Chapter XV: Part 15

I thank you, sir, thank you from my heart, for your friendship,
and beg you will not think me ungrateful for having thus long
deferred to pay you my acknowlegements for the signal favours I
have received at your hands. I am sensible, Sir, that it was owing
to your compassion, your generosity, and disinterested nobleness
of mind, that I was once indebted for the greatest blessing of my
life. To you I owe the vindicating of my suspected faith, and the
being restored to the affection of my dear husband. For this
goodness I have never ceased to bless and pray for you, and shall
continue to do so while I live. But oh! Sir, while you have given
_me_ so much cause for gratitude and esteem, why will you leave
one heart to sigh for your unkindness? a heart that admires, that
loves, that adores you! a heart worthy of your acceptance, and
which has a right to demand all your tenderness. Need I name the
amiable possessor of this heart? I need not; there is but one
woman in the world who owns this description: for her let me
become an advocate; she has won me to her party: indeed. Sir, she,
and she only, deserves your love. Her's, I am sure, you have ever
possessed unrivalled, though her youth, beauty, and charming
accomplishments, must have made her the object of every one's
wishes who saw her. 'Tis above four years since you first won her
virgin affections. What has been her portion since that fatal
time? Tears, solitude, and unremitting anguish. How can a mind
like yours, susceptible as it is of pity for the woes of others,
condemn _such_ a woman to perpetual sorrow? How can that
generosity, which has been so active on other occasions, droop and
languish where there is _such_ a cause to call forth all its
exertions?

Do, Mr Faulkland, permit pity to plead in your bosom for the dear
Miss Burchell. I should urge paternal affection too; but to the
voice of nature you cannot be deaf. Your sweet little son calls
upon you to do him and his mother justice; the injured lady
herself implores your compassion; my mother, who equally admires
and loves her, intreats you; I, whom you once esteemed, conjure
you; the secret monitor in your own soul must join in our
sollicitations. Why, then, why will you shut your ears against
the united voice of reason, of conscience, and of gratitude? You
cannot, you will not do it. Miss Burchell's merit and sufferings
must be rewarded; and I shall bless Mr Faulkland as the guardian
of the injured, the patron of the afflicted, the assertor of his
own, as well as of my honour. This is the light, and this only, in
which I shall rejoice to see him.

_Mr_ FAULKLAND's _Answer_

You do well, Madam, you do well to anticipate my suit; and, with
so much cruel eloquence, to bid me despair. Yes, I see Miss
Burchell has won you to her party; but what have I done to merit
such a malevolent fate, that you, you of all created beings,
should become _her_ advocate? I little thought Mrs Arnold would
make such a barbarous use of her power. Tell me, thou dear tyrant,
how have I deserved this? Would it not have been kinder to have
said at once, Faulkland, do not hope; I never will be yours; I
hate, I despise you, and leave you to your fate? Oh! no; you are
artful in your cruelty; you would prevent even my wishes, and cut
off my hopes in their blossom, before they dare to unfold
themselves to you.

But you have furnished me with weapons against yourself, and I
will use them with as little mercy as you have shewn to me. If
four years are past since I won Miss Burchell's affections, is it
not also _as_ long that I have loved you with an ardor--Oh thou
insensible! Were you not mine by your own consent, with your
mother's approbation? Was not the day, the hour fixed, that I was
to have led you to the altar? Miss Burchell's hopes were never
raised to such a pitch as mine, when an avenging fiend snatched
the promised blessing from my grasp. Think what were then my
sufferings. I saw you afterwards in the arms of another. Miss
Burchell never suffered _such_ torture. Had I seen you _happy_, I
might have been consoled. If Miss Burchell loved me as I have
loved you, she would rejoice in the prospect of my felicity. I
should have done so in your's, Heaven is my witness! Had you been
happy, I should not have thought myself miserable, though you were
lost to my hopes.

Why do you compel me to urge an ungrateful truth in regard to Miss
Burchell? Madam, she has no claim to my vows: my gratitude, my
compassion, she has an ample right to, and she has them. More
might by this time have been her's, if I had never seen Mrs
Arnold.

Remember, I do not yet desire permission to throw myself at your
feet; I revere you too much to make such a request; but do not
banish me your presence. I cannot always be proof against such
rigours. Indulge me at least in the hope that time may do
something in my favour. I will not desire you to tell me so; but
do not forbid it. Lady Bidulph knows I respect her; but she is
still obdurate. If _she_ relented, would not _you_ madam, do so
too?
I am, &c.

How this man distresses me, my dear! What a difficult task have I undertaken! yet I will go through with it. I am fearful of letting Miss Burchell see his answer, so discouraging as it is for her; yet how can I withhold it from her sight? 'Tis necessary I should conceal nothing from her on this occasion; she confides in me, and I must not give her cause for suspicion. _She has no right to his vows._ This he always said. It is necessary the lady should be quite explicit with me. I doubt she has not been altogether sincere in what she has said to my mother on this subject. I shall see her presently, and discourse with her more particularly on this head than I have ever yet done....

I have had a conference with Miss Burchell, a long one, and in private; for I told my mother I wished to talk with her alone.

