As soon as Mrs Charlton was acquainted with the departure of young
Delvile, she returned to Cecilia, impatient to be informed what had
passed. The narration she heard both hurt and astonished her; that
Cecilia, the Heiress of such a fortune, the possessor of so much
beauty, descended of a worthy family, and formed and educated to grace
a noble one, should be rejected by people to whom her wealth would be
most useful, and only in secret have their alliance proposed to her,
she deemed an indignity that called for nothing but resentment, and
approved and enforced the resolution of her young friend to resist all
solicitations which Mr and Mrs Delvile did not second themselves.
About, two hours after Delvile was gone, his letter arrived. Cecilia
opened it with trepidation, and read as follows.
To Miss Beverley.
September 20, 1779.
What could be the apprehensions, the suspicions of Miss Beverley when
so earnestly she prohibited my writing? From a temper so unguarded as
mine could she fear any subtlety of doctrine? Is my character so
little known to her that she can think me capable of craft or
duplicity? Had I even the desire, I have neither the address nor the
patience to practice them; no, loveliest Miss Beverley, though
sometimes by vehemence I may incautiously offend, by sophistry,
believe me, I never shall injure: my ambition, as I have told you, is
to convince, not beguile, and my arguments shall be simple as my
professions shall be sincere.
Yet how again may I venture to mention a proposal which so lately
almost before you had heard you rejected? Suffer me, however, to
assure you it resulted neither from insensibility to your delicacy,
nor to my own duty; I made it, on the contrary, with that reluctance
and timidity which were given me by an apprehension that both seemed
to be offended by it:—but alas! already I have said what with grief I
must repeat, I have no resource, no alternative, between receiving the
honour of your hand in secret or foregoing you for ever.
You will wonder, you may well wonder at such a declaration; and again
that severe renunciation with which you wounded me, will tremble on
your lips,—Oh there let it stop! nor let the air again be agitated
with sounds so discordant!
In that cruel and heart-breaking moment when I tore myself from you at
Delvile Castle, I confessed to you the reason of my flight, and I
determined to see you no more. I named not to you, then, my family,
the potency of my own objections against daring to solicit your favour
rendering theirs immaterial: my own are now wholly removed, but theirs
remain in full force.
My father, descended of a race which though decaying in wealth, is
unsubdued in pride, considers himself as the guardian of the honour of
his house, to which he holds the name of his ancestors inseparably
annexed my mother, born of the same family, and bred to the same
ideas, has strengthened this opinion by giving it the sanction of her
own.
Such being their sentiments; you will not, madam, be surprised that
their only son, the sole inheritor of their fortune, and sole object
of their expectations, should early have admitted the same. Indeed
almost the first lesson I was taught was that of reverencing the
family from which I am descended, and the name to which I am born. I
was bid consider myself as its only remaining support, and sedulously
instructed neither to act nor think but with a view to its
aggrandizement and dignity.
Thus, unchecked by ourselves, and uncontrouled by the world, this
haughty self-importance acquired by time a strength, and by mutual
encouragement a firmness, which Miss Beverley alone could possibly, I
believe, have shaken! What, therefore, was my secret alarm, when first
I was conscious of the force of her attractions, and found my mind
wholly occupied with admiration of her excellencies! All that pride
could demand, and all to which ambition could aspire, all that
happiness could covet, or the most scrupulous delicacy exact, in her I
found united; and while my heart was enslaved by her charms, my
understanding exulted in its fetters. Yet to forfeit my name, to give
up for-ever a family which upon me rested its latest expectations,—
Honour, I thought forbad it, propriety and manly spirit revolted at
the sacrifice. The renunciation of my birth-right seemed a desertion
of the post in which I was stationed: I forbore, therefore, even in my
wishes, to solicit your favour, and vigorously determined to fly you
as dangerous to my peace, because unattainable without dishonour.
Such was the intended regulation of my conduct at the time I received
Biddulph’s letter; in three days I was to leave England; my father,
with much persuasion, had consented to my departure; my mother, who
penetrated into my motives, had never opposed it: but how great was
the change wrought upon my mind by reading that letter! my steadiness
forsook me, my resolution wavered; yet I thought him deceived, and
attributed his suspicions to jealousy: but still, Fidel I knew was
missing—and to hear he was your darling companion—was it possible to
quit England in a state of such uncertainty? to be harassed in distant
climates with conjectures I might then never satisfy? No; I told my
friends I must visit Biddulph before I left the kingdom, and promising
to return to them in three or four days, I hastily set out for
Suffolk, and rested not till I arrived at Mrs Charlton’s.
