At this time, the house was much enlivened by a visit from Lady Honoria Pemberton, who came to spend a month with Mrs Delvile.
Cecilia had now but little leisure, for Lady Honoria would hardly rest a moment away from her; she insisted upon walking with her, sitting with her, working with her, and singing with her; whatever she did, she chose to do also; wherever she went, she was bent upon accompanying her; and Mrs Delvile, who wished her well, though she had no patience with her foibles, encouraged this intimacy from the hope it might do her service.
It was not, however, that Lady Honoria had conceived any regard for Cecilia; on the contrary, had she been told she should see her no more, she would have heard it with the same composure as if she had been told she should meet with her daily; she had no motive for pursuing her but that she had nothing else to do, and no fondness for her society but, what resulted from aversion to solitude.
Lady Honoria had received a fashionable education, in which her proficiency had been equal to what fashion made requisite; she sung a little; played the harpsichord a little, painted a little, worked a little, and danced a great deal. She had quick parts and high spirits, though her mind was uncultivated, and she was totally void of judgment or discretion; she was careless of giving offence, and indifferent to all that was thought of her; the delight of her life was to create wonder by her rattle, and whether that wonder was to her advantage or discredit, she did not for a moment trouble herself to consider.
A character of so much levity with so little heart had no great chance of raising esteem or regard in Cecilia, who at almost any other period of her life would have been wearied of her importunate attendance; but at present, the unsettled state of her own mind made her glad to give it any employment, and the sprightliness of Lady Honoria served therefore to amuse her. Yet she could not forbear being hurt by finding that the behaviour of Delvile was so exactly the same to them both, that any common observer would with difficulty have pronounced which he preferred.
One morning about a week after her ladyship's arrival at the castle, she came running into Cecilia's room, saying she had very good news for her.
“A charming opening!” cried Cecilia, “pray tell it me.”
“Why my Lord Derford is coming!”
“O what a melancholy dearth of incident,” cried Cecilia, “if this is your best intelligence!”
“Why it's better than nothing; better than going to sleep over a family party; and I vow I have sometimes such difficulty to keep awake, that I am frightened to death lest I should be taken with a sudden nap, and affront them all. Now pray speak the truth without squeamishness, don't you find it very terrible?”
“No, I find nothing very terrible with Mrs Delvile.”
“O, I like Mrs Delvile, too, of all things, for I believe she's the cleverest woman in the world; but then I know she does not like me, so there's no being very fond of her. Besides, really, if I admired her as much again, I should be, dreadfully tired of seeing nothing else. She never stirs out, you know, and has no company at home, which is an extremely tiresome plan, for it only serves to make us all doubly sick of one another; though you must know it's one great reason why my father likes I should come; for he has some very old-fashioned notions, though I take a great deal of pains to make him get the better of them. But I am always excessively rejoiced when the visit has been paid, for I am obliged to come every year. I don't mean now, indeed, because your being here makes it vastly more tolerable.”
“You do me much honour,” cried Cecilia, laughing.
“But really, when my Lord Derford comes, it can't possibly be quite so bad, for at least there will be something else to look at; and you must know my eyes tire extremely of always seeing the same objects. And we can ask him, too, for a little news, and that will put Mrs Delvile in a passion, which will help to give us a little spirit; though I know we shall not get the smallest intelligence from him, for he knows nothing in the world that's going forward. And, indeed, that's no great matter, for if he did, he would not know how to tell it, he's so excessively silly. However, I shall ask him all sort of things, for the less he can answer, the more it will plague him; and I like to plague a fool amazingly, because he can never plague one again.—Though really I ought to beg your pardon, for he is one of your admirers.”
“Oh pray make no stranger of me! you have my free consent to say whatever you please of him.”
“I assure you, then, I like my old Lord Ernolf the best of the two, for he has a thousand times more sense than his son, and upon my word I don't think he is much uglier. But I wonder vastly you would not marry him, for all that, for you might have done exactly what you pleased with him, which, altogether, would have been no inconvenient circumstance.”
“When I want a pupil,” answered Cecilia, “I shall think that an admirable recommendation; but were I to marry, I would rather find a tutor, of the two.”
“I am sure I should not,” cried Lady Honoria, carelessly, “for one has enough to do with tutors before hand, and the best thing I know of marrying is to get rid of them. I fancy you think so too, only it's a pretty speech to make. Oh how my sister Euphrasia would adore you!—Pray are you always as grave as you are now?”
