Left now to herself, sensations unfelt before filled the heart of
Cecilia. All that had passed for a while appeared a dream; her ideas
were indistinct, her memory was confused, her faculties seemed all out
of order, and she had but an imperfect consciousness either of the
transaction in which she had just been engaged, or of the promise she
had bound herself to fulfil: even truth from imagination she scarcely
could separate; all was darkness and doubt, inquietude and disorder!
But when at length her recollection more clearly returned, and her
situation appeared to her such as it really was, divested alike of
false terrors or delusive expectations, she found herself still
further removed from tranquility.
Hitherto, though no stranger to sorrow, which the sickness and early
loss of her friends had first taught her to feel, and which the
subsequent anxiety of her own heart had since instructed her to bear,
she had yet invariably possessed the consolation of self-approving
reflections: but the step she was now about to take, all her
principles opposed; it terrified her as undutiful, it shocked her as
clandestine, and scarce was Delvile out of sight, before she regretted
her consent to it as the loss of her self-esteem, and believed, even
if a reconciliation took place, the remembrance of a wilful fault
would still follow her, blemish in her own eyes the character she had
hoped to support, and be a constant allay to her happiness, by telling
her how unworthily she had obtained it.
Where frailty has never been voluntary, nor error stubborn, where the
pride of early integrity is unsubdued, and the first purity of
innocence is inviolate, how fearfully delicate, how “tremblingly
alive,” is the conscience of man! strange, that what in its first
state is so tender, can in its last become so callous!
Compared with the general lot of human misery, Cecilia had suffered
nothing; but compared with the exaltation of ideal happiness, she had
suffered much; willingly, however, would she again have borne all that
had distressed her, experienced the same painful suspence, endured the
same melancholy parting, and gone through the same cruel task of
combating inclination with reason, to have relieved her virtuous mind
from the new-born and intolerable terror of conscientious reproaches.
The equity of her notions permitted her not from the earnestness of
Delvile’s entreaties to draw any palliation for her consent to his
proposal; she was conscious that but for her own too great facility
those entreaties would have been ineffectual, since she well knew how
little from any other of her admirers they would have availed.
But chiefly her affliction and repentance hung upon Mrs Delvile, whom
she loved, reverenced and honoured, whom she dreaded to offend, and
whom she well knew expected from her even exemplary virtue. Her
praises, her partiality, her confidence in her character, which
hitherto had been her pride, she now only recollected with shame and
with sadness. The terror of the first interview never ceased to be
present to her; she shrunk even in imagination from her wrath-darting
eye, she felt stung by pointed satire, and subdued by cold contempt.
Yet to disappoint Delvile so late, by forfeiting a promise so
positively accorded; to trifle with a man who to her had been
uniformly candid, to waver when her word was engaged, and retract when
he thought himself secure,—honour, justice and shame told her the
time was now past.
“And yet is not this,” cried she, “placing nominal before actual evil?
Is it not studying appearance at the expence of reality? If agreeing
to wrong is criminal, is not performing it worse? If repentance for
ill actions calls for mercy, has not repentance for ill intentions a
yet higher claim?—And what reproaches from Delvile can be so bitter
as my own? What separation, what sorrow, what possible calamity can
hang upon my mind with such heaviness, as the sense of committing
voluntary evil?”
This thought so much affected her, that, conquering all regret either
for Delvile or herself, she resolved to write to him instantly, and
acquaint him of the alteration in her sentiments.
This, however, after having so deeply engaged herself, was by no means
easy; and many letters were begun, but not one of them was finished,
when a sudden recollection obliged her to give over the attempt,—for
she knew not whither to direct to him.
In the haste with which their plan had been formed and settled, it had
never once occurred to them that any, occasion for writing was likely
to happen. Delvile, indeed, knew that her address would still be the
same; and with regard to his own, as his journey to London was to be
secret, he purposed not having any fixed habitation. On the day of
their marriage, and not before, they had appointed to meet at the
house of Mrs Roberts, in Fetter-Lane, whence they were instantly to
proceed to the church.
She might still, indeed, enclose a letter for him in one to Mrs Hill,
to be delivered to him on the destined morning when he called to claim
her; but to fail him at the last moment, when Mr Belfield would have
drawn up the bond, when a licence was procured, the clergyman waiting
to perform the ceremony, and Delvile without a suspicion but that the
next moment would unite them for ever, seemed extending prudence into
treachery, and power into tyranny. Delvile had done nothing to merit
such treatment, he had practised no deceit, he had been guilty of no
perfidy, he had opened to her his whole heart, and after shewing it
without any disguise, the option had been all her own to accept or
refuse him.
