CHAPTER ii.
AN INTERVIEW.
The servant did not return till it was dark; and then, with a look ofmuch dismay, said he had been able to meet with nobody who could eithergive or take a message; that the Grove was all in confusion, and thewhole country in an uproar, for Mr Monckton, just as he arrived, hadbeen brought home dead!
Cecilia screamed with involuntary horror; a pang like remorse seized hermind, with the apprehension she had some share in this catastrophe,and innocent as she was either of his fall or his crimes, she nosooner heard he was no more, than she forgot he had offended her, andreproached herself with severity for the shame to which she meant toexpose him the next morning.
Dreadfully disturbed by this horrible incident, she entreated MrsHarrel and Henrietta to sup by themselves, and going into her own room,determined to write the whole affair to Delvile, in a letter she shoulddirect to be left at the post-office for him at Margate.
And here strongly she felt the happiness of being actually his wife; shecould now without reserve make him acquainted with all her affairs, andtell to the master of her heart every emotion that entered it.
While engaged in this office, the very action of which quieted her,a letter was brought her from Delvile himself. She received it withgratitude and opened it with joy; he had promised to write soon, but sosoon she had thought impossible.
The reading took not much time; the letter contained but the followingwords:
_To Miss Beverley_.
MY CECILIA!--Be alone, I conjure you; dismiss every body, and admit methis moment!
Great was her astonishment at this note! no name to it, no conclusion,the characters indistinct, the writing crooked, the words so few, andthose few scarce legible!
He desired to see her, and to see her alone; she could not hesitate inher compliance,--but whom could she dismiss?--her servants, if orderedaway, would but be curiously upon the watch,--she could think of noexpedient, she was all hurry and amazement.
She asked if any one waited for an answer? The footman said no; thatthe note was given in by somebody who did not speak, and who ran out ofsight the moment he had delivered it.
She could not doubt this was Delvile himself,--Delvile who should nowbe just returned from the castle to his mother, and whom she had thoughtnot even a letter would reach if directed any where nearer than Margate!
All she could devise in obedience to him, was to go and wait for himalone in her dressing-room, giving orders that if any one called theymight be immediately brought up to her, as she expected somebody uponbusiness, with whom she must not be interrupted.
This was extremely disagreeable to her; yet, contrary as it was to theiragreement, she felt no inclination to reproach Delvile; the abruptnessof his note, the evident hand-shaking with which it had been written,the strangeness of the request in a situation such as theirs,--allconcurred to assure her he came not to her idly, and all led her toapprehend he came to her with evil tidings.
What they might be, she had no time to conjecture; a servant, in a fewminutes, opened the dressing-room door, and said, "Ma'am, a gentleman;"and Delvile, abruptly entering, shut it himself, in his eagerness to getrid of him.
At his sight, her prognostication of ill became stronger! she wentforward to meet him, and he advanced to her smiling and in haste;but that smile did not well do its office; it concealed not a pallidcountenance, in which every feature spoke horror; it disguised not anaching heart, which almost visibly throbbed with intolerable emotion!Yet he addressed her in terms of tenderness and peace; but his tremulousvoice counteracted his words, and spoke that all within was tumult andwar!
Cecilia, amazed, affrighted, had no power to hasten an explanation,which, on his own part, he seemed unable, or fearful to begin. He talkedto her of his happiness in again seeing her before he left the kingdom,entreated her to write to him continually, said the same thing two andthree times in a breath, began with one subject, and seemed unconscioushe wandered presently into another, and asked her questions innumerableabout her health, journey, affairs, and ease of mind, without hearingfrom her any answer, or seeming to miss that she had none.
Cecilia grew dreadfully terrified; something strange and most alarmingshe was sure must have happened, but _what_, she had no means to know,nor courage, nor even words to enquire.
Delvile, at length, the first hurry of his spirits abating, became morecoherent and considerate: and looking anxiously at her, said, "Why thissilence, my Cecilia?"
