Chapter XVI: Part 16

Penetrated as I was, pursued Miss Burchell, with a sense of the generosity and openness of his heart, I could not forbear raising his hand to my lips; he tenderly withdrew it from me, as if abashed at my condescension. He then turned the discourse to less interesting subjects, and after three delightful hours spent with me, took his leave; not without having first fixed on Wednesday, next Wednesday, to be the blessed day that is to make him mine for ever.

Happy, happy may you be, said I! you _must_ be happy; but let me see you once again before you are Mrs Faulkland: there are not many hours to come before that name will be yours. My dear Madam! said she, and patted my bosom with her hand, I hope all is well _here_; she looked earnestly in my face, and then added, but you have a noble heart. 'Tis an honest one I hope, said I, a little disconcerted at her manner. Why did she address me thus, my dear? I hope I did not discover any thing in my behaviour as if I repined her good fortune; if I did, far be such a wretched meanness from the heart of thy friend. Was it not my own act to make Miss Burchell the happy woman she now thinks herself? Yet I own there is something in Mr Faulkland's conduct which has raised my esteem to admiration. Oh may his future days be blessed, else shall I indeed be wretched!

My mother told Miss Burchell, it would give her inexpressive satisfaction to bestow her in marriage on Mr Faulkland; and desired she would let her know to-morrow at what time and place the ceremony as to be performed. She answered, at her own house, as she could be no where else so private; and that Mr Faulkland would engage for the purpose a clergyman, a particular friend of his, and fellow-collegian, on whose discretion he could rely.

Miss Burchell's spirits were too much exhilarated to let her think of rest; she staid with us till it was very late, and having taken occasion to mention how grieved she was at the thoughts of losing my society, and of the necessity Mr Faulkland expressed himself under of never seeing me more, my mother took that opportunity of gravely entering into the subject of matrimonial duties. She highly applauded Mr Faulkland's resolution on that head, and told Miss Burchell, it ought exceedingly to enhance his merit towards her. Let this be a memorandum to you, my dear Madam, said she, how sacred the bond is to be held that is now going to unite you: He will not, you see, run the hazard of being tempted, even in thought, to swerve from that faith which he is going to plight to you; your situation is delicate, and it will require the utmost prudence and circumspection on your part, to secure such an interest in his heart as he now seems inclined to give you. It is not on your personal charms that you are to rely, for subduing, or preserving the affections of such a man as he is. They alone, you see, were not able to effect this: it is to Mr Faulkland's honour rather than his love, that you are now obliged for the justice he has done you: never let this be out of your thoughts; be grateful, but let your gratitude have dignity in it; and by your behaviour convince your husband that honour was with you a first motive to wish this union, love will then come in with a better grace as a secondary inducement.

The freedom of my mother's observations, and instructions, I was not surprized at, because she always speaks her mind; but the emphasis with which she delivered herself was unusual. Miss Burchell expressed herself as obliged to her, and joined intirely in her opinion; I could perceive, however, she was not pleased with the lecture.

When Miss Burchell was gone, my mother told me, she thought it necessary to speak as she had done. Miss Burchell, said she, is not _quite_ the girl I took her for; so much modesty and reserve, I thought I had never met with in a young creature before; when she used to speak of Mr Faulkland, it was with affection indeed, but with such a nice decorum as convinced me of the innocence and purity of her heart. But of late I have observed she has been less delicate in her expressions of tenderness; such passionate flights have sometimes broke from her, as I did not think becoming in a young woman, and which indeed almost offended me; and this night her joy has been ungoverned. Great reason she has for joy 'tis true; but there are some considerations which ought to have made her chasten that joy into a sober, and, at least seemingly, moderate satisfaction. She loves Mr Faulkland, but let her beware of disgusting a man of his sense by too strong an expression of her fondness.

My mother's observation, and her uncommonly forcible manner of expressing it, struck me prodigiously. It is true I had made the same remarks myself, but as you know she is not extremely penetrating, and in general, but a superficial observer, I was the more surprized at what she said. Miss Burchell's behaviour must have been formerly very different from what it now is, to have made my mother so sensible of the change. _Some considerations_, she said, ought to have made her chasten her joy. Perhaps, she meant no more than that the young lady, even in the midst of that joy, had, upon reflection, cause for humiliation. I hope, she did not think that her gaiety on this desired event affected me, who had so warmly promoted it. My mother is too open not to give the full meaning of her thoughts. This may be only the suggestion of my own fancy, yet it has mortified me. I had but little rest last night, and rose this morning by day-light, to throw together in writing the above particulars.

