“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 a
dmirers 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.
CHAPTER V. — A STORM.
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, “pa
rdon 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—”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 98