"I know not!" said she, endeavouring to recover herself, "but yourcoming was unexpected: I was just writing to you at Margate."
"Write still, then; but direct to Ostend; I shall be quicker than thepost; and I would not lose a letter--a line--a word from you, for allthe world can offer me!"
"Quicker than the post?" cried Cecilia; "but how can Mrs Delvile--" shestopt; not knowing what she might venture to ask.
"She is now on the road to Margate; I hope to be there to receive her. Imean but to bid you adieu, and be gone."
Cecilia made no answer; she was more and more astonished, more and moreconfounded.
"You are thoughtful?" said he, with tenderness; "are youunhappy?--sweetest Cecilia! most excellent of human creatures! if I havemade you unhappy--and I must!--it is inevitable!--"
"Oh Delvile!" cried she, now assuming more courage, "why will you notspeak to me openly?--something, I see, is wrong; may I not hear it? mayI not tell you, at least, my concern that any thing has distressed you?"
"You are too good!" cried he; "to deserve you is not possible, but toafflict you is inhuman!"
"Why so?" cried she, more chearfully; "must I not share the common lot?or expect the whole world to be new modelled, lest I should meet in itany thing but happiness?"
"There is not, indeed, much danger! Have you pen and ink here?"
She brought them to him immediately, with paper.
"You have been writing to me, you say?--I will begin a letter myself."
"To me?" cried she.
He made no answer, but took up the pen, and wrote a few words, and then,flinging it down, said, "Fool!--I could have done this without coming!"
"May I look at it?" said she; and, finding he made no opposition,advanced and read.
_I fear to alarm you by rash precipitation,--I fear to alarm you bylingering suspense,--but all is not well--_
"Fear nothing!" cried she, turning to him with the kindest earnestness;"tell me, whatever it may be!--Am I not your wife? bound by every tiedivine and human to share in all your sorrows, if, unhappily, I cannotmitigate them!"
"Since you allow me," cried he, gratefully, "so sweet a claim, a claimto which all others yield, and which if you repent not giving me, willmake all others nearly immaterial to me,--I will own to you that all,indeed, is not well! I have been hasty,--you will blame me; I deserve,indeed, to be blamed!--entrusted with your peace and happiness, tosuffer rage, resentment, violence, to make me forego what I owed to sucha deposite!--If your blame, however, stops short of repentance--but itcannot!"
"What, then," cried she with warmth, "must you have done? for thereis not an action of which I believe you capable, there is not an eventwhich I believe to be possible, that can ever make me repent belongingto you wholly!"
"Generous, condescending Cecilia!" cried he; "Words such as these, hungthere not upon me an evil the most depressing, would be almost more thanI could bear--would make me too blest for mortality!"
"But words such as these," said she more gaily, "I might long havecoquetted ere I had spoken, had you not drawn them from me by thisalarm. Take, therefore, the good with the ill, and remember, if all doesnot go right, you have now a trusty friend, as willing to be the partnerof your serious as your happiest hours."
"Shew but as much firmness as you have shewn sweetness," cried he, "andI will fear to tell you nothing."
She reiterated her assurances; they then both sat down, and he began hisaccount.
"Immediately from your lodgings I went where I had ordered
a chaise, andstopped only to change horses till I reached Delvile Castle. My fathersaw me with surprise, and received me with coldness. I was compelled bymy situation to be abrupt, and told him I came, before I accompaniedmy mother abroad, to make him acquainted with an affair which I thoughtmyself bound in duty and respect to suffer no one to communicate to himbut myself. He then sternly interrupted me, and declared in high terms,that if this affair concerned _you_, he would not listen to it. Iattempted to remonstrate upon this injustice, when he passionately brokeforth into new and horrible charges against you, affirming that he hadthem from authority as indisputable as ocular demonstration. I was thencertain of some foul play."--
"Foul play indeed!" cried Cecilia, who now knew but too well by whom shehad been injured. "Good heaven, how have I been deceived, where most Ihave trusted!"