_June 27_

Miss Burchell came not to us till late this evening; pleasure danced in her eyes. I whispered to her, We rejoice with you, dear Madam, sincerely rejoice, at your approaching felicity; but our present state will not suffer us to keep pace with you in that gaiety, however justifiable it may be from the cause: restrain yourself a little; my mother will not think you kind, as we are so soon to part with you. She smiled, and thanking me for the hint, immediately composed her features to such a decorum (I will not call it demureness) that it was impossible to discover she was agitated by any extraordinary emotion. I own, I was amazed at the command she so suddenly assumed over her countenance. I was glad, however, she did so, that my mother might not have fresh cause of dislike towards her.

She told us that Mr Faulkland had settled a thousand pounds a year on her, and that too without ever having informed himself of the state of her fortune: for, in the hurry of her thoughts, she had neglected to mention it to him: (Generous man! whispered I to myself.) She then, with great gravity, applied herself to my mother, and told her, she hoped for the honour of her presence, the next morning, at her own house; where the ceremony was to be performed, before no other witnesses but her ladyship, and the gentlewoman, who had been Mr Faulkland's housekeeper; and that the following day they purposed retiring to Mr Faulkland's seat in Hertfordshire, and, after a short stay there, to set out for Ireland.

My mother commended Mr Faulkland's diligence, for having so suddenly disposed every thing for this important event, and told our friend she would not fail to attend her at the appointed time.

Miss Burchell's behaviour was extremely composed; she either really was, or affected to be, extremely sorry at parting with me; she could not stay long with us, she said, as she had many things to settle in the remaining part of that evening. On taking leave of me, I shall not see you again, worthiest of women, said she, at least, for many months; but my love, my respect, and my gratitude towards you will be as lasting as my life. You shall hear often from me, and be so good as sometimes to tell me I am not forgotten. She embraced me with tears in her eyes, but I thought she tripped down stairs to her chair, as if her heart was very light.

My mother liked her deportment; she said, she believed the flightiness of her behaviour before, was owing to her being quite intoxicated with the suddenness of her joy, on so unexpected a turn of fortune; but that since she had time for recollection, she had recovered her wonted bashful and sober air, with which she used to be so delighted. My mother says, she will contrive to carry a rich white brocade gown with her, in order to slip it on at Miss Burchell's house; for she would not, on any consideration, appear in mourning on this joyful occasion. You know the reverence she has for omens.

_June 28_

The important event is over, my Cecilia. Miss Burchell is now Mrs Faulkland. My mother is just returned, and saw the nuptial knot tied. The lady, she said, looked very lovely; and it was easy to observe she gave her hand with all her heart. Mr Faulkland's behaviour was polite and unconstrained; but his attention to his bride was more gallant than tender; and his whole deportment was that of a man who seemed to endeavour at acquitting himself with a good grace of an act of duty, rather than of inclination. The latter part of the observation is mine, not my mother's; but I collected it from certain little particulars, which she related to me in her own way, without drawing any inference from them.

He thanked her in a most respectful manner for the honour she had done him, and for her former friendship to Miss Burchell; but did not once mention my name. So much the better; I hope he will forget me.

My mother is mighty alert on the occasion, and felicitates both herself and me on our having brought about this very important affair. She joined heartily with me in praying that the new-married pair may be happy in each other. She is quite reconciled to Mr Faulkland. What a pity it was, said she--and stopped; then added, But every thing is for the best. I understood her, but made no reply.

They go out of town to-morrow morning; all happiness attend them!

I expect Sir George will be quite outrageous about this marriage. My second refusal of his friend, with the addition of his now being wedded, through my persuasion, to a woman my brother never could endure, will, I fear, exasperate him beyond a possibility of reconciliation. I cannot help it; I have acted agreeably to the dictates of my duty; that must be my consolation: life is in itself a warfare, _my_ life has been particularly so.

_July 8_

My mother is far from being well; her spirits have been a little heightened for these few days past, but her disorder I see gains ground: the swelling in her legs is returning, and her rest at night quite broken. I am hourly habituating myself to think of her dissolution; or, in other words, am preparing myself for the worst evil that can now befal me. I hope I shall find myself equal to the trial.

_July 10_

Here is a storm for you my dear; a letter from Sir George. I wanted such a thing to rouse me from the almost lethargic dulness that was creeping on me. Mr Faulkland has acquainted him with his marriage. Pray observe his brotherly address.

Mrs ARNOLD, _June 6, 1706._

'For I disclaim all relation to you. I have just now had a letter
from Faulkland, wherein I am at once informed of your having
finally rejected him, and of his being married to Miss Burchell.
As for the first, your own folly be on your head. You will have
time enough for repentance, and I need wish you no other
punishment than what _will_, and for me _shall_, be the
consequences of your obstinate adherence to your own romantic wild
opinions. But what in the name of blind infatuation could provoke
you to urge the man, to whom you owed such obligations, to his
destruction? _You_ I know have done it; he could not be so mad but
under _your_ influence. You and my mother I suppose fancy you have
done a righteous deed; but you have done what I am afraid poor
Faulkland will have reason to--I will suppress the shocking word,
that my indignation suggested.