I began with shewing her Mr Faulkland's last letter. It had the effect I expected. She was exceedingly shocked. I laid my finger on that paragraph, _She has no right to my vows_. It is necessary, my dear madam, said I, that you should be perfectly open and candid with me on this head. I have entered the lists for you, and will not give up your cause; but it depends on you to furnish me with every possible argument in your favour. If you mislead me by wrong insinuations, instead of putting it in my power to serve you, you will only create to yourself fresh obstacles.

It is a nice subject, madam, and what I have ever been cautious of touching upon to you; but in the present situation of your affairs, it is of the utmost importance to you, that you should have no reserves to me. When Mr Faulkland first recommended you to my mother's acquaintance, he referred her to your honour, for an explanation of certain points, of so delicate a nature, that I am loath to touch upon them. But pardon me, dear Miss Burchell, you must be open with me. Mr Faulkland was obliged to declare, in his own justification, that he never sought to gain your affections; and was so far from endeavouring to take advantage of the kind sentiments you had for him, that he avoided all opportunities of improving them; that he was even surprized into the fatal step, which has since made you so unhappy, by the artifices of that vile woman, who had the care of you.

Mr Faulkland relied so intirely on your candour, that, as I told you before, he referred my mother to you, for a confirmation of the truth of what he advanced; imagining that your testimony would in some measure extenuate his fault. My mother, I have reason to believe, has heard the story from you in a light less favourable to Mr Faulkland. I was married before she received any information on this subject from you; and as any extenuation on Mr Faulkland's side was then become a matter of indifference to me, I enquired not into particulars; but by what I could judge from my mother's discourse then, and from hints which she has many times dropped since, I am inclined to believe, that either Mr Faulkland concealed some particulars, or that you, from a delicacy very natural to a young lady in such circumstances, chose to draw a veil over some parts of your story. But, dear madam, all disguises must now be thrown aside; depend upon it, your candour will more effectually recommend you to Mr Faulkland's esteem, than any thing else; and, perhaps, your justifying him to _me_, may be no immaterial circumstance in your favour.

Variety of passions discovered themselves on her face while I spoke, but shame was predominant. She was mute, and hung down her head. I took her by the hand, Do not think, my dear, I mean to ensnare you; far be such perfidy from my heart! Have I not promised you my assistance? I declare, by every thing that is sacred, you shall have it to the utmost stretch of my power; but do not let a false bashfulness stand between you and sincerity; you will stop up the way to your own happiness if you do. Speak, dear madam, has Mr Faulkland been just in his representations?

She burst into a flood of tears: Oh! madam, you read my very soul; what disguise can I make use of, before such penetrating eyes as yours? Yes, Mr Faulkland _has_ spoke the truth, shameful as the confession is for me, I own it. Mrs Gerrarde, base woman! betrayed me; my own mad passion did the rest. Mr Faulkland told me, a few days after the fatal meeting, that he was the most miserable man on earth for what had happened: he said, there was a lady in the world to whom he was bound to offer his hand; that her brother was his particular friend; that his marriage was then actually negotiating; and he was pressed on that occasion to return to London. He owned he had never seen the lady, but as his honour was engaged to her brother, he could not look upon himself as a free man. He cursed his ill fate, that he had not had an opportunity of informing me of this sooner; which, he said, might have prevented me from casting away my affection on a man, who could not deserve it. What could I say, madam? There was no room for reproaches or complaints. I made none; I had nobody to accuse but myself. I had declared my frantic love to Mr Faulkland unasked; I had implored his in return: in one dreadful moment I fell a sacrifice to my own weakness. The only hope that now remained for me, was built on that circumstance of Mr Faulkland's having never seen his destined bride. Had I known you, madam, to have been the person, there could have sprung but small comfort from that consideration; but ignorant as I was of the lady's merit, I thought it not impossible but that some objection might have arisen either to her person or temper; or the lady, perhaps, (though that I thought almost incredible) might not approve of Mr Faulkland: in either case, some glimmerings of hope remained for me. Mr Faulkland's generous compassion for me, gave me room to think he did not hate me, and I was unwilling to lose the little interest I thought I had gained in his heart, by _fond complainings_, much less upbraidings, for which he had given me no cause. I therefore acquiesced, determined to wait for what my fate was to do with me; resolving privately in my own mind, that in case Mr Faulkland's intended nuptials should not take place, to remind him of my love. I did not confess to my aunt what had been the result of that interview, which she had contrived between Mr Faulkland and me: shame would not suffer me to indulge it. But it was not long in my power to conceal it: I believe indeed, she suspected it before. She reproached me for the error which she herself had caused; but I believe, what most nettled her was Mr Faulkland's having escaped the snare; for I am sure she would have been base enough to have had me retain him as a lover, though I could not secure him for a husband; for he was not the first, that this bad woman would have seduced me to favour, for her own private interest.

In the midst of the horror, into which the condition I found myself threw me, I heard that Mr Faulkland was on the point of being married.