"I told him," continued Delvile, "some gross imposition had beenpracticed upon him, and earnestly conjured him no longer to concealfrom me by whom. This, unfortunately, encreased his rage; imposition,he said, was not so easily played upon him, he left that for _me_ who soreadily was duped; while for himself, he had only given credit to a manof much consideration in Suffolk, who had known you from a child, whohad solemnly assured him he had repeatedly endeavoured to reclaim you,who had rescued you from the hands of Jews at his own hazard and loss,and who actually shewed him bonds acknowledging immense debts, whichwere signed with your own hand."
"Horrible!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I believed not such guilt and perfidypossible!"
"I was scarce myself," resumed Delvile, "while I heard him: I demandedeven with fierceness his author, whom I scrupled not to execrate as hedeserved; he coldly answered he was bound by an oath never to revealhim, nor should he repay his honourable attention to his family by abreach of his own word, were it even less formally engaged. I thenlost all patience; to mention honour, I cried, was a farce, wheresuch infamous calumnies were listened to;--but let me not shock youunnecessarily, you may readily conjecture what passed."
"Ah me!" cried Cecilia, "you have then quarrelled with your father!"
"I have!" said he; "nor does he yet know I am married: in so much wraththere was no room for narration; I only pledged myself by all I heldsacred, never to rest till I had cleared your fame, by the detection ofthis villainy, and then left him without further explanation."
"Oh return, then, to him directly!" cried Cecilia, "he is your father,you are bound to bear with his displeasure;--alas! had you never knownme, you had never incurred it!"
"Believe me," he answered, "I am ill at ease under it: if you wish it,when you have heard me, I will go to him immediately; if not, I willwrite, and you shall yourself dictate what."
Cecilia thanked him, and begged he would continue his account.
"My first step, when I left the Castle, was to send a letter to mymother, in which I entreated her to set out as soon as possible forMargate, as I was detained from her unavoidably, and was unwilling mydelay should either retard our journey, or oblige her to travel faster.At Margate I hoped to be as soon as herself, if not before her."
"And why," cried Cecilia, "did you not go to town as you had promised,and accompany her?"
"I had business another way. I came hither."
"Directly?"
"No; but soon."
"Where did you go first?"
"My Cecilia, it is now you must summon your fortitude: I left myfather without an explanation on my part;--but not till, in his rage ofasserting his authority, he had unwarily named his informant."
"Well!"
"That informant--the most deceitful of men!--was your long pretendedfriend, Mr Monckton!"
"So I feared!" said Cecilia, whose blood now ran cold through her veinswith sudden and new apprehensions.
"I rode to the Grove, on hack-horses, and on a full gallop the wholeway. I got to him early in the evening. I was shewn into his library. Itold him my errand.--You look pale, my love? You are not well?--"
Cecilia, too sick for speech, leant her head upon a table. Delvile wasgoing to call for help; but she put her hand upon his arm to stophim, and, perceiving she was only mentally affected, he rested, andendeavoured by every possible means to revive her.
After a while, she again raised her head, faintly saying, "I am sorryI interrupted you; but the conclusion I already know,--Mr Monckton isdead!"
"Not dead," cried he; "dangerously, indeed, wounded, but thank heaven,not actually dead!"
"Not dead?" cried Cecilia, with recruited strength and spirits, "Oh thenall yet may be well!--if he is not dead; he may recover!"
"He may; I hope he will!"
"Now, then," she cried, "tell me all: I can bear any intelligence but ofdeath by human means."