'Why was I not made acquainted with this precious design of
marrying my friend to that insinuating little viper? I might
perhaps have prevented the mischief; for I cannot think if she had
not imposed upon you, that you would have pushed your chimerical
notions of honour to such extremities.

'Perhaps you meant well; but it has ever been your peculiar
misfortune I think to have your good intentions productive of
nothing but evil; this last action I fear will be a severe proof
of the truth of this observation. I warned you in time against
this woman, but my advice has always been despised.

'I will say no more on the hateful subject; what is done is
irrevocable: but I believe you will hardly be able to answer it to
yourself, if you find that you have condemned one of the noblest
fellows in the world to the arms of a prostitute.'

Lord bless me! my Cecilia, was there ever such a barbarian? with what an implacable aversion does he pursue this poor girl! But what does he mean by the odious epithet with which he closes his horrid letter? Sure Miss Burchell merits not that name. Her weakness in regard to Mr Faulkland cannot bring on her so detestable a charge. If George knows any thing more of her character than I do, why did he not tell me so before? It cannot be; his aversion to her makes him cruel and unjust. He says true; I should not indeed forgive myself if I were the means of making Mr Faulkland unhappy; and his observation would be dreadfully verified, that all my good intentions produce nothing but evil, if this marriage should prove to be unfortunate.

_July 20_

I have had a letter from Mrs Faulkland. She and her husband are arrived safely at his estate on the borders of the north of Ireland, within less than thirty miles of the capital. It is a pleasant part of the country she says, but as Mr Faulkland has no house there, they have taken up their lodgings for the present at the house of his steward. Her letter is filled with declarations of the felicity she enjoys; she says, she would not change her lot to be the greatest Queen on earth.--May she continue to deserve her happy fortune, and to render her husband as satisfied with _his_ lot as she is with _hers_! then shall I triumph over Sir George for his vile insinuations.

I have heard from my good lady V----, in answer to the letter I wrote her, giving an account of Mr Faulkland's marriage. As he had not made her acquainted with his return to England, I knew not whether he had informed her of this particular; and I find he had not. As lady V---- was a stranger to his former connection with Miss Burchell (with whom I have already told you she was acquainted, and that she entertained a very favourable opinion of her) she expressed no displeasure at the alliance; but said, she supposed he married, in a tifft, upon my refusal of him; for which I gave her such reasons as I had before given Mr Faulkland, excepting those which related to Miss Burchell; which, for both their sakes, must now be no more mentioned. Lady V---- says, she _will not condemn the delicacy of my sentiments, though she owns her wish was, that it could have been got over, as she is sure that Mr Faulkland can never be happy with any one but me_.

[Here follows an interval of near two months, in which nothing material occurred.]

_September 13_

The time approaches, my Cecilia, when thy friend shall be poor and destitute. I know thy generous heart will more than sympathize with me in my calamity, from the aggravating reflexion that it is not in your power to assist me. The account you have given me of your husband's close disposition has too fully convinced me of this. Nor should I have mentioned my apprehensions to you at this time, but that I am bound not to conceal a thought from the friend of my heart.

Sir George has dropt all correspondence with us, I have nothing to expect from him; nor does that mortal live (yourself excepted) to whom I would, on such an occasion, be indebted. I have already sighed too often under the weight of obligations which I could not repay.

My mother is hastening apace to a better world, She sees her end approaching with such a calmness, such a truly pious joy, as almost makes me ashamed of lamenting her loss; for what is it in me, my dear but selfishness? 'Tis true, the loss of a tender parent, a faithful friend, at a time when all other comforts of life are fled, is an evil one would wish wholly to avoid, or at least to postpone for the longest date possible: but when I consider _her_ welfare, ought I to indulge myself in such a wish? Her life is already become a burden to her; her infirmities are painful, and without hope of cure; she longs to be released, and to receive that reward of her righteousness, which cannot be obtained on this side of the grave.

If we had a friend, who, in compassion to our wants or weakness, consented to live with us, though under the pressure of years and bodily pain; and that friend were invited to a remote country, with an assurance of recovering health, of having youth renewed, and of possessing all the riches, power, honours, and accumulated pleasures that this world can bestow; should we not blush to own even a wish to detain him from such a station? What but a love of ourselves, superior to that which we bear to our friend, could suggest such a thought? How much more to be desired then is the change, to which my mother looks forward, with an assured hope!

But there is something dismal in the idea of death! 'tis only our prejudices make it so. I have been endeavouring for many days past to familiarise it to my thoughts, and to consider death only as the name of a region through which my mother is to pass, in order to get at that delightful country to which she is invited, and whither _I_ shall assuredly follow her. Such is the present frame of my mind; judge then, my sister, if this philosophy will not bear me up against the unexpected blow when it falls upon me.