“No,—yes,—indeed I hardly know.”
“I fancy it's this dismal place that hurts your spirits. I remember when I saw you in St James's-square I thought you very lively. But really these thick walls are enough to inspire the vapours if one never had them before.”
“I don't think they have had a very bad effect upon your ladyship!”
“O yes they have; if Euphrasia was here she would hardly know me. And the extreme want of taste and entertainment in all the family is quite melancholy; for even if by chance one has the good fortune to hear any intelligence, Mrs Delvile will hardly let it be repeated, for fear it should happen to be untrue, as if that could possibly signify! I am sure I had as lieve the things were false as not, for they tell as well one way as the other, if she would but have patience to hear them. But she's extremely severe, you know, as almost all those very clever women are; so that she keeps a kind of restraint upon me whether I will or no. However, that's nothing compared to her caro sposo, for he is utterly insufferable; so solemn, and so dull! so stately and so tiresome! Mortimer, too, gets worse and worse; O 'tis a sad tribe! I dare say he will soon grow quite as horrible as his father. Don't you think so?”
“Why indeed,—no,—I don't think there's much resemblance,” said Cecilia, with some hesitation.
“He is the most altered creature,” continued her ladyship, “I ever saw in my life. Once I thought him the most agreeable young man in the world; but if you observe, that's all over now, and he is getting just as stupid and dismal as the rest of them. I wish you had been here last summer; I assure you, you would quite have fallen in love with him.”
“Should I?” said Cecilia, with a conscious smile.
“Yes, for he was quite delightful; all spirit and gaiety, but now, if it was not for you, I really think I should pretend to lose my way, and instead of going over that old draw-bridge, throw myself into the moat. I wish Euphrasia was here. It's just the right place for her. She'll fancy herself in a monastery as soon as she comes, and nothing will make her half so happy, for she is always wishing to be a Nun, poor little simpleton.
“Is there any chance that Lady Euphrasia may come?”
“O no, she can't at present, because it would not be proper; but I mean if ever she is married to Mortimer.”
“Married to him!” repeated Cecilia, in the utmost consternation.
“I believe, my dear,” cried Lady Honoria, looking at her very archly, “you intend to be married to him yourself?”
“Me? no, indeed!”
“You look very guilty, though,” cried she laughing, “and indeed when you came hither, every body said that the whole affair was arranged.”
“For shame, Lady Honoria!” said Cecilia, again changing colour, “I am sure this must be your own fancy,—invention,—”
“No, I assure you; I heard it at several places; and every body said how charmingly your fortune would build up all these old fortifications; but some people said they knew Mr Harrel had sold you to Mr Marriot, and that if you married Mortimer, there would be a lawsuit that would take away half your estate; and others said you had promised your hand to Sir Robert Floyer, and repented when you heard of his mortgages, and he gave it out every where that he would fight any man that pretended to you; and then again some said that you were all the time privately married to Mr Arnott, but did not dare own it, because he was so afraid of fighting with Sir Robert.”
“O Lady Honoria!” cried Cecilia, half laughing, “what wild inventions are these! and all I hope, your own?”
“No, indeed, they were current over the whole town. But don't take any notice of what I told you about Euphrasia, for perhaps, it may never happen.”
“Perhaps,” said Cecilia, reviving by believing it all fiction, “it has never been in agitation?”
“O yes; it is negociating at this very moment, I believe, among the higher powers; only Mr Delvile does not yet know whether Euphrasia has fortune enough for what he wants.”
Ah, thought Cecilia, how do I rejoice that my independent situation exempts me from being disposed of for life, by thus being set up to sale!
“They thought of me, once, for Mortimer,” continued Lady Honoria, “but I'm vastly glad that's over, for I never should have survived being shut up in this place; it's much fitter for Euphrasia. To tell you the truth, I believe they could not make out money enough; but Euphrasia has a fortune of her own, besides what we shall have together, for Grandmama left her every thing that was in her own power.”
“Is Lady Euphrasia your elder sister?”
“O no, poor little thing, she's two years younger. Grandmama brought her up, and` she has seen nothing at all of the world, for she has never been presented yet, so she is not come out, you know; but she's to come out next year. However, she once saw Mortimer, but she did not like him at all.”