"I meant not to have gone such lengths; far from it; I hold duels inabhorrence, as unjustifiable acts of violence, and savage devices ofrevenge. I have offended against my own conviction,--but, transportedwith passion at his infamous charges, I was not master of my reason; Iaccused hum of his perfidy; he denied it; I told him I had it from myfather,--he changed the subject to pour abuse upon him; I insisted on arecantation to clear you; he asked by what right? I fiercely answered;by a husband's! His countenance, then, explained at least the motivesof his treachery,--he loves you himself! he had probably schemed to keepyou free till his wife died, and then concluded his machinations wouldsecure you his own. For this purpose, finding he was in danger of losingyou, he was content even to blast your character, rather than suffer youto escape him! But the moment I acknowledged my marriage he grew morefurious than myself; and, in short-for why relate the frenzies of rage?we walked out together; my travelling pistols were already charged;I gave him his choice of them, and, the challenge being mine, forinsolence joined with guilt had robbed me of all forbearance, he firedfirst, but missed me: I then demanded whether he would clear yourfame? he called out 'Fire! I will make no terms,'--I did fire,--andunfortunately aimed better! We had neither of us any second, all was theresult of immediate passion; but I soon got people to him, and assistedin conveying him home. He was at, first believed to be dead, and I wasseized by his servants; but he afterwards shewed signs of life, and bysending for my friend Biddulph, I was released. Such is the melancholytransaction I came to relate to you, flattering myself it wouldsomething less shock you from me than from another: yet my own realconcern for the affair, the repentance with which from the moment thewretch fell, I was struck in being his destroyer, and the sorrow, theremorse, rather, which I felt, in coming to wound you with suchblack, such fearful intelligence,--you to whom all I owe is peace andcomfort!--these thoughts gave me so much disturbance, that, in fact, Iknew less than any other how to prepare you for such a tale."
He stopt; but Cecilia could say nothing: to censure him now would bothbe cruel and vain; yet to pretend she was satisfied with his conduct,would be doing violence to her judgment and veracity. She saw, too, thathis error had sprung wholly from a generous ardor in her defence, andthat his confidence in her character, had resisted, without wavering,every attack that menaced it. For this she felt truly grateful; yethis quarrel with his father,--the danger of his mother,--his necessaryabsence,--her own clandestine situation,--and more than all, thethreatened death of Mr Monckton by his hands, were circumstances so fullof dread and sadness, she knew not upon which to speak,--how to offerhim comfort,--how to assume a countenance that looked able to receiveany, or by what means to repress the emotions which to many waysassailed her. Delvile, having vainly waited some reply, then in atone the most melancholy, said, "If it is yet possible you can besufficiently interested in my fate to care what becomes of me, aid menow with your counsel, or rather with your instructions; I am scarceable to think for myself, and to be thought for by you, would yet be aconsolation that would give me spirit for any thing."
Cecilia, starting from her reverie, repeated, "To care what becomes ofyou-? Oh Delvile!--make not my heart bleed by words of such unkindness!"
"Forgive me," cried he, "I meant not a reproach; I meant but to statemy own
consciousness how little I deserve from you. You talked to me ofgoing to my father? do you still wish it?"
"I think so!" cried she; too much disturbed to know what she said, yetfearing again to hurt him by making him wait her answer.
"I will go then," said he, "without doubt: too happy to be guided byyou, which-ever way I steer. I have now, indeed much to tell him; butwhatever may be his wrath, there is little fear, at this time, that myown temper cannot bear it! what next shall I do?"
"What next?" repeated she; "indeed I know not!"
"Shall I go immediately to Margate? or shall I first ride hither?"
"If you please," said she, much perturbed, and deeply sighing.
"I please nothing but by your direction, to follow that is my onlychance of pleasure. Which, then, shall I do?-you will not, now, refuseto direct me?"
"No, certainly, not for the world!"
"Speak to me, then, my love, and tell me;--why are you thus silent?--isit painful to you to counsel me?"
"No, indeed!" said she, putting her hand to her head, "I will speak toyou in a few minutes."
"Oh my Cecilia!" cried he, looking at her with much alarm, "call backyour recollection! you know not what you say, you take no interest inwhat you answer."
"Indeed I do!" said she, sighing deeply, and oppressed beyond thepower of thinking, beyond any power but an internal consciousness ofwretchedness.