<p>The prospect I had before me drove me to despair. I knew I could not remain long in my uncle's house. I knew not whither to fly. In my distraction I wrote to Mr Faulkland: You, madam, saw the letter, that ill-fated letter, which deprived Mr Faulkland of his happiness.

I soon received an answer, wherein Mr Faulkland related to me at large the unfortunate consequences that letter had produced. He lamented, in the tenderest manner, my unhappy situation; told me, he would provide me a proper place for my retreat; and, as I was an entire stranger in London, having never been there, would recommend me to the notice of one of the best of women, lady Bidulph, from whom, as my unhappy story was known to her, I might expect the utmost humanity. And here, madam, with blushes let me own it, he urged me not to conceal a single circumstance of the truth from that lady.

'You know, said he, my dear Miss Burchell, I am not a seducer; rescue me from that black suspicion; and, as far as the unhappy case will admit, clear my honour to lady Bidulph. See what a reliance I have on _your_ honour, when I trust the vindicating of my own to you, in such delicate circumstances. He concluded his letter with telling me frankly, that though he had been rejected by Miss Bidulph, he loved her with such an ardent passion, that it was impossible for him ever to think of any other woman; and till he had a heart to bestow, he should never entertain a thought of marriage.'

You know Mr Faulkland at this juncture went abroad; and thus was I circumstanced when I came to that house, which he had provided for me. And so frank and noble were his proceedings, that I solemnly declare, I was determined, though at the hazard of divulging my own shame, to have acquitted him to the utmost of my power to lady Bidulph; and should have rejoiced, could I have been the means of procuring him the happiness he deserved, in regaining your favour; as I had been, though unknowingly, the unlucky cause of his losing it. But fortune had disposed of you otherwise, before I saw lady Bidulph. This she quickly informed me of, and I will own to you, madam, that as I found there was now an insuperable bar to Mr Faulkland's hopes, I was mean enough not to have the courage to speak truth. I saw it could not avail him, in regard to his prospects with you. Lady Bidulph's eye awed me; yet I think she led me into a justification of myself, so great were her prejudices against Mr Faulkland. Or, perhaps, having already disposed of you in marriage, in vindication of this step, she did not wish to be undeceived. Yes, again, in spite of my confusion, I must repeat it, I was not sincere; I threw out such hints to lady Bidulph, as must have made her think Mr Faulkland had taken pains to undo me: to this act of disingenuousness, my sole motive was, that I might appear in a less culpable light in the eyes of a lady of such strict virtue as your mother. By making her my friend, I was in hopes one day of making you so too. Devoted, as Mr Faulkland was, to the most charming woman in the world, I was not afraid of his making a second choice. I thought, if he _were_ to be induced to marry, he might, in time, be prevailed upon to turn his thoughts towards me. In this hope I have dragged on so many tedious years. I was not mistaken in my opinion, that he could find none worthy to succeed Mrs Arnold in his heart. He loves you still, madam; but you have declared you will never be his; he is still free; these are the circumstances that nourish my hope. My heart is in your hand; I have made you mistress of my dearest secret. Can you forgive me, madam? But you have an heroic soul! Remember, Mrs Arnold, to your generosity I now trust what is dearer to me than life. Should Mr Faulkland know, should lady Bidulph know, how I have abused their confidence, I think I could not outlive it.

They never shall, madam, said I: I thank you for this frank acknowlegement of your heart; such a proof of your confidence in me, I should be a wretch to abuse; and I hope to make such a use of the candid confession you have now made me, as will greatly promote your interest.

And is it possible, madam, said she, you can yield up the interest you have in Mr Faulkland without a pang? Oh! the exquisite charmer! and she said it with such an emphasis, drawing out her breath in long sighs. But you are heroic, as I said before: Nature did not mold your heart, as she has done those of the rest of your sex. Who that was beloved by Mr Faulkland, would yield him to another? Worlds! ten thousand worlds would I give to be beloved by him as you are! but you are a prodigy of a woman! I stopped Miss Burchell in her transports. There is less merit, madam, than you ascribe to me in my conduct: I readily acquiesced under my mother's rejection of Mr Faulkland, when he _had_ some interest in my heart; but there is no self-denial in what I am now about to do for you. My affections have long since changed their object, and now lie buried with him in his grave.

My tears here bore witness to the truth of what I said: Miss Burchell wept too. Her mind was agitated; the confession she had made to me had humbled her; her heart overflowed with fondness; I had filled her with pleasing hopes: all these sensations combined together, melting her into tenderness: she is made up of tears, and sighs, and romantic wishes.

I can now, said I, assure Mr Faulkland, that you have done him justice, and that he is highly obliged to your candour.

She interrupted me; But, madam, if he should know how _late_ my acknowlegements came--He need not know it, said I; my mother shall not know it either; leave every thing to my management, and depend upon my word. She snatched my hand eagerly, and kissed it.

But oh! madam, above all things, said she, let not Sir George Bidulph know any thing of your intended goodness, in mediating for me. He hates me, implacably he hates me. I upbraid him not for it: his strong attachment to Mr Faulkland is the cause of it: he accuses me in his heart of being the occasion (which I own I was, though ignorantly) of Mr Faulkland's disappointment. I am sure, were he to know what you design in my favour, he would counterwork you, and use all his influence over his friend to ruin me.