A ray of joy now broke its way through the gloom of her apprehensions.
“Ah!” cried she, “I have not, then, any means to recede! an unprovoked
breach of promise at the very moment destined for its performance,
would but vary the mode of acting wrong, without approaching nearer to
acting right!”
This idea for a while not merely calmed but delighted her; to be the
wife of Delvile seemed now a matter of necessity, and she soothed
herself with believing that to struggle against it were vain.
The next morning during breakfast Mr Monckton arrived.
Not greater, though winged with joy, had been the expedition of
Delvile to open to him his plan, than was his own, though only goaded
by desperation, to make some effort with Cecilia for rendering it
abortive. Nor could all his self-denial, the command which he held
over his passions, nor the rigour with which his feelings were made
subservient to his interest, in this sudden hour of trial, avail to
preserve his equanimity. The refinements of hypocrisy, and the arts of
insinuation, offered advantages too distant, and exacted attentions
too subtle, for a moment so alarming; those arts and those attentions
he had already for many years practised, with an address the most
masterly, and a diligence the most indefatigable: success had of late
seemed to follow his toils; the encreasing infirmities of his wife,
the disappointment and retirement of Cecilia, uniting to promise him a
conclusion equally speedy and happy; when now, by a sudden and
unexpected stroke, the sweet solace of his future cares, the long-projected recompence of his past sufferings, was to be snatched from
him for ever, and by one who, compared with himself, was but the
acquaintance of a day.
Almost wholly off his guard from the surprise and horror of this
apprehension, he entered the room with such an air of haste and
perturbation, that Mrs Charlton and her grand-daughters demanded what
was the matter.
“I am come,” he answered abruptly, yet endeavouring to recollect
himself, “to speak with Miss Beverley upon business of some
importance.”
“My dear, then,” said Mrs Charlton, “you had better go with Mr
Monckton into your dressing-room.”
Cecilia, deeply blushing, arose and led the way: slowly, however, she
proceeded, though urged by Mr Monckton to make speed. Certain of his
disapprobation, and but doubtfully relieved from her own, she dreaded
a conference which on his side, she foresaw, would be all exhortation
and reproof, and on hers all timidity and shame.
“Good God,” cried he, “Miss Beverley, what is this you have done?
bound yourself to marry a man who despises, who scorns, who refuses to
own you!”
Shocked by this opening, she started, but could make no answer.
“See you not,” he continued, “the indignity which is offered you? Does
the loose, the flimsy veil with which it is covered, hide it from your
understanding, or disguise it from your delicacy?”
“I thought not,—I meant not,” said she, more and more confounded, “to
submit to any indignity, though my pride, in an exigence so peculiar,
may give way, for a while, to convenience.”
“To convenience?” repeated he, “to contempt, to derision, to
insolence!”—
“O Mr Monckton!” interrupted Cecilia, “make not use of such
expressions! they are too cruel for me to hear, and if I thought they
were just, would make me miserable for life!”
“You are deceived, grossly deceived,” replied he, “if you doubt their
truth for a moment: they are not, indeed, even decently concealed from
you; they are glaring as the day, and wilful blindness can alone
obscure them.”
“I am sorry, Sir,” said Cecilia, whose confusion, at a charge so
rough, began now to give way to anger, “if this is your opinion; and I
am sorry, too, for the liberty I have taken in troubling you upon such
a subject.”
An apology so full of displeasure instantly taught Mr Monckton the
error he was committing, and checking, therefore, the violence of
those emotions to which his sudden and desperate disappointment gave
rise, and which betrayed him into reproaches so unskilful, he
endeavoured to recover his accustomed equanimity, and assuming an air
of friendly openness, said, “Let me not offend you, my dear Miss
Beverley, by a freedom which results merely from a solicitude to serve
you, and which the length and intimacy of our acquaintance had, I
hoped, long since authorised. I know not how to see you on the brink
of destruction without speaking, yet, if you are averse to my
sincerity, I will curb it, and have done.”
