country and your friends,
since another asylum can be found for myself, and since I would much
sooner part from Mrs Delvile, greatly and sincerely as I reverence
her, than be instrumental to robbing her, even for a month, of her
son.”
“Generous and humane is the consideration,” cried he; “but who half so
generous, so humane as Miss Beverley? so soft to all others, so noble
in herself? Can my mother have a wish, when I leave her with you? No;
she is sensible of your worth, she adores you, almost as I adore you
myself! you are now under her protection, you seem, indeed, born for
each other; let me not, then, deprive her of so honourable a charge—
Oh, why must he, who sees in such colours the excellencies of both,
who admires with such fervour the perfections you unite, be torn with
this violence from the objects he reveres, even though half his life
he would sacrifice, to spend in their society what remained!”—
“Well, then, Sir,” said Cecilia, who now felt her courage decline, and
the softness of sorrow steal fast upon her spirits, “if you will not
give up your scheme, let me no longer detain you.”
“Will you not wish me a good journey?”
“Yes,—very sincerely.”
“And will you pardon the unguarded errors which have offended you?”
“I will think of them, Sir, no more.”
“Farewell, then, most amiable of women, and may every blessing you
deserve light on your head! I leave to you my mother, certain of your
sympathetic affection for a character so resembling your own. When
you, madam, leave her, may the happy successor in your favour—
” He paused, his voice faultered, Cecilia, too, turned away from him,
and, uttering a deep sigh, he caught her hand, and pressing it to his
lips, exclaimed, “O great be your felicity, in whatever way you
receive it!—pure as your virtues, and warm as your benevolence!—Oh
too lovely Miss Beverley!—why, why must I quit you!”
Cecilia, though she trusted not her voice to reprove him, forced away
her hand, and then, in the utmost perturbation, he rushed out of the
room.
This scene for Cecilia, was the most unfortunate that could have
happened; the gentleness of Delvile was alone sufficient to melt her,
since her pride had no subsistence when not fed by his own; and while
his mildness had blunted her displeasure, his anguish had penetrated
her heart. Lost in thought and in sadness, she continued fixed to her
seat; and looking at the door through which he had passed, as if, with
himself, he had shut out all for which she existed.
This pensive dejection was not long uninterrupted; Lady Honoria came
running back, with intelligence, in what manner she had disposed of
her napkin, and Cecilia in listening, endeavoured to find some
diversion; but her ladyship, though volatile not undiscerning, soon
perceived that her attention was constrained, and looking at her with
much archness, said, I believe, my dear, I must find another napkin
for you! not, how ever, for your mouth, but for your eyes!
Has Mortimer been in to take leave of you?”
“Take leave of me?—No,—is he gone?”
“O no, Pappy has a world of business to settle first; he won’t be
ready these two hours. But don’t look so sorrowful, for I’ll run and
bring Mortimer to console you.”
Away she flew, and Cecilia, who had no power to prevent her, finding
her spirits unequal either to another parting, or to the raillery of
Lady Honoria, should Mortimer, for his own sake, avoid it, took refuge
in flight, and seizing an umbrella, escaped into the park; where, to
perplex any pursuers, instead of chusing her usual walk, she directed
her steps to a thick and unfrequented wood, and never rested till she
was more than two miles from the house. Fidel, however, who now always
accompanied her, ran by her side, and, when she thought herself
sufficiently distant and private to be safe, she sat down under a
tree, and caressing her faithful favourite, soothed her own tenderness
by lamenting that he had lost his master; and, having now no
part to act, and no dignity to support, no observation to fear, and no
inference to guard against, she gave vent to her long smothered
emotions, by weeping without caution or restraint.
She had met with an object whose character answered all her wishes for
him with whom she should entrust her fortune, and whose turn of mind,
so similar to her own, promised her the highest domestic felicity: to
this object her affections had involuntarily bent, they were seconded
by esteem, and unchecked by any suspicion of impropriety in her
choice: she had found too, in return, that his heart was all her own:
her birth, indeed, was inferior, but it was not disgraceful; her
disposition, education and temper seemed equal to his fondest wishes:
yet, at the very time when their union appeared most likely, when they
mixed with the same society, and dwelt under the same roof, when the
father to one, was the guardian to the other, and interest seemed to
invite their alliance even more than affection, the young man himself,
without counsel or command, could tear himself from her presence by an
effort all his own, forbear to seek her heart, and almost charge her
not to grant it, and determining upon voluntary exile, quit his
country and his connections with no view, and for no reason, but
merely that he might avoid the sight of her he loved!
Though the motive for this conduct was now no longer unknown to her,
she neither thought it satisfactory nor necessary; yet, while she
censured his flight, she bewailed his loss, and though his inducement
was repugnant to her opinion, his command over his passions she
admired and applauded.
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