I made her easy on this head, by assuring her Sir George should know nothing of the matter; and put her in mind how lucky it was for her that he was absent.

I cannot help thinking, my Cecilia, that there is a sort of fatality has attended Mr Faulkland's attachment to me. By what a strange accident did we come to the knowledge of Miss Burchell's affair! How strong were my mother's prepossessions against Mr Faulkland; and how many little circumstances concurred her to encourage in this disposition! His letter from Bath to my brother helped to confirm her in her dislike of his conduct; Miss Burchell's letter to Mr Faulkland, though meant very differently, was a strong motive of condemnation. The only means of justification left for him, my mother did not apply to, till it was too late; and then that very circumstances of it's _being_ too late to serve him, Miss Burchell acknowleges, was the reason that the very method which he had proposed for his defence, was turned to his condemnation.

Rooted, as my mother's prejudices were, she engages herself, she engages me, in a promise, to use my endeavours to promote Miss Burchell's marriage with Mr Faulkland. Does this not look as if some unseen power, who guides our actions, had set a stamp of disapprobation on the union between this man and me.

I wish I had seen that letter which Mr Faulkland wrote to my brother from Bath: my mother said, she did not read it through. He treated the subject lightly, and there was one circumstance in particular in it that shocked her; and yet surely, if the _whole_ might not have borne a favourable construction, Sir George would not have shewn her that account, by way of justifying his friend. This reflection comes too late! Why did it not occur sooner to my mother or to me? We drew no other inference from Sir George's disclosing this letter, than that as Mr Faulkland treated the affair ludicrously, it was therefore expected, both by him and my brother, that we should consider it so too. That could not have been the case. Miss Burchell's confession has opened my eyes.--Poor Mr Faulkland! What wayward fate is thine! But let me beware of relenting; that might be fatal. There is still one indelible blot remains upon his conduct. Miss Burchell, blameable as she acknowleges herself, was still betrayed; and though not by Mr Faulkland, yet sure his having paid the price of her innocence to the wicked aunt, renders him so far guilty, as that he owes her a great reparation. This was a particular I durst not touch upon; the unhappy girl herself being ignorant of it. There is a wide gulph fixed between Mr Faulkland and me. How many things are leagued against him! Alas! he thinks the principal bar to his hopes is removed, and that if Miss Burchell has been just, he ought to be forgiven. But he little knows thy Sidney's heart; critically delicate as my situation is, in regard him, I am removed a thousand times farther than ever from his wishes. Neither knows he the engagements I am under to Miss Burchell; which alone would put an ever-lasting bar between us. Unhappy Miss Burchell! She has bound me to her by stronger ties than ever. She has been ingenuous; she has owned her weakness to me; she declares she would have done this sooner, if it could have promoted my happiness: perhaps she would; shall I not then endeavour to promote her's? I will, I must; my word is given. Yet Faulkland deserves--oh! he deserves a worthier lot.

VOLUME III

_June 22_

I now send you, my Cecilia, my second Letter to Mr Faulkland.

'Why do you compel me, Sir, noble and disinterested as your
conduct has been towards me, to accuse you now of unkindness? You
call me insensible--oh! it is from my too great sensibility that
all my sorrows have sprung. Destitute as I am of happiness myself,
or even of a possibility of ever attaining it here, I look for no
other comfort in this life, but what must arise from seeing those
whom I most esteem in possession of that tranquillity of mind,
which I can never hope to enjoy. If Mr Faulkland were happy, if
Miss Burchell were happy, I should be less miserable. Remember,
Sir, it was not this lady's fault that you were disappointed in
your former hope. She did not try, by female wiles, to engage a
heart which you refused her. She used no ungenerous arts to cross
your wishes. Loving you as she did, almost to distraction, she
yielded you up in silent anguish to a rival; a rival superior to
herself in nothing. I acknowlege, Sir, I was to have been yours,
and with my own consent; but was it not also with my own consent
those bonds were cancelled, by which we were to have been united?
I was then convinced Miss Burchell had a prior claim; I think so
still, and ever shall. Miss Burchell's family is not mean, her
fortune is considerable; her beauty and personal accomplishments
inferior to none; and, but for Mr Faulkland, she had been
innocent. Yet do not imagine I would aggravate your fault; Miss
Burchell's candor could not suffer this. How charmingly ingenuous
was her confession! In the midst of tears and blushes, she owned
her weakness; you, she said, were not to blame. She praised your
generosity, your compassion, the integrity and frankness of your
whole behaviour towards her; and could Miss Burchell's suffrage
have ensured to you the completion of your wishes, Mr Faulkland
would have been indebted to her for what he once thought his
happiness. But though her testimony could not avail you in that
particular, yet are your obligations to her the same. Does not
then Miss Burchell love Mr Faulkland with a generosity equal to
his own? Do years of fervent and unalterable affection deserve no
return? Does the child, the dear innocent that calls you father,
deserve no consideration? He bears your name, Sir; let him not
blush to own it: he may one day be an honour and a comfort to you.
Put it in his power to make it his boast, instead of his shame,
that Mr Faulkland was his father. The amiable lady, whose very
life is bound up in you, has, in the midst of her affliction, one
great source of comfort; her character has escaped the malignity
of cruel tongues, by the privacy with which she conducted her
measures, till after the birth of your son. The retirement she has
since lived in; her prudent, her modest, her exemplary conduct
have created esteem in every body that knows her; this
circumstance, as it is a peculiar felicity to herself, so ought it
to be a motive of encouragement to you, Sir, to compleat her
happiness. The false judging part of the world will have nothing
to point at; Miss Burchell's relation, or even connection, with
Mrs Gerrarde is hardly known here; she has had no correspondence
with that irregular woman since she became a widow; and her
character had not suffered before, in such a manner, as to reflect
dishonour on the young lady, who was then under her care. How then
can you persist in a cruel rejection of this lady? You own she is
amiable; I am sure she has a thousand good qualities. Is her love
for you, her unparalleled love, to be imputed to her as a crime?
If it be one, long and bitter has been her punishment! On you it
rests to recompence her sufferings. What may you not expect from a
grateful heart that worships you? Such a fervent, such a faithful
love (deserving as you are) you perhaps may never again meet with
in woman. With her you may be happy, she will make it the study of
her life to render you so. Your own heart, conscious of having
acted nobly, will confirm your happiness. Would to God I could
inspire you with such sentiments as would induce you to make the
generous experiment! How would your character rise in the esteem
of the two persons whom you profess to revere! How would you be
adored by the amiable sufferer! but above all, how delightful must
be the exultations of the self-approving mind! There wants but
this act to render you the most deserving of men. I would fain
esteem, respect, admire you as I ought; but you will not let me;
you will be a _common_ man, and undistinguished amongst the light
ones of your sex.'