“No, do not have done,” cried she, much softened; “your sincerity does
me nothing but honour, and hitherto, I am sure, it has done me nothing
but good. Perhaps I deserve your utmost censure; I feared it, indeed,
before you came, and ought, therefore, to have better prepared myself
for meeting with it.”
This speech completed Mr Monckton’s self-victory; it skewed him not
only the impropriety of his turbulence, but gave him room to hope that
a mildness more crafty would have better success.
“You cannot but be certain,” he answered, “that my zeal proceeds
wholly from a desire to be of use to you: my knowledge of the world
might possibly, I thought, assist your inexperience, and the
disinterestedness of my regard, might enable me to see and to point
out the dangers to which you are exposed, from artifice and duplicity
in those who have other purposes to answer than what simply belong to
your welfare.”
“Neither artifice nor duplicity,” cried Cecilia, jealous for the
honour of Delvile, “have been practised against me. Argument, and not
persuasion, determined me, and if I have done wrong—those who
prompted me have erred as unwittingly as myself.”
“You are too generous to perceive the difference, or you would find
nothing less alike. If, however, my plainness will not offend you,
before it is quite too late, I will point out to you a few of the
evils,—for there are some I cannot even mention, which at this
instant do not merely threaten, but await you.”
Cecilia started at this terrifying offer, and afraid to accept, yet
ashamed to refuse, hung back irresolute.
“I see,” said Mr Monckton, after a pause of some continuance, “your
determination admits no appeal. The consequence must, indeed, be all
your own, but I am greatly grieved to find how little you are aware of
its seriousness. Hereafter you will wish, perhaps, that the friend of
your earliest youth had been permitted to advise you; at present you
only think him officious and impertinent, and therefore he can do
nothing you will be so likely to approve as quitting you. I wish you,
then, greater happiness than seems prepared to follow you, and a
counsellor more prosperous in offering his assistance.”
He would then have taken his leave: but Cecilia called out, “Oh, Mr
Monckton! do you then give me up?”
“Not unless you wish it.”
“Alas, I know not what to wish! except, indeed, the restoration of
that security from self-blame, which till yesterday, even in the midst
of disappointment, quieted and consoled me.”
“Are you, then, sensible you have gone wrong, yet resolute not to turn
back?” “Could I tell, could I see,” cried she, with energy, “which
way I ought to turn, not a moment would I hesitate how to act!
my heart should have no power, my happiness no choice,—I would
recover my own esteem by any sacrifice that could be made!”
“What, then, can possibly be your doubt? To be as you were yesterday
what is wanting but your own inclination?”
“Every thing is wanting; right, honour, firmness, all by which the
just are bound, and all which the conscientious hold sacred!” “These
scruples are merely romantic; your own good sense, had it fairer play,
would contemn them; but it is warped at present by prejudice and
prepossession.”
“No, indeed!” cried she, colouring at the charge, “I may have entered
too precipitately into an engagement I ought to have avoided, but it
is weakness of judgment, not of heart, that disables me from
retrieving my error.”
“Yet you will neither hear whither it may lead you, nor which way you
may escape from it?”
“Yes, Sir,” cried she, trembling, “I am now ready to hear both.”
“Briefly, then, I will tell you. It will lead you into a family of
which every individual will disdain you; it will make you inmate of a
house of which no other inmate will associate with you; you will be
insulted as an inferior, and reproached as an intruder; your birth
will be a subject of ridicule, and your whole race only named with
derision: and while the elders of the proud castle treat you with open
contempt, the man for whom you suffer will not dare to support you.”
“Impossible! impossible!” cried Cecilia, with the most angry emotion;
“this whole representation is exaggerated, and the latter part is
utterly without foundation.”
“The latter part,” said Mr Monckton, “is of all other least
disputable: the man who now dares not own, will then never venture to
defend you. On the contrary, to make peace for himself, he will be the
first to neglect you. The ruined estates of his ancestors will be
repaired by your fortune, while the name which you carry into his
family will be constantly resented as an injury: you will thus be
plundered though you are scorned, and told to consider yourself
honoured that they condescend to make use of you! nor here rests the
evil of a forced connection with so much arrogance,—even your
children, should you have any, will be educated to despise you!”
“Dreadful and horrible!” cried Cecilia;—”I can hear no more,—Oh, Mr
Monckton, what a prospect have you opened to my view!”
“Fly from it, then, while it is yet in your power,—when two paths are
before you, chuse not that which leads to destruction; send instantly
after Delvile, and tell him you have recovered your senses.”