“Not like him!” cried Cecilia, greatly surprised.
“No, she thought him too gay,—Oh dear, I wish she could see him now! I am sure I hope she would find him sad enough! she is the most formal little grave thing you ever beheld; she'll preach to you sometimes for half an hour together. Grandmama taught her nothing in the world but to say her prayers, so that almost every other word you say, she thinks is quite wicked.”
The conversation was now interrupted by their separating to dress for dinner. It left Cecilia in much perplexity; she knew not what wholly to credit, or wholly to disbelieve; but her chief concern arose from the unfortunate change of countenance which Lady Honoria had been so quick in observing.
The next time she was alone with Mrs Delvile, “Miss Beverley,” she said, “has your little rattling tormentor acquainted you who is coming?”
“Lord Derford, do you mean, ma'am?”
“Yes, with his father; shall you dislike to see them?”
“Not if, as I hope, they come merely to wait upon you and Mr Delvile.”
“Mr Delvile and myself,” answered she smiling, “will certainly have the honour of receiving them.”
“Lord Ernolf,” said Cecilia, “can never suppose his visit will make any change in me; I have been very explicit with him, and he seemed equally rational and well bred in forbearing any importunity upon the subject.”
“It has however been much believed in town,” said Mrs Delvile, “that you were strangely shackled by Mr Harrel, and therefore his lordship may probably hope that a change in your situation may be followed by a change in his favour.”
“I shall be sorry if he does,” said Cecilia, “for he will then find himself much deceived.”
“You are right, very right,” cried Mrs Delvile, “to be difficult in your choice, and to take time for looking around you before you make any. I have forborn all questions upon this subject, lest you should find any reluctance in answering them; but I am now too deeply interested in your welfare to be contented in total ignorance of your designs; will you, then, suffer me to make a few enquiries?”
Cecilia gave a ready, but blushing assent.
“Tell me, then, of the many admirers who have graced your train, which there is you have distinguished with any intention of future preference?”
“Not one, madam!”
“And, out of so many, is there not one that, hereafter, you mean to distinguish?”
“Ah madam!” cried Cecilia, shaking her head, “many as they may seem, I have little reason to be proud of them; there is one only who, had my fortune been smaller, would, I believe, ever have thought of me, and there is one only, who, were it now diminished, would ever think of me more.”
“This sincerity,” cried Mrs Delvile, “is just what I expected from you. There is, then, one?”
“I believe there is,—and the worthy Mr Arnott is the man; I am much indeed deceived, if his partiality for me is not truly disinterested, and I almost wish”—
“What, my love?”
“That I could return it more gratefully!”
“And do you not?”
“No!—I cannot! I esteem him, I have the truest regard for his character, and were I now by any fatal necessity, compelled to belong to any one of those who have been pleased to address me, I should not hesitate a moment in shewing him my gratitude; but yet, for some time at least, such a proof of it would render me very miserable.”
“You may perhaps think so now,” returned Mrs Delvile; “but with sentiments so strongly in his favour, you will probably be led hereafter to pity—and accept him.”
“No, indeed, madam; I pretend not, I own, to open my whole heart to you;—I know not that you would have patience, for so uninteresting a detail; but though there are some things I venture not to mention, there is nothing, believe me, in which I will deceive you.”
“I do believe you,” cried Mrs Delvile, embracing her; “and the more readily because, not merely among your avowed admirers, but among the whole race of men, I scarce know one to whom I should think you worthily consigned!”
Ah! thought Cecilia, that scarce! who may it mean to except?
“To shew you,” she continued, “that I will deserve your confidence in future, I will refrain from distressing you by any further questions at present; you will not, I think, act materially without consulting me, and for your thoughts—it were tyranny, not friendship, to investigate them more narrowly.”
Cecilia's gratitude for this delicacy, would instantly have induced her to tell every secret of her soul, had she not apprehended such a confession would have seemed soliciting her interest and assistance, in the only affair in which she would have disdained even to receive them.
She thanked her, therefore, for her kindness, and the conversation was dropt; she much wished to have known whether these enquiries sprung simply from friendly curiosity, or whether she was desirous from any nearer motive to be satisfied with respect to her freedom or engagements. This, however, she had no method of discovering, and was therefore compelled to wait quietly till time should make it clear.
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.