I shewed this letter to Miss Burchell; she read it with grateful tears running down her cheeks. In about an hour I received the following answer to it.

'Miss Burchell may triumph, Madam, since she has obtained _you_
for her advocate. Well have you acquitted yourself of the task
your rigid heart has undertaken. I thank the lady for the justice
her charming ingenuousness (as you rightly call it) has done me.
But what have I gained by this? Have I not raised the fair
complainant still higher in your esteem, given her a stronger
claim to your pity, and furnished you with arms against myself?
Wretch that I am, I do, I must acknowlege the force of every thing
that you have urged. Miss Burchell is amiable, her sincerity, her
constancy, and (by me) unmerited love, deserve to be greatly
recompensed. I would to heaven I had a heart to give her! but I
have not; _you_ know I have not; _she_ knows it too. Could I have
made Miss Burchell the return she deserves, I would not thus long
have shunned her presence. I acknowleged the state of my heart to
her even at the time I had lost all hopes of possessing you. And
in the spite of my own struggles, after years of confirmed
despair, I found myself still enslaved. How then could I offer a
hand, devoted as my whole soul was to another object, to a lady,
whose constant, tender, and delicate affection, demanded all the
return that a sensible and grateful heart could make? This, Madam,
is all the plea I can urge in answer to those arguments you offer
to promote your favourite wish. Consult your own delicacy, let
Miss Burchell consult hers, and then perhaps I shall stand
acquitted of ingratitude.

'I hoped, Madam, that cleared as I have been of _one_ imputation,
I might have recovered some favour in yours and Lady Bidulph's
thoughts. I was flattered with this consolation, small as it was,
when every other hope forsook me. But when an unexpected event
again brought happiness within my prospect, this reflection, I own
became of more importance, and served to strengthen my then
revived hopes. But you dash them with an unrelenting hand; and
again build up those barriers between us, that heaven itself had
overthrown. What can I say to you, inflexible as you are? has Miss
Burchell _all_ your pity? You may command my life, Madam; I would
lay it down freely for you; but I cannot, must not, will not give
up my love; and till you declare in express terms that I _must_ be
miserable, I will not even give up my hope.

ORLANDO FAULKLAND.'

See, my Cecilia, the heart I have to deal with. Hard to be subdued, and obstinate in all its purposes. I expected difficulties; but was in hopes he would be less determined in regard to his perseverance towards me. I think however I have gained some ground; he acknowleges Miss Burchell's merit, and seems obliged to her for the part she has acted towards him. I have been under some difficulties on this occasion; for as Miss Burchell was not so candid in her acknowlegements to my mother as she has been to me, I cannot let her know the whole of her confession; for this reason, I only told her the general purport of what I wrote last to Mr Faulkland; and in reading his answer to her, I passed over such passages as I thought might induce her to require an explanation. I own I am a little hurt at Miss Burchell's former perverting of facts on this occasion; but, as I have already said more than once, there are great allowances to be made for one in her very critical situation. Neither have I the least right to reproach her for it even in my thoughts; for had she been ever so explicit at my mother's first interview with her, it could not have availed me.

You find, my dear, it is necessary I should speak plainly to Mr Faulkland. I shall write to him again, and here you shall have a copy of what I say; but I must lead this violent spirit with gentleness, and endeavour to convince his reason, without wounding his tenderness.