_September 15_

'Tis strange, my Cecilia, that this best of parents, who had always so tenderly loved me, expresses now not the least uneasiness at the forlorn condition in which she must soon leave me. Her thoughts are employed on higher objects, and she seems to have weaned herself from all worldly attachments.

I am going from you, my daughter, said she to me just now, and have no other legacy to leave you but a parent's blessing. Your brother possesses all when I die; I wish you had the means of enjoying life with comfort; but you must be contented. See that you bear your lot as becomes you. I perceive your grief for the melancholy condition to which I am now reduced; but added she smiling, I shall soon be released.

Remember how David behaved on the death of that son, whose life he had so earnestly besought of his maker: let that serve you as an example, not to give yourself up to unprofitable sorrow. Bring up your children in the principles that I taught _you_, and God will take care of them; for _I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread_.

She said, she found herself drowsy, and desired me to leave her for a while. I have left her, going I hope to get a little sleep; she breathes with so much difficulty that she cannot bear to lie down, and never gets any rest but by snatches, as she sits in an arm-chair supported by pillows.

How heavy and cast down do I feel my spirits; but I know the worst--_that_ is something.--

It is all over: and my mother, blessed woman! opens not her eyes again but to a joyful resurrection. Oh, my dear, there is no terror in death when he seizes us not unprepared! I went into my mother's chamber, in about half an hour after I had quitted it, at her desire: I found her leaning back in her chair, her eyes shut, and a complacent air diffused over her face, which made me hope that her slumber was sweeter, and more profound than usual. I sat down by her to contemplate her benign countenance; and was some minutes before I discovered that she did not breathe. I took her hand, she had no pulse; and I soon found that the happy spirit had escaped from its house of clay. May _I_ die the death of the righteous, and my latter end be like hers! No murmurings, no, no my sister, I will be patience itself!

_September 25_

I have sent the remains of my venerable parent down to Sidney-Castle, there to be interred with her ancestors. I wrote my brother an account of her death on the day it happened, but have as yet received no answer. Unnatural son! but I will not reproach him; some accident might have prevented his writing immediately on the receipt of my letter. He never intirely forsook the duty he owed his mother, but he has of late been quite estranged from us; his wife, vain, weak and imperious, governs him totally. I must now begin to look about me for a place of abode suited to my present circumstances. My whole income would not pay more than half the rent of these lodgings in which I have lived with my dear mother. My poor Patty! I am grieved for _her_. I begged of her to seek another mistress, who might be able to reward her merit, and provide for her as she deserves; but the worthy affectionate girl told me, it would break her heart, if I talked of parting with her. You must have a servant of some sort, Madam, said she, why may not I do as well as another? If I were able to make you a proper return, Patty, said I, you should not leave me; but I cannot afford to pay a servant of your abilities as you deserve; and I must be my own maid for the future. Never, never, Madam, cried the honest creature, bursting into tears, while I have hands to serve you. Let me but attend on you, and the two dear children; I desire nothing.--I want nothing. Your goodness has all along supplied me so, that I am sure I have clothes enough to serve me during my life; and if I could not put up with the same humble way of living that my mistress does, sure I should be a presumptuous wretch! My tears thanked the grateful girl; and taking her by the hand, I told her, that I would not talk of parting for the present, but when any thing worth her acceptance offered, I should then insist on her embracing it.

I am determined to retire to some village at a distance from London, and either to take a little cottage to myself, or board with my children at some farm-house, as I shall find most convenient. Fifty pounds a year will be but a slender support for three persons brought up in affluence. My little ones indeed will not now be sensible of the change, and by the time they are grown up, they will be so inured to their homely board, that they will not, I hope, aspire after what cannot consistently (perhaps,) with virtue, lie within their reach.

_October 27_

After paying the expences of my mother's funeral, discharging our lodgings, and some other demands, I find my purse will be so extremely reduced, that I shall have but barely enough to keep out want, till my small income becomes due to me. I must therefore, for the present, defer putting my scheme into execution, as I am not qualified to undertake a journey with my little family; especially as I am as yet uncertain what place to fix on for my residence; neither will I afford my brother (though I have no reason to expect any thing from him), a farther pretence for reproaching me, by giving him room to say, I left London without consulting him, or waiting for his return to it. I shall therefore look out a lodging of a small price, where I will conceal myself from every body that knows me, and wait for Sir George's arrival.