For two days, in consequence of violent colds caught during the storm, Lady Honoria Pemberton and Cecilia were confined to their rooms. Cecilia, glad by solitude and reflection to compose her spirits and settle her plan of conduct, would willingly have still prolonged her retirement, but the abatement of her cold affording her no pretence, she was obliged on the third day to make her appearance.
Lady Honoria, though less recovered, as she had been more a sufferer, was impatient of any restraint, and would take no denial to quitting her room at the same time; at dinner, therefore, all the family met at usual.
Mr Delvile, with his accustomed solemnity of civility, made various enquiries and congratulations upon their danger and their security, carefully in both, addressing himself first to Lady Honoria, and then with more stateliness in his kindness, to Cecilia. His lady, who had frequently visited them both, had nothing new to hear.
Delvile did not come in till they were all seated, when, hastily saying he was glad to see both the ladies so well again, he instantly employed himself in carving, with the agitation of a man who feared trusting himself to sit idle.
Little, however, as he said, Cecilia was much struck by the melancholy tone of his voice, and the moment she raised her eyes, she observed that his countenance was equally sad.
“Mortimer,” cried Mr Delvile, “I am sure you are not well; I cannot imagine why you will not have some advice.”
“Were I to send for a physician, Sir,” cried Delvile, with affected chearfulness, “he would find it much more difficult to imagine what advice to give me.”
“Permit me however, Mr Mortimer,” cried Lady Honoria, “to return you my humble thanks for the honour of your assistance in the thunder storm! I am afraid you made yourself ill by attending me!”
“Your ladyship,” returned Delvile, colouring very high, yet pretending to laugh; “made so great a coward of me, that I ran away from shame at my own inferiority of courage.”
“Were you, then, with Lady Honoria during the storm?” cried Mrs Delvile.
“No, Madam!” cried Lady Honoria very quick; “but he was so good as to leave me during the storm.”
“Mortimer,” said Mr Delvile, “is this possible?”
“O Lady Honoria was such a Heroine,” answered Delvile, “that she wholly disdained receiving any assistance; her valour was so much more undaunted than mine, that she ventured to brave the lightning under an oak tree!”
“Now, dear Mrs Delvile,” exclaimed Lady Honoria, “think what a simpleton he would have made of me! he wanted to persuade me that in the open air I should be less exposed to danger than under the shelter of a thick tree!”
“Lady Honoria,” replied Mrs Delvile, with a sarcastic smile, “the next tale of scandal you oblige me to hear, I will insist for your punishment that you shall read one of Mr Newbury's little books! there are twenty of them that will explain this matter to you, and such reading will at least employ your time as usefully as such tales!”
“Well, ma'am,” said Lady Honoria, “I don't know whether you are laughing at me or not, but really I concluded Mr Mortimer only chose to amuse himself in a tête-à-tête with Miss Beverley.”
“He was not with Miss Beverley,” cried Mrs Delvile with quickness; “she was alone,—I saw her myself the moment she came in.”
“Yes, ma'am,—but not then,-he was gone;”—said Cecilia, endeavouring, but not very successfully, to speak with composure.
“I had the honour,” cried Delvile, making, with equal success, the same attempt, “to wait upon Miss Beverley to the little gate; and I was then returning to Lady Honoria when I met her ladyship just coming in.”
“Very extraordinary, Mortimer,” said Mr Delvile, staring, “to attend Lady Honoria the last!”
“Don't be angry in earnest, Sir,” cried Lady Honoria, gaily, “for I did not mean to turn tell-tale.”
Here the subject was dropt; greatly to the joy both of Delvile and Cecilia, who mutually exerted themselves in talking upon what next was started, in order to prevent its being recurred to again.
That fear, however, over, Delvile said little more; sadness hung heavily on his mind; he was absent, disturbed, uneasy; yet he endeavoured no longer to avoid Cecilia; on the contrary, when she arose to quit the room, he looked evidently disappointed.
The ladies' colds kept them at home all the evening, and Delvile, for the first time since their arrival at the castle, joined them at tea; nor when it was over, did he as usual retire; he loitered, pretended to be caught by a new pamphlet, and looked as anxiously eager to speak with Cecilia, as he had hitherto appeared to shun her.