Mrs Arnold's third letter to Mr Faulkland

'You give me pleasure, Sir; I begin to descry hopes for your and
my amiable friend. I know such a heart as Mr Faulkland's cannot
be proof against sentiments of gratitude and compassion; it will
not be difficult to convert those sentiments into love, when the
object is so deserving. Try, Sir, try; the experiment cannot fail.
How much to your honour will so noble a triumph be over an
ill-fated passion! What delightful returns may you not expect from
the obliged, the grateful partner of your happiness! Do not call
me inflexible, or rigid; filled as I am with gratitude, and a
sense of your merit, I should hate myself, if I did not acknowlege
that you deserve more from me than it can ever be in my power to
repay. I must be plain with you, since you require it; it is
impossible I ever can be yours. Sorry I am, that the necessity of
circumstances compels me to make so early a declaration, from
which I thought my present situation would have exempted me; but I
forgive you, Sir, for urging me on this head, and draw a happy
presage from your resting your hopes in relation to me, on my own
determination. You appeal to my delicacy, whether you ought, with
a heart estranged, to offer your hand to Miss Burchell? Were
delicacy alone to be consulted, the answer perhaps might be easy;
but there are superior considerations in your case to be taken in.
Love, without doubt, demands love in return; but where injured
honour is to be repaired, where the disgrace of a darling child is
to be prevented, those nicer sentiments of the soul must and ought
to give way: and I will venture to pronounce, that Miss Burchell
would, with raptures, receive the hand which would confer such
valuable blessings on her; leaving it to time, and her own
unremiting tenderness and assiduity, to get an interest in the
heart, which, by such an act, proved its own rectitude. On this
subject, I, from experience, am qualified to speak. You know, sir,
the interest you once had in me; you cannot think me so light a
creature, as to suppose I so soon after my breaking with you,
bestowed my affections on another. I did not; obedience to my
mother's commands was the sole motive which engaged my vows to Mr
Arnold; and I married him with no other sentiments, those of
esteem and gratitude for the great love he bore me. Yet from these
seeds sown in my heart, sprung a tender and ardent affection:
never did wife love a husband better than I did Mr Arnold; his
kindness merited, and _did_ win my whole affections; nor could a
temporary alienation of _his_ heart, disposses him of the place he
held in _mine_. His returning love (for which, with all
thankfulness, I own myself bound to you, Sir) made him still
dearer to me than ever, and I now profess myself wedded to his
memory. You have a right, Sir, to expect that I should explain
myself at once to you on this subject; for your own sake, and for
Miss Burchell's I must not suffer you to entertain a doubt of my
resolution. You compel me to repeat, that I think Miss Burchell
deserves your love, and has a just right to your hand. She throws
herself upon your honour, without pretending to have any _lawful_
claim; if she _had_, I should not condescend to solicit the man
who could refuse to do her justice.

'My mother is firm in her first resolves; could you place a crown
on my head, her integrity would still oblige her to reject it; nor
would a crown tempt me to forfeit the duty which I owe to her.

'See then, Sir, if that _unexpected event_, which you mention (a
fatal event to me!) has brought you nearer to your wishes; and
here let me add, in justice to my own particular sentiments, that
I think Mr Faulkland is the last man who ought to be my choice,
even if my heart were disposed to make one. Reproach me not with
ingratitude, or caprice, till I have explained myself. It is not
long, Sir (blameless and unconscious as you were of the injury,
and nobly as you repaired it) since you were the cause of a
separation between me and my husband. I know you will say that our
mutual innocence on this occasion, and the secret's being known
but to a few of our friends, makes that objection of little
weight. I grant you, with many it might be so; all minds are not
equally susceptible; 'tis my unhappiness to have a too resenting
heart. My own honour (scrupulous you might call it) would not
suffer me to let the man succeed Mr Arnold in my love, who was the
occasion of so much uneasiness to him, and the cause of my being
suspected in my fidelity. Would it not be an insult on his memory?
Oh, Sir, what is the world's opinion to the approbation of our own
hearts! Mine has never yet reproached me, and this has been my
support in all my trials. Thus much I say for the reverence I bear
my dear Mr Arnold's memory; but I have other reasons to offer in
my excuse; refinements you will call them, but my heart feels
their force. I am not the same woman you once loved; afflictions
have impaired my health, and those little advantages of person
which nature bestowed on me, have not been improved by time; my
spirits, broken by misfortunes, have left me languid and
insensible to joy. Peace is the utmost of my wish, and all that I
am now capable of relishing. The bride, whom Mr Faulkland once
sought, was in the bloom of youth, admired and caressed, by a
flattering world; unblemished in her character, her fortune equal
to her wishes, her heart, her virgin heart, was then a present
(with pride let me say it) worthy of any man's acceptance. It was
then in her power to bestow happiness, and Mr Faulkland would not
have been matched unequally. But the scene is changed; what should
I now bring to your arms? A person faded by grief; a reputation
(though undeservedly) once called in question; a little helpless
family without fortune; a widowed heart, dead to love and
incapable of pleasure. Oh, Sir! could I bear to be your wife on
such conditions? Indebted to you as I am, past a possibility of my
ever making you a return, to what a mighty sum would you raise the
obligation? How poor would you make me in my own eyes? Humbled as
I am by adversity, my soul has still too much pride, or let me
call it delicacy, to submit to this. No, if there was no Miss
Burchell in the world, no parental sway to guide me, in my present
circumstances, I never would be yours.