What a scene there awaited me! to behold the loved mistress of my
heart, the opposed, yet resistless object of my fondest admiration,
caressing an animal she knew to be mine, mourning over him his
master’s ill health, and sweetly recommending to him fidelity,—Ah!
forgive the retrospection, I will dwell on it no longer. Little,
indeed, had I imagined with what softness the dignity of Miss Beverley
was blended, though always conscious that her virtues, her
attractions, and her excellencies, would reflect lustre upon the
highest station to which human grandeur could raise her, and would
still be more exalted than her rank, though that were the most eminent
upon earth.—And had there been a thousand, and ten thousand obstacles
to oppose my addressing her, vigorously and undauntedly would I have
combated with them all, in preference to yielding to this single
objection!
Let not the frankness of this declaration irritate you, but rather let
it serve to convince you of the sincerity of what follows: various as
are the calamities of life which may render me miserable, YOU only,
among even its chosen felicities, have power to make me happy. Fame,
honours, wealth, ambition, were insufficient without you; all chance
of internal peace, and every softer hope is now centered in your
favour, and to lose you, from whatever cause, ensures me wretchedness
unmitigated. With respect therefore to myself, the die is finally
cast, and the conflict between bosom felicity and family pride is
deliberately over. This name which so vainly I have cherished and so
painfully supported, I now find inadequate to recompense me for the
sacrifice which its preservation requires. I part with it, I own, with
regret that the surrender is necessary; yet is it rather an imaginary
than an actual evil, and though a deep wound to pride, no offence to
morality.
Thus have I laid open to you my whole heart, confessed my
perplexities, acknowledged my vain-glory, and exposed with equal
sincerity the sources of my doubts, and the motives of my decision:
but now, indeed, how to proceed I know not; the difficulties which are
yet to encounter I fear to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge
I have scarce courage to mention.
My family, mistaking ambition for honour, and rank for dignity, have
long planned a splendid connection for me, to which though my
invariable repugnance has stopt any advances, their wishes and their
views immovably adhere. I am but too certain they will now listen to
no other. I dread, therefore, to make a trial where I despair of
success, I know not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me
by a command.
In a situation so desperate, what then remains? Must I make an
application with a certainty of rejection, and then mock all authority
by acting in defiance of it? Or, harder task yet! relinquish my
dearest hopes when no longer persuaded of their impropriety? Ah!
sweetest Miss Beverley, end the struggle at once! My happiness, my
peace, are wholly in your power, for the moment of our union secures
them for life.
It may seem to you strange that I should thus purpose to brave the
friends whom I venture not to entreat; but from my knowledge of their
characters and sentiments I am certain I have no other resource. Their
favourite principles were too early imbibed to be now at this late
season eradicated. Slaves that we all are to habits, and dupes to
appearances, jealous guardians of our pride, to which our comfort is
sacrificed, and even our virtue made subservient, what conviction can
be offered by reason, to notions that exist but by prejudice? They
have been cherished too long for rhetorick to remove them, they can
only be expelled by all-powerful Necessity. Life is, indeed, too
brief, and success too precarious, to trust, in any case where
happiness is concerned, the extirpation of deep-rooted and darling
opinions, to the slow-working influence of argument and disquisition.
Yet bigotted as they are to rank and family, they adore Miss Beverley,
and though their consent to the forfeiture of their name might forever
be denied, when once they beheld her the head and ornament of
their house, her elegance and accomplishments joined to the splendour
of her fortune, would speedily make them forget the plans which now
wholly absorb them. Their sense of honour is in nothing inferior to
their sense of high birth; your condescension, therefore, would be
felt by them in its fullest force, and though, during their first
surprize, they might be irritated against their son, they would make
it the study of their lives that the lady who for him had done so
much, should never, through their means, repine for herself.