"Sigh not so bitterly," cried he, "if you have any compassion! sigh notso bitterly,--I cannot bear to hear you!"
"I am very sorry indeed!" said she, sighing again, and not seemingsensible she spoke.
"Good Heaven!" cried he, rising, "distract me not with thishorror!--speak not to me in such broken sentences!--Do you hear me,Cecilia?--why will you not answer me?"
She started and trembled, looked pale and affrighted, and putting bothher hands upon her heart, said, "Oh yes!--but I have an oppressionhere,--a tightness, a fulness,--I have not room for breath!"
"Oh beloved of my heart!" cried he, wildly casting himself at her feet,"kill me not with this terror!--call back your faculties,--awake fromthis dreadful insensibility! tell me at least you know me!--tell me Ihave not tortured you quite to madness!--sole darling of my affections!my own, my wedded Cecilia!--rescue me from this agony! it is more than Ican support!"---
This energy of distress brought back her scattered senses, scarce morestunned by the shock of all this misery, than by the restraint of herfeelings in struggling to conceal it. But these passionate exclamationsrestoring her sensibility, she burst into tears, which happily relievedher mind from the conflict with which it was labouring, and which, notthus effected, might have ended more fatally.
Never had Delvile more rejoiced in her smiles than now in theseseasonable tears, which he regarded and blest as the preservers of herreason. They flowed long without any intermission, his soothing andtenderness but melting her to more sorrow: after a while, however, thereturn of her faculties, which at first seemed all consigned over togrief, was manifested by the returning strength of her mind: she blamedherself severely for the little fortitude she had shewn, but having nowgiven vent to emotions too forcible to be wholly stiffed, she assuredhim he might depend upon her' better courage for the future, andentreated him to consider and settle his affairs.
Not speedily, however, could Delvile himself recover. The torture he hadsuffered in believing, though only for a few moments, that the terrorhe had given to Cecilia had affected her intellects, made even a deeperimpression upon his imagination, than the scene of fury and death, whichhad occasioned that terror: and Cecilia, who now strained every nerveto repair by her firmness, the pain which by her weakness she had givenhim, was sooner in a condition for reasoning and deliberation thanhimself.
"Ah Delvile!" she cried, comprehending what passed within him, "doyou allow nothing for surprize? and nothing for the hard conflict ofendeavouring to suppress it? do you think me still as unfit to advisewith, and as worthless, as feeble a counsellor, as during the firstconfusion of my mind?"
"Hurry not your tender spirits, I beseech you," cried he, "we have timeenough; we will talk about business by and by."
"What time?" cried she, "what is it now o'clock?"
"Good Heaven!" cried he, looking at his watch, "already past ten! youmust turn me out, my Cecilia, or calumny will still be busy, even thoughpoor Monckton is quiet."
"I _will_ turn you out," cried she, "I am indeed most earnest to haveyou gone. But tell me your plan, and which way you mean to go?"
"That;" he answered, "you shall decide for me yourself: whether toDelvile Castle, to finish one tale, and wholly communicate another, orto Margate, to hasten my mother abroad, before the news of this calamityreaches her."
"Go to Margate," cried she, eagerly, "set off this very moment! you canwrite to your father from Ostend. But continue, I conjure you, on thecontinent, till we see if this unhappy man lives, and enquire, of thosewho can judge, what must follow if he should not!"
"A trial," said he, "must follow, and it will go, I fear, but hardlywith me! the challenge was mine; his servants can all witness I wentto him, not he to me,--Oh my Cecilia! the rashness of which I have beenguilty, is so opposite to my principles, and, all generous as is yoursilence, I know it so opposite to yours, that never, should his blood beon my hands, wretch as he was, never will my heart be quiet more."
"He will live, he will live!" cried Cecilia, repressing her horror,"fear nothing, for he will live;--and as to his wound and hissufferings, his perfidy has deserved them. Go, then, to Margate; thinkonly of Mrs Delvile, and save her, if possible, from hearing what hashappened."