“I would long since have sent,—I wanted not a representation such as
this,—but I know not how to direct to him, nor whither he is gone.”
“All art and baseness to prevent your recantation!”
“No, Sir, no,” cried she, with quickness; “whatever may be the truth
of your painting in general, all that concerns—”
Ashamed of the vindication she intended, which yet in her own mind was
firm and animated, she stopt, and left the sentence unfinished.
“In what place were you to meet?” said Mr Monckton; “you can at least
send to him there.”
“We were only to have met,” answered she, in much confusion, “at the
last moment,—and that would be too late—it would be too—I could
not, without some previous notice, break a promise which I gave
without any restriction.”
“Is this your only objection?”
“It is: but it is one which I cannot conquer.”
“Then you would give up this ill-boding connection, but from notions
of delicacy with regard to the time?”
“Indeed I meant it, before you came.”
“I, then, will obviate this objection: give me but the
commission, either verbally or in writing, and I will undertake to
find him out, and deliver it before night.”
Cecilia, little expecting this offer, turned extremely pale, and after
pausing some moments, said in a faultering voice, “What, then, Sir, is
your advice, in what manner—”
“I will say to him all that is necessary; trust the matter with me.”
“No,—he deserves, at least, an apology from myself,—though how to
make it—”
She stopt, she hesitated, she went out of the room for pen and ink,
she returned without them, and the agitation of her mind every instant
encreasing, she begged him, in a faint voice, to excuse her while she
consulted with Mrs Charlton, and promising to wait upon him again, was
hurrying away.
Mr Monckton, however, saw too great danger in so much emotion to trust
her out of his sight: he told her, therefore, that she would only
encrease her perplexity, without reaping any advantage, by an
application to Mrs Charlton, and that if she was really sincere in
wishing to recede, there was not a moment to be lost, and Delvile
should immediately be pursued.
Cecilia, sensible of the truth of this speech, and once more
recollecting the unaffected earnestness with which but an hour or two
before, she had herself desired to renounce this engagement, now
summoned her utmost courage to her aid, and, after a short, but
painful struggle, determined to act consistently with her professions
and her character, and, by one great and final effort, to conclude all
her doubts, and try to silence even her regret, by completing the
triumph of fortitude over inclination.
She called, therefore, for pen and ink, and without venturing herself
from the room, wrote the following letter.
To Mortimer Delvile, Esq.
Accuse me not of caprice, and pardon my irresolution, when you find me
shrinking with terror from the promise I have made, and no longer
either able or willing to perform it. The reproaches of your family I
should very ill endure; but the reproaches of my own heart for an
action I can neither approve nor defend, would be still more
oppressive. With such a weight upon the mind length of life would be
burthensome; with a sensation of guilt early death would be terrific!
These being my notions of the engagement into which we have entered,
you cannot wonder, and you have still less reason to repine, that I
dare not fulfil it. Alas! where would be your chance of happiness with
one who in the very act of becoming yours would forfeit her own!
I blush at this tardy recantation, and I grieve at the disappointment
it may occasion you: but I have yielded to the exhortations of an
inward monitor, who is never to be neglected with impunity. Consult
him yourself, and I shall need no other advocate. Adieu, and may all
felicity attend you! if to hear of the almost total privation of mine,
will mitigate the resentment with which you will probably read this
letter, it may be mitigated but too easily! Yet my consent to a
clandestine action shall never be repeated; and though I confess to
you I am not happy, I solemnly declare my resolution is unalterable. A
little reflection will tell you I am right, though a great deal of
lenity may scarce suffice to make you pardon my being right no sooner.
C. B.
This letter, which with trembling haste, resulting from a fear of her
own steadiness, she folded and sealed, Mr Monckton, from the same
apprehension yet more eagerly received, and scarce waiting to bid her
good morning, mounted his horse, and pursued his way to London.
Cecilia returned to Mrs Charlton to acquaint her with what had passed:
and notwithstanding the sorrow she felt in apparently injuring the man
whom, in the whole world she most wished to oblige, she yet found a
satisfaction in the sacrifice she had made, that recompensed her for
much of her sufferings, and soothed her into something like
tranquility; the true power of virtue she had scarce experienced
before, for she found it a resource against the cruellest dejection,
and a supporter in the bitterest disappointment.
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