With new emotion and fresh distress Cecilia perceived this change; what he might have to say she could not conjecture, but all that foreran his communication convinced her it was nothing she could wish; and much as she had desired some explanation of his designs, when the long-expected moment seemed arriving, prognostications the most cruel of the event, repressed her impatience, and deadened her curiosity. She earnestly lamented her unfortunate residence in his house, where the adoration of every inhabitant, from his father to the lowest servant, had impressed her with the strongest belief of his general worthiness, and greatly, though imperceptibly, encreased her regard for him, since she had now not a doubt remaining but that some cruel, some fatal obstacle, prohibited their union.
To collect fortitude to hear it with composure, was now her whole study; but though, when alone, she thought any discovery preferable to suspence, all her courage failed her when Delvile appeared, and if she could not detain Lady Honoria, she involuntarily followed her.
Thus passed four or five days; during which the health of Delvile seemed to suffer with his mind, and though he refused to acknowledge he was ill, it was evident to every body that he was far from well.
Mr Delvile frequently urged him to consent to have some advice; but he always revived, though with forced and transitory spirits, at the mention of a physician, and the proposal ended in nothing.
Mrs Delvile, too, at length grew alarmed; her enquiries were more penetrating and pointed, but they were not more successful; every attack of this sort was followed by immediate gaiety, which, however constrained, served, for the time, to change the subject. Mrs Delvile, however, was not soon to be deceived; she watched her son incessantly, and seemed to feel an inquietude scarce less than his own.
Cecilia's distress was now augmented every moment, and the difficulty to conceal it grew every hour more painful; she felt herself the cause of the dejection of the son, and that thought made her feel guilty in the presence of the mother; the explanation she expected threatened her with new misery, and the courage to endure it she tried in vain to acquire; her heart was most cruelly oppressed, apprehension and suspence never left it for an instant; rest abandoned her at night, and chearfulness by day.
At this time the two lords, Ernolf and Derford, arrived; and Cecilia, who at first had lamented their design, now rejoiced in their presence, since they divided the attention of Mrs Delvile, which she began to fear was not wholly directed to her son, and since they saved her from having the whole force of Lady Honoria's high spirits and gay rattle to herself.
Their immediate observations upon the ill looks of Delvile, startled both Cecilia and the mother even more than their own fears, which they had hoped were rather the result of apprehension than of reason. Cecilia now severely reproached herself with having deferred the conference he was evidently seeking, not doubting but she had contributed to his indisposition by denying him the relief he might expect from concluding the affair.
Melancholy as was this idea, it was yet a motive to overpower her reluctance, and determine her no longer to shun what it seemed necessary to endure.
Deep reasoners, however, when they are also nice casuists, frequently resolve with a tardiness which renders their resolutions of no effect; this was the case with Cecilia; the same morning that she came down stairs prepared to meet with firmness the blow which she believed awaited her, Delvile, who, since the arrival of the two lords, had always appeared at the general breakfast, acknowledged in answer to his mother's earnest enquiries, that he had a cold and head-ache; and had he, at the same time, acknowledged a pleurisy and fever, the alarm instantly spread in the family could not have been greater; Mr Delvile, furiously ringing the bell, ordered a man and horse to go that moment to Dr Lyster, the physician to the family, and not to return without him if he was himself alive; and Mrs Delvile, not less distressed, though more quiet, fixed her eyes upon her son, with an expression of anxiety that shewed her whole happiness was bound in his recovery.
Delvile endeavoured to laugh away their fears, assuring them he should be well the next day, and representing in ridiculous terms the perplexity of Dr Lyster to contrive some prescription for him.
Cecilia's behaviour, guided by prudence and modesty, was steady and composed; she believed his illness and his uneasiness were the same, and she hoped the resolution she had taken would bring relief to them both while the terrors of Mr and Mrs Delvile seemed so greatly beyond the occasion, that her own were rather lessened than increased by them.
Dr Lyster soon arrived; he was a humane and excellent physician, and a man of sound judgment.
Delvile, gaily, shaking hands with him, said “I believe, Dr Lyster, you little expected to meet a patient, who, were he as skilful, would be as able to do business as yourself.”
“What, with such a hand as this?” cried the Doctor; “come, come, you must not teach me my own profession. When I attend a patient, I come to tell how he is myself, not to be told.”
“He is, then ill!” cried Mrs Delvile; “oh Mortimer, why have you thus deceived us!”
“What is his disorder?” cried Mr Delvile; “let us call in more help; who shall we send for, doctor?”
And again he rang the bell.