With regard to settlements, the privacy of our union would not affect
them: one Confident we must unavoidably trust, and I would deposit in
the hands of whatever person you would name, a bond by which I would
engage myself to settle both your fortune and my own, according to the
arbitration of our mutual friends. The time for secrecy though painful
would be short, and even from the altar, if you desired it, I would
hasten to Delvile Castle. Not one Of my friends should you see till
they waited upon you themselves to solicit your presence at their
house, till our residence elsewhere was fixed.
Oh loveliest Cecilia, from a dream Of happiness so sweet awaken me
not! from a plan Of felicity so attractive turn not away! If one part
of it is unpleasant, reject not therefore all; and since without some
drawback no earthly bliss is attainable, do not, by a refinement too
scrupulous for the short period of our existence, deny yourself that
delight which your benevolence will afford you, in snatching from the
pangs of unavailing regret and misery, the gratefullest of men in the
humblest and most devoted of your servants,
MORTIMER DELVILE.
Cecilia read and re-read this letter, but with a perturbation of mind
that made her little able to weigh its contents. Paragraph by
paragraph her sentiments varied, and her determination was changed:
the earnestness of his supplication now softened her into compliance,
the acknowledged pride of his family now irritated her into
resentment, and the confession of his own regret now sickened her into
despondence. She meant in an immediate answer, to have written a final
dismission; but though proof against his entreaties, because not
convinced by his arguments, there was something in the conclusion of
his letter that staggered her resolution.
Those scruples and that refinement against which he warned her, she
herself thought might be overstrained, and to gratify unnecessary
punctilio, the short period of existence be rendered causelessly
unhappy. He had truly said that their union would be no offence to
morality, and with respect merely to pride, why should that be spared?
He knew he possessed her heart, she had long been certain of his, her
character had early gained the affection of his mother, and the
essential service which an income such as hers must do the family,
would soon be felt too powerfully to make her connection with it
regretted.
These reflections were so pleasant she knew not how to discard them;
and the consciousness that her secret was betrayed not only to
himself, but to Mr Biddulph, Lord Ernolf, Lady Honoria Pemberton, and
Mrs Delvile, gave them additional force, by making it probable she was
yet more widely suspected. But still her delicacy and her principles
revolted against a conduct of which the secrecy seemed to imply the
impropriety. “How shall I meet Mrs Delvile,” cried she, “after an
action so clandestine? How, after praise such as she has bestowed upon
me, bear the severity of her eye, when she thinks I have seduced from
her the obedience of her son! A son who is the sole solace and first
hope of her existence, whose virtues make all her happiness, and whose
filial piety is her only glory!—And well may she glory in a son such
as Delvile! Nobly has he exerted himself in situations the most
difficult, his family and his ideas of honour he has preferred to his
peace and health, he has fulfilled with spirit and integrity the
various, the conflicting duties of life. Even now, perhaps, in his
present application, he may merely think himself bound by knowing me
no longer free, and his generous sensibility to the weakness he has
discovered, without any of the conviction to which he pretends, may
have occasioned this proposal!”
A suggestion so mortifying again changed her determination; and the
tears of Henrietta Belfield, with the letter which she had surprized
in her hand recurring to her memory, all her thoughts turned once more
upon rejecting him for-ever.
In this fluctuating state of mind she found writing impracticable;
while uncertain what to wish, to decide was impossible. She disdained
coquetry, she was superior to trifling, the candour and openness of
Delvile had merited all her sincerity, and therefore while any doubt
remained, with herself, she held it unworthy her character to tell him
she had none.
Mrs Charlton, upon reading the letter, became again the advocate of
Delvile; the frankness with which he had stated his difficulties
assured her of his probity, and by explaining his former conduct,
satisfied her with the rectitude of his future intentions. “Do not,
therefore, my dear child,” cried she, “become the parent of your own
misery by refusing him; he deserves you alike from his principles and
his affection, and the task would both be long and melancholy to
disengage him from your heart. I see not, however, the least occasion
for the disgrace of a private marriage; I know not any family to which
you would not be an honour, and those who feel not your merit, are
little worth pleasing. Let Mr Delvile, therefore, apply openly to his
friends, and if they refuse their consent, be their prejudices their
reward. You are freed from all obligations where caprice only can
raise objections, and you may then, in the face of the world,
vindicate your choice.”
The wishes of Cecilia accorded with this advice, though the general
tenour of Delvile’s letter gave her little reason to expect he would
follow it.
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