'You have now before you my final determination. I shall trouble
you no more on the subject. If your heart relents towards Miss
Burchell, great will be your reward. In her you are sure of a
tender, faithful, and charming friend; who will more than repay
every act of kindness towards her; and he who is the author of
justice and mercy will not fail to bless you.

'I am, &c'.

Methinks, my dear friend, I have now eased my heart of a load that oppressed it. What can I say more? Mr Faulkland now knows my determined purpose in regard to myself; and if he is not quite insensible, I think Miss Burchell must at last obtain the wish of her soul. Oh, my Cecilia, I would not have my heart devoured by such a flame as her's, for the whole world. But have I not acted as I should do? I hope I have; I feel satisfied with my own conduct, and I never yet found that to be the case when I acted wrong. There are some nice points, in which our own hearts are the best, as well as the most impartial judges. If Mr Faulkland persists in rejecting poor Miss Burchell, I can urge him no farther; but I am determined not to see him.

_June 25_

How uneasy has been my suspense these three days! I question if Miss Burchell's is much greater. No answer from this strange man; perhaps he is flown off again.--No, I wrong him, a letter is this minute brought up to me from him--Read it, my beloved, and congratulate me.

'You were born to conquer. Madam; what is there that you cannot
effect? My heart was made for you, and you can mould it as you
please. Enjoy your triumph, if it be one. I will receive Miss
Burchell as _your_ gift, and since I cannot obtain your love, I
will at least compel your esteem. Why should _your_ generosity,
_your_ compassion for an unhappy lady, to whom you have no
obligation, exceed that of a man who owns himself bound to her in
gratitude? I wish I could repay her the debt of love I owe her,
but I will try to repair my fault hereafter; and in her gentle
bosom perhaps I may recover that peace, to which I have been so
long a stranger. She will forgive the waywardness of a heart,
which never disguised its anguish to her; and which she knows has
been torn by a cruel passion, that, like a cruel disease, was not
either to be resisted or subdued. But thanks to you, Madam, I
think I begin to feel my cure approaching. Miss Burchell's
tenderness will finish what you have begun. You shall never
reproach me more; if I _ever_ had an interest in your heart, I
will not forfeit it now, but make that proud heart acknowledge,
spite of itself, that Faulkland was not unworthy of it.'

Ha! my Cecilia, what do you say to my Orlando now? _My_ Orlando let me this once call him. Has he not a noble mind? Happy! happy Miss Burchell! you are at length arrived to the summit of your wishes. Long may you enjoy them, and may you make your love as blest as he deserves to be! My mother clasped her hands together in joy, when I read this letter to her. God bless him, God bless him, said she; he is now indeed a righteous man. How rejoiced I am, my dear, that I have been the means of bringing about his so-much-wished-for event. And yet, methinks, if I were in Miss Burchell's place, though my heart doated on the man to death, I could not receive him on such terms. He accepts her as _my_ gift; it is to raise himself in my esteem, he does her justice: Nay, I think the assuming man seems to insinuate a sort of superiority over me, by this concession. Why let it be so, I shall be content in my humiliation, if _my_ gift will restore him to his peace. If it does, which I pray heaven it may, ought he not to think himself indebted to me?

I think I should not let Miss Burchell see this last letter; he does not consent with a good grace; and it may damp her joy. Though, upon second thoughts, I question whether she has delicacy enough to be much affected by this circumstance.

* * * * *

I am saved the trouble of observing any decorum towards Miss Burchell. She has been just here wild with transport; and was several minutes in the room before I could get her to speak coherently. She had received a letter from Mr Faulkland, written by his own angelic hand, she said. She made no difficulty of leaving it with me, and here it is.

Mr Faulkland's letter to Miss Burchell.

'Is it possible, Madam, that I can still be dear to you, careless
and remiss as I have been towards you, since you first honoured me
with your affection? If you can forgive this, I am ready to offer
you my hand; and hope, by devoting my future days to you, to make
you amends for those years, during which (deserving as you are) I
have withheld that heart which was your due.

'I never had any merit towards you but my sincerity; and I will
not now give up that virtue to arrogate to myself another to which
I have no title. I own to you, Madam, that it is to Mrs Arnold's
superior prudence, and nice honour, I am beholden for being
brought to a just sense of your worth, and my own obligations to
you. If you will give me leave to attend you this afternoon, you
will receive a man filled with sentiments of gratitude and esteem
for you, and who is determined by his future conduct, to deserve a
continuance of your love.

'I am, &c.'

I congratulated Miss Burchell (after reading this letter) on her approaching felicity. She had not words to express her acknowlegements to me. The service I had rendered her was indeed to her a most important one; and there are some occasions where _words_ are of no use; Miss Burchell can be eloquent without them. She embraced me a thousand times, and wept in tender transport on my neck.