“What now?” said Dr Lyster, coolly; “must a man be dying if he is not in perfect health? we want nobody else; I hope I can prescribe for a cold without demanding a consultation?”
“But are you sure it is merely a cold?” cried Mr Delvile; “may not some dreadful malady”—
“Pray, Sir, have patience,” interrupted the doctor; “Mr Mortimer and I will have some discourse together presently; mean time, let us all sit down, and behave like Christians; I never talk of my art before company. 'Tis hard you won't let me be a gentleman at large for two minutes!”
Lady Honoria and Cecilia would then have risen, but neither Dr Lyster nor Delvile would permit them to go; and a conversation tolerably lively took place, after which, the party in general separating, the doctor accompanied Delvile to his own apartment.
Cecilia then went up stairs, where she most impatiently waited some intelligence; none, however, arriving, in about half an hour she returned to the parlour; she found it empty, but was soon joined by Lady Honoria and Lord Ernolf.
Lady Honoria, happy in having something going forward, and not much concerning herself whether it were good or evil, was as eager to communicate what she had gathered, as Cecilia was to hear it.
“Well, my dear,” she cried, “so I don't find at last but that all this prodigious illness will be laid to your account.”
“To my account?” cried Cecilia, “how is that possible?”
“Why this tender chicken caught cold in the storm last week, and not being put to bed by its mama, and nursed with white-wine whey, the poor thing has got a fever.”
“He is a fine young man,” said Lord Ernolf; “I should be sorry any harm happened to him.”
“He was a fine young man, my lord,” cried Lady Honoria, “but he is grown intolerably stupid lately; however, it's all the fault of his father and mother. Was ever any thing half so ridiculous as their behaviour this morning? it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore laughing in their faces; and really, I believe if I was to meet with such an unfortunate accident with Mr Delvile, it would turn him to marble at once! indeed he is little better now, but such an affront as that would never let him move from the spot where he received it.”
“I forgive him, however,” returned Lord Ernolf, “for his anxiety about his son, since he is the last of so ancient a family.”
“That is his great misfortune, my lord,” answered Lady Honoria, “because it is the very reason they make such a puppet of him. If there were but a few more little masters to dandle and fondle, I'll answer for it this precious Mortimer would soon be left to himself; and then, really, I believe he would be a good tolerable sort of young man. Don't you think he would, Miss Beverley?”
“O yes!” said Cecilia, “I believe—I think so!”
“Nay, nay, I did not ask if you thought him tolerable now, so no need to be frightened.”
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Dr Lyster.
“Well, Sir,” cried Lady Honoria, “and when am I to go into mourning for my cousin Mortimer?”
“Why very soon,” answered he, “unless you take better care of him. He has confessed to me that after being out in the storm last Wednesday, he sat in his wet cloaths all the evening.”
“Dear,” cried Lady Honoria, “and what would that do to him? I have no notion of a man's always wanting a cambric handkerchief about his throat.”
“Perhaps your ladyship had rather make him apply it to his eyes?” cried the doctor; “however, sitting inactive in wet cloaths would destroy a stouter man than Mr Delvile; but he forgot it, he says! which of you two young ladies could not have given as good reason?”
“Your most obedient,” said Lady Honoria, “and why should not a lady give as good a reason as a gentleman?”
“I don't know,” answered he, drily, “but from want of practice, I believe.”
“O worse and worse!” cried Lady Honoria; “you shall never be my physician; if I was to be attended by you, you'd make me sick instead of well.”
“All the better,” answered he, “for then I must have the honour of attending you till I made you well instead of sick.” And with a good-humoured smile, he left them; and Lord Derford, at the same time, coming into the room, Cecilia contrived to stroll out into the park.
The account to which she had been listening redoubled her uneasiness; she was conscious that whatever was the indisposition of Delvile, and whether it was mental or bodily, she was herself its occasion; through her he had been negligent, she had rendered him forgetful, and in consulting her own fears in preference to his peace, she had avoided an explanation, though he had vigilantly sought one. She knew not, he told her, half the wretchedness of his heart.—Alas! thought she, he little conjectures the state of mine!
Lady Honoria suffered her not to be long alone; in about half an hour she ran after her, gaily calling out, “O Miss Beverley, you have lost the delightfullest diversion in the world! I have just had the most ridiculous scene with my Lord Derford that you ever heard in your life! I asked him what put it in his head to be in love with you,—and he had the simplicity to answer, quite seriously, his father!”