_October 28_

How happy you make me, my ever dear friend, by your approbation of my conduct; since my receiving your last packet, which came into my hand late last night, I am better reconciled to my present lot than I was before I heard from you. I _could not do otherwise_, you say, after my solemn promise given to Miss Burchell, than use my utmost endeavours to promote her marriage with Mr Faulkland. True; I could not: but I wish you had entered more into my sentiments, in regard to those punctilios, which, you tell me, you think _might_ have been got over, if that young woman had been out of the question. I could not help smiling at your wish, unchristian as it was; but my dear, if that _were_ to happen, do you think Mr Faulkland so void of reason, nay of feeling, as after all that has past to persevere? Or if he did, that I could be so mean as to owe the very bread that I and my children should eat, to his generosity? Would you, my Cecilia, wish to see your friend so humbled? 'Tis not in the power even of the cold, hard hand of poverty itself, to dash me so low as that would do. But where is the need of forming resolutions, or even making declarations about what never _can_ happen? I see notwithstanding, that you think my heart has _again_ done itself some violence: You know that heart too well for me to attempt to hide from you its secret workings. I own to you honestly I now feel my own unhappiness in its full extent. I look back, and take a survey of the past, and cannot help thinking that I have had the most wayward fate allotted me that ever woman had.

Disappointment in a first love, has, I think been ever accounted a grief scarce surmountable even by time: but this can only be the case, where the heart, extremely vulnerable by nature (like Miss Burchell's) suffers itself to be so entirely immersed in that passion, that all other duties of life are swallowed up in it; and where an indolent turn of mind, a want of rational avocations, and perhaps of a new object, all contribute to indulge and confirm the disease. This you know was not my case. I loved, 'tis true; but it was with temperance; and though my disappointment afflicted me, it did not subdue me. I got the better of it, I think I got the better of it even before I married; but sure I am, I totally conquered all remembrance of it after I became a wife. I then laid down a new scheme of happiness, and was for a time in possession of it; how I was thrown from this is still bitter to remembrance. You well know what I suffered, when I found myself deprived of my husband's love, and suspected of a crime at which my soul shrunk. But it pleased the just God to deliver me from this heavy misfortune, and I think the happiest days of my marriage were those which I passed with Mr Arnold after our reunion. Then it was, I was thoroughly sensible that the heart _can_ love a second time, truly and ardently; but I was soon again plunged into affliction by the death of a husband endeared to me more than ever by his misfortunes. My grief for him was proportionate to my love. Yet, my friend, as time is an universal conqueror, it might have healed this wound as well as the former one; and a few, a very few years would perhaps have disposed me to return Mr Faulkland's still unabated passion, if a variety of circumstances had not interposed, that strongly forbad our union. Convinced as I was of this, I acted agreeably to the dictates both of my reason, and my conscience, in persuading Mr Faulkland to make Miss Burchell his wife. I should have been grieved and mortified had he rejected her, and I had determined never to have seen him more. Yet how deceitful is the human heart! this very act which I laboured with so much assiduity to accomplish, and on the accomplishment of which, I had founded, I know not how, a sort of contentment for myself, has been the very means of destroying what little peace of mind I was beginning to taste before. Sure that man was born to torment me in a variety of ways! If I was disappointed in my early love, I had however duty, and a consciousness of what I then thought superior worth, to support me. If on his account I suffered cruel and injurious aspersions, the innocence of my own self-acquitted heart bore me up under it: but he has at length found the way to punish me without leaving me any resource. My pride is of no use, he has raised himself in my esteem superior to every thing! His whole behaviour so generous, so candid; a love so disinterested, so fervent; what noble, what uncommon proofs has he given me of it! and at length what a triumphant sacrifice has he made of that overruling passion, to the sober calls of reason and humanity! He has left me, my dear, to gaze after him with grateful admiration! and sometimes perhaps to sigh that our fates rendered it impossible for us to meet. But if I do sometimes sigh, it is not at the advantages of fortune, which I might have enjoyed with him; no, no, surrounded as I am with distress, I do not envy Miss Burchell's affluence or splendor. If _that_ motive could have had weight with me, I might have been mean enough not to have acted as I have done. 'Tis the qualities of the man's mind I esteem; I think our souls have something congenial in them, and that we were originally designed for each other. And if I believed the doctrine which teaches us that there are little officious spirits that preside over the actions of men, I should think that our two evil geniuses laid their heads together in conjunction with Miss Burchell's active demon, to thwart and cross all our measures.

I have nothing now left but to pray for the happiness of one whose lot in this life he has suffered _me_ to determine; and to beseech Heaven that he may never stand in that fatal predicament which Sir George, with such outrageous barbarity, marked out in his vile letter.

I now return to myself, and to my present state; which I think I may say brings up the rear of my misfortunes. Let the chastisement stop here, and I shall bow me to it with resignation.

_October 29_

Ah, my Cecilia, what an aggravation is here to the already too deep regret I began to feel on Mr Faulkland's account! His triumph over me is now complete!

In sorting my mother's papers (as I am to leave these lodgings tomorrow) I found that letter which Mr Faulkland wrote to my brother from Bath. You may remember I told you my mother had, in her resentment, flung it to Sir George, and that, as it happened to fall on the ground, he had quitted the room in a passion without taking it up. My mother, I suppose, when she cooled, laid it by, though I dare say she never looked into it afterwards. Read it, and see by what a fatality we have been governed.

