May 24.—
My mother and I were in
bed before my brother cam in last night,
though he keeps very good hours in general.
When we met this morning at
breakfast, I saw by Sir George's face that
he was brimful of something.—Faulkland
don't like you, Sidney, said he, abruptly;
—How can you or I help that, brother?
cry'd I, colouring; tho', to tell you the
truth, I did not believe him; for I knew,
if it had been so, he would not have come
out with it so bluntly. But my mother
who always takes every word she hears
literally, took him up very short; 'If he
does not, Sir, it is not polite in you to
tell your sister so; I hope Sidney may
be
liked by as good a man as Mr. Faulkland,'
and up she tossed her dear honest
head. Sir George burst out a laughing.
My mother looked angry; she was afraid
her sagacity would be call'd in question,
after what she had pronounced the evening
before. I looked silly, but pretended
to smile. Sir George was clown enough
to laugh on; at last (to my mother) 'But,
my dear madam, can you believe me
serious in what I said? have you so good
an opinion of my veracity, or so ill a
one of my breeding, as to suppose I
would shock my sister by such a rude
declaration, if I meant any thing by it
but a joke?' Indeed, Sidney (looking
half smiling at me) I would not be as
much in love with our sovereign lady the
queen, as poor Faulkland is with you,
for my whole estate.
This put me a great deal more out of
countenance than what he had said at
first. Nay, brother, now you are too extravagant
the other way.—My mother
looked surprized, but recovered her good
humour presently.—Dear George, there is
no knowing when you are in earnest and
when not: but, as Sidney says, now you
are rather too extravagant. You might
say so to Faulkland, answered my brother,
if you were to hear him; I could get nothing
from him the whole night but your
praises. I thought, said my pleased mother,
he had not
disliked the girl.—Now
you see, son, her
silence did her no harm;
and she smiled tenderly at me. Come,
said Sir George, things are mighty well
on all sides. Faulkland has begged of
me, that I would use my interest with
you, mother (whom he thinks one of the
best of women) that he may be permitted
in form to make his address to Miss
Bidulph.
My interest he knows he has,
and I hope, madam, he will also have your
approbation;—He desired me to explain
minutely to you every circumstance of his
fortune: what his estate is I have told
you; and his family is of known distinction.
He begged I would not
mention
Sidney's fortune; and said, that if, upon a
farther acquaintance, he should have the
happiness to be acceptable to my sister,
he should insist upon leaving the appointment
of her settlement to lady Bidulph
and myself. I told him I would lay this
proposal before you, and could for his
present comfort inform him, that, as I
believed my sister had no prepossessions
in favour of any one else, I was sure, if he
met with your concurrence, her's would
follow of course.
A very discrete answer, said my mother;
just such a one as I would have
dictated to you, if I had been at your elbow.
I believe we may venture to suppose,
that Sidney has no prepossessions;
and as this is as handsome an offer
as can possibly be made, I have no objections
(if you have none, my dear) to
admit Mr. Faulkland upon the terms he
proposes.
What answer ought I go have made,
Cecilia? Why, to be sure, just the one I
did make—I have no prepossessions, madam,
looking down and blushing, till it
actually painted me, for I was really startled.
My Cecilia knows I am not a
prude.
My dear! cry'd my mother, and took
me by the hand—
Poor Sidney, said Sir George, how you
are to be pitied! Mr. Faulkland purposes
waiting on you in the afternoon, if he is
not forbid, and he looked so teazingly
sly, that my mother bid him leave off his
pranks.
The day is over,—Mr. Faulkland spent
the evening with us, no other company
but our own family. My mother likes
him better even than before—Thy mother
—disingenuous girl! why dost thou not
speak thy own sentiments? (There is an
apostrophe for they use, my Cecilia.) Well
then, my sentiments you shall have, you
have an undoubted right to know them
on all subjects, but particularly on this
interesting one.
I do think Mr. Faulkland the most
amiable of men, and if my heart were
(happily for me it is not) very susceptible
of tender impressions, I really believe
I should in time be absolutely in love
with him. This confessions will not satisfy
you: may be it is not enough—yet, in
truth, Cecilia, it is all that at present I
can afford you.
The thoughts of the aukward figure I
should make in the evening visit, sat
heavy on my spirits all day.—Can you
conceive any thing more distressing than
the situation of a poor girl, receiving the
visit of a man, who, for the first time,
comes professedly as her admirer? I had
conceived a frightful idea of such an interview,
having formed my notions of it
only from romances, where set speeches of
an ell long are made by the lover, and
answers of a proportionable size are returned
in form by the lady. But Mr.
Faulkland soon delivered me from my
anxiety. His easy, but incomparably
polite and sensible freedom of address
quickly made me lose my ridiculous
fears.—He made no other use of this
visit, than to recommend himself more
strongly to our esteem, by such means
as proved how well he deserved it. If he
was particular to me, either in his looks
or manner, it was under the regulation
of such a nice decorum, that I (who supposed
I must have sunk with downright
confusion) was hardly disconcerted during
the whole visit.