My mother is as much delighted at this happy event, as if it immediately concerned her own welfare. She recommended it to Miss Burchell, to have her little boy with her when Mr Faulkland came to visit her. It seems he has not seen the child since his last return to England: he did not care to go to the house where it was boarded, for fear of drawing any observation on himself to Miss Burchell's prejudice; and the people never permitted the child to be taken abroad by any one but Miss Burchell (who passes for its aunt) or Mr Faulkland's house-keeper; but this good woman, happening to be sick when he came to town, Mr Faulkland had not an opportunity of sending for it.

Miss Burchell greatly approved of the motion, and flew from us to prepare for this so much desired interview.

And now, Cecilia, do you not think Mr Faulkland has proved himself a disinterested (lover shall I say) of your Sidney? Indeed he has given a noble testimony of his esteem and deference for me, as well as he formerly did of his affection. If Miss Burchell does not render herself worthy of him, how shall I hate myself for having brought about this union! But she loves him too ardently, and is herself too lovely, not to get possession of his heart, when it becomes his duty, as well as his interest, to give it up to her. All acquaintance between her and me, must now cease: for her sake, as well as Mr Faulkland's, this will be necessary; my presence may disturb, but can never contribute to the tranquillity of either of them.

_June 26_

Miss Burchell was in too much haste to communicate her joy to us, to defer giving an account of what passed between her and Mr Faulkland yesterday evening. She hurried to us last night, at almost ten o'clock.

He came to her house, she said, at six, the hour she had appointed him; and looked _so_ enchantingly. She herself was dressed out very elegantly to receive him, and I thought looked really charming; her countenance was so lighted up with joy, that she did not appear the same woman.

She had endeavoured, she said, to compose herself for this interview, and had tried to assume something of dignity; but it all vanished when her conqueror approached, and the tumult of her heart so intirely banished all recollection, and presence of mind, that she was not able to tell me in what manner she received him. She only knows, she says, that having snatched up her little boy, who stood by her and hung on her gown, she put him into his father's arms, and bidding the babe thank him for his goodness, she burst into tears. Mr Faulkland tenderly embraced the child, not without a visible emotion of countenance; and having gently set him down again, he placed himself by Miss Burchell's side: She was still sobbing. Those generous tears, Madam, said he, taking her by the hand, reproach me too much: I have not deserved this tenderness; I cannot look upon you, nor that dear boy, without blushing, but you have forgiven me: it shall be the study of my life to make you both happy. Oh! Madam, continued Miss Burchell, what an exquisite joy must such a declaration give me from the beloved of my soul. I wrung his hand; Oh, Sir, you are too good: What return can I make you? One thing only say to me, that you do not offer me a _very_ reluctant hand, and I shall then be the happiest of women.

Mr Faulkland paused a little while, and then, with a noble frankness, replied: 'You know, my dear Miss Burchell, with what an excess of passion I have ever loved Mrs Arnold: Had no such woman existed, _you_ would have been my choice, preferably to any other: but when I first knew you, I looked upon myself as bound to her, though, at that time, I had never seen her: my knowledge of her afterwards confirmed me her's. I made no secret of this to you, and you may remember what my declarations to you were, even at the time my hopes were frustrated. I have loved her fervently ever since; even in the arms of a husband I adored her; and I will be candid enough to own to you, that, as my attachment to her has, during all that time, estranged me from you, so should I still, had I the least hopes of succeeding, have persisted in my suit. But she has cut off all hope; she has declared she can never be mine, and at the same time has represented my obligations to you in so strong a light, that I am convinced I ought to be your's. And let me own, Madam (you who are generous, and know what it is to love, will pardon a declaration which I durst not make to any other woman) to you I will confess that Mrs Arnold is arbitress of my fate; and in approving myself to her, I do so to my own conscience. I do not therefore, though my actions have been guided by her, yield with reluctance to her will; her virtue, her religion, and enlarged mind, have only dictated to me, what my own reason tells me I ought to do. I have been a slave to a hopeless passion too long; I am now resolved to struggle with my chains: you, Madam, must assist me in breaking them entirely; and I make no doubt but that time, joined to my own efforts, and aided by your sweetness of disposition, your tenderness, and admirable sense, will enable me to conquer what I must now call a weakness, and make the triumph equally happy for us both. But remember, Madam, I never see Mrs Arnold more. 'Tis for your peace sake as well as my own, that I make this a preliminary to our marriage. I will, when you shall vouchsafe me the honour of your hand, receive it, if you please, from Lady Bidulph; and as I presume it will be agreeable to you to have the ceremony intirely private, that I may, for our dear little boy's sake, present you rather as my acknowleged wife, than as my new made bride, I will, with the utmost speed and secrecy, have such dispositions made, as shall be suitable to my condition, and your own merit.

'I should like, after we are united, if you have no objection to it, to pay a visit for a while to an estate I have in Ireland; which I have never yet seen, and which I intended to have looked at, if this event, this happy event (and he kissed my hand) had not taken place.'