Mr Faulkland's letter to Sir George Bidulph.

_Bath, May 9, 1703_

'How you mortify me, my dear Bidulph, when you tell me of the
happiness I lost by staying so long at Bath! _The ladies are
impatient to see me_, say you? Ah, Sir George, thou hast spoke
better of me than I deserve, I fear.

'I am sadly out of humour with myself at present. I have got into
a very foolish sort of a scrape here. My wrist is quite well, and
I should have thrown myself at Miss Bidulph's feet before now,
but to tell you a secret, my virtue not being proof against
temptation, I have been intercepted.

''Tis but a slight lapse, however, a flying affair; neither my
honour, nor my heart in the question. A little vagrant Cupid has
contented himself with picking my pocket, just lightly fluttering
through my breast, and away.

'Are you fallen so low as that, Faulkland, say you? to _buy_ the
favour of the fair? No, George, no; not quite so contemptible as
that neither; and yet, faith, I did _buy_ it too, for it cost me
three hundred pounds; but the lady to whom I am obliged knows
nothing of this part of her own history; at least, I hope so, for
my credit sake. The case in short is this: an old gouty officer,
and his wife (a very notable dame; a fine woman too) happened to
lodge in the same house with me. The man came hither to get rid of
his aches; the lady of her money, and her virtue, if she has any,
for she is eternally at the card tables.

'Under the conduct of this hopeful guide, came a niece of the
husband's; an extremely fine girl, innocent too, I believe, and
the best dancer I ever saw. I don't know how it happened, but she
took a fancy to me, which, upon my word, and I am sure you have no
doubts of me, I was far from wishing to improve. You know I always
despise the mean triumph of gaining a heart, for which I could not
give another in return. I saw with pain her growing inclination
for me; but as we lived in the same house, and met every day in
the rooms, it was impossible for me to avoid her as much as I
wished to do. The aunt I found, had her eyes upon me, and took
some pains to promote a liking on my side. I saw her design, and
was so much upon my guard, that she, who I soon found was an adept
in love-matters, almost despaired of gaining her ends. The young
lady's inclination however seemed to increase; a pair of fine blue
eyes told me so every day; and I was upon the point of flying to
avoid the soft contagion, when an accident happened that totally
overthrew all my good resolutions.

'I had not seen the young lady for two or three days; I enquired
for her, and her aunt answered, with a mysterious smile, She is
ill, poor thing, why don't you look in upon her, and ask her how
she does? I replied, if the lady will permit me, I will do myself
that honour, and intended literally to have kept my word, by just
asking her at her chamber door how she did.

'You are very cruel, said the aunt; would you persuade me that you
don't know the girl is in love with you? Oh, your Servant, Madam;
if you think me vain, I thank you for the reprimand. Come, come,
said she, this is all affectation, we'll drink tea with her this
evening. Upon my word, said I, if I am to believe what you say, I
think you ought not to desire me. I am not blind to the young
lady's merit, but am so unfortunate as not to have it in my power
to make such returns as she deserves. I found the occasion
required my being serious.

'If you have not love, said she, you may at least have a little
complaisance. Was there ever such a barbarian, not to go and see a
woman that is dying for him? I promised to bring you, and she
expects you. What is the pretty creature afraid of (patting my
cheek). I'll stay by it all the while. There was no withstanding
this; I promised to wait on her.

'She knocked at my door about six o'clock, and looking in, asked
if the coy Narcissus was ready? I went with her, and she led me
directly to her niece's chamber. The young lady looked pale and
languishing, but very pretty. I was really grieved to see her, and
enquired with an unaffected concern after her health. The
tea-things were set, and I tried to force something like
conversation, but I believe I was rather formal.

'When we had done tea, the aunt looked at her watch, started off
her chair, said she had outstaid her appointment with the party
she was to meet at cards, and turning to me, I hope, Sir, you will
have the _Charity_ to stay with my niece; and then hurried out of
the room. I begged leave to hand her to her chair, intending to
take that opportunity of slipping away, and resolved to quit the
house the next morning. But the determined gipsey was prepared for
this motion, and insisting that I should not stir, thrust me back
from the door, which she shut, and flew down stairs.

'What was to become of me now, George? My situation was dangerous,
and really critical. To be short, I forgot my prudence, and found
the young lady's heart too, too tender.

'I never felt remorse before. I never had cause. I accuse myself
of indiscretion, but I have not the aggravating addition to my
fault of oaths and promises to fly in my face. I made none--love,
foolish love did all, and led a willing victim to his altar, who
asked nothing in return for the sacrifice she offered; and
received nothing but unavailing repentance on my side.

'I know not any thing now that would give me so much pleasure as
to find that the girl hated me heartily, though I have given her
no cause.