“He was very right,” said Cecilia, “if the desire of uniting two estates is to be denominated being in love; for that, most certainly, was put into his head by his father.”
“O but you have not heard half. I told him, then, that, as a friend, in confidence I must acquaint him, I believed you intended to marry Mortimer—”
“Good heaven, Lady Honoria!”
“O, you shall hear the reason; because, as I assured him, it was proper he should immediately call him to account.”
“Are you mad, Lady Honoria?”
“For you know, said I, Miss Beverley has had one duel fought for her already, and a lady who has once had that compliment paid her, always expects it from every new admirer; and I really believe your not observing that form is the true cause of her coldness to you.”
“Is it possible you can have talked so wildly?”
“Yes, and what is much better, he believed every word I said!”
“Much better?—No, indeed, it is much worse! and if, in fact, he is so uncommonly weak, I shall really be but little indebted to your ladyship for giving him such notions.”
“O I would not but have done it for the world! for I never laughed so immoderately in my life. He began assuring me he was not afraid, for he said he had practised fencing more than any thing; so I made him promise to send a challenge to Mortimer as soon as he is well enough to come down again; for Dr Lyster has ordered him to keep his room.”
Cecilia, smothering her concern for this last piece of intelligence by pretending to feel it merely for the former, expostulated with Lady Honoria upon so mischievous a frolic, and earnestly entreated her to go back and contradict it all.
“No, no, not for the world!” cried she; “he has not the least spirit, and I dare say he would not fight to save the whole nation from destruction; but I'll make him believe that it's necessary, in order to give him something to think of, for really his poor head is so vacant, that I am sure if one might but play upon it with sticks, it would sound just like a drum.”
Cecilia, finding it vain to combat with her fantasies, was at length obliged to submit.
The rest of the day she passed very unpleasantly; Delvile appeared not; his father was restless and disturbed, and his mother, though attentive to her guests, and, for their sakes rallying her spirits, was visibly ill disposed to think or to talk but of her son.
One diversion, however, Cecilia found for herself; Delvile had a favourite spaniel, which, when he walked followed him, and when he rode, ran by his horse; this dog, who was not admitted into the house, she now took under her own care; and spent almost the whole day out of doors, chiefly for the satisfaction of making him her companion.
The next morning, when Dr Lyster came again, she kept in the way, in order to hear his opinion; and was sitting with Lady Honoria in the parlour, when he entered it to write a prescription.
Mrs Delvile, in a few moments, followed him, and with a face and voice of the tenderest maternal apprehensions, said “Doctor, one thing entrust me with immediately; I can neither bear imposition nor suspense;—you know what I would say!—tell me if I have any thing to fear, that my preparations may be adequate!”
“Nothing, I believe, in the world.”
“You believe!” repeated Mrs Delvile, starting; “Oh doctor!”
“Why you would not have me say I am certain, would you? these are no times for Popery and infallibility; however, I assure you I think him perfectly safe. He has done a foolish and idle trick, but no man is wise always. We must get rid of his fever, and then if his cold remains, with any cough, he may make a little excursion to Bristol.”
“To Bristol! nay then,—I understand you too well!”
“No, no, you don't understand me at all; I don't send him to Bristol because he is in a bad way, but merely because I mean to put him in a good one.”
“Let him, then, go immediately; why should he increase the danger by waiting a moment? I will order—”
“Hold, hold! I know what to order myself! 'Tis a strange thing people will always teach me my own duty! why should I make a man travel such weather as this in a fever? do you think I want to confine him in a mad-house, or be confined in one myself?”
“Certainly you know best—but still if there is any danger—”
“No, no, there is not! only we don't chuse there should be any. And how will he entertain himself better than by going to Bristol? I send him merely on a jaunt of pleasure; and I am sure he will be safer there than shut up in a house with two such young ladies as these.”
And then he made off. Mrs Delvile, too anxious for conversation, left the room, and Cecilia, too conscious for silence, forced herself into discourse with Lady Honoria.
Three days she passed in this uncertainty what she had to expect; blaming those fears which had deferred an explanation, and tormented by Lady Honoria, whose raillery and levity now grew very unseasonable. Fidel, the favourite spaniel, was almost her only consolation, and she pleased herself not inconsiderably by making a friend of the faithful animal.