"I will go,--stay,--do which and whatever you bid me: but, should what Ifear come to pass, should my mother continue ill, my father inflexible,should this wretched man die, and should England no longer be a countryI shall love to dwell in,--could you, then, bear to own,--would you,then, consent to follow me?"
"Could I?--am I not yours? may you not command me? tell me, then, youhave only to say,--shall I accompany you at once?"
Delvile, affected by her generosity, could scarce utter his thanks; yethe did not hesitate in denying to avail himself of it; "No, my Cecilia,"he cried, "I am not so selfish. If we have not happier days, we will atleast wait for more desperate necessity. With the uncertainty if I havenot this man's life to answer for at the hazard of my own, to take mywife--my bride,--from the kingdom I must fly!--to make her a fugitiveand an exile in the first publishing that she is mine! No, if I am not adestined alien for life I can never permit it. Nothing less, believeme, shall ever urge my consent to wound the chaste propriety of yourcharacter, by making you an eloper with a duelist."
They then again consulted upon their future plans; and concluded that inthe present disordered state of their affairs, it would be best not toacknowledge even to Mr Delvile their marriage, to whom the news of theduel, and Mr Monckton's danger, would be a blow so severe, that, to addto it any other might half distract him.
To the few people already acquainted with it, Delvile thereforedetermined to write from Ostend, re-urging his entreaties for theirdiscretion and secrecy. Cecilia promised every post to acquaint him howMr Monckton went on, and she then besought him to go instantly, that hemight out-travel the ill news to his mother.
He complied, and took leave of her in the tenderest manner, conjuringher to support her spirits, and be careful of her health. "Happiness,"said he, "is much in arrears with us, and though my violence may havefrightened it away, your sweetness and gentleness will yet attract itback: all that for me is in store must be received at your hands,--whatis offered in any other way, I shall only mistake for evil! droop not,therefore, my generous Cecilia, but in yourself preserve me!"
"I will not droop," said she; "you will find, I hope, you have notintrusted yourself in ill hands."
"Peace then be with you, my love!--my comforting, my soul-revivingCecilia! Peace, such as angels give, and such as may drive from yourmind the remembrance of this bitter hour!"
H
e then tore himself away.
Cecilia, who to his blessings could almost, like the tender Belvidera,have exclaimed,
"O do not leave me!--stay with me and curse me!"
listened to his steps till she could hear them no longer, as if theremaining moments of her life were to be measured by them: but then,remembering the danger both to herself and him of his stay, sheendeavoured to rejoice that he was gone, and, but that her mind was inno state for joy, was too rational not to have succeeded.
Grief and horror for what was past, apprehension and suspense forwhat was to come, so disordered her whole frame, so confused even herintellects, that when not all the assistance of fancy could persuadeher she still heard the footsteps of Delvile, she went to the chair uponwhich he had been seated, and taking possession of it, sat with her armscrossed, silent, quiet, and erect, almost vacant of all thought, yetwith a secret idea she was doing something right.
Here she continued till Henrietta came to wish her good night; whosesurprise and concern at the strangeness of her look and attitude, oncemore recovered her. But terrified herself at this threatened wanderingof her reason, and certain she must all night be a stranger to rest, sheaccepted the affectionate offer of the kind-hearted girl to stay withher, who was too much grieved for her grief to sleep any more thanherself.
She told her not what had passed; that, she knew, would be fruitlessaffliction to her: but she was soothed by her gentleness, and herconversation was some security from the dangerous rambling of her ideas.
Henrietta herself found no little consolation in her own privatesorrows, that she was able to give comfort to her beloved Miss Beverley,from whom she had received favours and kind offices innumerable. Shequitted her not night nor day, and in the honest pride of a littlepower to skew the gratefulness of her heart, she felt a pleasure andself-consequence she had never before experienced.