A just reparation I cannot make her. Every thing forbids that
thought. I do not consider myself as free; but if I were so, I am
not a seducer, and therefore do not think myself bound to carry my
penitence to such lengths. The damned aunt has been the serpent.
And here let me explain to you what I call buying the lady's
favour. You must know the aunt one night (the greatest part of
which she had spent at hazard) lost two hundred pounds; at least
she told me so the next morning, and with tears in her eyes
besought me, in the most earnest manner, to lend her that sum. She
said, she should be undone if her husband were to know it, and
that she would pay me in a very few days, as she had as much due
to her from different people who had lost to her at play. Though
our very short acquaintance could hardly warrant her making such a
request, I nevertheless did not hesitate, but gave her the money
directly. She meant indeed to pay me, but it was in a different
coin, and this I suppose was the price she set on the unhappy
girl's honour.

'My reflections on this unlucky affair make me very grave. I have
explained my situation to the young lady, and expressed my concern
at not having it in my power to be any other than a friend to her.
She blames her own weakness, and her aunt's conduct, but does not
reproach me. She cannot with justice, yet I wish she would, for
then I should reproach myself less.

''Tis a foolish business, and I must get off as handsomely as I
can. Prithee, Bidulph, say something to encourage me, and put me
into more favour with myself. You have often been my confessor,
but I never wanted absolution so much as now; nor ever was so well
intitled to it, for I am really full of penitence, and look _so_
mortified, you would pity me. I am ashamed of having been
surprised into a folly; I who _ought_ to have been upon my guard,
knowing the natural impetuosity of my temper.

'I must not conclude without telling you, that this very morning,
the precious aunt, instead of paying me the two hundred pounds she
had of me before, very modestly requested I would oblige her with
another hundred, to redeem a pair of diamond ear-rings which she
had been obliged to part with for the supply of some other
necessary demands; and with abundance of smooth speeches, she
assured me, in a fortnight she would pay me all together, having
notes to that value which would then become due to her. I was such
a booby as to give it to her.--Why, fare it well--I never expect
to see a shilling of it. She thinks, perhaps, there is value
received for it. Vile woman! The affair fortunately for us all,
has not taken wind; and for me, the names of both aunt and niece,
may ever stand enrolled amongst those of chaste matrons and
virgins. The family quits this place soon, as the old gentleman is
better.

'I thank you for your care, in relation to my house, I hope to
take possession of it in a week or ten days; you are very good in
fixing me so near yourself. Adieu.

'I am, &c.

What do you think of this letter, my Cecilia, written in confidence to my brother? Mr Faulkland could not conceive it probable that any body but Sir George should ever see it; he had no reason therefore to gloss over any of the circumstances. _Had_ I seen it but in time--Oh what anguish of heart might we all have been spared! Miss Burchell singly as she _ought_, would have borne the punishment of her folly.

My mother had not patience to read this letter through; nice and punctilious as her virtue was, she passed a censure on the crime in gross, without admitting any palliating circumstance. But I blame her not; the excellence of her own morals, made her scrupulous in weighing those of others; she read the letter in a cursory way, and it is plain but half of it; prepossessed as she was before, by knowing the material point.

The account was given with levity at the _first_ mention of the young lady. Then she understood he had bought her of her aunt; there is a paragraph which _looks_ like it, and to be sure she attended not to the explanation. Fatal oversight! she read not far enough to have this matter cleared up. She took nothing but the bare facts into her account. A young lady dishonoured, her disgrace likely to be public, then her tenderness for the man who had undone her, and that man rejecting her, and on the point of marrying another. These were the only points of view in which my mother beheld the story. Her justice, her humanity, and her religion prompted her to act as she did; and her conduct stands fully acquitted to my judgment, though my heart must upon this full conviction of Mr Faulkland's honour, sigh at recollecting the past.

I know that the memory of my mother's own first disastrous love wrought strongly on her mind. She was warm in her passions, liable to deep impressions, and always adhered strictly to those opinions she first imbibed. Her education had been severe and recluse; and she had drawn all her ideas of mankind from her own father and mine, who, I have been told, were both men of exemplary lives. From all these considerations, I must again say, that I entirely acquit my dear mother, in regard to her whole conduct, however I have suffered by it.

_October 30_

I am now fixed in a very humble situation. Shall I own it to you, my Cecilia? I was shocked at the change. A room two pairs of stairs high, with a closet, and a small indifferent parlour, compose the whole of my apartment. Hither did my faithful Patty, my two children, and myself, remove this day. It put us not to much trouble, having nothing to take with us but our wearing apparel, which is all the worldly goods of which I am now possessed.

When I wrote to Lady V----, (which was a day or two before my mother's death) I mentioned not that she was then in so dangerous a way. I know the generosity and good nature of that worthy woman; but I have already been too much obliged to her to lay any fresh tax on her friendship, which I am sure she would too readily pay, if she were acquainted with my situation. I shall therefore, as long as I can, defer acquainting her with my mother's death; and when I do, I shall not give her room to suspect that my brother has cast me off, which I have now too much reason to believe he has; otherwise sure, in more than a fortnight, he might have found time to write to me. I neither expect ceremony, nor tenderness from him; but the occasion of my letter demanded some notice.

_November 2_

Patty has just now been informed, that Lady Sarah Bidulph is arrived in town. She met one of their servants, who told her that my brother is not come with her; it seems, they parted on the road. He is gone to Sidney Castle, which is now his, and Lady Sarah chose to come to London. She has, I find, been in London four days, though she has not yet vouchsafed to send me any notice of her arrival. She could not be at a loss where to find me, as I left my direction at my former lodging, in case of any letter or message, coming from any of my friends; though I desired the people of the house not to inform any indifferent visitants where I was to be found.

Though George has, in his turbulent way, renounced me as his sister, yet sure his wife, whom I never disobliged, ought not to depart so from humanity and common good breeding, as not to enquire after the sister of her husband, who has an occasion of grief so recent, in which she ought to partake. I shall not however take notice of this slight, but am preparing to send Patty to her, with an enquiry after her health, and to know when my brother is expected in town.--

Patty is just returned from her embassy to Lady Sarah; I will give you the conversation she had with her.

Patty sent in her message, with great respect, by a footman, and waited for her answer in the hall; though her pretty figure and genteel mourning-dress had induced the servant to ask her into the house-keeper's room.

Lady Sarah was alone in the parlour, and desired her to be called to the door. So, young woman, said she, your mistress desires to know when Sir George will be in town. I am really surprised, after the letter she received from him, that she can fancy Sir George means to concern himself about her. Do you know her business with him? you are in your mistress's secrets I suppose. I do not know, Madam, answered Patty, what particular business my lady may have; but I believe it would be a comfort to her to see her brother in her present melancholy circumstances. I don't know that there is any thing uncommonly melancholy in her circumstances, replied the lady; her mother's years and infirmities made her death a thing to be looked for; I suppose your mistress is not in _want_. My poor ingenuous Patty said she blushed at the cruel indifference with which Lady Sarah said this. Not in immediate want, Madam, I hope, but your ladyship must needs think she is in a destitute way, with two children, and but fifty pounds a year in the world. What do you mean, woman, cried Lady Sarah? it is impossible but Lady Bidulph must have left money behind her; Sir George, I am sure, has got nothing but what she could not keep from him. Patty answered, Lady Bidulph, Madam, left no money behind her more than what was barely sufficient to defray some necessary expences that occurred immediately after her death. Well, and so your mistress, I suppose, after having behaved so ill as she has done to her brother, expects he should provide handsomely for her, and her children; _Arnold's_ children for the rest of their lives. I know not, Madam, returned Patty, what my Lady's expectations are, but I believe she would be very glad to see Sir George before she goes out of town, or at least inform him of her design. What _is_ her design, pray, asked Lady Sarah? To retire into the country, Madam, as she has not wherewithal to subsist on in London. She can't do better, I think, said the Lady. Where does she live now? My poor maid, who thought this question tended to the proud woman's calling on, or at least sending to me, made haste to inform her; she lodges, Madam, at a milliner's, at the corner of the Haymarket, the left hand as you turn--Oh dear! pray stop: you need not be so particular, I have no design of paying her a visit in her corner-shop; my only reason for enquiring was, to know whether she had thought proper to keep those expensive lodgings her mother was in, in expectation of Sir George's continuing _her_ in them. My Lady has no such view, I believe, Madam. Well, you may tell your _Lady_, that if she will go out of town with her children, I will prevail on Sir George to allow her something. He will not be in town this month, so that she need not wait for his arrival. She might, if she would have been guided by her brother, have been a credit to her friends, instead of what she now is. Patty owns, she was so full of indignation, that she wished at that moment not to have been a servant, that she might have reproached her with her hard-heartedness. Oh, my dear, these are the stings of poverty! It is not the hard bed, nor the homely board, but the oppressive insolence of proud prosperity; 'tis that only which can inflict a wound on the ingenuous mind.

As for that mean woman, I despise her too much to suffer myself to be obliged to her. _She will endeavour to prevail on my brother._ If his own heart cannot prevail on him, I disclaim her influence; I know she means not to use it in my favour; on the contrary, I make no doubt but she will endeavour to irritate Sir George gainst me by misrepresentations. Her pride makes her wish to have an indigent relation out of the way, yet her avarice would not suffer her to enable me to retire; and she will make my continuing here through necessity a pretence for still with-holding any assistance from me. Let it be so; I would rather submit to the most abject drudgery, than owe a wretched dependant existence to such a woman. I am sure my brother, notwithstanding his resentment, if he knew what my situation truly is, would not behave with cruelty; but my mind is not become so sordid, fallen as I am, as to turn petitioner for relief. But no more, my Cecilia, let not my fate interrupt your happiness.

_November 4_